Page 57 of Faking the Heat

“It’s a pleasure,” Priya says, her voice smooth and modulated. She doesn't move her hand from his arm immediately. She lets it linger for one, two, three seconds before dropping it. “Sterling has mentioned you. The girl from the fire. It’s quite a story.”

“I’m more than just a story, Priya,” I say, and the edge in my voice surprises even me. I offer a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. “And I’m definitely more than just a girl from a fire. I’m the woman who lives in his loft. And his bed.”

The silence that follows is absolute. Sterling’s hand hitches on my hip. Priya’s eyebrows climb a fraction of an inch. I can feel the heat rising in my neck, a flush of pure, reckless adrenaline. I’ve never been a possessive person. I’ve always been the one who retreats, who fades into the background to avoid the conflict. But watching her touch him... it broke something in me.

“I see,” Priya says, her gaze shifting back to Sterling. There’s a new look in her eyes now, something sharp and assessing. “Well. I should let you two get back to your... fundraising. It was good to see you, Sterling. You look well. Rested.”

She turns and walks away, her heels clicking a steady retreat. I watch her go, the tension in my shoulders only partially dissipating. I can feel Sterling looking at me, his gaze heavy and expectant, but I can't look back at him yet. My heart is still performing a frantic solo in my chest.

“Mandy,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “What was that?”

“I was selling the relationship, Sterling,” I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Isn't that what we’re here for?”

He doesn't respond. He just looks at me for a long, quiet moment, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against my hip. The music is still loud, the crowd is still cheering, and my parents are still somewhere in the room believing the lie. But as I stand there, wrapped in the arms of the man I love while pretending I don't, I’ve never felt more like an amateur playing at a game I’m destined to lose.

We leave twenty minutes later. The excuses are easy, I’m tired, the smoke from the grill is giving me a headache, we have an early start with my parents tomorrow. Even though my parents are still here not at all worried about the early start they have tomorrow. Sterling doesn't argue. He says his goodbyes with the practiced ease of a man who has done this a thousand times, his hand never leaving the small of my back. But the silence in the truck on the way back to the loft is different. It’s not the comfortable, domestic quiet we’ve spent the last two weeks building. It’s heavy. Charged. It smells like the charcoal from the firehouse and the expensive perfume Priya was wearing.

By the time we walk through the heavy industrial door of the loft, my nerves are frayed to the point of snapping. I head straight for the kitchen, needing a glass of water, needing something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for him.

“Mandy, talk to me,” he says, his voice low and steady. He’s standing by the kitchen island, his dress jacket discarded on the sofa, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looks exhausted, but his eyes are locked on mine with a terrifying intensity.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, my back to him as I fill a glass at the sink. “Your ex showed up. She’s beautiful, stunning really. She’s a doctor. She knows where all your scars are. I got a little defensive. End of story.”

“Defensive?” He’s moving now, a slow, predatory glide that brings him right behind me. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of cedar and laundry detergent and him wrapping around me. “You told her you lived in my bed, Sparkles. That didn't sound like a performance for your parents. They weren't even in earshot.”

I turn around, the glass of water gripped in both hands. “I told her the truth, Sterling. I do live in your bed. For now. That’s the arrangement, remember? We’re roommates with benefits and a very elaborate cover story.”

“Fuck the arrangement,” he growls, and before I can breathe, his hands are on the counter on either side of me, trapping me. He’s so close I can see the slight graying at his temples, the fine lines around his eyes, the raw, unmasked hunger that makes my knees go weak. “You were jealous. Admit it.”

“Of course I was jealous!” I shout, the glass hitting the counter with a sharp clack. “She touched you like she owned you! She looked at me like I was a temporary glitch in your system! And the worst part is, she’s right, isn't she? I’m the girl from the fire. I’m the girl you’re saving. What happens when the smoke clears, Sterling? What happens when I’m not a crisis anymore?”

He doesn't answer with words. He lunges, his mouth crashing onto mine with a desperation that shatters the last of my defenses. It’s not a gentle, questioning kiss. It’s a claim. It’s a storm. His tongue forces its way past my lips, tasting of the bourbon he had at the fundraiser and a hunger that feels like it’s been building for a lifetime.

I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his white shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no air left between us. He hoists me up onto the granite counter, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back. His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, pulling the pins out until my auburn mess falls freely, sliding under my dress to find the bare skin of my thighs.

“You’re not a project,” he hisses against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear. “You’re not a crisis. You’re the only thing that makes sense in this goddamn city.”

He pulls the zipper down on the back of my dress, in one fluid motion, before tugging the ruffled cap sleeves off my arms. I’m left in my bra, my skin pebbled with cold and heat all at once. He looks at me then, his gaze dark and heavy, tracing the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips. He looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever seen clearly.

“I want to fuck you, Mandy,” he groans, his forehead dropping against mine. “I want to fuck you until you forget that woman’s name. I want to fuck you until you realize that there’s no performance left.”

“Then do it,” I whisper, my breath hitching as his thumb circles my nipple through the lace. “Stop talking and do it.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. He fumbles with his belt, his breathing ragged and uneven. I help him, my fingers trembling as I undo the button of his dress slacks, pushing the heavy fabric down until his cock springs free. He’s thick and hard, a heavy, pulsing weight that I can feel against my inner thigh. I reach down, my fingers wrapping around him, feeling the hard heat of him, before rubbing my thumb through the drop of pre-cum at the tip.

He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body and lands right between my thighs. He grabs my thighs yanking to the edge of the counter and shoves my dress up to my hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my lace underwear and ripping them down. I’m soaking wet, my pussy aching and throbbing with a need that feels like it’s going to consume me. He doesn't wait. He positions himself at my entrance, the tip of his cock probing, teasing.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I look. His eyes are blown wide, the dark pupils swallowing the moss and rust of his eyes. He thrusts, a slow, deliberate movement that fills me inch by agonizing inch. I gasp, my head falling back, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He’s so big, so solid, stretching me until I feel like I’m going to break, but it’s a beautiful, necessary kind of pain.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses, his jaw tight with the effort of not losing control. “You feel so fucking good, Mandy.”

He starts to move, a rhythmic, pounding pace that makes the glass of water on the counter rattle. Every thrust is a declaration, a claim staked in the dark of the loft. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, my mouth finding his again as we move together. The jealousy, the fear, the image of Priya’s hand on his arm, it all burns away in the heat of him. There is only the friction of skin on skin, the sound of our breathing, the obscene wet, slapping noise of our bodies colliding.

“Harder,” I beg, my nails raking down his back, finding the scars he doesn't talk about. “Sterling, please. Harder.”

He obliges, his movements becoming frantic, desperate. He’s pounding into me now, his cock hitting my cervix with every thrust, sending waves of white-hot pleasure radiating through my core. I’m close, so close, the tension building in my hips until I’m vibrating with it. My pussy is clenching around him, milking him, and I can feel him pulsing inside me, his own release nearing.