Page 25 of Friends Who Fake It

He eyed her for a long moment, his expression indecipherable.

“Say something,” she implored.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Are you annoyed at me?”

His lips quirked. “Why would I be annoyed?”

“Because I dragged you into this, and now your aunt and uncle are coming?—,”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I should have thought?—,”

“Will, I agreed to this,” he pointed out. “I knew there was a risk your father or stepmother would say something to Gianni and Maria, or someone else in my family. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t change anything. We’ll go our separate ways after this weekend; they’ll all just have to deal with that.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

His expression was grim. “I accept the situation,” he said, the difference subtle. “It’s not the end of the world.”

She nodded, but her face showed consternation, so Francesco swept towards her and pulled her into his arms. “Let me help you forget about this,” he said, and before she could respond, he was pulling her towards the bed, over her soft, weak protests, because she was dimly aware of the passage of time and her need to be ready to greet guests as they arrived. But Francesco was drawing her down to the bed at the same time his strong, broad hands began to strip her from her clothes, and Willow reassured herself that she had to get undressed anyway, so what was the harm in having a little help in that department?

But when he brought his mouth to her sex and ran his tongue along her seam, tasting her in a way that filled her vision with stars, she forgot everything. There was only this intense, mind-numbing pleasure, and the certainty she wanted to experience this as many times as she could over the weekend—like a squirrel, storing up nuts for the winter, was her last cogent thought before another orgasm tore through her.

His aunt and uncle arrived a little after seven, as most of the other guests—and there were many—were already well plied with exceptional alcohol, and beginning to act like it. Francesco hadn’t touched a drink. He hadn’t wanted anything that might dull his senses. Anything that might lessen his abilities, in any way. To support Willow, when Meredith swooped in and attacked. And to pleasure Willow, when they were alone once more.

Instead, he nursed a mineral water and made the sort of polite conversation events such as this required, with a man he vaguely remembered having met before, at a charity event in Venice. He hated this kind of thing.

Not birthday parties. Birthday parties that were for close friends and family, filled with warmth and love and genuine affection, were fine. He had no issue with those. But events that were all about showing off, and establishing your prestige in society, about spending time with people who you rarely thought of, much less spoke to, just because they were part of the same world you inhabited, left him with a cold pit in his gut.

Yet, this was Willow’s world.

The expectations on her shoulders had always been to take up her place here. To be a beautiful, perfect socialite, and marry someone worthy of her status. Someone like an earl, or a prince. He watched surreptitiously, as she endured a conversation which he imagined was probably similar in tenor to his. Surface-level and shallow, with a distant acquaintance. A conversation she couldn’t wait to be free from?

But then, Willow laughed, and Francesco stood up a little straighter, his eyes fixed on her, no longer surreptitious, but with obvious, unashamed admiration. And who cared? He was ostensibly her boyfriend—why shouldn’t he show the world that he thought she was the most amazing person?

Because in that moment, he felt that. He couldn’thelpbut feel it. Surely anyone with a pulse would look at her and see what he did? Anger fizzed in his veins when he contrasted that admiration with Meredith’s treatment of Willow. The constant putting down of the younger woman, who was all the things she’d been told she had to be, from birth. Elegant, sophisticated, educated, erudite, fascinating, charming, kind. Okay, the last one was hardly a prerequisite, but for Francesco, it was a big part of what differentiated Willow from so many of the other women he’d known, who belonged to this rarefied echelon of society. Willow had been raised rich, but her values were not reflective of that. She was egalitarian. Caring. Compassionate.

“Cesco?i.” His uncle’s deep voice came to him from up close, but Francesco had been so caught up in Willow, that he hadn’t realized their group had been joined by two more people. His gaze skidded away from her, towards Gianni and Maria, who were standing with smiles on their faces, as they regarded him thoughtfully.

Well, that was just great. They’d known his uncle and aunt would become a part of this ruse, and he’d just given an A grade performance as an adoring boyfriend, who couldn’t take his eyes off his lover.

His insides tightened at the thought of that.

Lover.

Yes, he wanted to make love to her again. Not like they had in the car, constrained by space, and time. And not like the quick orgasm he’d bestowed on her before they got ready for this party. But long, languorous, sensual love, exploring her body all night long, being explored by her…

“Darling, it is so good to see you,” Maria said in their native Italian, swooping across the distance that separated them and drawing Francesco into her arms, kissing both of his cheeks. He had to stoop and she to stand on the tips of her toes, which they both did, in a time honored, familiar routine.

“Indeed it is,” Gianni agreed, slapping Francesco on the back. “And you’ve been holding out on us.”

Francesco was rethinking his abstinence from alcohol. In that moment, a whisky would have hit just right. “Not at all, uncle.”

“You are seeing Willow Von Bates?”

He felt a twist in his throat, like a bone had gotten lodged there. Willow was right. Lying to his uncle and aunt was a step he hadn’t known if he’d be able to take. But it was necessary. Imperative, now. They’d crossed this line, with their eyes open. There was nothing for it but to keep on going.

---