Page 23 of The Match Faker
We’re standing in the middle of the dance floor, unmoving. “Is everyone looking at us?”
“If they were, would that bother you?”
Yes. Usually. Not right now. “Maybe we should…” I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Maybe they think we’re fighting.” A silly, stupid lie.
Nick knows it. His thumb brushes my lower lip.
My words are breathy. “We should look more like a happy couple.”
He nods. The lead singer’s voice lingers on a haunting final note.
“I want to kiss you.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice strangled.
He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist. He keeps his eyes open, only letting them fall closed as his lips, fruity and spicy with the taste of red wine, meet mine. I can’t look away from the fan of his lashes against the delicate skin below his eyes or the diamonds reflected onto his features from the glittering lights.
He opens my mouth with his, grips me everywhere, his palm against my upper back, my shoulders, his other hand pressed flat to my collar bone.
I explore the width of his shoulders, the expanse of his back, the soft hair at his nape that curls around my fingers like it wants to keep me there. He smiles against me, following the curve of my mouth.
An ache blooms in my chest. Each time his lips brush mine, the ache grows deeper, until it’s pulsing inside me. Already my muscles remember where he touched me. My body knows what’s next even if my head is fully aware that we’re standing in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by my co-workers.
We could get a room upstairs. He’d hold my hand in the elevator. At the click of the hotel room door closing behind us, he’d pull at the tie on my jumpsuit and let the top come loose, peel the garment down my legs. He’d press his mouth between my thighs. Slide his fingers up the inside of my leg. He’d find mewet, and he’d make me come like that, with the gentle touch of his hand, the soft suck of his lips.
This wasn’t part of the deal. Suddenly, though, I can’t remember why. Maybe our plans could change, just for tonight, for right now. It won’t mean anything if I press him down on the bed. If his stubble leaves marks across my thighs and chest. We can go back to the plan tomorrow, after he rolls me over and slides into me, just this one time, tonight.
“Jasmine,” he says against my lips.
I can’t stop exploring, the heat at the base of his spine, the place where his jaw meets his earlobe.
“Jasmine.” He breathes my name. I could live like this, off these little gasps of air.
He pulls away, grimacing, like it hurts him to stop. My hands are fisted in the lapels of his blue suit jacket, my hair looser in its pins, my lips likely bare of any color I added before I left my apartment.
The music has stopped. The room is brighter and suddenly cold. I close my eyes, if only to avoid the bewilderment on his face.
He kisses my forehead, eliciting a shiver.
This is not the plan. This is not how I stop the stares and the whispers.
“Nick?”
He nods against me.
“I think I’m going to go home,” I say. “Alone.”
7
JASMINE
“Darling.” Jade pats my head. “You seem distraught.”
“I am not—” I huff, my biceps burning, my hands aching. “Distraught.”
Finally, the food she let stick, calcify, and fossilize onto the stockpot detaches from the stainless steel.
“Honey, you’ve really got to remember to let these soak,” I say gently but not for the first time. Holy fuck, do I hate doing dishes.