Chapter 7 #2
She stared at my mouth.
I stared at hers.
We were on public display. We were pretending.
But in that moment, looking down at her, I knew the terrifying truth.
I wasn't pretending. Not anymore.
"Nice shot," I said, my voice rough.
"Good coach," she whispered.
We broke apart, the loss of contact hitting me like a physical chill. We walked back to the seats, but the air had changed. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a heavy, simmering tension that made my skin prickle.
I sat down and took a drink of my water. My hand was shaking.
I looked over at Jess. She was staring at the lane, twisting a ring on her finger. She looked rattled.
Good. At least I wasn't the only one drowning.
The drive home was quiet.
Not the comfortable silence of the drive there. This was a loaded silence. A silence thick with unsaid words and suppressed desires.
Jess had control of the music, but she had turned it down low. Something slow and moody was playing. The 1975.
I drove with one hand on the wheel. My other hand rested on the gear shift.
I could feel her looking at me. I could feel her gaze tracing my profile, my hands, my shoulders.
"You were good tonight," she said softly, breaking the silence.
"I bowled a 240. It was average."
"No," she said. "I mean... with the guys. You were relaxed. You laughed. You high-fived Miller."
"I was acting."
"Were you?"
I glanced at her. She was watching me with that analytical, seeing-too-much look.
"No," I admitted. "I wasn't."
She smiled. A small, private smile. "I like Bowling Nick. He's fun."
"Bowling Nick is a anomaly."
"Maybe he doesn't have to be."
She reached out across the console. Her hand covered mine on the gear shift. Her fingers laced through mine.
It was a simple touch. But it sent a jolt of electricity straight up my arm.
I didn't pull away. I turned my hand over, gripping hers. I squeezed.
"Jess," I said warningly.
"Just driving, Nick," she whispered. "Just holding hands. Allies, right?"
"Allies don't touch each other like this," I muttered.
"Like what?"
"Like they never want to let go."
She went silent. Her thumb stroked the back of my hand.
We pulled up to the Meridian. The valet took the car. We rode the elevator up in silence. The numbers climbed. The tension climbed with them.
When the doors opened into the penthouse, the atmosphere changed instantly. We were alone. The mask could come off.
But neither of us moved to separate.
I locked the elevator. I turned to face her.
She was standing in the middle of the foyer, looking at me. The city lights framed her silhouette.
"I should go to bed," she said. But she didn't move.
"You should," I agreed. I didn't move either.
"I had fun tonight."
"Me too."
We were standing five feet apart. It felt like five miles. It felt like zero.
"Nick," she said. Her voice broke on my name.
That was it. My control snapped.
I crossed the distance in two strides.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just needed her.
I grabbed her face in my hands and crashed my mouth down on hers.
She didn't hesitate. She met me with a desperate sound, throwing her arms around my neck, pulling me down.
It wasn't like the gym. That had been about power and dominance.
This... this was about hunger. Pure, unadulterated need.
I walked her backward until her back hit the wall. I pressed my body against hers, crushing the air from her lungs. I kissed her deeply, drinking her in, my tongue sweeping against hers.
She tasted like victory. She tasted like home.
"Nick," she gasped against my mouth, her hands tangling in my hair, tugging. "Nick, yes."
My hands roamed over her body. I gripped her waist, her hips, feeling the denim. I wanted to tear it off. I wanted skin.
I slid my leg between hers, pressing my thigh against her center. She cried out, bucking against me, friction sparking a fire that threatened to burn the whole building down.
"You're mine," I growled against her neck, biting the sensitive cord of muscle there. "Say it."
"Yours," she panted. "I'm yours."
I moved my hands under her sweater, touching the warm, bare skin of her back. She arched into me, her nails digging into my shoulders through my t-shirt.
I wanted to take her right here. Against the wall. Fast and hard and messy.
I reached for the button of her jeans.
My thumb brushed the metal stud.
And then, I stopped.
I froze.
My forehead rested against hers. We were both panting, hearts hammering in unison.
I couldn't do it.
Not like this. Not when she was vulnerable.
Not when she was contractually obligated to be here.
Not when I knew, deep down, that if I crossed this line tonight, I would never be able to let her go.
And if I couldn't let her go... I would ruin her.
I would drag her into my mess, into the pressure cooker of the draft, into my father's line of fire.
I pulled my hand away from her jeans.
"No," I rasped.
"Nick?" She sounded wrecked. Confused.
I pulled back, putting a foot of distance between us. My hands were shaking. I clenched them into fists at my sides.
"We can't," I said. My voice sounded like gravel.
"Why?" She looked at me, her lips swollen, her eyes blown wide with desire. "We both want it."
"That's the problem," I said. "I want it too much."
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing away from her.
"If I take you to bed, Jess... it's not going to be 'fake' anymore. It's not going to be a deal. It's going to be real. And real things break."
She stared at me. Her chest was heaving.
"Maybe I don't care if it breaks," she whispered.
"I do," I said fiercely, turning back to her. "I care. I have to protect you. Even from me."
"I don't need protection, Nick! I need you!"
The admission hung in the air. Raw. Naked.
I closed my eyes. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to go back to her.
"Go to your room, Jessica," I commanded softly. "Please."
She looked at me for a long, agonizing moment. I saw the hurt in her eyes. I saw the confusion. But she also saw the resolve in mine.
She straightened her sweater. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Fine," she said. Her voice was brittle. "Goodnight, Nick."
She turned and walked down the hall. She didn't slam the door this time. She closed it softly.
The click of the latch was deafening.
I leaned back against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floor. I put my head in my hands.
My body was humming with unspent energy. My heart was aching in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.
I was in trouble.
Catastrophic, career-ending, life-altering trouble.
I wasn't just attracted to my fake girlfriend. I wasn't just obsessed with her.
I was in love with her.
And I had absolutely no idea how to fix it.