Nope. That’s a lie. That scent is going to my panties. So much for not touching. Or letting on. Since the second his arm slidesaround my waist, I’m trembling. I swear, I need to stop being Silly Putty in his hands.
“Closer,” she says. “This is a kissing scene.”
I blink. “W-what?”
Vega must realize she sounds pushy since she changes her tune. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to kiss. We don’t make stand-ins kiss.”
That’s not even the issue, but I can’t think about issues when Banks curls his fingers around my waist like he’s claiming me. My skin heats up. My shoulders rise and fall. I’m dying here as the man I’m pretending I’m not having a secret, stolen romance with isn’t turning me on in front of a whole camera crew.
As they hustle around the lawn, Banks’s fingers tease at my waist.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth, but it’s more like a murmur.
“Did you say irresistible?”
“Now just turn toward each other,” Vega says.
I gulp.
We shift, and those dark-chocolate eyes hold my gaze as he tosses a casual question the director’s way. “Like I’m going to kiss her, right?”
“Yes, exactly,” she says as Banks leans the slightest bit closer, earning some praise. “You’re a natural. You really look like you’re about to kiss her.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Guess I’m a good actor.”
It’s said to her, but he’s looking at me with such passion we know he’s not taking home the statuette tonight. And we shouldn’tbe doing this—we are playing with fire—but not being with him while pressing so tightly against him feels impossible.
“Now, can you wrap your arms around his neck?” Vega asks in her good cop voice.
I comply, my hands circling Banks, my fingers brushing against the ends of his hair. A whimper falls from my lips as I touch the man I want. It’s like the rest of the crew disappears, and it’s us in the lavender fields, escaping for a stolen kiss—since I’m rising on my tiptoes and brushing my lips to his.
When I let go, everyone’s clapping. “That was perfect,” Vega says, with a quick clap. “You went the distance, and I’m so appreciative. We have what we need.”
They let us go, and I hastily excuse myself, beelining for the cottage, away from everyone.
I shut the door and move to the wall next to it. I try to catch my breath, waving a hand in front of me to cool off. A minute later, Banks is here, opening the door. He doesn’t say a word—just hauls me against him and devours my lips.
It’s a wild, frantic kiss that will lead to one place only.
Before I know it, I’m up against the wall, shorts off, panties gone. After he grabs a condom, Banks is thrusting into me, fucking me hard and mercilessly, just the way I like it with him.
I’m panting and moaning, my noises growing louder with each pump of his hips.
“Banks,” I murmur.
“Quiet, sweetheart. Don’t want everyone to know you’re fucking the stand-in.”
“No. The stand-in is fucking me,” I correct.
“Damn right he is,” Banks says, then covers my mouth with his big hand. “Quiet.”
My eyes widen as I nod, urging him to clamp his hand tighter.
He holds my hip tight, too, his fingers leaving marks as he drives into me until I lose my mind, falling apart in his arms. A few seconds later, he follows me there with a bitten-off groan.
We slump against the wall, sweaty and panting.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m grabbing bouquets of flowers for my morning delivery. I like this stand-in life very much.
