I take three minutes to weigh the pros and cons (the cons being nearly nonexistent)—all while Leif’s interest begins to waver—and I finally decide to swim with the backwash instead of against it. “For the fake dating scheme?”
“For the fake dating scheme,” she echoes.
With a throat clear, my reservations molt as I grab the curve of Staten’s butt hard enough to make her yelp, molding the entirety of my palm to her ass cheek. Then I add a few measured squeezes to really get Leif’s blood rushing.
She pitches forward a bit, catching herself on my arms. “Jesus, it’s not a stress ball.”
“You’re really bossy, you know that?”
“Wouldn’t have to be if you just did things right the first time.”
My fingers lighten up to knead in a rhythmic fashion, and I practically explore the entire surface area of her ass while her ex-best friend ogles us from afar.
“You’re slacking. Nibble my neck,” I command, slightly afraid of—and turned on by—the beast I might unleash if I keep telling her what to do.
Staten, surprisingly, follows through and rises to her tiptoes, slobbering all over my throat in some sloppy kiss session before taking a solid bite of my goddamn jugular. No flair, no build up, no inclination that she has any sexual experience whatsoever. If Leif were to look any closer, he could untangle our web of lies before our “relationship” even hits MU’s gossip circulation.
“I asked for a nibble, not a fucking vampire bite. I can’t show up to practice with a hickey on my neck.”
“You know I don’t have any experience doing throat stuff!”
“This is never going to work,” I murmur, my confidencepiggybacking on the doubt that circles my head like ospreys waiting for their next meal to scurry out of a nearby thicket.
There’s a growl in her chest—one that shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does. “Shut up. Is he still looking at us?”
I glare through my lashes to pinpoint our stalker, and sure enough, he’s staring straight at us with a face redder than a fire hydrant, looking about ready to march on over here and actually do something about it. You know, he really should. That way I’d have an excuse to punch him.
Possessiveness clamps down on me. “Yeah, he is.”
“Good. Now slap my ass.”
“For fuck’s sake, Staten.”
“Trust me, it’ll work. Ithasto work,” she insists with equal parts guilt and gratitude—guilt for stringing her airheaded crush along, gratitude for picking one willing yet unfortunate soul to induct into her two-person crime league.
She’d never admit it, but I can hear the desperation tinting her words. I don’t know what hurts more—the fact that she’s trying so hard to be noticed by someone who doesn’t deserve her, or the fact that I’ll probably always play second fiddle to Leif Kennedy.
So, I slap her butt with enough force to bruise, and she expels a little gasp before clinging to me. When Staten looks up at me, I hunt for some small truth that any of this is real—any of it at all—but I come up empty-handed as expected. At the end of the day, we’re just two people using each other. The only language we speak is physical, and I hate that part of my breakfast slingshots up my throat because of it.
Leif retreats to the shadowed margins of the party—disappearing amongst the bobbing heads of other invitees—and all I do is bring Staten into a hug, burying my nose in the crook of her neck.
I think getting pelted with a nail gun would be less painful than vying for the heart of a woman that belongs to another man.
15
DRUNK WORDS ARE SOBER THOUGHTS
STATEN
Am I offended that Knox didn’t want to slap my ass like a pair of sexy bongos? Kind of, yeah.
This whole night has felt…off. Knox and I both arrived at this party with one goal in mind: to give some hot-off-the-grill ammunition to every nosey gossipmonger in a ten-mile radius. I had no idea that Leif was going to be here tonight, but the fact that he didn’t invite me to be his plus-one fucking stings. I mean, why would he? We haven’t really been on the greatest terms lately.
Silvering moonlight clashes over the spacious living room, and I excuse myself from Knox’s and my stalemate before the afterburn of tears has a chance to sucker punch every one of my senses. There’s a ringing in my ears like audio feedback—shrill, jarring—and I pray that Knox doesn’t try and follow me out the door. I just need some air. I need to reset my emotional breaker. We might’ve succeeded at making Leif jealous, but at what cost? Am I really going to hurt him just because he rejected me? I’m not that kind of person.
At least, I didn’tthinkI was.
When I plow through the crowd, someone of slightly tallerstature than me accidentally intercepts my right of way, and I’m thrown off course without adequate time to assess my surroundings.
