Page 31 of Faking the Shot
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world tilts. Before she can respond, I close the distance, my lips capturing hers in a kiss that’s immediate, intense, and impossible to hold back. Her lips are soft, maddeningly so, and she tastes like sweetness and temptation, a combination so addictive it’s dangerous.
I press closer, my hands finding her waist, and as she melts into me, one thought consumes me: I’m already ruined, and I don’t care.
Her gasp against my mouth fuels me, a sound that stirs something deep in my chest, igniting a need I can’t ignore. I press closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, bringing her against me. For a heartbeat, she stiffens, caught off guard, but then her fingers curl into my shirt, and she kisses me back, her resolve crumbling like fragile glass.
She’s a contradiction—stubborn and fiery one moment, soft and yielding the next. It’s maddening, the way she shifts between defiance and surrender, keeping me on edge and leaving me off balance. I want to unravel her completely, to see her as undone as I feel right now. My chest tightens, each heartbeat thundering in a way I can’t ignore. This isn’t just lust; it’s something deeper, something that pulls at me in ways I don’t fully understand and it’s nearly impossible to name.
It’s fire and frustration, heat and hesitation, all colliding in one messy, explosive kiss. When I finally break the kiss, her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. She’s breathtaking, and it pisses me off how much I want her. How much I want her to want this—want me.
“That,” I say, my voice rough and low, “was me being fucking professional. You want to know something else, Val?”
Her wide eyes meet mine, and for once, she seems at a loss of words. “Wh-what else?” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.
I grab her hand and press it firmly against the rigid length straining beneath my jeans, letting her feel exactly how far she’s pushed me. “You make me so fucking hard, baby. So hard it makes me want to drive you as crazy as you’re driving me.”
Her breath catches, her lips parting as her gaze flicks down to where our hands meet. “I—I’m not torturing you,” she says, her voice trembling but still defiant.
I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear as I murmur. “Can you feel what you’re doing to me, sweetheart?” I nip at her earlobe, enjoying the way she shivers under my touch. “You did this, and I think you should take responsibility for what you’ve done.”
“Responsibility?” she repeats, her tone incredulous. She’s so fucking adorable, it’s infuriating.
I lower my lips to her neck, trailing kisses down the column of her throat, letting my teeth graze her skin just enough to make her gasp. “Yes, baby,” I whisper against her pulse, savoring the way it races under my lips. “Tell me you’re wet for me, sweetheart. So fucking wet that if I push my finger into your cunt, it’ll come out soaked in your juices.”
Her lips part, a soft, shaky exhale escaping. “Soaking,” she repeats, the word barely audible but dripping with need.
“Good girl,” I say, my voice husky as I kiss her collarbone, my hands sliding down to her waist, holding her firmly against me. “I think you’re a good girl who might want to get a little dirty with me. What do you think, Val? Do you want to know more about what I like?”
She doesn’t answer right away, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps as her fingers tighten in my shirt. Her hesitation only makes me want her more—to see how far I can push her, how much of this tension she can take before she breaks completely.
Chapter Fourteen
Valentina
Never Play with Fire (Or Kaden Crawford)
I was married for several years—five, to be exact. Steve and I had sex. Plenty of it. A couple of times a week, like clockwork. And it was good. At least, that’s what I used to think . . . until Kaden.
Right now, I’m literally soaking wet. I need a new pair of underwear, stat. My pussy is practically begging for his mouth. Ifhe eats me the way he just kissed me . . . well, I’m ready for him. Completely.
But no. I am not having sex with my client.
He’s my client.
Client.
That’s a six-letter word that means “no crossing the line where you want to be his good girl and get very, very dirty with him.” And oh, how I want to ask just how dirty we’re talking. But nope. I have a work ethic.
Sure, we kissed. But I’ll chalk that up as something to workshop—like a rehearsal for the real performance. Less tongue, more smoldering looks in public. Isn’t that a fair compromise? I mean, what’s a little sexual tension if it helps sell the act?
Right. Great plan. Totally professional. Now, if I can just keep my legs from giving out the next time he so much as looks at me, we’ll be fine.
Thankfully, my phone rings at that moment, dragging me out of the mental spiral. I fish it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. Noelle. Great. Just the person to bring a whole new level of chaos to my day.
I swipe to answer. “Hey?—”
“So, according to several social media outlets, you’re dating a hockey player?” she interrupts, no hello, no pleasantries, just her usual dive-straight-into-the-deep-end approach.
Usually, I love that my sister and I can be totally direct and confide in each other. Not today though. Today I’d rather have her give me a little time to find a good lie to cover this shit show.
