Page 65 of Faking the Shot
She hums softly, the sound vibrating around me, sending a shiver straight through me. But it’s not just the sensation—it’s the way she seems to trust me completely in this moment, the way she’s giving herself over to this, to me.
She slows even more, her lips barely moving now, and I realize she’s on the verge of drifting off, her breathing soft and steady against my skin. The sight of her—her head in my lap, her legs tucked up on the couch, her body so completely relaxed—does something to me I can’t explain.
I stroke her cheek gently, my thumb brushing over her skin. “Take your time, baby. I’ve got you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kaden
Always Be Prepared For The Next Move or You’ll be Royally Fucked
After three weeks, this new plan is going so much better. Well, maybe better for my image. For me? Let’s just say Valentina has been running me ragged, like today.
My supposed day off, and she used every single second of it—all of it.
We started at her house, reviewing the week’s schedule over coffee she insisted wasn’t “just regular coffee” but something fancy from her overpriced machine. Then it was off to the children’s hospital, where I signed autographs, posed for pictures, and let one particularly bold kid draw a mustache on my face with a marker.
The way her eyes lit up at the hospital when she introduced me to the kids? That made it impossible to say no to anything she planned. The way she laughed at the café when the barista practically announced to the entire city that I’m boring? That laugh had me agreeing to the next thing before I even knew what it was.
And then, at the hockey match, when she leaned close and whispered something about how cute the goalie was, her breath warm against my ear? Yeah, that was the moment I realized I’m in way deeper than I planned.
So, yes, the plan is working—at least for her amusement. For me, it’s a toss-up between a successful PR strategy and whatever the hell you call this growing ache in my chest every time she smiles at me.
I glance over at her now, sitting across from me in the car, her face glowing from the dim light of her phone. She’s scrolling through her notes, her brows furrowed in that way that tells me she’s already planning my next “relatable man of the people” stunt.
“Are we done for today?” I ask, my voice half a groan.
She looks up, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “For now. But don’t get too comfortable. I have more plans for you.”
Of course, she does. And, of course, I’ll go along with it. Because as exhausting as it is, I can’t seem to get enough of her.
And that might be the real PR problem.
Of course, she does. And, of course, I’ll go along with it. Because as exhausting as it is, I can’t seem to get enough of her.
And that might be the real PR problem.
It’s been three weeks since she agreed to take me back on—three weeks of navigating this strange mix of work and whatever the hell is happening behind closed doors. And after this morning—the way she begged me, trusted me, and let me take care of her, giving herself to me completely—I can’t get her out of my head.
This is not the time to lose my focus. Yet, every time she smiles at me or makes one of her smart-ass remarks, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.
I scrub a hand down my face as I step out of the shower, throw on a pair of pajama pants, and head to the kitchen. What I need is a quiet night in. A reset. Okay, I need Valentina naked. No more spanking and eating pussy. I need to bury myself inside her pretty cunt, stretch her with my cock, fill her all.
This isn’t helping. I need to eat, sleep and forget about how much I crave her.
Opening the fridge, I find a couple of ready-made salads. I grimace at the cheerful mix of greens and reds. I know it’s good for me, but what I really want is a fucking burger. With no other options, I dump one of the salads into a large bowl, grab some dressing, and head to the living room.
I plop down on the couch and turn on the TV. And—of course—it’s porn.
Fucking Lucian. I swear, every time my brother stops by, he somehow manages to leave the TV on some ridiculous porn channel.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I should, my salad forgotten. And just as I’m about to get up to find the remote—or, hell, just pull out my cock—the doorbell rings.
I freeze, staring at the door like it’s about to attack me. I’m not expecting anyone.
Dragging myself off the couch, I shuffle to the door and open it. I’m not in the mood for guests—until I see her.
Valentina is leaning casually against the doorframe, holding a pizza box in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other. The smell of melted cheese and greasy perfection wafts into my face like a goddamn miracle.
