Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 94(@200wpm)___ 75(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
He pulls back, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes dark with a heat that makes my skin burn. I look at him, my brain finally catching up with my body, and I scramble for the safety of the script.
“Ryan,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “There’s no one here to see that. You can stop now.”
He looks at me, and the expression on his face is something I’ve never seen before. It’s raw and honest and terrifyingly real. He straightens up, his hands dropping from my waist, but his gaze never wavers.
“This is real, Rory,” he says, his voice flat and steady. “At least for me.”
He turns and walks away before I can find the words to stop him. I stand in the doorway, the cold air biting at my skin, and watch the taillights of his SUV disappear into the mist. My lips are still tingling from the pressure of his mouth, and my heart is screaming a warning I’m not sure I can ignore anymore. This fake dating feels more real than anything I’ve ever felt before.
CHAPTER FIVE
RYAN
Usually, by the time I step out of the elevator and into the hallway of my apartment building, the city is just distant noise. But now, the hush presses in, so thick I can feel it ringing in my ears, closing over me like a fist. My keys drag down my pocket, heavy as the exhaustion grinding deep in my bones, every step toward my door slow and shadowed by the memory of Rory on her doorstep, lips parted, blue eyes round and startled, her shock a perfect echo of my own desperate need.
I told her I wasn't pretending. The words had torn loose before I could think to stop them, hanging between us, sharp in the damp Seattle night. I don’t regret it. But the way she looked at me, like I was a puzzle dumped onto the table with no warning, clamps around my ribcage, brutal and relentless, squeezing every last drop of air from my lungs.
My apartment is all sleek corners and cold, expensive pieces, everything laid out too perfectly, too precisely, like nobody’s been living here at all. It’s the kind of place a guy picks out when he’s waiting for his real life to show up and rescue him from all the silence. I toss my keys on the marble countertop, and they hit with a sharp, lonely clatter that echoes throughout the whole open-plan space. No need for lights. The streetlamps outside spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows anyway, stretching long crooked shadows across the hardwood, making everything feel vast and a little haunted.
I need to get my shit under control. I shed my suit jacket, letting it fall onto a leather armchair, and tug at my tie until the silk slithers free. My skin feels too tight for my body, a restless energy buzzing in my limbs that even a triple-overtime game couldn't exhaust.
The bathroom is cold, all slate tile and chrome fixtures. I kick off my shoes and strip, my movements jagged and impatient. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see a man very close to losing control.
I step into the shower and crank the handle to the left, waiting for the water to scald. It hits my back in a punishing spray, but it’s not enough to drown out the image of her. Rory. The way her curves filled out that dress at dinner. The way her genuine laugh lights me up from the inside out.
I lean my forehead against the wet tile, closing my eyes. Big mistake. Behind my eyelids, she’s right there. I see the way her eyelashes fluttered when I leaned in. I feel the ghost of her palm against my chest, the heat of her skin through my shirt. She’s all soft edges and sharp wit, a combination that’s currently wreaking havoc on my nervous system.
My hand finds its way down, my fingers wrapping around the thick, heavy length of my cock. It’s rock-hard, aching with a pulse that matches the thrum of the water against the floor. I groan, the sound lost in the steam, and start to move. I’m not just horny; I’m starving for a woman who thinks we’re playing a game of make-believe.
"Rory," I breathe, the name a jagged prayer. I picture her in this shower with me, the water slicking down her skin, making those incredible breasts glisten. I imagine her pinned against this very wall, her legs wrapped around my waist and those blue eyes dark with the same hunger that’s currently eating me alive.
I increase the pace, my thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive head, catching the beads of pre-cum that smear against my palm. Every stroke is a memory of how she felt against me at the door. I want to fuck her. I want to sink into her until I don't know where I end and she begins. I want to hear her scream my name, not because there’s a camera nearby, but because she can't help it.