He huffs a laugh. It’s too easy, this back-and-forth between us. Too natural. The way we played couple with Ethan and Paige tonight was fun. I didn’t want the night to end. But he’s made it crystal clear what this is, this is simply a means to an end. A way to get his family off his back.
And that's fine.
Great, actually. I'm not looking for another situation like I had with my ex,Liam, where I twist myself into knots trying to be what someone else wants.
Except I keep noticing things. Stupid little details like how Alfie actually smiles - a real one, not his controlled mask - when he talks about his research. Or how he always orders a muffin at CC’s even though he doesn’t like them. But I do. Or how sometimes he looks at me like... like he's seeing everything I try to hide.
Stop it, Tara. This isn't a rom-com.
But tonight with Ethan and Paige felt dangerously real. Too easy. Too right. And that's exactly why I need to stay on this side of the desk, keeping careful distance between us. Because pretending with Alfie Spencer is starting to feel less like pretending, and more like something that could absolutely wreck me.
“Tara.” His voice has dropped lower, rougher.
When did he get so close?
I grip the edge of his desk. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing with your lip.”
“What thing?”
“The biting thing.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “It’s distracting me.”
Oh, so now I’m not the only one distracted.
Before I can respond, his thumb brushes my lower lip, coaxing it free from between my teeth. The touch is barely there—a whisper against my skin—but it sends a shiver down my spine.
His breath hitches. Like he wasn’t expecting to feel it too.
I hold his gaze, slow and deliberate, and wrap my lips around his thumb, sucking gently.
His body locks up.A sharp inhale. A sound—low, wrecked, involuntary.
“Tara.”
His other hand grips the desk beside me, knuckles white. Trapping me.
“You are so fucking dangerous.”
His voice is rough, like it costs him something to say it. His eyes flicker—hunger battling hesitation.
I release his thumb with a slow drag of my teeth. Watch the way his throat bobs.
“I am?”
“Yes. I can't—”He swallows hard, winces like the words hurt. “I don’t feel things like normal people.”
And I believe him.
I expected the distance. The clipped answers. The refusal to look at me for longer than two seconds.
What I didn’t expect was the fear.
Not fear of me. Fear of what would happen if he lets himself want this.
And for the first time I wonder, what kind of damage do you have to survive to be afraid of something so good?
His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. And then his hand fists in my hair, and he’s kissing me like he’s drowning, like I’m oxygen.
