Page 41 of Faking the Shot
She sets the bottle down and then she turns, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of water on her bottom lip, and I’m gone again.
“Thanks for the water,” she says, her voice casual, oblivious to my thoughts.
“Yeah, sure,” I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.
She leans against the counter, her hips cocked just enough to draw my eyes downward. I want to rip those leggings off her, push her up against the fridge, and lose myself in her.
Instead, I force myself to look away, my jaw clenching as I stare at the ridiculous backsplash I overpaid for.
“You okay?” she asks, her tone laced with suspicion.
“Fine,” I snap, too fast, too defensive. “Everything is peachy.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like she’s trying to read my mind, and I swear if she could see even half of what’s running through my head right now, she’d slap me. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to pull it together. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Having her here, in my space, surrounded by all the things I’d gladly knock over just to fuck her against—what the hell was I thinking?
She turns away, and I catch a glimpse of her ass as she moves toward the living room. My living room. The same one I’m now mentally redecorating with images of her on the rug, her body trembling beneath mine as I push her to the edge again and again.
I need a distraction. Something to break this spiral of thoughts before I do something stupid—like pin her against the wall and show her exactly how badly I want her.
But when she glances over her shoulder at me, her brows lifting in mild curiosity, all I can think is how much better she’d look with that smug little expression wiped away. Breathless. Shattered. Whispering my name like a prayer.
Fuck. This is going to be torture.
I push off the counter, needing to move before my brain short-circuits entirely. “Come on,” I mutter, jerking my head toward the stairs. “I’ll show you your room.”
She follows me. We reach the guest room, and I push open the door, flipping on the light. The space is immaculate, the kind of room that looks like it belongs in a high-end hotel—sleek furniture, neutral tones, and crisp linens. “Here,” I say, stepping aside so she can walk in.
She sets her purse on the bed and turns to me, her expression thoughtful. “Do you have another shirt I can borrow? Maybe a pair of boxers? I didn’t bring pajamas.”
I freeze.
The mental image hits me like a goddamn freight train. Her, in my shirt, the fabric soft and oversized, hanging just low enough to tease. Bare legs, bare feet. My boxers riding low on her hips, clinging to her curves in a way that’s undeniably mine.
She’ll be wearing my clothes. Mine.
Something primal stirs deep in my chest—a possessive heat I can’t shake. She doesn’t even realize what she’s asking for. Doesn’t realize the fucking claim it feels like she’s giving me, just by putting on something of mine.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rough as I force myself to move. “I’ll grab them.”
I head down the hall to my room, trying to think about anything but the fact that I’m hard as a fucking rock. The ache is maddening, the throbbing need impossible to ignore. Fuck, this woman is going to ruin me.
In the closet, I grab the softest shirt I can find—a worn black tee that clings to me but will drown her—and a pair of boxers. Holding the fabric in my hands, all I can think about is how it’ll look on her, how it’ll smell like me after she’s worn it. How much I’ll want to tear it off her just to feel her bare skin beneath my hands.
I adjust myself, trying to will my erection down as I head back to the guest room. When I step inside, she’s already kicked off her shoes and is pulling her hair into a loose bun, the curve of her neck on full display. Fucking hell.
“Here,” I say, tossing the shirt and boxers onto the bed before I do something stupid, like press her against the wall and tell her she doesn’t need anything else.
She picks up the shirt, running her fingers over the fabric. “Thanks,” she says with a small smile, completely unaware of the chaos she’s causing in my head.
“That’s the bathroom,” I mutter, pointing toward the door to her left as I’m already backing toward the door.
“Got it.”
As I step out and shut the door behind me, I let out a slow breath, leaning against the wall. She’s in my house, in my fucking clothes, and all I can think about is how much I want her in my bed.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing myself to get it together. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter how many rooms there are in this house, how much space I put between us—having Valentina here feels like she’s invading every inch of me.
