The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)
The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance: Chapter 47

THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE, I see Rory on the other side of the door, wearing a murderous expression, arms folded. My heart starts pounding but I open the door.

“Hi.” My skin prickles as his gaze moves down my body, flaring with heat. There’s a hard set to his jaw, and his nostrils flare. “I didn’t like the last thing you sent and I’m not wearing it.”

“Good.” He steps inside with an expression like a storm cloud, eyes flashing with possessive fury as I shut the door. “Because I didn’t send it.”

My whole body goes cold and tense. “What?”

When he meets my eyes, my stomach wobbles from the way his flash.

“Who bought it?” I whisper.

“McKinnon.”

My stomach turns inside out, and I gag. “What?”

“Are you okay?” His hands land on my upper arms, and worry flickers through his eyes as he scans my face. “What can I do to make this better?”

I’m grossed out by what Connor did, but my body is still humming, twitchy and agitated from watching the video before Rory got here. “I’m okay.”

Rory being here, his fresh scent teasing my nose and his hands on me, it’s making it better.

“You being here is helping,” I admit.

He closes his eyes, letting out a pained exhale. “I’m feeling really jealous right now, Hartley, and I feel like I’m going to do something stupid.”

Wicked delight curls inside me, and I bite my bottom lip. “Like what?”

“Like send you a video of me jerking off.” A muscle tightens in his jaw. “I’m sorry.” He looks away, and it’s the same remorse from when he gifted me the weekend away with Pippa. “I went too far.”

I make a face, confused, before it hits me: I didn’t respond. He sent the video and I disappeared.

“I didn’t respond,” I say on a sigh. “Shit.”

Oh god. Hazel, you asshole. Of course he thinks he went too far.

His tongue pokes in his cheek. “If you want to go back to the way things were before, we can.” He looks down at me with such earnestness my heart cracks open.

I can’t believe I ever thought Rory Miller was an asshole. He’s not. He’s just not.

“I just watched it,” I blurt out, pressing my thighs together. I can still feel how wet I am.

His gaze sharpens, fingers flexing on my shoulders. “Really.”

“You didn’t go too far.” I sound breathless, and I can’t get enough air as our eyes hold.

“Two years, I watched you with that prick.” His eyes flash. “I hate that he still thinks he has you.”

“He doesn’t.” I’m not sure what we’re doing here anymore but I have an overwhelming need to prove to him that Connor doesn’t mean anything.

Between the strange friendship we’ve developed and the flirting that feels like fun, things with Rory are so different than they ever were with Connor.

My skin’s prickling. The last two weeks of photos and flirty texting have driven me to the brink of horniness, and now I want to do something about it.

I need to do something about it.

Lifting up on my tiptoes, I kiss him. My hand flattens on his chest, rubbing slow circles over his heartbeat as I walk him backward to my bed, giving him light, sweet kisses.

“Sit down and close your eyes,” I tell him when the backs of his knees hit the bed.

His features are strained like he’s holding himself back, but he gives me a funny smile, and that playful spark is back in his eyes. “Why?”

“Do it.” I push against his flat stomach. “You’ll be happy you did.”

He drags a breath in and smiles like I’m killing him before sitting on the edge of the bed and closing his eyes, propping his elbows on his knees. In my closet, I replace my favorite piece he sent—a pale pink lace bodysuit, sheer and delicate and soft with tiny straps.

My clothes swish against my skin as I take them off, and I pull the bodysuit on with care. Like the last time I put it on, it feels like a dream to wear. It’s the perfect size, like it was made to my measurements, and against my skin, the lace is luxurious.

“Don’t peek.”

I turn, and he’s resting his chin on his palm, gaze hot and intense.

“I’m not,” he says, eyes raking down my body.

Goosebumps rise across my skin. As I approach, he pulls me between his legs. His hands come to my hips before sliding down and into the bodysuit, palming my ass, and I sink my fingers into his hair.

I try not to think about why I want to comfort him so badly, why I want him to realize Connor’s nothing to me. I’m not thinking about my rule and what this means. I’m not breaking it. I’m not getting attached. I’m just letting myself enjoy this one tiny moment with a guy I know I’ll have fun with.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against my stomach, hands flexing on my ass. “Did you miss me, Hazel?”

I shouldn’t have, but I did.

“Yes,” I admit.

He presses a kiss to my stomach, flicking his hot gaze up to me. “Good.”

He pulls me into his lap, one hand spanning the width of my thigh to keep me there and the other roaming my body, smoothing over the low back of my bodysuit, the high-cut thighs, the thin satin straps. I cling to him, watching his look of hot admiration as his hand rakes over me.

Having a hockey superstar look at me like this is doing incredible things for my confidence.

“This one was a good choice,” he says in a low voice, playing with the strap, dragging his fingers over my neckline.

Through the thin fabric, my nipples pinch. I press a kiss to Rory’s neck, the stubble prickling under my lips. “You have great taste.”

He stares at me, eyebrows lifting with that constant, steady, teasing smile, like he has a secret. “I know.”

I pull him down to kiss me, and a soft moan slips out of me as he coaxes me open, tasting me, exploring and claiming my mouth.

“Better?” I whisper between kisses.

“Uh.” Another pained noise in his throat, a frown between his brows. “Not really.” He pulls me harder against him, and I feel the thick, hard length pressing into my stomach.

My breath catches, and warm pressure squeezes at the apex of my thighs. My hand comes to his and I place his palm against my breast, urging him on. Everything inside me tightens when his fingers replace the stiff peak, toying and tugging and rolling and driving me absolutely fucking nuts.

He shakes his head, staring at my breasts with a look of awe. “Your tits are beautiful.”

I laugh, even as I’m coiling up with need. “What about now?” I ask again, biting back a moan as he toys with my nipples. “Is this better?”

“No.”

“What would make it better, Rory?” I don’t know why I’m acting like this, trying to replace out what would satisfy him.

His hand slides between my legs, and I suck in a breath and let it out on a moan as his fingers press and circle my clit over the damp lace.

“Hartley, you’re drenched.”