Page 144 of The Faking Game

“Our lessons are about you.”

“They’re about sex, aren’t they? Except we’re not having sex.”

“That’s right. We’re doing… everything else.” His hand finds my chin, and he pulls my face up. “You’re trying to make me budge.”

“Is it working?”

He brushes his lips over mine with tantalizing slowness. “You tell me,” he murmurs and shifts his hips forward.

My hand brushes over the distinct hardness. “Whoops.”

He tips my head back and bends to kiss my neck again. I had to use makeup to cover up his hickey. “Damn, you smell good.”

“I meant what I said. I’m hot,” I say. My eyes flutter closed at the feeling of his lips there. It makes my head too thick to think.

“You sure as fuck are,” he mutters. “That’s always been the problem.”

“Calloway!” a voice bellows. “Are you coming today, or what?”

West groans against my neck and takes a step back. He leans against the trunk of the tree and reaches down to palm himself through his pants. “You go first,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not the least bit sorry.”

I smile. “No. I’m not.”

“Go. You’ve done enough damage here,” he says, but he doesn’t look sorry either.

* * *

The rest of the day is a flurry of activity. The afternoon finishes with white water rafting, and by the time we’re down at the bottom, I’m smiling from ear to ear. It felt like skiing, but far less controlled.

West was in the back of the boat with the oars. Sailor that he is. He collected an extra chip for that alone. By the end of the day, we’ve all won a fair amount of them. Alex is in the lead, which James says is nothing out of the ordinary. “He’s the one with the least care for his own life,” he says.

We’re sitting at a bar a block from the villa. The chairs and tables are on the sand, with rolling waves only a few feet away. I slide my feet out of my shoes and bury them in the sand.

It’s been years since I hung out with my brother’s friends like this.

James is still the most silent one. When he speaks, he does it cuttingly. Just how I remember him. His Englishness is a stark contrast to Alex’s Scottish brass.

West sits opposite me. He’s wearing a dark navy shirt, two top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. His long legs are spread out, and he’s drinking from a glass of rum.

And his attention often drifts to me. Especially when I cross my legs in the short dress or take a sip of my drink. Like his eyes can’t help but wander over, even as his expression remains neutral.

I’ve never felt this kind of power before. To know that I’m wanted and to revel in it. When my brother leaves to use the restroom, I deliberately swipe my hair over to expose the mark West left.

His gaze zeroes in on me immediately. His eyes narrow with warning. I didn’t cover the mark up with makeup tonight.

I lift a shoulder in a shrug and cross my legs again. I’m not wearing any underwear, but West doesn’t know that. Yet.

His jaw tightens.

“Nora,” Alex says. He’s sitting to my right, a long arm draped along the back of his chair. “How are you finding the trip so far? Living up to expectations?”

“You know, I think I understand the point of a Lost Weekend now. It makes you feel alive. Is that why you guys do it?”

Alex nods. “Nothing makes you forget a board room as quickly as jumping off a cliff.”

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