Page 103 of The Fake Out
“There.” My voice is low. “That’s better.”
Something hot and urgent shoots through me, and I crook my fingers against her G-spot, watching her pretty, flushed face as her eyelashes flutter.
“Oh,fuck,” she gasps, tightening up.
The need to possess her has me by the throat. Another high, breathy moan slips from her lips as I fuck my cum inside her. Her nails dig into my biceps, and I wear a satisfied, smug smile.
Her eyes flare, going wide, and she ripples around my fingers. “This doesn’t happen,” she gasps, holding my arm tighter.
Oh, fuck. She’s going to come again. My skin prickles with anticipation.
“One more?”
She nods, blinking, tightening, and my instincts sharpen. I adjust my hand so my palm bumps her clit, and there—her head tilts back and her lips part. My fingers delve fast as she clenches. She’s saying “Yes, Rory” and “Oh my god, that’s so good” and “Just like that, baby,” and my blood courses with electricity.
I’m addicted to pleasing Hazel, it seems.
She rides it out on my hand, and her gaze turns desperate. “Kiss me,” she begs, and our mouths crash together. She moans against my tongue, soaking my hand, and I slow my movements as I feel her start to come down.
“What the hell, Rory?” she breathes with soft surprise. “That was so…”
She doesn’t finish the thought.
“Yeah.” I swallow, pulse beating in my ears. I can already feel the sleepy, sluggish post-orgasm haze settling in my body.
After we clean up, Hazel curls up against me in bed, her head on my chest, her hair brushing my skin, and her scent in my nose.
“Good night,” she whispers, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Good night.”
I want to say more. I didn’t know fooling around could be like this. It doesn’t feel like fooling around; it feels like—
I’m not ready to even think that. Not when there’s a chance she doesn’t feel the same way.
So I just lie there, hoping that inside her head, she feels the same way.
CHAPTER50
HAZEL
The next day,I arrive early at the arena for the charity skating event and take a seat near the entrance to the rink, where I’m meeting Rory after he’s done training.
My stomach pitches with butterflies. Rory, whom I wasn’t supposed to mess around with because this whole thing is fake, but whom I can’t stop thinking about.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, yanking my thoughts back to the present.
It’s a text from one of my students, Laura, with a link to a studio space for rent. I’ve confided about my future dream with her.
The owner is a family friend who lives in Iran, she texts.He’ll be back in town for the holidays and he wants to rent the place out fast.
I open the link she sent. Two decent-sized studio rooms, a spacious front entrance, and three smaller side rooms, two of which could be used as physiotherapy or massage rooms. The rent is expensive but the location is stellar, only two blocks from the Skytrain. It’s in a new building, so it probably has excellent accessibility.
Interesting. A place like this would go fast.
Am I ready, though? Reluctance rises in me.
In my hand, my phone buzzes, and my heart jumps at the name flashing across the screen.