Page 56 of Fake Crown

He rolls it on, and as he steps toward me, his impressive shaft is in his hand. “Say it.”

“Prove it.”

“Nah, I’ve already proved it. I want you to say it.”

“Give it to me, and I will.”

He smirks, but he lifts me up and braces me against the door. He teases me with the tip, easing in and out with remarkable restraint. “I’m not going to ask again,” he says.

“You didn’t ask the first time.”

Our gazes connect, and I realize I missed this easy banter and gentle teasing yesterday. My whole day was off-kilter from the minute I got out of the bathroom and found him gone.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” I say, and he plunges into me, eliciting a moan of satisfaction.

“Fuck, Posey,” he hisses.

My insides tingle at the raw need in his voice. I graze his ear with my teeth and tighten my legs around him so each thrust hits me in just the right spot.

He establishes a punishing rhythm, as though it’s possible for us to fuck away whatever went on between us yesterday. Mutual pleasure as conflict resolution is my favorite. He is so damn good at driving me to the edge. Baring my body to him is easy. I dig my nails into his back, and my muscles shake with the strain of trying to hold my release.

“Oh god.” I clutch at his shoulders.

He reads me like his favorite book, and he shifts his hold on my legs ever so slightly. I shoot off the edge of the cliff, and he covers my cries with his kisses. Then he follows me out into the sweet oblivion.

Brent dragged me up to the bed after sex, and he wouldn’t even let me get my latte. Those to-go cups don’t keep it warm that long. He’s underestimating my need for the sugar and caffeine that only a latte can provide.

“So,” Brent says. “Last night.” His arm is thrown across my middle, preventing me from fleeing this conversation.

“Might actually be all of yesterday.” This isn’t just me. He was weird yesterday too. I turn in his arms, and I lay my head on his biceps, which is stretched out behind us. His brow is furrowed, and I run my hand along his cheek.

“I brought your latte.”

“But you didn’t stay, and you didn’t even talk to me. Nothing. Complete silence yesterday.”

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” he says.

“Wasn’t that the point of the fake relationship? We spend our time together so you don’t spend it elsewhere.”

He scans my face, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “Who else are you spending your time with?”

“Seriously, Brent?”

“I deserve to know.”

“Last week when we first started sleeping together. Now? You’re not asking for the same reason.”

“Why won’t you just answer the question? You wouldn’t answer it last night, and you aren’t answering it now.”

Jealousy is driving him, and I should find it off putting. My breaking point with any guy in the past has been the first sign of insecurity or instability. But there’s vulnerability underneath his question when normally all I can see is anger.

I run my thumb along his bottom lip, and then I place a gentle kiss on his lips. He doesn’t return it, and tension radiates off him. “You’re the best I’ve ever had, Faulkner. Anyone else would be a letdown. Why would I do that to myself?”

A hint of a smile tips up the edges of his lips. “You owe me a medal.”

“Took you a whole week.” I slither my body along his, and he hardens against me.

“To get you to admit it. I bet I hit that finish line before we left Bermuda.”