My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,52
cool as a cucumber on Ross’s part. Seriously, sleeping next to this man, again? How am I supposed to get any sleep at all when half the time I’m in his presence, my ovaries seem to be dancing to Mi Gente on repeat?
I roll my eyes. “Fine. We can sleep in the same bed. Probably better if anyone asks questions about your snoring, anyway. But you’d better stay on your side. No midnight snuggles or morning wood grinding.” I make circles in the air around my butt, indicating that no part of him should be touching me while we sleep.
He dips his chin in agreement. “To your second point, we are going to be married, Vi. And no wife of mine, fake or real, is going to cheat on me. Nor am I a cheater. So for the duration of this arrangement, we will not date other people or fuck other people.”
“Agree,” I say easily because neither of us wants to be made a fool of by the paparazzi catching us with someone else. That’d ruin the whole arrangement and definitely leave us unable to end this gracefully.
“So I’m open to casual sex if you are.” I start to argue and he holds up a hand to silence me. “But if not, we’re adults and we have needs. Needs that we can meet on our own.” His voice is deeper, gravelly, and it’s hitting me in all the right places.
Wrong! I mean, the wrong places!
“So what do you suggest? We make a schedule for our ‘alone times’?” I do the air-quote thing with my fingers. “Or do we use a signal like in college? Like if there’s a sock on the bathroom door, leave me alone?”
Fire burns in his eyes. “Vi, if you put a sock on that doorknob, I don’t know if there’s a lock in existence that’d keep me on the other side of that door. And if I did manage to stay out, you can trust that I’d be jacking off while I strain my ears for even the slightest moan from you.”
Well, holy shit. Ross isn’t exactly dirty talking, but damn if that doesn’t sound sexy as hell. I can picture us on either side of the door, only the inch of solid wood separating us as we both pleasure ourselves.
I swallow thickly to wet my dry throat and lick my lips. Ross’s eyes follow the movement. “Okay, so we’ll just go discreet on that. No schedule, no signal, just whenever you need to . . .” My voice is too quiet, too weak, and trails off as he reaches up to push a lock of hair behind my ear.
He’s touching me, not as a show for someone to see us but seemingly just because he wanted to.
He smiles, and I look for the arrogance, the assuredness that he got me, but it’s missing. It seems like a genuine smile, maybe? “I’m going to get ready for bed, Chickie.”
The nickname kills any kind thoughts I might’ve been having about his improved teasing nature.
He likes fucking with your head as much as anything else.
He disappears into the bathroom, though I swear I see him adjusting himself as he turns away from me. Maybe I’m not the only one being affected by that sexy teasing he was doing.
I wander back into the huge closet and dig around in my suitcases to find my PJs. These are my favorites, silky and luxurious. They were a treat to myself after a particularly successful and stressful design install. As an additional bonus, they’re sexy without being overt. Just a spaghetti-strapped cami and flutter-leg boy shorts. If Ross is going to tease me, I’m going to tease him right back. It’s what we’ve always done, so why would it be any different now?
You’re playing with fire, the angel on my shoulder warns. But the adjacent devil is dancing a jig. Show him who’s got chicken legs now!
The bathroom door opens and Ross appears in black pajama pants . . . and nothing else. The wide, chiseled pecs I woke up against are back, covered in a light dusting of dark curls that highlight the hills and valleys of his muscles. His arms are ripped, and through the thin material, I can see a long, thick bulge running down his left thigh.
Shit. Looks like I wasn’t the only one with the idea of sexy pajamas. But two can play that game.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” Ross offers as he walks to the bed. I can’t