Fake (West Hollywood 1)

His hands tightened on me, nose brushing mine all gentle like, his breath warm on my lips. This wasn’t anything like our first kiss at the restaurant. It made my nerves jangle in a whole different way. As in a would-he-or-wouldn’t-he type of situation. Now I knew he would, and the knowledge was one part thrilling and two parts terrifying.

First he executed another perfect stage kiss. A sweet pressing of his lips against mine. One, two, three kisses. Each being a little longer and more devastating than the last. A hand pressed against my lower spine still, the other curling around the back of my neck. All in all, there wasn’t one iota of space left between us. Neither above water nor below. And the people watching, the awareness that we had an audience, disappeared the first time the tip of his tongue brushed against my lower lip. Asking a question. Delivering an invitation. That teasing tongue sent electricity straight up my spine.

He moved back an inch, gaze on my face.

I nodded. A bare tip of the chin.

Then Patrick angled his face and I opened my mouth and it was so good. All-consuming amazing. The sweep of his tongue into my mouth and the confidence of the man. He was sensual and forceful and knew exactly what he was doing. How he traced my teeth before returning to rub his tongue against my own. The way his fingers rubbed at the back of my neck, alternately holding me in place and urging me on. I’d have climbed the man if my tight dress allowed it. Mostly he tasted of coffee and man. A potent combination if ever there was one. But the best thing, the most astonishing part, was the noise of hunger and need he made in the back of his throat. A sound I’d treasure to my dying day. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was also hardening against my belly. Just from a sort-of-fake kiss.

Everyone suddenly broke out into applause. Heat crept up my neck as Patrick and I broke apart. Lord only knew the state of my lipstick, because he was now wearing a not-so-small amount. Patrick and I stared at each other, panting. Talk about throwing yourself into a role; method kissing was no joke.

“There’s the money,” announced the photographer, clicking through the shots on the small screen of his camera. “We’re done here.”

Now would have been the time to make a joke. To say something to alleviate the weird sexual tension. Except all of my words were gone.

Patrick gripped my hips and gently set me aside with a wary glance. “O-okay.”

CHAPTER TEN

Blissful quiet filled the house after all the people coming and going all day. Mei had left, Patrick had disappeared to the gym, and our houseguest Jack was who knows where. After a long hot shower and donning a woolen hoodie and designer sweatpants (bet they were called loungewear) I found in my wardrobe, I’d finally managed to warm up. And get over that kiss. We’d pretended to kiss before, so it was really no big deal. It just felt like it was, for some damn reason.

“Hi,” said the stranger standing in the living room, holding a butcher’s knife.

I stopped dead.

“Is Patrick around?” she asked, all casual like.

“Ah, no.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drooped in disappointment. “He’s hardly ever here.”

“He gets busy,” I mumbled, gaze glued to the knife.

“I know. I’ve written to him so many times. Sent him messages. But his career has to come first.”

I nodded as my whole body started trembling.

“You might as well take a seat.” She gestured to the couch with the weapon. “We’ll wait for him.”

“Sure.” And no fucking way was I getting any closer to her and that blade. “W-what’s your name?”

The woman was in her early twenties, I’d guess. Dressed in yoga pants, a tank top, and denim jacket. Her dark hair had been cut short and her tennis shoes were dirty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just someone you’d pass in the street, give or take the knife.

“Beth,” she said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about me.”

“He probably did and I forgot.” I’d left my cell in my room. My brain scrambled for something to say, the right thing to say. But panic held me in a tight grip. “I, ah . . .”

“Sit, Norah,” she said, tone impatient this time. “We should talk this out. I mean, you’re going to have to leave. I can’t have you staying here with him, getting in the way.”

“Okay, I see that. I see that now.”

Her tight expression relaxed into a small smile. “It’s good that you understand. There’s no need for this to get ugly. But Patrick and I will need to be alone. We’re meant to be together, you know?”

“Absolutely.”

“I feel kind of bad that he used you like this. You seem nice,” she said. “But you know what men are like . . .”