Page 179 of The Faking Game

“That was…” He pushes up on an elbow, and there’s wonder on his expression. “Fuck. I went hard there at the end. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wanted you to.” I brush back hair that falls over his forehead and smile at him, and somehow, I feel shy and perfectly at ease at the same time.

His own lips curve. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts to his side and pulls out of me. I wince at the sudden emptiness, and he catches it, like he catches everything. “Are you sore?” He looks between my legs, and I laugh, pushing my knees together.

“West,” I protest.

His hand is there, brushing my thighs apart. “Lie still and let me look.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not. I’m the one who left a mark there.”

I let him spread my legs apart, and for a few long moments he just watches me, a serious expression on his face. And then he groans. He falls forward, head against my knee, like a tree felled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he mumbles. “Everything’s right.Tooright.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m dangerously obsessed with you.” He reaches for the edge of the blanket and checks that it’s clean before folding it up and using it to gently wipe between my legs. I’m swollen and a bit sore, and he gives me an apologetic look. “Hope you didn’t like this blanket.”

“It’ll survive a wash.”

“You didn’t bleed.” There’s something deeply pleased about his voice, and I think of his mouth on me, of my orgasms, his fingers stretching me out.

His words are like a warm, tight grip around my heart.I’m dangerously obsessed with you.Anddon’t move outandI’ve dreamed about thisand maybe, maybe…

“This should have happened in a bed,” he says. He zips himself up, and then he’s fitting my panties back around my ankles, pulling them up my legs.

“Probably,” I say. “I think I saw one of your gardeners over there.”

West’s hands stop at my hips. “What? They’re fired.”

I laugh and reach to push against his chest. “I’m joking.”

“Don’t.” But his voice has no bite, and one by one, he does up the buttons of my sundress. Afterward, he stretches out beside me and pulls me against him, and I ask if he has to work or if he can stay.

“Yes,” he says, and I know he means both. “So? What did you think?”

“About having sex?”

“Mhm.”

“It was okay,” I say, and he groans into my hair.

“Nora.”

I giggle and sling my leg over his. “You once told me you didn’t have a fragile ego!”

“I lied.”

“I suspected.” I kiss the skin exposed by the open V of his button-down. “I liked it. A lot, a lot.”

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