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Casual has never worked for me. How the hell am I supposed to kiss him and stare into his eyes like I love him without falling for him for real?
It's not enough he's annoying and difficult.
Deep down, the guy who cares is there, somewhere, and my body is determined to find him.
I pull back before I fall over the edge. My eyes blink open. My gaze stays hazy. My words fall off my lips easily, like we're in the middle of an actual seduction. "How was that?"
Satisfaction spreads over his face. His shoulders soften. His chest too. He looks at me like he loves me.
The kiss did something to him. Or he's that good at pretending. I'm not sure.
"How do we know if it looks real?" Damon asks.
I try to find my footing. A joke. I need to make a joke. "You could break out your camera. Record this." Only it doesn't come out as a barb. It sounds more like I want to mount you on film, so we can watch it together later.
Thankfully, he responds with his usual teasing tone. "I might not be able to control myself in front of a camera."
Fake. We're fake. And he's an asshole. All good things to remember. And the camera is a good idea. I pull out my cell phone and open Instagram. "We could make it a Story."
"So Frederick sees?"
Yes, of course. If Frederick doesn't believe this, he'll undermine me with it. If that makes him jealous—
Okay, so I want to make him jealous. Is that a crime? Anyone would be jealous of a kiss like that.
A fake kiss, I remind myself, but again, the logic fails to penetrate.
"So everyone sees." I stare at the screen to center myself. This is a mission with one goal—career success. Everything else is secondary. "If you're ready to make it official."
Damon swallows hard. "How about we get through a real kiss first?"
He's nervous. It does something to me. It makes it hard to concentrate on the task at hand. "That wasn't real?" I ask.
"A passionate kiss," he says. "One that will convince everyone who sees we're fucking like rabbits."
Yes. Rabbits hopping all over each other. The two of us grinding on the couch, his hands on my chest, my lips on his neck, our bodies joining—
"That is what we're selling, isn't it?" he asks.
"We're supposed to be in love."
"Isn't that your love language?" he asks. "Physical touch?"
How does he know that? "Maybe. What's yours?"
"Let's say it's that."
"Is it?" I ask.
"I've never been in love." He doesn't really answer the question.
But he's right. It doesn't matter how he really feels. Only what other people believe. And Frederick knows everything about how I love, how I write, how I fuck even.
We don't have room for error.
"You and Frederick broke up six months ago." His eyes fill with sincerity.
I don't know what to do with it, so I nod. "Five months." Five, but who's counting? I nod.
"This isn't a rebound. It's the real thing." Damon looks me in the eyes. "You took some time to heal, a few months on your own. Then you came to me, as a friend, for help with a project. And one thing led to another and…"
"We started kissing." That's the truth. I took time to heal, on my own, and I came to my frenemy Damon and begged him to play my boyfriend. That is a project. Only the way he says it suggests an actual relationship. He's brilliant sometimes. "So we've only been dating for a few months."
"Two months." He nods. "Even though we've known each other forever, we still can't keep our hands off each other."
Yes. That's perfect. That's exactly what will make Frederick jealous enough to buy it. And it's what will sell the musician too. According to his reputation, he's a pretty typical twenty-something music industry guy.
He gets around.
He wants a reputation as a romantic, but deep down, he understands sex better than love.
Of course, we're still passionate. Of course, we still want to fuck every minute of every day. We're just too busy writing songs and whispering sweet nothings to fill every moment with sex. We need time for love too.
I meet Damon's gaze. "Show me."
Something in his posture shifts. He still loves to tease me. Only it's a whole other sort of teasing.
He places one hand on my thigh, just above my knee. He runs his thumb over the fabric of my jeans, tracing the seam of the denim, up and down, again and again.
He wraps his other hand around my neck. "You look hot as fuck in your jeans. Have I mentioned that recently?" There's no irony in his voice. None of his usual need to make my life difficult. Only pure, raw desire.
I fight my blush. "Not enough." I try to meet his confidence with my own, but I'm too overwhelmed. I'm melting.
