Page 51 of The Faking Game
“What’s wrong? You don’t want to see me again?” His voice drops into the low one from the other night, when he pretended he was into me.
“No. I don’t.” I shove harder this time, putting my entire body into it. This whole thing is stupid, and I’m sweaty and excited. This time he takes two solid steps back.
“Well done,” he says, and the praise feels like the taste of sugar. “You’re doing really good. Do it again, trouble.”
My heart is beating fast. I can hear it, the pounding in my ears, when he steps up close again. This time, he brushes a hand along my cheek and rests it right beneath my chin. It’s a faint touch.
But he’s never touched me like that before.
He tips my head up and looks at me with half-hooded eyes. The same he gave me the other night.
Like I’m someone he wants.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, and his head drops another inch in my direction. The words make my breath catch. I’ve been called that before. Brushed it aside, ignored it. Now it lodges beneath my skin like a warm caress.
I put my hands back on his chest and shove. “No thanks.”
West laughs. The sound heats up the room. “You’re so polite. That was very good. How does it feel?”
“Strange,” I admit. And good. Look at me like that again.
“We’ll do it over and over again until it feels like second nature,” he says. “And then we might work on getting that politeness out of you, too.” He runs a hand through his hair, and the mirth on his face falls like a curtain dropped. “Mark. Did he try to kiss you?”
“No,” I say. “You interrupted, remember? Besides, guys often wait to try until the end of the date.”
“Which is why that’s the part that stresses you out.”
“Yeah. But it’s not just the kiss. It’s the questions.” I shrug. “I’m not good at those kinds of conversations. Deciding whether we’re doing it again. If they ask how I feel…”
“We’ll practice them too.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Again.”
We do it a few more times. Each time, he tells me how good I’m doing, until I come to crave the sound of the compliment in his low voice.
When he lowers his face the next time, I decide to try something different. With his lips only inches from mine and my chest tight with anticipation, I turn my face to the right. Offer up my cheek instead.
He pauses, inches from my skin. “You’ve done that before.”
“Once or twice,” I say. “It always works.”
“I want you to try one more thing,” he says. This time, he’s right in my space, all six foot two inches of man and muscles beneath his T-shirt. “Slap me.”
My eyes widen. “Of course not.”
“You were the one who spoke about kneeing me in the groin.” He lifts an eyebrow. “This is milder than that.”
“I’ve never… I can’t… I’ve never done that before.”
“Then this is the time to start.”
“Why do you want me to do that? Do you get off on pain?”
He chuckles. “No. We’ll work on proper self-defense tomorrow. For now, I think you have a lot of mental blocks. You won’t even let yourself getangry, for fuck’s sake. If you needed to, could you defend yourself? Lift your hand?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a violent person.”
He blows out a breath. “No. Really? You could have fooled me.”
