Page 136 of Fall Fake-Out

His hand shifts gently to the back of my neck. Mine finds his shoulder.

The kiss deepens.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Just real.

Like we’re both quietly making up for lost time.

A soft sound escapes him, and something inside me completely unravels. Because this isn’t the football field, or the abandoned house, or another almost kiss.

It’s finally happening.

Wade’s hand slides from my cheek into my hair, careful at first, then firmer when I lean into him. His other hand roams my back, to my waist, to my hip, like he’s been wanting to touch me for weeks and is finally allowing himself to.

The realization sends another wave of heat through me.

I kiss him deeper, more passionately, letting go of all my fears.

And somehow, that kiss feels even more dangerous than at first.

Because now we both know exactly what we’re doing.

“Mr. Stevenson?” the amplified voice blasts through the gym speakers.

Neither of us stops.

“Mr. Stevenson, please report to center court for the homecoming king and queen presentation.”

I push him back, breaking our lips apart. “You need to go.”

“I don’t want to.” His mouth finds mine again.

“Mr. Stevenson?” The microphone crackles.

His forehead drops to my shoulder, and he groans. “This is terrible timing.”

“You’re just too important.”

His arms tighten around me one last time, as if he’s openly suffering.

I push lightly against his chest. “You need to go.”

“Fine.” He lifts his head, pulling back from me. “But don’t go too far. I’m not done with you, Miss Langford.”

His smile absolutely wrecks me almost as much as his kiss.

And for the first time all week, I stop wondering whether this is real.

Because nobody kisses someone like that for a bet.

Wade

THE REST OF the dance is torture.

Pure torture.