Fake Fiancée

I nodded. “Yes.”

He touched my hair, almost gingerly, and let his hand drift down my cheek to my arm. He laced our fingers together. “My mom died the night of your wreck. One second we were getting the keys to our cabin, and the next she was lying on the ground. She’d been complaining of a headache for days . . .” He cleared his throat, emotion working his face. He tugged at his bottom lip.

I slid over closer to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He leaned against me and we supported each other. “It happened the summer before I came to Leland. We were on a last little hurrah vacation together—and then you—it was like I was there, but I wasn’t, ya know? In the days after she died, sometimes I couldn’t recall what I’d had to eat that morning. All I did was play football, and it saved me. But how could I . . . forget you?”

The saying maybe he’s just not that into you came to mind, but I didn’t say it. I believed the universe had pulled strings for us—but did he?

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I see your wheels turning. Look at me.” He turned my chin toward him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you from three years ago. My brain just filed it away—or locked it up—I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t ready to see it? Does that make sense?”

I nodded.

“And tonight? I’m sorry I didn’t text you. It was an oversight.”

I blinked, because it felt like he was changing the subject too fast, as if he was unsure about dissecting the night we met.

But I went with it. “I believe you about Bianca.” He wasn’t Bart, and he never would be.

Relief crossed his face. “Thank God.” His thumb caressed my lips. “Sunny . . . I want you so much that it scares the fuck out of me.”

“I’m scared too.” Of getting my heart shattered. Of you not having the same feelings for me that I have for you.

He kissed me, his lips soft but then insistent, his tongue demanding.

My anxieties were shoved away, and my overwhelming need for him skyrocketed. We’d been apart so long. I whipped my shirt off and his fingers traced the outline of my breast then dipped in to skate across my nipple, strumming it, making me moan.

We went at each other like crazed animals.

He jerked his shirt off while I unclasped my bra, and within seconds we were skin to skin, brushing against each other. His forearms lifted me up and sat me in his lap while I kissed down his throat to his chest, my teeth nipping at him and then soothing it with kisses.

He tugged down my pants and shoved my underwear to my knees, his fingers finding me like a homing beacon. He strummed me, and I moved with him, arching into his every stroke.

“You’re drenched,” he growled. “Fucking mine.”

Almost frantic, he unsnapped his jeans and pushed them down just enough to pull out his cock. Straddling him, I stroked him up and down as he played with my breasts, sucking on one then the other, his scruff like fire, hurting so good.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispered in my ear. “But I’m clean.”

I wanted him like that. I rotated my center against his hard length. “I’m on the pill.”

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned.

He tossed his head back and called out my name as I settled him in deep.

But then he took over. Fast. Furious. Perfect.

Hands held my hips and he thrust into me. He tangled a hand up in my hair and tugged my head back, and once my neck was arched, he sucked me hard. It made me hotter. Desperate. Wetness dripped between us. I screamed his name when I went over the edge.

He came soon after, satisfaction and something else that I couldn’t read on his face as he kissed me.

Max

HOMECOMING ARRIVED. ALL WEEK I’D been obsessively studying the opposing team’s defense and perfecting my pass. I was not going to lose another fucking game. Then my dad called and announced he’d be at the game tonight. Encouraged by Millicent and my chance at the Heisman, he was eager to come. I hadn’t seen him since last Christmas, and it was screwing with my head.

Ryn pulled me to the side as we waited to take the field. “What the hell is wrong with you today? You’re distracted.”

He wasn’t wrong. Stress was eating at me. Every single thing I did, every play I made was crucial.

I rubbed my head. “I’m fine.”

But I played like shit during the first half. We were up by ten when the defense read my play, and I threw the ball right into the beefy hands of one of the Carolina players, who ran it back for a touchdown.

At halftime, my gaze locked with Sunny’s and I sent her a two-finger kiss and held it up. It was something she’d come up with early in the season—a public display to make me look good when the news covered me or it was photographed.

Now, it actually meant something to me, but I didn’t know how to define it. I didn’t allow myself to think about the depth of emotion she created. It was as if I was standing at a crossroads and I couldn’t decide which direction I wanted to move.

Coach sat me down in the locker room. “Whatever’s been eating at you, work it out of your system.”

Right. I resolved once again to push Sunny—and my dad out of my head.

In the fourth quarter, I threw a gorgeous touchdown pass to Tate. We scored again with a field goal in the next series and won us the game.

I met Dad after the game, and we headed to the press conference where I was asked questions and then Dad and I posed for photo ops. Later, we piled up in his Escalade, picked up Sunny at her house, and headed to an exclusive Italian place. Millicent had tipped off a few choice reporters that we’d all be there. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">