Page 74 of The Faking Game

“Continue that thought.”

My entire body is too hot. “I don’t think I should.”

His lips brush my ear. “Some women can come from penetration alone, but it’s rare. Even if she won’t, she can still get pleasure from it.”

“Mhm. Or maybe she’s performing,” I say, “for her partner, and the people in the room.”

“Has that been your experience with sex?”

“I don’t think we should talk about my sex life.”

“But you seem so very interested in mine,” West says back. “You asked me just a few minutes ago if I’ve done exactly that at one of these parties.”

Damn it.

I make my voice teasing. “I don’t care.”

“Mhm. I think you’re lying.”

“You think far too highly of yourself.”

“Or I’m good at reading you,” he says, his hand flattening against the curve of my waist. It’s big and steady, pressed against my body. His thumb is only inches from the underside of my breast. “Don’t perform in bed. If that’s what you’ve done until now.”

“I’m not taking advice from you on what to do in bed.” My voice is all bravado. Another lie. If only he knew that I’ve never had sex. The most I’ve done is make out with someone.

That’s my greatest secret and largest shame, and I’ll be damned if I ever let West in on that.

“Good.” His voice is rough, at odds with the velvet curtains and the swirling smoke. “You and I shouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not about to call Rafe and recount it word for word.”

“If you do, let me know before so I can up my security.” He rolls his neck a little and looks straight ahead.

At his cousin Dave with the pin-striped suit. His eyes are narrowed and his skin is flushed and ruddy. I wonder how much he’s been drinking and how much he’s already lost at that table. West said they play for more than money.

My heart is beating fast. Maybe it’s the place, the moans around us, the shots I’ve taken, that cause butterflies to swirl inside me.

“He’s watching us,” I say.

West’s breath is hot against my ear. “Time to really sell it, trouble.”

His hand slides up my bare back, leaving goose bumps in its wake. His fingers tangle in my hair, and he curves my head up, bending his own face to my neck. His lips brush my cheek and then move down to my neck, like he’s pressing soft, barely there kisses.

Except he’s not.

His lips aren’t touching my skin.

I wrap my hand around his neck. My fingers dig tentatively into the short, thick strands of his hair. He’s warm. And his face is still buried in my neck, hovering there, lips close but not touching, stubble brushing my skin.

Playing to the audience.

We’re both pretending.

“He’s still watching.” I shift in West’s lap, turning to face him more. My legs are now fully draped over his thigh, and my dress rides up dangerously high. His hand is there, on the bare skin of my knee, a finger beneath the ivory silk.

“The fucking pervert,” West mutters against my neck.

It’s so unexpected that I giggle. His hold tightens around me, and I slide my hand down to his cheek and stubbled jaw.

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