Page 63 of Slapshot Baby

His eyes drop slowly down my throat, across my collarbones, lingering where the neckline of my sweater has slipped.

"You're flushed from your chest to your hairline. Your breathing changed, and you pressed your thighs together the second I said it." His gaze returns to mine. "Tell me which part you didn't want to hear."

I open my mouth to fire back something devastating.

Nothing comes out.

Because my body is staging a full coup against every rational thought I've ever had and doing it in front of the man responsible for the insurrection.

The ache between my legs is so sharp it takes actual concentration not to shift my hips.

Biscuit snores from the rug, completely useless as a chaperone. I'm docking her treats indefinitely.

"There wil be rules," I say, breathless.

His eyebrows lift.

"If I do this, and I have not said yes, there’ll be no kissing on the mouth.” I hold up a finger when he opens his mouth to protest. “Cheeks are fine for appearances, forehead if you're feeling sentimental. But your lips do not touch mine."

"Okay."

"We don't share a bed."

He frowns. "Fine."

"And nothing happens between us that you can later claim didn't count because it was fake. No technicalities. No grey areas where you pretend the rules allowed something they didn't."

He watches me stack each condition like I'm mortaring bricks. His expression stays level.

"Agreed," he says.

"You're agreeing too fast."

"You set clear terms. I'm accepting them."

"Nobody accepts terms that fast when they want the opposite, unless they've already found the loophole."

The corner of his mouth lifts barely.

My stomach flips and my traitorous brain serves up a vivid image of that mouth on my neck in the hospital, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, the vibration of his groan against my pulse.

He extends his hand. "Deal?"

I stare at his broad, calloused palm.

That hand fisted in my hair while he kissed me senseless. It pinned my hips to a wall while he drove into me.

I shake it, making sure I’m firm.

His fingers curl around mine and hold. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, pressing directly over my pulse. I know he can feel it hammering because his eyes gleam with satsifaction.

I pull away. "This fake dating thing is for this weekend only. By Monday morning, this is over."

"One month,” he counters. “If we stop seeing each other immediately after the family getaway, the whole purpose of the fake dating is defeated.”

I sigh. “Fine. Three weeks. Not one day more.”

“Three weeks,” he agrees.