“I’m not,” I mumble. Not from alcohol, at least, but I’d be lying if I didn’t feel intoxicated by him.
The drive to my place passes in a haze. The nervous energy from before starts to build all over again, but now it’s because I don’t want to say goodbye. I stay lost in my thoughts and only realize I’m home when the truck stops in my driveway.
“We’re here already?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His voice is soft, gentle—a pause, as if he’s also trying to prolong the moment. But eventually, he gets out and comes around to help me down.
He threads his fingers in mine and leads me to the porch, the electricity still passing from his fingers to mine.
“I had fun,” I tell him as we reach my porch. “Like, actual fun. I can’t remember the last time I just… let go like that.”
“Me either,” he admits, and there’s something raw in his voice.
I turn to face him, and we’re so close. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, can smell his scent mixing with mine, can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Beau,” I whisper, and before I can second-guess myself, I’m leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, slowly letting my cheek rub along his, inadvertently scent-marking him. I’m going to blame that on the alcohol, but the feeling his stubble gives me as it rubs my cheek is fucking worth it.
It’s supposed to be chaste. A thank-you. A goodnight between people who are fake-dating.
But I don’t pull back. Not all the way. I hover there, my lips a breath from his skin, breathing in his scent, feeling the way his body has gone absolutely still.
When I turn my head slightly, we’re nose to nose, our breaths mingling in the icy air. The heat in his eyes could set the world on fire.
“Willa.” My name sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I lean in again, and this time my lips brush the corner of his mouth. His hands are on my waist instantly, pulling me closer, and I can feel the restraint in every line of his body.
“This isn’t part of the rules,” he manages, his voice rough.
“I know,” I breathe against his mouth. “Just this once.”
I don’t care about the rules or the fake dating or the expiration date on this arrangement. Right now, I just want to feel him.
He kisses me, and there’s this desperation hibernating right beneath my skin, like I’m air or food, drawing and pulling. I can’t catch up. His lips finally slow, and I feel a soft vibration coming from his chest.
I make sounds I’ve never made before—small whimpers and gasps that I can’t control—and I feel his responding growl rumble through his chest. My skin feels hot, hotter than I’ve ever felt.
His hands, which had been sitting on my hips, slide up under my sweater, and the whine I’ve been fighting all night breaks away from me. It’s the neediest, most wanton sound—I didn’t even know I could make that sound.
“Willa.” My name on his lips as he pulls away from me, only long enough to look into my face, asking, begging me to let him keep going. I answer him by reaching up into his hair and pulling him back into me.
More, more, more. I need more. More kissing, more pressure, just more Beau.
Somewhere there’s a little voice trying to tell me to stop, that this might not be what I want, but any protest dies when his hands slide back down to my hips, then lower, slipping under the hem of my skirt. The first touch of his fingers on my bare thigh makes me gasp into his mouth.
“Beau—”
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits against my lips, his voice hoarse. “Wanted to get my hands on you, wanted to feel your skin.”
My scent perfumes the air around us, and I know he can smell my arousal, can smell how much I want this. Want him. There’s no hiding it, no pretending. If he edged his hand even a little higher, he’d feel my slick as it slips down my thigh.
He walks us backward until my back hits the door, and I make a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan. His hand slides higher, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thigh, and I’m trembling, desperate, aching for his touch.
“Fuck. Tell me to stop,” he pants between kisses, and I can hear the barely leashed control in his voice.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
I feel his hand slip lower, and I think he’s going to leave, be done, and a moment of panic has me reaching for his hand to pull it back.
