Page 44 of Faking Summer
She hesitated for a second—maybe two. Then her lips parted into a small smile. "Not that tempting," she breathed, a lie so blatant it was almost endearing. "Just sort of." Her teeth caught her lower lip, holding it prisoner for a brief, heart-stopping moment before releasing it. "It doesn’t mean I hate you any less."
My fingers brushed through her hair as I firmly pulled it away to expose her neck.
"Chaos," I whispered against the warmth of her collarbone, pressing a kiss there, feeling her pulse race under the pressure of my mouth. "We both know you don’t hate me."
A shiver ran through her, either from my words or the touch of my lips, I couldn't tell. And then she looked up at me, her eyes two blue flames flickering with the small sliver of defiance she had left.
"Then you don't know me," she said with a shaky breath.
But oh, how little she understood. I was beginning to read her like my favorite book. Each breath she took was a sentence; every glance told me exactly what I needed to know.
"Are you wet for me right now?" I drew out the question, the words covered in an intimacy that neither of us could deny. “Are you fucking soaking?”
She drew in a breath, steady and controlled, but I could see the faint tremble in her posture.
"Not at all," she said, lip caught between her teeth.
I let out a low chuckle, pushing this just enough to shove her over the edge. "Why is it so damn hard for you to admit the truth?Just tell me the truth. If you want me to walk away, if you really feel nothing… then say it. End this."
She took a step back. The silence stretched between us, thick and charged, but I didn’t back down. I searched her eyes, daring her, my voice rough with something real. "I can take it. I’m a big fucking boy." Yes, I was challenging her, begging her at this point—hell, maybe both. Because I might be wrong about everything, but I’d been as clear as I could be with her.“Maybe I’ll even just do the wedding?—”
I didn’t get the chance to finish.
Because Caroline snapped.
One second she was standing there, rigid, battling whatever war raged inside her. The next, she was gone—no, not gone—moving, colliding, breaking. She launched herself at me, her hands fisting into my shirt, her lips crashing into mine like she was done fighting, done pretending, done holding back.
Her legs wrapped around my waist, locking behind my back with sudden, uncontrollable force. My arms wrapped around her instinctively, holding her tight as our mouths collided in an explosive kiss that was both electric and intoxicating. My hands gripped her tight ass, feeling the soft flesh give beneath my fingers. She tasted so sweet, like candy. And fuck, she was needy. I could feel it in every inch of her body as she grinded herself against me. It was a collision of everything we’d been holding back, this long-awaited release that had been building between us for what felt like fucking eternity.
Her heart pounded against my chest as I pushed her against the wall and used one hand to support us both. A picture frame rattled next to us before it crashed to the floor. Her high heels followed, slipping from her feet and thudding onto the carpet. Each movement between us was more desperate than the last, like we were both drowning and only the other could offer the air to breathe. Her fingers tangled in my hair, legs tightened around my waist, pulling me closer, deeper. I obliged without hesitation, my hands roamingacross her back, tracing those curves that had taunted me for far too long.
Then, as abruptly as it began, she paused with a sudden release of my lips. Our foreheads remained together.
"I shouldn't have done that," she breathed. I released her and she turned and walked into the connected bathroom.
"Caroline," I called softly, following her into the dimly lit area. "Why are you fighting this so badly?"
She stood with her back to me in front of the mirror. Her hands moved to her hair, fingers combing through the blonde strands, trying to smooth out the evidence of what just happened.
I edged closer, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath she took. I reached out, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before my hand found the bend of her elbow.
"Let me in," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
She didn’t turn, but her reflection met mine in the mirror. Those striking blue eyes, now stormy, were filled with thoughts she wasn't ready to voice. I could feel the heat radiating from where my fingers grazed her skin.
Then in a raw, almost wounded whisper she asked, "How can I trust you, Reese?"
I could have laughed—should have, maybe—at the irony. Trust was something I didn’t have much of myself, and here she was, demanding it from me. Her gaze didn't waver in the mirror, challenging, expectant, maybe almost lost.
"Because," I started, "I know you feel what I feel." I stepped closer. I let my lips graze her exposed shoulder, tender and possessive all at once. She leaned into me then, the last of her resistance melting away. Our eyes met—heavy, unguarded, filled with everything we weren’t saying. That look said it all.
I had my answer. And hopefully she had hers too.
"Trust this," I whispered against her skin.
"This is so wrong," she exhaled, spinning around.
I reached out, fingers gentle but insistent, tilting her chin upward. "How can it be wrong when it feels so good?"
