Faking It by K. Bromberg

by Bromberg, K.

  “Whatever?” His disbelieving chuckle grates on my nerves. “Has anyone ever told you that your temper is out of control?”

  I spin around, fire in my veins and fury in my voice. “No, it’s not,” I grit out as I stare at him. The moonlight is at his back, the stark white of his dress shirt highlighted right along with the lipstick, and his green eyes search mine. “Out of control is a man who has spent the better part of the last two days trying to get me to admit that I want to have sex with him. He’s teased me. He’s turned me on time and again. He’s frustrated and aroused me. And when I don’t bite, when I don’t give in and sleep with him right away because God forbid he needs to understand that I’m not another one of his playthings he can toy with . . . he goes out and finds someone else who will.”

  His expression morphs through a range of emotions: confusion, anger, misunderstanding.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Harlow?”

  “That lipstick doesn’t really seem to be your color.” I lift my eyebrows, then I turn on my heel and stalk toward the coach.

  “Lipstick?” He asks through a laugh that has me clenching my fists as I reach the door. “Christ, Harlow.”

  “Leave me alone.” I fumble with my key in the lock and yelp when his hand is on my bicep, turning me around.

  “I didn’t do shit. Kostas tried to distract me to prove that he should get a shake at you.”

  “Nice try.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Says every man who—” Thank God I stop myself from saying the word. Cheats. I fall silent as I try to rein in my own thought process while trying to make sense of it. So I fight against him. Out of confusion. Out of frustration for my own feelings betraying me. Out of hating the fact that I’m actually in like with Zane and it’s more than just the incredible sex. “Says every man who’s trying to play the field.”

  “Will you just listen to me?” His hand tightens on my arm. “We went to a jazz lounge. Kostas brought three women up to the booth and—”

  “Save it, Zane.” We glare at each other under the muted light of the parking lot lights. Images that flash through my mind make my stomach churn. “I don’t need to know what happened or that there’s lipstick elsewhere on you.” The smile I give him is anything but friendly. “You’re exactly who I pegged you to be. Shame on me for being fooled otherwise.”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “Good. It goes both ways then.”

  “You want to know the worst part?”

  “Pretty sure I don’t.” I try to yank my arm from his grip but he just steps in so that my back is to the coach and he’s in front of me.

  “It’s that the whole time I was with Kostas, each time the chick tried to run her finger up my thigh or kiss my cheek . . .” He pauses and that muscle in his jaw tics as he grits his teeth and stares at me. “All I could think about was you.”

  The woman in me who wants to believe, sags internally in relief. The woman in me who’s been hurt by his type and doesn’t want to be upset again stands taller.

  “Convenient explanation.”

  “Christ woman, will you stop being so goddamn stubborn?” He runs his free hand through his hair. “I’ve tried giving you your space. I’ve tried letting you figure out for yourself if you’re coming back to this and want to make another mistake with me. But I’m sick of waiting, Harlow.”

  When his lips crash to mine, my back pressed to the cold steel of the coach, I resist him. My hands are on his chest pushing him away and I’m sparring with him in the form of angry kisses on soft lips.

  His hand fists in my hair as he takes complete control despite my resistance.

  And just when I begin to relent to the heat of his mouth and the frustration in his touch and the desire reverberating between us like it’s the third person in the space, he rips his lips from mine. But he doesn’t move far. His breath feathers over my lips, his breathing ragged, his eyes boring into mine.

  “I didn’t kiss her because all I could think about was kissing you. Don’t you get that? All I wanted was to have you again.”

  We stare at each other as his words sink in.

  One.

  By.

  One.

  All I wanted was to have you again.

  My hand turns from being flat against his chest to fisting in his shirt and pulling him down to me.

  “This is just sex,” I whisper as a reminder to myself and to him to keep emotions out of it. The emotions that on my part are slowly creeping in when they have no place here.

  “Just sex,” he murmurs back, amusement in his voice. But when his lips meet mine and every hard inch of his body brushes up against mine, all thoughts are lost.

  Want. Need. Now. Please.

  Those are the four words that keep circling through my head as Zane treats my lips with a sweet reverence laced with riotous desire.

  “Inside.”

  “Inside,” I repeat his words as he opens the door to our right and I walk up them backwards so as not to have to break the kiss.

  We’re no more than a foot inside with the door locked and our bodies flanked when he wraps his arms around me and carries me to the bedroom.

  Thinking is not fathomable when he yanks my skirt up to my waist without giving any thought to the tight fit of it and pushes me back on the bed.

  “Spread your legs. I’ve been thinking about tasting you for days.”

  Before I can say a word, his face is between my thighs. His lips close around my clit through my panties and he sucks there. The wet heat, the scratch of the lace, the sensation of his fingers hooking the fabric aside and pushing into me without any pretext has me keening in an instant.

  “Zane.” It’s a breathless word on repeat on my lips as he leans back and pulls my panties down my legs. He props my heels on his shoulders and then grants me a salacious grin before burying his face back between my thighs. He makes a show of breathing in, of smelling me, and then groaning seconds before his tongue parts me and delves into my most intimate of places.

  It’s sensation overload. Heat and warmth and pressure and bliss as his tongue dips into me, moves in a circle, and then licks its way from one end of my sex to the other. His hand grips my inner thigh, slowly moves up my torso and cups my breast. His tongue moves up to flick over my clit, taunting me with ecstasy. The fingers on his free hand slide into me and begin to worship my every nerve within.

  My body is overwhelmed with sensations. With the push and the pull of desire warring within me to come so I can enjoy the pleasure and to hold off the orgasm so it can grow to be even stronger.

  My hands grip his hair. My hips buck up. My legs tense. All three attempt to help and hinder and encourage and deter.

  An orgasm means this pleasure is over.

  An orgasm means that slow burn building inside of me is going to explode into an inferno of desire.

  “Zane,” I moan as he doubles down on his assault. Fingers and flicking and tongue and suction.

  “Come on, baby,” he murmurs as he works fervently to push me over the edge.

  “God, right there.” My eyes close. My hands flex into the sheet now. My heels dig into his shoulders as the thunderous echoes of my climax begin to rip through me.

  Sensation after sensation follows. Heat and chills and trembling and tension. Behind my eyelids turn white as my head grows dizzy and my body begins to fall into that liquid orgasmic haze.

  And just when I think my body has finished pulsing and is riding that high, Zane pushes me further into the clouds. He runs his tongue ever so softly over my swollen lips, uses the tip of it to circle my entrance—his groan is enough to make me come again—and then presses a kiss to my clit before kissing his way up my body.

  He settles over me on his elbows, his eyes dark and eyelids heavy with desire. “God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs before leaning down and kissing me tenderly on the mouth.

  “I’m not complaining about your skills, that’s for sure,” I
say with a chuckle against his lips.

  “Good thing because I’m trying to be patient and let you have a second . . . but if I don’t get to fuck your pussy soon, I’m going to be in some serious pain.”

  I pull him down and kiss him. “By all means, I think I’ve tortured you enough over the past two days”—I spread my legs back open and taunt him with a coy smile—“will this do?”

  “It’ll more than do,” he laughs as we start the dance once again.

  And just as he slips into me with a thin veil of protection, we slip into whatever this is between us.

  Sex without strings.

  Privileges with the boss.

  Friends with benefits.

  Getting the perks out of playing the part.

  Any way you want to define it is fine by me . . . except it is not a relationship.

  Those I’m horrible at.

  Those only lead to pain.

  Those are something that I know Zane never agrees to.

  “ROBERT! WHAT CAN I DO for you?”

  “Just checking to see how things are going. You’re in Nashville today, right?”

  “Yes.” Another damn day on the bus. Another day closer to getting back to my life. Another day of getting to sleep with Harlow. “You got the info I emailed over? The new stats and subscription increases.”

  “They’re looking great. Are you pleased with them?” He asks and I can hear a bustle in the background, as if he’s seated at a restaurant.

  “I am. They could always be better, but that’s just me being a perfectionist.”

  “Agreed. I’m researching a few ideas to see what else we can do to have the subscription base at max capacity before the hard launch.”

  “I look forward to hearing them.” My voice falls off when Harlow walks down the length of the coach. Her nipples are hard beneath her tank top and her hair’s a mess. The sight of her pulls at everything in me to go feel how warm her body is fresh from the sheets.

  “But everything else is good otherwise?” Robert asks.

  “Yeah. Sure.” Silence fills the line and I’m hit with a pang of dread.

  “And things with Harlow are well?”

  Shit. Here we go again with the marriage counselor stuff. I can already feel it.

  “Yes, things are great, thank you.”

  “I heard you two had quite the fight in the lobby of the hotel the other night.” His voice is quiet, searching, and pissing me off.

  How the hell does he know about our fight?

  “As two people are bound to do when they’re around each other twenty-four-seven without any space. I don’t need a fucking handler.”

  “No one said you did. Zoey is simply there to facilitate all of your events and she just happened to mention that when she was leaving the ballroom and heading—”

  “Call your dogs off me, Robert.” I shove up out of my seat and eat up what space there is in the tour bus. “How would you feel if someone had been documenting your and Sylvie’s every move?”

  “They would have seen how a real relationship works,” he says quietly making me feel like an ass for even asking, but hell if I need a father figure. “That there are fights and you get irritated. That sometimes it’s not all roses but you get through it and everything in between.”

  If I could bang my head on a brick wall, I would because he’s just not listening.

  “You’re missing my point, mate. I warned you the last time you stuck your nose in my business that I won’t have it. Partners or not, you only get a small piece of me and Harlow. The rest is our damn business.”

  “Wait. That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Come again?”

  “Still ad campaigns are good because they create an image people relate to, but it’s the watching people go through ups and downs that make people come back for more and care. You just gave me an idea about how to keep this campaign fresh and alive so that every time your events are reported on, they get new life.”

  Jesus. Those words alone scare me. “What do you mean?”

  “Sit tight on this. I need to make some phone calls and see if I can get something rolling for tomorrow. Then I need to—”

  “Robert?”

  “You’re gonna love it!”

  The call disconnects.

  And I groan.

  The man really is going to be the death of me.

  “Robert?” Harlow asks and then hisses when she takes her first sip of her coffee.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “The groan. The look on your face. Your protests. Those all might have given me a hint.” She sits on the arm of the couch. “He’s a sweetheart though.”

  “Is that what you call it?” I chuckle a self-deprecating laugh.

  “He is. Be nice to him. He’s harmless.”

  Leave it to a woman to fall for his harmless routine when I know damn well how calculating he can be.

  “You wouldn’t call him that if he was calling you every other day trying to meddle.”

  “What I don’t understand is if he’s that much of a pain in your ass, then why did you ever let him invest in the first place?”

  I stare at her for a beat, tempted to tell her to stop speaking before I make a stupid decision and let her in on what’s going on.

  “It’s complicated,” I murmur.

  “Most good things are.”

  “I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL him.”

  Jack’s laugh rings through the phone and I know my best friend is taking some kind of sick pleasure in watching this all play out.

  “It’s just one little reality TV-like bit.”

  “Do I look like I want to be on reality-TV?” I ask.

  “I can’t see you through the phone, but the ladies love you so if there is some kind of vote off the island type thing, you’re probably safe.”

  “This isn’t funny.” I stare at the screen again, TRUST ROPES BONDING COURSE, where Robert made an appointment for one this afternoon.

  Christ.

  “It kind of is. What’s that saying about when lies catch up to you?”

  “When lies catch up with you, you punch your best mate in the face? You mean that one?” I ask more than frustrated at the message I woke up to today from Robert. The one I haven’t even gotten a chance to tell Harlow about yet because she’s off getting her nails done and isn’t answering.

  “Maybe it’ll be fun,” Jack says.

  “Fun?” I laugh and run a hand through my hair. The thought alone has me sweating through this damn shirt. “Dangling from ropes high in the air and trusting that Harlow is going to catch me if I fall isn’t exactly the most comforting of feelings.”

  “I sure hope you’ve treated her well or else… oops, she might forget to catch you.”

  “Not fucking funny, Jacko.”

  “Is it that hard for you to trust someone or—”

  “Maybe it’s the fucking falling to the ground and breaking my neck part of it,” I snap and then pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration.

  “Look at the bright side. You’ll be out of the tour bus, you’ll be getting some exercise, and you’ll get to see that fine ass of Harlow’s in a harness where I’m sure every curve is accentuated and then some.”

  “I’ve already seen them, thank you very much.”

  His laughter rings off. “No shit? That didn’t take you long at all. Then again, it’s you. Anytime after day one is considered a long time when it comes to Zane Phillips.”

  “Well, if we’re going to play the part . . .”

  “You might as well enjoy the benefits, and what are those benefits like?”

  “No complaints here,” I murmur as I look at my work spread all around me on the desk in the coach.

  “One word of advice, brother.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, half paying attention, half distracted by the smell of Harlow’s perfume still lingering.

  “Don’t let her get attached. You guys are fucking playing house here s
o it’s going to be super easy for her to think the minute you get back home all she needs to do is slide an apron on and she can be your misses.”

  “If it’s just the apron and heels and nothing else, then I’ll eat what she’s serving.” I chuckle, the visual more than stirring my dick to life. Fuck it seems the mere thought of her does these days.

  You’d think we didn’t have sex last night the way I’m still horny for her.

  “First the apron, and then later today you’ll have ropes. It sounds like my kind of party.”

  “You’re not invited.”

  “If Robert is so gung-ho about subscribers seeing what real life love is like and promoting a working relationship, make a home movie later tonight of you working her out”—he chuckles—“that might shut him up.”

  I laugh and then groan.

  “Just think,” Jack says, “Zane Phillips. Business mogul. Entrepreneur. Master matchmaker. And now . . . Reality TV star.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  This is not how I want to spend my day.

  I’ve dreaded it since the minute I picked up my phone mid-run to find Robert on the other end.

  “Selling the fact that you and Harlow found each other on the site has been great, but I think we need to now sell that there’s more to it than the initial lust phase,” he’d spouted. “Think of giving people the feeling that love is worth it. People want to be sold the dream of love, so let’s show them what it takes. And I have the perfect marketing idea . . .”

  He went on to explain that we’d shoot small web episodes. Five to ten minutes each. They’d be of me and Harlow working together or figuring out how to navigate different elements together. Some would be challenging and others probably more laid back. Just a small snapshot of life with the two of us.

  “And if we get in a fight?” I’d asked.

  “Then we show that too.”

  “I’m not on board with this.”

  “It’s really not a big deal. I’ll email you the details of what I’ve set up for you two this afternoon.

  “You’re treading awfully close to stepping over the line, mate.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Famous last words.”