Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
The song ends, but neither of us moves. We stand on the dance floor, still holding each other, both breathing harder than the dancing warrants.
Someone bumps against me, breaking the spell.
"Drink?"
His voice is rough and quiet. I barely hear him.
I can only nod.
We spend the rest of the evening in this strange, charged awareness. Every touch feels magnified—his hand returns to my back as we navigate the crowd, my fingers on his arm as I laugh at something he says, his palm briefly touches my waist as he helps me into my seat for dinner. I want him to speak again. I need his voice. His tone vibrates through me. Distracts me. Unhinges me.
We play our parts perfectly—the new couple, still in that honeymoon phase. But something has changed, and we both know it. When our eyes meet across the table during dinner, when his fingers brush mine as he reaches for the water glass, it no longer feels like acting.
By the time we escape to the taxi, I'm vibrating with unspent energy. The whole drive back to my apartment, we sit carefully on opposite sides of the back seat, both staring out our respective windows like we're afraid of what might happen if we look at each other. But I can feel him there, aware of every breath, every shift. The driver's oblivious chatter about the weather fills the silence we're both too wired to break. Like an invisible, tenuous thread is stretched between us.
When Adrian mentions Victoria's birthday dinner—three days away—I just nod. We need to be ready. We need to be convincing.
"We should practice."
My head whips around. His expression is carefully neutral, but there's something in his eyes. Something that makes my pulse jump.
"Physical affection," he clarifies. "Before Victoria's dinner."
"Makes sense. When?"
"Tonight?"
My throat involuntarily swells. My nostrils fill with a long intake. Panic and excitement mix. I know I want this.
This is much harder off the page. My mind imagines writing this scene. Just so much easier, cleaner, neater. Real life just gatecrashed my fictional world? My hormones and biology don't live in my Kindle. I might be chronically single, but I write steamy sex scenes for a living. And I am not a virgin, no matter how much I feel like one right now. Fake, huh! OK, let's go!
The car pulls up outside my building. I invite him up for coffee, and we both know it's not coffee that's bringing him inside.
I move around making coffee, hyperaware of Adrian leaning against the counter, watching me. His bow tie is loosened, hanging untied around his neck. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing the hollow of his throat. I nearly spill coffee grounds trying not to stare.
He breaks the silence.
"Victoria's birthday dinner is in three days."
"I know." I'm trying to stop my hands from trembling as I measure coffee.
"She's going to be impossible."
"I've handled worse."
We move to the living room, string lights casting a soft glow across the space. We sit on the couch, a careful distance between us, both holding coffee mugs like shields. The silence stretches.
"We should discuss one thing."
I look over at him. "And that would be...?"
"We haven't kissed yet."
"W-what?"
"Victoria will expect physical affection." His voice is calm, logical, but his eyes are anything but. "It needs to look natural."
"So, you want to ... practice... here, now?"
"It would be prudent."
I can't help but laugh at his word choice. "Prudent. You want to prudently kiss me?"
"I want us to be prepared." His clinical language doesn't match the heat in his eyes.
I set my coffee down, hoping he doesn't notice how my hand shakes. "Okay. Prudent practice kissing. Sure. Why not?"
Adrian stands, offers his hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. We're standing in my living room, string lights twinkling above us, soft music still playing from earlier. My heart pounds against my ribs.
"This is just practice," I say, not sure who I'm trying to convince.
"Just practice."
His thumb strokes my knuckles—an unconscious gesture that sends shivers up my arm. I step closer, tilting my face up to his.
Adrian cups my face with both hands, the touch surprisingly gentle for someone usually so in control. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and my eyes flutter then close briefly.
This is fake, this is fake, this is—F...
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, but I don't. His lips touch mine—soft at first, tentative, testing. Warm, firm, careful. My eyes close. The kiss is sweet, almost chaste.
Then his hand slides into my hair, cradles the back of my head, and everything changes. My fingers grip his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. The kiss deepens, shifts. Nothing tentative anymore.
His other hand moves to my waist, pulls me closer. I make a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper that I couldn't control if I tried. His grip tightens in response.