Page 147 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“That was unfortunately attractive.”

“Good.”

“No, not good. You being financially and sexually competent is terrible news for my nervous system.”

I kiss higher.

Her words stop.

Just stop.

That silence does more to me than the jokes.

I look up and find her staring at the ceiling, lips parted, hands gripping the pillow like she’s trying to remain a civilized woman through sheer civic duty.

“Look at me,” I say.

Her gaze drops to mine.

There’s humor there still, but it’s thin now. Heat has burned through most of it. Underneath is want. Underneath that, fear. Not of me. Of being seen this clearly. Of needing something she can’t organize, charm, or outwork.

I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh. Her eyes flutter closed.

Then I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties.

She stops breathing.

I stop moving.

Her eyes open.

The whole room narrows to that one look.

I don’t ask with my mouth this time. She knows the question. I can see that she knows it. I let her have the space to answer without me filling it for her.

Daisy’s throat moves.

I pull her panties down.

Slowly.

Her hips lift for me again, a little less shy this time, and the trust in that small movement nearly takes me out at the knees. I draw the fabric over her thighs, down her legs, past her feet, and drop it with her jeans.

Then I look at her, really look at her. Open,

Daisy tries to hold my gaze. She almost manages it. Then her nerve breaks, and she covers her face with both hands.

“I want to see you,” I say.

I keep her waiting on purpose, kiss trailing down her stomach, down to the edge of her thighs, and pause. Always pause. Daisy hates it but she loves it more, the anticipation, how I make her hold her breath for that first touch like it’s a question she’s not sure I’ll answer. My hands are on her knees. I like her naked but I love her when she’s still mostly dressed, shirt bunched under her arms, sleeves tangled around her wrists, her hair flattened to the pillow and her cheeks so pink it looks like bruising. She’s open for me, legs wide, feet flexed, and I don’t give her what she wants yet. Instead, I mouth at her thigh, teeth just barely catching skin.

Her breath stutters and she makes this helpless, angry noise, half-embarrassed, half-chiding. I answer with a look. Hold her eyes while I bite. Daisy has this thing about being looked at. She’ll take anything if I keep my gaze locked on hers. But the moment I lower my head, she’s already rocking her hips up, needy, wordless, so greedy for it.

“You’re an asshole,” she whispers, but she’s smiling, barely, bottom lip caught in her teeth.

I let my tongue flick along the inside of her thigh, taste the salt of her, then blow cold air where it’s just been wet. She shivers. I don’t move higher, not yet. I’m patient.

She hates that, too. My thumbs press just above her knees, and her fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white. I inch up, slow, and when I finally taste her—when I finally give her the first brush of tongue, soft, then harder—she whimpers like she’s surprised it feels good every time. Maybe she is.