Page 21 of Faking the Shot
She chuckles softly, and this time, it’s not the triumphant sound I’ve grown used to. It’s lighter, almost . . . shy. My gaze flickers to her, catching the faint blush still dusting her cheeks, and a thought slams into me with the subtlety of a freight train.
Does she blush like that everywhere?
The image takes over, unbidden and unstoppable. I picture her across my lap, her skirt hitched up, panties pulled aside. My palm leaves a red mark on her ass, her skin warm and sensitive as she squirms, her breath hitching with every smack.
“More,” she’d moan, her voice breathy and full of need.
My fingers would slide between her thighs, finding her slick and ready, her body arching against mine as I bury two fingers deep inside her. She’d grind against my hand, her ass still stinging from my palm, her soft moans turning into desperate pleas.
“Please,” she’d beg, her head thrown back, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her blush would spread—across her chest, down her neck, everywhere. The most beautiful fucking shade of red, like I’d claimed her completely.
I’d take my time with her, making her come on my fingers, over and over, until she’s shaking in my arms, panting and broken in the best way.
Fuck.
I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the quiet space between us. My fingers twitch, and I drop my napkin, hoping the action will shake me out of this goddamn spiral.
It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That’s the problem. Definitely the problem. And I need to rectify it. Soon.
“We should probably go,” I mutter before I do something stupid—like try to fuck her on this table.
Valentina rises, brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirt, and begins gathering her things. The scattered array of papers disappears into her briefcase with surprising efficiency.
“Well, I guess that’s everything,” she says cheerfully, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Thanks for the cake.”
I raise an eyebrow as she heads for the door. “Wait—you’re not paying for this?”
She pauses mid-step, glancing back with a mischievous grin. “No, big man. You got it.” Then, with a wink that’s equal parts infuriating and sexy, she walks away like she owns the fucking place, leaving me staring at the check on the corner of the table.
My mouth hangs open for a second, disbelief freezing me in place. The audacity.
I finally grab my wallet and drop a hundred dollar bill on the table, when I hear it.
A dramatic gasp echoes from the doorway, loud enough to turn heads. “Oh my God,” Valentina exclaims, her voice dripping with exaggerated wonder. “It’s Kaden Crawford. I can’t believe he’s here.”
The minute the words leave her mouth, the restaurant erupts. Fans rush toward me, their voices blending into a chaotic blur of “Kaden. Can I get a picture?” and “Sign this, please.”I barely have time to process what’s happening before I’m surrounded, a sea of eager faces pushing closer.
I glance toward the door, and there she is, laughing as she walks out, her shoulders shaking with amusement. She planned this.
I bite back a curse, forcing a tight smile as someone shoves a napkin in my face. Anxiety twists in my gut, but there’s no escape. Not without making a scene.
“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth, taking the pen offered to me and scrawling my name. Someone else hands me their phone for a selfie, and I oblige, my jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it.
“Alright, people, let’s give him some space.” Valentina’s voice cuts through the noise, authoritative and calm. She’s back in the restaurant, her hands raised like she’s corralling a herd of overexcited puppies. “One at a time, please. He’ll get to everyone, but we need to keep it orderly.”
I blink, surprised as the crowd actually listens to her. Somehow, she manages to organize the chaos into a manageable line.
“Deep breath,” she murmurs as she passes by me, her voice low and soothing. “You’ve got this.”
Her words settle in my chest, quiet but grounding, like she knows exactly what I need to hear. I didn’t even realize how tight my chest felt until now, and suddenly, I’m breathing easier. I take a shaky breath, focusing on the here and now. Somehow, with her steady presence, it feels manageable.
I steal a glance at her as she keeps the line moving. She’s in control, completely unfazed, her mouth curving in a faint smile that’s half professional, half knowing. It hits me: she’s not just managing the crowd—she’s managing me. She’s anchoring me, reeling me back every time my anxiety starts to spike.
And it works. By the time the last selfie is snapped and the crowd disperses, I’m drained but calm, my nerves unraveled in a way I didn’t think possible.
Valentina turns to me, a triumphant grin lighting up her face. She’s far too pleased with herself, and damn if it doesn’t look good on her. “See? That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
I glare at her, though it’s all for show. There’s no heat behind it—not when she’s looking at me like that. “You’re evil.”
