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

I’M PLAYING WITH FIRE.

I needed to make sure it fit, I text like a dirty little liar, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the bed.

First, it was the photo the other night of him in front of the mirror, looking smug and ripped and fuckable. I thought about that picture all goddamned day. I thought about it when I woke up this morning, aching between my legs, at work when I was trying to focus, and this evening during his game.

This fake dating thing? I suck at it, and my one-time-only rule? This is pushing it.

I’m not breaking the rule, though. I’m bending it. A shirtless picture of him isn’t sex. Wearing pretty lingerie isn’t sex. It’s fine.

I pull up the photo he just sent. He must have taken it this morning, because in the picture, he’s lying in a hotel bed, hair messy and eyes sleepy. The morning light makes his eyes glow, and he smirks like he knows I’ve been thinking about him. The sheets are rumpled, and I can practically hear the groan he’d make stretching out against them.

Pictures like this, where he looks intensely hot? They’re dangerous. I can’t look at them, but I can’t look away, either. Deep inside me, it feels like a new version of myself is waking up.

And does it fit? he asks.

Yes.

Prove it.

My eyes go wide and a thrill shoots through me. He wants another? No way.

Why are you wearing it?

I already told you. Plus it’s pretty. And I feel hot in it.

It’s not just that, though. I miss him. When I wear the stuff he selected, I feel closer to Rory.

I don’t know what to do about that, and I don’t know how it fits into this fake dating thing we’re doing or the one-time-only rule I have for myself.

Please, Hartley. Please send a picture. I’m begging here. Show me.

My breath catches, turning ragged, and heat spreads up my chest and neck. I’m quickly losing control of this situation, but the desperation in his texts melts my resolve.

A photo isn’t fucking. I’m still in control. We’re just playing around.

I let out a delirious laugh. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. I pull my sweater off and lie down on the bed, heart pounding as I open my camera app and lift the phone.

The photo doesn’t even show my face, just my shoulder, the top of my cleavage, and my hair spread across the pillow, but still, it’s the sexiest picture I’ve ever taken. Hesitation rises in me, but I picture Rory’s expression when he sees the photo—a slack jaw, pupils blown wide—and I send it.

His text appears immediately. Jesus Christ, Hartley.

I bury my burning face in the pillow, smiling.

The next evening, I receive another photo.

He’s shirtless in the mirror, clad in just those tight black boxer briefs. My eyes linger on the sharp V cuts above his hips, the trickle of hair into the waistband, and the toned flex of his arms. He’s smirking like he knows how hot he is.

Heat twists low in my belly, and I head to my closet to pull out another piece of lingerie—a baby blue balconette bra with a matching lace thong and garters.

It’s just a picture, I tell myself as I set my phone up and snap the picture of my back, hair draped across my shoulder, lacy strap visible. It’s just for fun. I’m always telling my students that they deserve to feel good, so why can’t I? Sending sexy pictures to Rory and seeing his admiration of my body makes me feel hot. That’s all.

I won’t let it get away from me. I know what I’m doing.

My pulse jumps when his response arrives, and I flush with pleasure.

Holy fuck, Hartley.