The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(36)

Satisfaction washes over Adam’s eyes as a grin stretches across his cheeks. “Me too,” he replies.

“Then fucking kiss me, and make it good.”

With that, he crashes his lips against mine without an ounce of hesitation or doubt.

Game fucking on.





Fifteen

Adam

S age’s lips are soft and taste like chocolate with a hint of vodka. And considering this is supposed to be a fake kiss for show, it’s strange to me that that’s the first thing I notice.

But as she melts against me, leaning her weight into my arms, I find myself wanting to deepen the kiss from more than a peck on the lips.

The eyes of those around us burn against my back, watching as I hold her, my mouth pressed to hers. If only they knew my heart was beating wildly under my suit and my dick was struggling to control itself. Making out and popping boners at elegant events is definitely frowned upon, but I don’t care.

Having to stand idly by while my father had her in his grasp made me irritable and out of my mind. I didn’t know what they were talking about or what he was promising her.

The feeling of being out of the loop, and having her out of my reach, had my blood boiling like a fever.

That’s why I’m feeling so desperate and frantic now.

After a moment, I gently pull away from the kiss and my eyes meet hers. Warm sky-blue orbs gaze up at me and I lose my sense of time and space. I forget I’m surrounded by my parents’ friends. I forget about the plan. For just a second, I want to kiss her again.

So I do.

With my hands on either side of her face, I drag her mouth back up to mine and press my tongue against the seam of her lips. I think, for a second, she’s going to fight me. Instead, she opens gracefully, letting me lick my way into her mouth. Our tongues brush together in soft friction as she lets out a gentle hum.

On my back, her fingers are gripping tightly against my jacket, pulling me closer. And somewhere in my mind, I keep

reminding myself that this is for show. We’re doing this for a reason that has nothing to do with my heart or my dick.

However, my dick doesn’t seem to get that message. She brushes against it, and a hot buzz of arousal shoots through my body. I’m painfully aware of just how hard I am and how much she keeps shifting against me, which has me wanting to fuck her right here on the dance floor.

I’d love to see the look on my father’s face then.

There’s a bright flash distracting both of us from the kiss.

Sage and I flinch at the same time as we pull apart and stare into the eyes of a young man holding a large camera with a flash bulb attached to the top. He gives us an awkward grin.

“Can I get your names for the publication?”

My brow furrows and he notices, shrinking into himself.

“Sage Astor,” she says proudly, and I have to relax my clenched jaw.

“Adam Goode,” I add.

“I know who you are,” he replies with an awkward chuckle.

This is what we wanted, right? Publicity. Proof. Exposure.

So why does it still feel so strange? He’s going to post that picture somewhere and then the world will know. I have a pink-haired, pierced, and tattoo-covered girlfriend. It feels like the one thing I’ve been taught to avoid since childhood and I didn’t even realize it. All the while, my mother was trying to set me up with quote, unquote “good Christian girls,” but what she was really accomplishing was teaching me to never look twice at a girl like Sage.

And now I’m intentionally breaking that rule.

Sage and I stand in awkward silence for a moment before I realize I’m still holding her affectionately. My hands drop away as she takes a step back.

“Can we go now?” she whispers, turning her gaze away from mine. Judging by the frigid chill in her voice, the unexpected photographer killed her buzz.



“Yes,” I reply flatly.

My hand moves to her lower back as I guide her to our table to say our goodbyes. She’s tense under my touch. As we reach my family, I make the announcement that we’re leaving, and I notice the smug look of victory on my father’s face. I hate the idea that he thinks he’s won somehow.

I want to yank him up by his collar and tell him that this is only the beginning. I’d like to spit in his face and remind him what a royal piece of shit he is, but I can’t do that here.

Instead, I kiss my mother on the cheek and wave goodbye to my brothers as I escort my date to the exit.

“I’m starving,” she mumbles in the passenger seat. As I pull the car out onto the main road, I glance over at her and feel my stomach growling like she summoned it.

“Didn’t you eat the chicken?” I ask.

She shrugs. “The chicken was fine, but that rice tasted like rotten dirt.” She twists her face up in disgust and I bite back a laugh.

“That was truffle risotto,” I reply.

“I thought truffles were chocolate.”

“Truffle is a dessert, but truffles are an exotic mushroom that, yes, taste a little like rotten dirt.”

“Rich people are weird,” she replies, scrolling through her phone. With another laugh, I glance sideways at her, noticing that she’s typing the charity name into the search bar.

“Looking for that picture already? It’s a little early.”