Page 21 of Friends Who Fake It

Except in that moment, when she was looking at him with those huge eyes of hers all confused and uncertain, mirroring back to him everything he was feeling. Which meant, what? Because Francesco didn’t want to open this door. He really didn’t want to go down any kind of road that might lead to hurting Willow, or raising her expectations, making her think there might be a relationship in the future for them, because that was the absolute last thing Francesco wanted.

“I mean it, Francesco. What do you want?”

If only she hadn’t asked it again.

If only she hadn’t forced his warring brain to settle on the truth of what he did indeed desperately want.

“This.” And the word was hoarse and gruff, even to his own ears, punctuated by impatience and need, by the fire in his belly that was demanding he reach out and claim her, sense and rational thought be damned.

His hand moved quickly, sliding from the side of her lips to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in that long, spectacular hair that her stepmother seemed to take such issue with, gripping her there, holding her for his inspection before pushing her forward at the same time he moved his whole body, to close the gap between them.

“What do I want?” he asked, when his lips were just a whisker from hers. “Isn’t it fucking obvious?”

He felt her shiver. A tremble that rocked her whole body, that made his cock hard against his pants, so he suddenly wished they were anywhere but in a car, just outside her family’s estate. But the last thing he wanted to do was put the brakes on this, even to find a more suitable location, because common sense would not be kept at bay forever.

Thanking God for darkly tinted windows, he gave into this feeling; he kissed her. Not a gentle kiss. Not an uncertain kiss. Not a kiss like two friends should share. He pushed his mouth against hers, separated her lips, and kissed her hard. Kissed her until he felt like their bodies were morphing, kissed her until she was moaning into his mouth, saying something that might have been his name, pushing her body hard against his, her breasts all soft and round against his chest. His fingers moved to the hem of her shirt, parting it so he could touch the bare skin of her hip. Now it was his turn to groan, as he felt her warmth and a shudder rolled his whole body.

He swore into her mouth, releasing his grip on the back of her head just so he could reach around behind himself for the seat controls and push his back, creating a decent enough amount of space that when he unhooked Willow’s seatbelt, she could move, somehow making it look like a choreographed dance to shimmy across the centre console and into his lap, her mouth seeking his once more, her body pressed to him in a different way now.

He saw the moment she felt his hardness, saw the way her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed, felt the way her body shivered, and something like delirium overtook him. Or madness.

And even if he’d wanted to pull back, to try to find that thread of common sense he knew to be buried inside of him, somewhere, Willow made it impossible. She shifted in the seat, laughing a little against his mouth because it was far from spacious for the two of them. But somehow, she arranged herself so she was straddling him, her body over his, and then it was Willow who was reaching down for the controls and pushing his seat backwards, all the way back, so he was essentially lying down, her body on top of his.

“Better,” she murmured, leaving him wondering where the hellhersanity had gone. Because last time, Willow had been the one who’d put a stop to this. Willow had been the one who’d pointed out that he wasn’t in his right mind, that he’d been drinking and he was in grief. Had he been counting on her to be the sensible one, yet again?

Or was he glad that she was as willing to surrender herself to this as he was?

He opened his mouth to say something. Anything. To lay down some ground rules, to make sure they were both on the same page, but then she ground herself against his cock and any concept of thought flew from his mind. He was driven then purely by an animalistic need to have and take, to bury himself inside of her.

Had he really thought he just wanted a kiss?

Had he thought that would be enough?

“Fuck, Willow,” he ground, throwing caution utterly and completely to the wind, as his fingers dug into her hips and held her low on his body. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted, her hair tousled over one shoulder. She stared at him for so long he thought he might have actually scared her, but then she shook her head, leaning down and kissing his lips, before dragging her mouth over his chin, towards his jaw and throat. “Tell me,” she implored, her teeth nipping his flesh there, her tongue lashing out to run across his collar bone, while her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, separating them until she could hungrily trail her fingers over his torso.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, simply. Truthfully. “Hard. I want to take you right here, right now, with no care who might drive by and see us. I want to bury myself inside of you, and watch as you fall apart at the seams. I want to make you scream my name, until your voice is hoarse and your whole body is trembling.”

She lifted her face and stared up at him, then ground her hips down, in a silent, ancient, primal invitation to do exactly that, so he swore softly because the venue was hardly ideal. Nor was the fact Willow was wearing pants.

But he was not a man to be put off by idle challenges, and wild horses wouldn’t keep him from taking what he wanted—needed—in that moment.

“Do it,” she said, softly, putting words to the movement of her hips, to the silent invitation she’d issued. “Do it,” she repeated, so he groaned, as his hands found the waistband of her pants and began to push them lower, in concert with Willow bending her legs, folding herself first one way and then another, laughing as her foot collided with the steering wheel and the horn made a low, passionate sound of agreement.

He didn’t laugh. He was concentrating too hard on holding it together. On keeping common sense at bay, on ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that was telling him this was a crazy ass idea. That he should stop this, right now, before it went any further.

But then, Willow—beautiful, gracious, elegant Willow—was naked from the waist down, and her hands were fussing with his belt, her teeth digging into her lower lip as she concentrated on undressing him. Her fingers, though, were shaking, and after a minute he brushed her hands aside, impatience flooding him. “Allow me.”

He worked quickly, undoing his belt, button and zip almost in one motion, reaching into his boxers and gripping his cock, groaning because of how good it felt just to touch. How much his whole body felt aflame for her. For this.

“You’re sure about this,cara?” he asked, and he couldn’t believe he had the presence of mind to double check with Willow, given the way he was already spilling a little of his seed with urgency to possess her.

“What the hell do you think?” she muttered, moving her hips to straddle him properly once more, her eyes latched to his. “And yes, I know this is a stupid idea, and yes, I know we’ll have to talk about it afterwards, but I couldn’t care less about any of that right now. Fuck me, Francesco. Fuck me like I’m any other woman to you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

ChapterSix

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