Page 102 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I don't know what to do or say. I don't want to assume, but there's no other explanation for this kind of emotion burning in his eyes.
He has feelings for me.
And God, what's worse…I think I might have feelings for him, too.
Shit.
I want to deny it, but I can't. Not when he's looking at me like this. Like he sees straight through my every defense. I can't ignore the heat in my chest or the strange protectiveness that flares whenever I think of him.
I wanted to rip someone's hair out when I heard what his family had done to him. Right now, all I want is to taste him again—to feel him.
His eyes tell me he's feeling the same.
He cups my face gently with one hand, his thumb tracing my jawline. Emotion pulses from his gaze as he lowers his head, brushing his lips against mine. His voice is a low, rough whisper. "No one gets to talk about you like that. Ever. You're mine, Jenna, and I'll protect you with my life."
"Just for now," I murmur. "Just for the term of the contract, right?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he kisses me.
The heat in my body flares instantly, though the kiss stays slow, exploratory, almost reverent. Even when I try to deepen it, he keeps control, holding the back of my neck, his tongue teasing mine into a delicate dance.
Desire floods through me. I want more.
I reach out to his shirt, my palm pressed over the wild rhythm of his heartbeat. When I try to pull him closer, he groans and pulls back, only to drop soft kisses down my neck and acrossmy collarbone before finding my lips again — like he can't stand the distance.
His hand slides down my waist and around to cup my ass, kneading softly—a gentle possession that says without words: You're mine.
He lifts me easily, carrying me to the couch. When he lays me down, he hesitates, staring at me with that unreadable look that's half lust, half regret.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly.
"For what?" I ask, confused.
"For everything," he replies. "For not thinking about how this deal would affect you or your business."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not. I was a selfish asshole."
God, don't do that.
Hearing him apologize—really apologize—melts something inside me. It makes me want to pull him into my arms, to tell him it's all right, to never let him go.
But he's not really my fiancé. This is just make-believe. A contract. A game.
What I didn't realize when we started was how dangerous this game would become.
It's hard enough resisting him when he's being an arrogant jerk. I have no defense when he's like this—soft, sincere, vulnerable.
I reach up and stroke his cheek, my thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw.
"It's okay," I whisper. "I regret nothing."
His expression twists, pained, as he bends to kiss me again.
This time, it isn't gentle.
