Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is the worst idea. How the hell did this whole situation go so wrong?
Because you’re fake dating, you fuckwit!
And on that note, the voice inside my head has called me a fuckwit for the first time. I need to get a grip. I gave in to my desires in the office. I can’t keep doing it, and I can’t be dangerously close to her. I take a moment to gather my thoughts, breathing in hard, letting it fuel me. But I reach the same conclusion on the bed situation. I dig my heels in harder. “No, Fable. I won’t budge on this.”
Fable’s eyes narrow. “And who are you to decide where I sleep?”
“I’m your fake boyfriend,” I reply, my voice steady despite the tension crackling between us. “And it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re comfortable and safe.”
She huffs, her lips forming a stubborn line. “I can take care of myself, Wilder. I don’t need you playing the hero.”
The tension between us crackles like electricity, sending hot sparks down my spine. “It’s not about playing hero,” I explain, taking a step closer to her and ignoring her dangerous suggestions we share a bed. “And it’s not right for you to sleep on that couch so I will.”
She remains defiant. “What if I want to sleep on the couch?”
She probably thinks she has me in a corner. That she’s caught me on a technicality. But watch this. “Then we’ll both sleep on the couch,” I declare, crossing my arms in solidarity.
She opens her mouth to argue, but then abruptly shuts it. Fable’s eyes widen in surprise at my unexpected compromise. “Why are you so infuriating right now?”
Because you’re spectacular. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way your lips brushed my damn cheek out there in the living room and how much it excited me—a kiss on my fucking cheek. Because if a cheek kiss fires me up that much, what will I feel if I have you again? And I want you so fucking much. Because you’re fighting with me, and no one fights with me. Because I want to push you away and pull you close at the same time.
I don’t say any of those things. I’d give everything away. “Because you infuriate me,” I huff out.
“Well, guess what? The feeling’s mutual,” she says, then she wheels around and marches to her suitcase to unpack.
That won’t do. We’re not done. I follow her across the soft carpet, grab her wrist, and spin her around. The unexpected force of it yanks her against me. Her chest to mine. Her face tipped up.
Like at the party at my house. Like the moment in my office. Like…now.
She gulps, surprise coasting across her red lips. Her eyes widen, beautiful hazel pools that have me intoxicated. Eyes that remind me, too, that I shouldn’t push all her buttons. I need to get a grip. I take a breath and stand down. “I’m sorry I was so…infuriating.”
She pauses, then nods, accepting it. “Couples do that. They infuriate each other.”
It’s said without the fire of a minute ago but with another kind of flame in her irises. A warm, hazy, inviting one.
“They do,” I say, and I don’t let her go. She doesn’t make a move either.
“A fight…it makes this whole thing…more believable,” she says softly, like a peace offering, but also an opportunity—for practice.
“Fighting is authentic,” I admit. “It’s a normal thing. Couples fight, and they make up.”
“We should be able to…believably make up,” she says, breathy, feathery. “Don’t you think?”
But I can’t think anymore. Not with those lips parted, not with her soft body in my arms, not with the snow outside.
And really, the person I should stop fighting with is myself. I’m a goddamn CEO. I’m an expert at concealing emotions. My poker face is unparalleled. I won’t give away all my feelings because I won’t let myself.
With that internal war waged, I move the fuck on.
“Yes, we should,” I say at last, and then I stop arguing and I drop the fierce hold on her wrist so I can cup her face instead.
Fable’s breath hitches as my hand gently caresses her cheek, my thumb tracing the curve of her jawline. Her eyes flutter closed as she leans into my touch. Without another word, I lean in and capture her lips with mine.
There’s no mistletoe this time to justify it. There’s no audience to perform for. We don’t need any more practice. This kiss is for us. This time, I kiss like we fight. I crush my lips to hers. I kiss her hard, a demand for more. Fable grabs the collar of my shirt, twisting her fingers around it.
That.
Right there.
Her hands on me.
Her hungry mouth.
This whole kiss undoes me with its urgency, with the way we’re unleashing the fight into passion. I jerk her impossibly closer, my hand curling around the back of her head. I’m not gentle, though, and she doesn’t seem to want me to be judging from the way she presses against me. Asks for more with her body. I give her a bruising kiss, and she moans into my mouth. I stop to nip the corner of her lips.