The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)

RORY KICKS off his shoes and heads straight for my new bed, flopping down with a low, satisfied groan that makes me think dirty thoughts.

“That’s so much better,” he groans again.

The way he’s so comfortable in my home makes me feel like laughing.

“Rory, when people come over, they usually sit on the couch.”

“People don’t usually have their bedroom in their living room.”

My mouth falls open, but I’m still smiling. My face hurts, I’m smiling so hard.

“I’m just teasing, Hartley.” He winks. “I know you’re a good little saver. You’ll have your studio in no time.”

A pulse of happiness hits me in the chest, and I’m glad I told him about that.

“Thank you again for the bed,” I tell him, slipping onto the mattress beside him, folding my legs beneath me.

A soft smile ghosts over his mouth. “You’re welcome. Do you sleep okay without all the springs stabbing you in the back?”

I’m shaking with laughter. “Fuck off.” I cut a look at him. “But yes.”

He’s still smiling, watching me. The dim, warm lighting of my apartment is doing incredible things for his eyes and skin.

“I like buying things for you. You should let me do it more often.” He props himself on his elbow, frowning at me. “How come you don’t wear my jersey to games anymore?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “People already think we’re together.”

“I bought it for you to wear.”

Something thrums low in my belly at his territorial tone. After Connor, I hated the idea of wearing a guy’s jersey.

But it’s Rory. Everyone wears his jersey at games, but I have this deep-seated, prickling feeling in the back of my brain that it means something to him when I wear it. The memory of his stricken expression during yoga, when I asked the class to think about what makes them feel worthy, flashes in my head.

I care about him, and I think he knows that.

Worst of all, I think he cares about me, too. I should tell him to go home.

Just once, the devil on my shoulder whispers. It’s my rule, after all. One time and then we’ll never hook up again.

He rests a hand on my thigh, and his fingers drift to the inside seam of my leggings, toying with it. “And I want you to wear it.” He holds my gaze. “Please.”

It’s that please that does it for me. And maybe the way his hand feels on my leg, so big and warm. “Okay.” I’m hyperaware of where he’s touching me and his gaze roaming my face. My heart rate jumps because I can’t seem to get it under control around him. “You can be so sweet when you want to be,” I say for some reason.

“So can you.”

I have to remind myself to breathe as our eyes hold, and my heart jumps into my throat. I study the elegant lines of his face, his strong nose, his brows, the curve of his lips. He’s so handsome with that stubble, and my hands twitch with the urge to drag my fingers over it.

“Besides, it’ll piss McKinnon off.” He shakes his head. “Fucking McKinnon,” he bites out. “He was watching you tonight.”

“He just wants to play with your toys. He’s always been competitive with you.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “He still has a thing for you, and I don’t like it. He knows we’re together. He shouldn’t be staring at you like that.”

My stomach does a slow roll at the way he says it, like it’s real. Isn’t that the whole point of what we’re doing, getting under Connor’s skin?

“You sound jealous.”

His jaw ticks, and our eyes meet again. “I am.”

I shouldn’t like that he feels possessive over me, but I find myself sliding off the bed and walking to the closet. My stomach is full of butterflies as I tug the jersey off the hanger and pull it over my head.

“Better?” I ask, turning to him, holding my arms out.

The way his gaze flares sends a thrill through me. His throat works as his eyes slowly trace down my form and back up.

“Come here,” he says.

The air cracks with tension. Walking over to the bed is going to be a mistake.

I do it anyway.

“I guess that’s a yes—” I let out a squeak as he lifts me so I’m straddling him.

He pulls his hat off and sets it on my bedside table, and I don’t know why that’s so fucking hot. His hair is messy, and I let myself reach up and run my fingers through it. Soft, too.

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.

“Let’s pretend it never happened.”