Page 6 of Friends Who Fake It

For another, he hated lying to people he knew, and his family and the Von Bates went way back. For generations.

So, lying to them felt like an extra level of wrong.

But underlying all of that was the memory of the time he’d kissed Willow and felt her body stir against his—or at least, he’d drunkenly hoped it did. And he sure as hell knew the wayhisbody had reacted.

Cristo, he’d wanted her.

Not just because he was drunk and grieving, but because she was there, and she smelt so good, and her skin was like rose petals and her breasts were crushed to his chest.

It had been years ago, and there was a lot of water under the bridge for both of them. He’d more than moved on, and he was no longer in that awful headspace.

But their friendship meant too much to him to risk ruining it by letting his cock take over. As it was wont to do.

But not with Willow.

Not this weekend.

If he couldn’t get through forty eight hours in close proximity to this woman, then he might as well check himself into some kind of sex addict facility, because that showed a shocking lack of willpower.

And Francesco was not, generally, known for a lack of self-control.

But three days ago, when she’d shown up at his penthouse and for the first time in their entire relationship he’d seen her look anything other than completely polished, all his hot, red blood had pooled in his nether regions, remind him forcefully that he shouldn’t get complacent. Until that day, he hadn’t known that bare feet with perfectly painted toe nails could be an erotic sight. The way she’d padded across his carpet floor, so graceful and elegant, the skin on her feet lustrous and creamy, the arches high and dainty. Dainty arches?

What the actual hell?

“Good afternoon, sir.” A servant dressed in a formal suit, dark blue woollen coat and grey top hat appeared almost out of nowhere. “You must be Mr Santoro,” he added, and Francesco wondered how the man could possibly have known that. A photograph of the guest list had probably been circulated, he realized. Or perhaps Meredith Von Bates had told the staff to keep a special eye out for him. He was, after all, now somewhat of a guest of honour, according to the over the top text message he’d received from Willow’s stepmother hours after Willow’s surprise visit.

“If you’ll leave your keys with me, sir, we’ll take care of your car and bags.”

He reached back into the car and grabbed his phone, sliding it into his pocket before handing over his keys and returning his attention to the house. Right as Willow strode through the front door and all the blood that had started to pump through his body once more shunted back to his dick.

He stifled a groan.

Did she have to look so…perfect?

She wore a woollen dress, cream in colour and fitted to her slender frame like a second skin, showing her neat breasts, nipped-in waist and surprisingly rounded bottom, as she click-clacked down the front steps and across the path on white leather boots.

“Good, you’re here,” she said, no hint of pretend girlfriend in her stern demeanour. “My stepmother has been asking for you every five minutes,” she added.

“Am I late?”

“No,” Willow said with a hint of wither in her tone. “But apparently my arrival—without you—was neither expected, nor desired.”

He cocked a brow. “This is your father’s birthday weekend.”

“Yes. And you’re the best present I could have given him,” she muttered. “Oh, God. They’re coming out. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to kiss you.”

He froze.

His whole body went into a state of suspended animation, as he processed her statement only a second before she turned to look at him, her features taut, her pale blue eyes laced with the same apology she’d just uttered a moment earlier. “Francesco,” she said, lifting a hand and pressing it to his chest. “Please, at least smile. I promise, it will be over quickly.”

“I’m not afraid to kiss you, Willow,” he responded, the words curt and dismissive, but not by design. He simply wanted to prove to himself—to both of them—that he wasn’t bothered by this. And to take that to the next level, it was Francesco who wrapped his arms around Willow’s waist and dragged her to his body, taking a second to process how warm she felt and sweet she smelled, before he lowered his head, eyes locked to hers so he saw the moment hers feathered shut, just a microsecond before his lips pressed down and claimed her mouth.

She was stiff in his arms for about three seconds, and then it was just as he remembered it being that night; she relaxed against him, so pliant and soft, her curves perfectly matched to his frame, her body completely in his thrall. Her head tilted back, and her lips parted fully, so his tongue slid into her warm, moist mouth, tangling with hers, taunting, teasing, tempting, taking as if he had any goddamned right.

But their kiss was just for show, and Francesco had made himself a promise: this would not get out of hand. He refused to let it. So, he broke away, ignoring the strangling sensation in the pit of his gut, as he dropped his lips to her ear and whispered, “Fake kissing you is kind of fun, you know,” and pulling away with a wink, to show that he was just that casual about the whole thing.

She looked at him as if from a long way away, her gaze unfocussed, her skin flushed, her lips a little swollen from his kiss. He lifted a thumb and dragged it over her lower lip, and her pupils dilated with something that should have warned him—something that terrified him.

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