Page 40 of Faking the Shot
It’s not a soft kiss, not a tentative gesture. It’s big, bold, and unmistakably passionate. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s holding its breath. Then the cameras erupt in a frenzy, the flashing lights brighter than ever, and the voices escalate to near hysteria.
Kaden doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer with an intensity that takes my breath away. The kiss deepens, his mouth moving against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I forget, just for a second, that this isn’t real.
When we finally break apart, his hand stays on my waist as he steers us through the crowd. The reporters shout louder, desperate for answers, but Kaden keeps us moving, his gaze forward, unyielding.
“That’s . . . unexpected,” he says dumbfounded.
I glance at him, my cheeks flushed and my heart racing, but he’s already scanning the crowd, his expression unreadable. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the kiss or this entire charade, but suddenly, I’m certain I’ve underestimated my assignment.
By the time we reach the waiting car, my thoughts are tangled in a way I can’t unravel. Kaden slides into the seat beside me and tells the driver to take us to his penthouse in Back Bay.
“We’re heading home,” he says.
“Maybe drop me at the coffee shop where you picked me up to go to your parents’ estate. I can drive myself from there,” I suggest.
“Nope. I’m taking you with me. You can’t go to Jacob’s,” he says, his tone flat. “Last thing we need is cameras camped out at his place.”
“So it’s your place then?” I repeat, unable to hide my surprise.
He gives me a sidelong glance, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of annoyance and something else I can’t place. “Unless you’ve got a better idea, that’s the plan.”
The ride is quiet except for the low hum of the car’s engine. When we arrive, the sight of the stately brownstone leaves me momentarily speechless. Its 1800s charm is undeniable, with a weathered brick façade, wrought-iron railings, and tall, arched windows that seem to hold a century’s worth of stories. The craftsmanship is timeless, a testament to Boston’s history and elegance.
Kaden steps out and opens the door with the casual confidence of someone completely at home in this kind of luxury.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, his sarcasm as dry as ever as he gestures toward the door.
Inside, the space is a stark contrast to the exterior’s classic charm. High ceilings stretch above, and clean lines dominate the design. The modern furnishings, all sharp angles and rich textures, make the space feel both refined and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the interior with light, offering a stunning view of the Boston skyline.
This place isn’t just incredible—it’s a masterpiece of old-meets-new, the kind of home that screams money.
“Guest room’s upstairs,” he says, nodding toward the staircase. “First door on the right. I’ll grab you something to drink.”
“Water is fine, thank you,” I mutter, still absorbing my surroundings.
The space is undeniably his—sophisticated, understated, but with just enough edge to remind me that Kaden Crawford is anything but ordinary. And as he returns with a bottle of water, his frown is firmly intact, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve gotten myself in over my head.
Chapter Eighteen
Kaden
Learn the Art of Restraint
This should be filed under What the fuck was I thinking?
Valentina Holiday. In my house. Drinking water like it’s a damn performance.
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she tilts her head back and takes a sip. Herthroat works as she swallows, her lips wrapping around the rim of the water bottle in a way that makes my cock twitch. Fuck, how is drinking water sexy?
I need to think about something else—anything else. Hockey drills, bad takeout, that godawful game we played. But none of it sticks. Because all I can think about is her.
Her legs, long and toned, stretched out on my sofa. Her ass pressed up against the edge of the counter as I slide my hands under that tight little shirt she’s wearing. Her lips—God, her lips—parting for me, gasping my name as I make her come so hard she forgets everything else.
Fuck.
Stop thinking about her and all the surface where you can fuck her.I grip the edge of the counter, trying to ground myself, but it’s no use. It’s impossible.
The images are relentless now, vivid and consuming. I want her on every surface of this house. Bent over the dining room table, her back arched as I thrust into her. Pinned against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, her legs wrapped around my waist as the city lights spill over her skin. On the goddamn kitchen counter, her nails digging into my shoulders as I bury my face between her thighs, tasting every inch of her.
