Page 18 of Faking the Shot
I narrow my eyes, trying not to smile. “Are you implying my company is that bad?”
She tilts her head, her expression a mix of innocence and mischief. “You tell me. You’re the one who has to sit with yourself all day. How much fun is that?”
“Plenty, actually,” I deadpan. “I’m great company.”
Her eyes light up with faux amazement. “Wow, really? And here I was thinking you might scowl your reflection into submission.”
“I’m not scowling,” I say, my voice louder than I intend, though I can feel my mouth twitch, betraying me.
She gestures vaguely to my face. “Sure, that’s not a scowl. It’s just your natural ‘I hate the world’ resting expression.”
“Do you always talk this much?” I retort, fighting the growing urge to kiss her—that will probably is a no for so many reasons, but I’m so tempted.
I’ve been tempted to kiss her since trivia night. Someone give me a medal for not acting out of . . . desperation, desire, I’m not sure what, but I’ve behaved, and no one is acknowledging it.
“Only when I’m with someone who clearly needs my sparkling personality to lighten the mood.” She leans in slightly, her tone lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial. “And by the way, you’re totally a stick in the mud.”
I scoff, louder than I mean to. “I’m not a stick in the mud.”
“Oh, no, of course not.” She bites back a laugh. “You’re the life of the party, obviously. I bet you bring Twister to family reunions.”
“Now who’s being abrasive?”
“And now who’s proving my point?” she shoots back, her smile growing as she picks up her glass of water and takes a slow sip, savoring her little victory.
I squint at her, wondering if she’s enjoying this way too much—or if I might be. “You’re impossible.”
She grins, completely unfazed. “And yet, here you are, stuck with me. Let’s call it fate.”
The banter shifts as the waiter sets our plates in front of us, the smell of grilled chicken rising between us. She doesn’t miss a beat, immediately diving into her cake like she’s won some great prize.
“Here’s the deal,” she says between bites, her voice softer but still laced with confidence. “We let the media see us together. Laughing, smiling. Looking like we don’t completely hate each other.”
“I’m not pretending to laugh at your jokes,” I grumble, poking at my chicken. “You’d probably take it as an ego boost.”
“You’re right.” She points her fork at me. “And I’d milk it for all it’s worth. So, your other option is to lean into the bad-boy angle. But be ready for the backlash: hate mail, public shaming, family drama.” She takes another bite of cake, savoring it like she’s got all the time in the world. “So, what’ll it be?”
Her words settle in as I glance at my plate, and the gravity of her point starts to sink in. She’s not wrong—again. My dads worked too damn hard to build their careers, their lives, for me to tarnish our family’s name. That’s not happening.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want to do that.” Valentina nods.
My mouth waters as I watch the decadent pastry crumble, each delicate piece sliding onto her fork.
Her lips curl around the fork, and for a second, I lose track of the conversation. She moans softly, savoring the bite, and my grip on my glass tightens. God help me—no dessert should look that good.
I’m trying to keep all the blood in my brain and out of my cock, but then she moans. A soft, throaty sound that makes my gut clench and my pants feel a little tighter. Her eyes flutter closed like she’s in goddamn ecstasy.
Is this cake or porn?
It’s infuriating. How the hell can she make eating a dessert look this . . . sexual? I’m ninety percent sure this can’t be professional. Publicists aren’t supposed to seduce their clients—especially not with chocolate.
A part of me—probably the dumb part—is pissed off that she can rile me up just by eating. But the other part? The part that’s currently imagining her tongue doing other things? Yeah, that part is thinking about how it would look if it wasn’t cake on that fork.
What if it was me? My cock, thick and hard, sliding past her lips as she sucked, slow and deep, taking me all the way into her throat.
Fuck. I shift in my seat, suddenly too hot and too uncomfortable for this dinner. The thought alone is enough to send me spiraling into dangerous territory.
No. Stop it. Bad idea, Kaden. She’s not someone you want to fuck.
