Page 46 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
We end up on the tarp, the smell of paint and her wrapping around me until nothing else exists.
The next day, she’s balanced on the second rung, painting the trim near the ceiling, when I step behind her, my hands sliding up her bare thighs under her cutoff shorts.
“Careful,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk.
“You’re at the perfect height,” I murmur, my fingers tracing higher. “Would be a shame to waste it on trim.”
Her breath catches, and that’s all the invitation I need. I tug her shorts down just enough, nudge her legs apart, and bury my face between her thighs.
The brush clatters to the tarp somewhere above me as she braces against the wall, hips rocking forward into my mouth. Every sound she makes goes straight to my cock — soft gasps turning to moans that could undo me right here, fully clothed.
By the time she comes, gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, I’m sweating and so hard I can barely think.
It’s Friday when she takes the picture. We’re sitting on the porch steps of the Lawson house, both of us sweaty, a little sunburned, and covered in flecks of paint. I’ve got a beer inhand; she’s leaning into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t even notice her phone until she’s grinning at the screen. “Smile,” she says, and before I can roll my eyes, the shutter clicks.
A few minutes later, I hear her phone ping.
“What?” I ask.
“Just posted it,” she says, tapping away. “It’s for the sponsorship, remember?”
I nod, but when I glance over her shoulder at the photo, it hits me — we look… happy. Like a couple who built something together and lived in it, not two people playing pretend in a house full of ghosts.
For a second, I let myself believe it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lyla
The first thing I do after coffee is check my phone.
It’s a bad habit — the kind that usually ends with me doom scrolling through headlines or avoiding comments altogether — but today I can’t help it.
The photo of Damien and me is everywhere. Well… everywhere in my little corner of the internet. Hundreds of likes, dozens of comments.
You two are adorable!
That smile! Who is he?
You should totally have him on the podcast.
Small-town hottie alert.
I bite my lip, scrolling. There’s nothing nasty, nothing cruel — just curiosity and a whole lot of people rooting for something they think is real.
And the weird thing is, I don’t hate it.
The idea of him on my podcast makes me smile, even though it’s ridiculous. He’d probably sit there in stony silence, armscrossed, until I bribed him with coffee or threatened to edit him into something embarrassing.
Still, the thought lingers as I carry my mug into the closet-turned-recording-booth.
The closet smells faintly of laundry detergent and cedar from the little sachet I keep in the corner. I settle onto the stool, pull the mic toward me, and put on my headphones.
Usually, this is the part where I stare at the wall for ten minutes, trying to force something worth saying. Lately, everything has felt like a rerun — me trying to wring meaning from the same thoughts until they’re thin and brittle.
But today… I just start talking.
