Page 90 of The Faking Game

I reach for the top one.

“Do you have any kinks?” I read. It’s a pretty broad question, and I glance up to see him looking at me. “You go first.”

“Some,” he says.

“What are they?”

His entire focus is on me, and I feel myself expand beneath it, a piece of paper folded out and smoothed. “I like praising the women I’m with,” he says. “You might have noticed that.”

CHAPTER26

NORA

“Praising,” I repeat. “That’s…”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” West reaches for his glass of wine. “I enjoy making my partner feel good and valued.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“They should. Theybetter.But not everyone likes it quite as much as me, I think.” His amber eyes darken. “Guiding, admiring. Learning what a woman likes. What makes her feel good. Telling her just how good she’s doing when she’s pleasing me.”

“Oh.” The word comes out a bit strangled. He’s called me good several times in our previous lessons.That’s my girl.It was unexpected… and unexpectedly nice, coming out in his deep, smooth voice. “You do like doing that.”

His hand stops, wineglass halfway to his mouth. “I wasn’t sure if you’d noticed.”

My mouth feels dry. “I didn’t know it was a kink.”

“Not everyone likes it. Some women can find it… paternalistic. It’s something I discuss first.”

“Praise,” I whisper. I’ve lived my whole life craving validation. Chasing it. Fighting for it. Feeling like I’m not good if I don’t get it. It’s dictated my whole life.

I have to look away from his gaze. It’s too knowing. Like he knows just how much I crave that, too.

“I can see how someone might like that,” I say.

“Someone,” he asks, “or you?”

My eyes flit back to his. It’s hard to breathe. “Both. I think.”

“Mhm. That’s good, trouble. Expressing what you like.”

“Anything, em… else? Do you like chains? Whips? Um… role-play?”

He runs a hand along his jaw. “Was that on the card?”

“No. I’m freestyling.”

“And the first thing you came up with was whips? Makes me curious aboutyourkinks.”

“Not whips,” I say quickly. “Actually, scratch that one. I don’t know where that came from.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t forget it.”

I groan. “Of course you won’t.”

“Does pain interest you, then?”

“I’m not sure I—” We’re interrupted by the approaching waiter. West effortlessly swipes the cards off the table and tucks them beneath his palm in time. My ravioli is set in front of me. It smells divine.

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