The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(45)

Rory has a thousand smiles, I’m realizing. One for every emotion, every possible situation in life, and the one he’s wearing right now is a mix of comfort and arousal. His hands settle on my thighs, stroking up and down, pressing firm into my muscles.

“Hi,” I whisper, because it feels like we’ve climbed a level in whatever this is between us, and I’m not sure what else to say.

“Hi, Hazel.” He gives me his Hazel is cute smile. His hand strokes a little higher, thumbs brushing the seam between my hip and thigh, and my breathing turns ragged. He notices because his gaze flares.

He pulls me down to kiss me, claiming my mouth with urgency and hot desperation. An ache grows behind my clit as his tongue delves between my lips, stroking me.

“I’m thinking about what you taste like,” he says between kisses. One hand comes to my breast, kneading and finding my stiff nipple through the fabric of my jersey and shirt.

His eyes flare with heat, and something inside me jumps in anticipation. He’s going to see that I’m wearing the pale blue bra and panties he sent.

“And what it sounds like when you come,” he goes on, voice low as he nips my bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking about it for years.”

Heat builds between my legs, where I’m spread open across Rory’s hips. I’m getting the panties he bought me all wet.

Maybe this will all be easier once Rory gets what he’s been chasing.

My heart’s beating out of my chest. “Before we do this, um.”

I shift to ease the pressure, but his thick ridge rubs against me, sending a streak of need through me, making me lose my train of thought.

He pulls my jersey and shirt over my head, going still. My heart pounds as he stares at the pale blue bra, blinking once, twice before his dark gaze lifts to mine.

“Hartley,” he says, with his mouth curving up. “Is that—”

“Yes,” I rush out.

The way he’s teasing me with his eyes is starting to make me feel embarrassed, like maybe I overstepped. Maybe this looks pathetic, that I’m wearing something he bought me when it was clearly a joke.

“Why?” He holds my gaze, hands sliding up my thighs.

“Because…” I scramble for a coherent thought that isn’t related to how wet I am or how fucking horny I’m getting. “Because it was pretty, and I wanted to feel hot.”

“And did it work?”

His gaze sears me, and I nod.

It’s true—wearing something so beautiful and delicate makes me feel sexy.

Beneath me, his erection pulses, and he lets out a heavy breath. “That is really fucking hot, Hartley.” His throat works, and his warm palms return to my breasts, slipping beneath the cups of my bra to toy with my nipples. When he tugs, I feel it all the way to my pussy.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him again.

He devours my mouth, tongue sliding against mine, making my head spin. “What were you saying, Hartley?”

Oh. Right. That. “This will be the first and last time we do this.”

He pulls away to look into my eyes. “What?”

“It’s just what I do.” My shrug is easy and casual, even as I’m tight with need. “I only sleep with guys once. It’s easier that way.”

He frowns. “And then what?”

“And then we both move on.”

When I tell people this, they usually look relieved, but Rory’s frown deepens and his hands leave my body. His throat works again as he searches my eyes.

“We should stop,” he says.

The arousal in my blood fizzles out like I’ve been dunked in cold water.

His jaw ticks. “It would complicate things.”

Rejection burns through me. He said he’s been thinking about this for years. He’s slept in my fucking bed. I kissed him at the team party, but he kissed me back. He said it was hot that I was wearing the lingerie he sent.

He asked me out at the beginning of the season, before the deal.

He’s been chasing me for years, and now he doesn’t want me?

Oh. My stomach sinks. He’s never seen this much of my body before. He’s never touched me like this, felt my tits and stomach and thighs and butt.

Shame whips through me as I climb off him, grab my shirt, and pull it back over my head.

I’m not upset. It’s fake. It’s a deal. It’s not a relationship. Even if the sex would be incredible. Even if I’d come so hard and work to make him come harder than ever.

“You’re right.” I’m channeling the same woman who told Connor she’s dating Rory, the woman with the cool, calm, hardened shell around her. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Just horny, I guess.”

“Hazel,” he starts.

“You should go.” I fold my arms over my chest. “It’s late.”

His eyes flash with something that looks like regret, and when our eyes meet, he looks like he wants to say something, but I take another step back, out of the Rory Miller Danger Zone.

He sits up, wearing a pained expression like I’m killing him. “Hazel.”

“It’s fine, Rory.”

It’s not fine. I’m so fucking embarrassed. I’ve never been flat-out rejected like this, but Rory’s used to hooking up with models and actresses. I get an ugly memory of Connor from years ago, asking me if I’d ever consider breast implants, and my stomach recoils.