Page 33 of Faking the Shot
For one insane second, I imagine dropping to my knees right here, pulling his jeans down and taking him in my mouth until he’s groaning my name. I’d let him grab my hair, guide my movements until I was completely at his mercy, tasting every inch of him until?—
I shake my head, snapping myself out of the fantasy before it spirals further. My cheeks burn, and I bite down on my bottom lip, refusing to let him see how much he’s getting to me.
“You okay there, Val?” he asks, his voice laced with mock concern. “You look a little . . . flustered.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, but the words come out way too fast to be convincing.
He pushes off the wall, sauntering toward me with the kind of confidence that should be illegal. “You sure about that? ’Cause I’ve got a few ideas about how to help you . . . relax.”
I stand abruptly, my heart hammering in my chest as he closes the distance between us. His grin grows wider, and I hate how much it makes my knees feel like jelly.
“Not happening,” I say firmly, though my voice wavers slightly. “You’re my client, remember?”
His eyes gleam with amusement as he steps even closer, until there’s barely an inch of space between us. “Yeah, and?”
“And that means no . . . metaphorical horses. Or saddles. Or anything remotely like what you’re suggesting.”
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear as he murmurs, “Too bad. I think you’d enjoy the ride.”
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “No, I don’t think I would.”
He smirks, unbothered by my defiance. “Speaking of horses, maybe we should ride. I’ll show you the property before lunchtime.”
“Fine,” I reply with exaggerated patience. “That I can do. Riding horses—not your . . .” I trail off, instantly regretting even starting the sentence.
“My cock?” he offers smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. “Go ahead, say it, baby. ‘I don’t want to ride your cock, Kaden.’”
“I’m not saying anything,” I snap, my cheeks burning as I avert my gaze.
“Fine,” he says, his smirk turning wicked. His hand brushes my arm lightly, and before I can pull away, he leans in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. His voice is low, rough, and entirely too seductive as he murmurs, “But here’s what I want, baby.”
I shiver, my resolve already crumbling under the heat of his proximity.
“I want to eat your cunt,” he continues, his breath hot against my skin. “If it tastes anything like your mouth . . . fuck, I’ll never want to stop. I’ll spread you out on this bed, pin your thighs open, and bury my tongue so deep in you, you’ll forget your own fucking name. I’ll lap up every bit of you until you’re trembling, begging me to let you come. But I won’t stop. Not until I’ve had my fill, not until I’ve made you so wet, you’re dripping down my chin.”
My breath hitches, my knees wobbling as his words hit me with the force of a tidal wave. His lips graze my earlobe, and my pulse races as he adds, “You’d love it, Val. I’d make you love it.”
I gasp, barely holding myself upright as I fight the whirlwind of sensations threatening to take over. “You’re impossible,” I manage to choke out, stepping back before I completely lose myself.
“And yet,” he says, his grin infuriatingly smug as he straightens, “you’re still here.”
I hate how smug he looks, but even more than that, I hate how much my body reacts to him. It’s maddening. The worst part? He knows it.
He grabs his shirt from the back of a chair, sliding it on and tugging it into place with an ease that shouldn’t be so distracting. “Let’s head out, follow me.” He turns and heads for the door, leaving me standing there, breathless and more flustered than I’ve been in my entire life.
Chapter Fifteen
Kaden
Game Night Crawford Family Style
Dinner with my family isn’t supposed to feel . . . easy. For some reason I’m yet to understand everyone is here. Normally, I’d be itching to escape the table, to find some excuse to slip away before the inevitable round of questions or unsolicited advice started. But tonight? Tonight feels different.
Maybe it’s because of the ride earlier. Showing Valentina the property felt like something more than just going through the motions. I took her to the ice rink, the football field, and all the other amenities scattered across the estate, telling her stories that only a Crawford would know. Like the time Killion accidentally locked himself in the stables while trying to “train” a horse he was afraid of, or the year Scottie insisted on building an ice castle that collapsed in less than twenty minutes.
I told her about the times I would be going to the rink to teach Grayson how to skate—he was three at the time. Somehow, I felt like if I could convince him that hockey was his passion, team hockey would win over the football lovers. And we in fact did. Only two out of the six of us followed the football lane.
Valentina didn’t laugh at the stories—I mean, really laugh. She shared them, like she belonged there, like she wasn’t just humoring me. And it wasn’t forced, either. It was real. For the first time in a long time, I found myself . . . relaxing.
