Page 47 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Spiraling my fingers over my clit, I close my eyes and give myself over to the vision of his routine dancing in my mind’s eye.

It’s fine.

This is fine.

If Laurent didn’t want the ladies to jill off to the memory of him, he wouldn’t put himself on stage.

Right?

Shoving my guilty thoughts aside, I recall how his powerful thighs made his routine seem effortless, almost an afterthought, even though the demands of physics tell a different story.

I remember how his brown eyes were so rich and deep that a girl could fall into them.

I remind myself of how it felt when, after I grabbed his hand like a creeper, he squeezed it and said in his silken voiceI got your back.

It’s the same hand I’m touching myself with, dipping into my folds, swirling fingertips over my clit, feeling my orgasm wind tight within me until, at last, I cry my release to the silent bedroom.

Iawaken to the sound of my phone buzzing against my nightstand. Fumbling for it, I swipe it open to see that I’ve got a new text.

From Laurent.

I’m instantly both wide awake and dizzy.

Because I dreamed of him. I dreamed I was watching his glorious body flex and spin and curve across the stage, every move made just for me. And then, music still blaring, he stopped mid-routine and stared straight at me.

Dream me smiled — a.k.a. drooled — up at him, the perfect man for me.

And then Dream Laurent leaned his head to one side and said, “You really think you’re good enough for me, nerd?”

Everyone in the audience laughed.

That’s when I woke up, the buzz of the text tugging me into consciousness.

But now I’m staring at Laurent’s name gleaming up from my phone and I’m honestly kind of sort of confused as to what is real and what is not.

Because let’s be real. Laurent is totally out of my league. He’s super nice to let me hire him to be my faux beau, but that’s where it ends between he and I.

Girls like me — awkward, anxious, and squishy around the middle — don’t end up with guys like him — suave, well-spoken, and a hunka hunk of burnin’ love.

(I mean, come on. Who saysa hunka hunk of burnin’ love, even if it’s just in their own heads? I rest my case.)

I’ll probably be pleasuring myself to the memory of my encounter with Laurent for quite some time, but that’s all I have any right to expect.

I open my text messages to read what he has to say.

I was thinking . . . maybe we should have a practice date before your big meeting, just to get the hang of this fake relationship thing.

My mouth drops open. Laurent wants to hang out with meextra.

Um, I text back,what?

Only if you want to, of course,he replies instantly.I know you’re only paying me for the meeting we talked about. The practice date is totally pro bono, as it were. So we can be believable when it’s the big night.

The logical side of my brain tells me that Laurent has a point. Spending time with him before my meeting with the investors would help me get over my jitters at being so close to the exotic dancer. Hopefully.

The not-so-logical part of me is just jumping up and down screaming in delight that I have an excuse to spend more time with Laurent in a totally not weird situation of my own devising.

He asked me, not the other way around. That automatically makes it not weird.

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