She glances back, her posture stiff and sharp, shoulders pulled tight like a bowstring.“Just fucking great. You didn’t tell me your mom is going to bring up the whole religion thing. Then babies. What the fuck? Do I need to start going to church now, too?”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt if you did, potty mouth.”
“Fuck me,” she mutters, throwing her hands in the air like she’s ready to combust.
“Not the time and place, Melanie.”
She shoots me a look that could turn bone to ash. And I’m not easily rattled—but right now, I swear she could take me out without lifting a finger.
“My mom grew up Catholic,” I say, trying to soften my voice. “She wasn’t always so strict, but with age… she changed. So I go with her on Sundays. Not every week, with the restaurant and all, but I try.”
“I love how your mom acts like she’s holier than thou. Didn’t she get pregnant with you at a young age? So God didn’t stop her from spreading her legs without being married.”
“Watch it,” I growl, the shift in my tone unmistakable. I can handle her fire, but not when it’s aimed at my mom.
She sighs, tips her head back, and stares at the dark sky like she’s begging the stars for mercy.
“Just pretend,” I remind her, stepping closer. “Remember, it’s only temporary.”
“Not if I kill you, that’s permanent.” Her smile is stretched tight, biting and brittle, as if she lets go, it’ll all unravel.
This girl… Jesus. She’s a wildfire, and I can’t tell if I want to tame her or let her burn me alive. I never know what she’s thinking. Never know if I’m going to get a slap or a kiss. And somehow, that uncertainty makes my blood heat in a way nothing else ever has.
“Come here,” I say.
“What, why?” Her head tilts, suspicion laced in every movement.
“Just come here. They’re watching us like hawks. Especially Colt.”
She steps in, reluctant and tense, and I wrap my arms around her. I slowly run my hand through her hair, like I’m soothing her. Like I’m the husband I’m pretending to be.
“Uh, what are you doing?” she mumbles into my chest.
“Being your husband. Comforting my hurt wife.”
“I’m not hurt, I?—”
I silenced her with a finger to her lips.
Big mistake.
Her mouth is soft, warm. My finger lingers too long. The heat between us spikes like a sudden flame, and I imagine things I shouldn’t—her lips wrapped around that finger, then my cock. Her knees were on the ground. Her taste on my tongue.
My jeans tighten, and my thoughts darken.
I drop my hand and cup her face, needing to touch her differently. Needing to erase the filthy fantasy burning behind my eyes.
The next thing I know, my lips are on hers. I don’t plan it. Don’t hesitate. Just crash into her like instinct—raw and reckless, and it brought the blood in my veins back to life.
She stiffens, a flicker of resistance, and I’m ready to pull back—but she melts into me. Her mouth softens. Her hands grip my shirt. And when I tease her lips open with my tongue, she lets me in like she’s been waiting for this.
She whimpers, and the sound nearly undoes me.
I kiss her like I mean it. Like it’s real.
Because in this moment, fuck pretending. It feels real.
The noise of the house, the family watching, the whole damn world—it fades. There’s just her, pressed against me, tasting like frustration, heat, and something dangerously close to want.
