Page 24 of Friends Who Fake It

“Precisely.”

“Okay,” she said, as he began to move his fingers again, faster, and she was arching her back, riding the wave of pleasure, not caring that she might as well have just made a deal with the devil.

* * *

Not with a single flicker of his expression, with a minute shift of his features, did he allow even a hint of doubts to show outwardly. It was imperative that she—that theyboth—believe and accept what he’d said in the car.

They were friends. Friends who’d now slept together. Who knew the way each one felt in the most intimate of ways. Friends who had to go back to being friends when this was over, despite what they’d just done.

He felt the tsunami of Willow’s concerns and refused to amplify them with his own. He refused to feel anything other than bliss.

Sex was sex.

They were both mature enough to understand that. Experienced enough to be able to separate what came down to their bodies’ biological urges from their longstanding knowledge of one another on a personal level.

When the weekend was over, and they went back to London, and their lives, this would all fade into nothingness. Irrelevancy. Forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, accepted as a part of the past, that had no bearing on their future.

He couldn’t regret it.

Not when he remembered the ecstasy that had shown on her face. The way she’d surrendered to the sheer pleasure of what they were doing. Not when he allowed himself to consider the way her family treated her, and the doubts and insecurities he’d seen her wade through. He’d been able to give her something that had overridden all of that. Something that had pushed those negative thoughts from her mind.

And he’d do it as many times as he could this weekend, if it meant she didn’t frown quite so much.

It was a conviction that stayed with him as they returned to the mansion, and Willow stepped out of the car, once more elegance personified, her clothes and hair all perfectly in place, with no hint of how she’d just been ravaged, crammed up against the steering wheel of his car.

A conviction that strengthened when they walked, side by side, and silently, into the corridor, only to be greeted almost immediately by Meredith, who took one look at Willow and paled perceptibly. “I thought you were getting your hair done.”

“No,” Willow countered, calmly. “I was showing Francesco the town.” Only to Francesco was the faintest hint of pink, flushing over her cheeks detectable. “I’m going to do my hair now.”

“Guests will start arriving within the hour,” Meredith croaked, glancing at an ancient clock in the hallway. “You’re nowhere near ready.”

“I’ll be ready,” Willow assured her stepmother, but Francesco was already imagining dropping to his knees and kissing her sex until she was delirious with pleasure, too distracted by her body’s euphoria to do anything other than whimper his name. He imagined her with her hair all messed up and her clothes in disarray, and had to bite back a laugh when he let himself contemplate how Meredith might react to that.

Meredith’s demeanor shifted noticeably as she turned to Francesco. “Did you enjoy the town?”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to exploring it some more,” he said, reaching down and squeezing Willow’s hand, so she could be in no doubt as to what he was referring to. Her flush darkened. Power surged through his body, an ancient, masculine pleasure driven by his ability to pleasure and torment this woman.

“Well, you’re always welcome to come and stay with us, any time,” Meredith said, distracted now, by something behind them. “Oh, by the by, I have wonderful news. Your aunt and uncle were able to change plans, after all. They’ll be here later this evening.”

Francesco processed the words without a hint of outward emotion. “My uncle and aunt?”

Meredith’s smile was tight. “Isn’t it wonderful? They’re flying across, just for tonight. They were delighted when I told them you and Willow were here already.”

“You told them that?” Willow asked, her voice high-pitched, revealing a streak of panic at Meredith’s throw away revelation.

But it was the wrong thing to say to this woman. “Of course I did,” she snapped, drawing her gaze back to Willow and looking at her with something approaching contempt. “They are like parents to Francesco. Why shouldn’t I have mentioned him to them?”

Willow gaped visibly. “We—hadn’t?—,”

“No reason, whatsoever,” Francesco said, squeezing her hand again. “We will go and get ready.” He recognized a need to remove Willow before she imploded. “See you soon.”

“Please make sure her hair?—,”

He whisked Willow away before Meredith could finish the sentence.

ChapterSeven

“THIS IS A DISASTER,” Willow groaned, as soon as they were alone in her room. “I’m so sorry, Francesco.”

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