Best Fake Fiancé: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  “I shouldn’t kiss you,” he murmurs.

  The words tug at me like a string, a jolt I feel in my chest.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  If he’s about to tell me we should just be friends, I might punch him.

  “Because in ten minutes I have to go hassle Rusty for taking too long in the shower,” he says. “I’m going to have to stop kissing you and go be a responsible father, and I’ve been a responsible father all goddamn day.”

  “Language,” I tease. His thumb finds my cheekbone, and I can’t help but lean into his hand, his touch electric.

  “Exactly,” he goes on, his voice low, deep, quiet. “When I first saw you this morning, I should have said that you look goddamn amazing, but Rusty was there so I said nice instead of fucking incredible.”

  His thumb finds my lower lip, traces it, and my eyes stutter closed.

  “Now we’ve got nine minutes,” I whisper.

  He kisses me. It’s gentle, slow, full of barely held restraint, like a horse straining at a harness.

  We press our lips together, stop. Separate, millimeters between us. Kiss again, lips at a new angle by a few degrees, then stop. Separate, stop, each new kiss an adventure, an exploration. I want to map his mouth, chart his lips, discover him inch by inch and I’m starting here, now, with this single chaste kiss.

  The kiss is glacial, an aeon, because Daniel’s timer is ticking and soon we have to end this and it’s better to not get too far. It’s better to not get too breathless, better to not push my hands under his shirt, better to not straddle him in this chair.

  So we’re patient. The minutes tick down. I spent years waiting for this, not knowing that I was waiting; I can last a few more minutes.

  Finally, the timer goes off. Daniel’s hand knots in his hair, his forehead held against mine. We’re both breathing hard and trying not to. I relax my hand when I realize I’ve got his shirt tight in my fist.

  “I gotta go wrangle the merwolf,” he murmurs. “Charlie, you’re staying, aren’t you?”

  “Here?”

  “Until she’s asleep,” Daniel says. His alarm is still going off, quiet beeping on the table below us.

  “She can’t put herself to bed?”

  “I don’t even fully trust her to rinse shampoo out of her hair,” he says. “Just say you’ll stay.”

  “Of course,” I tell him, and he gives me one last, light kiss, then releases me. He grabs his phone off the table, shuts off the alarm, and vanishes back into the house.

  I take a deep, deep breath of the twilight air. It even feels purple in my lungs, and I rub my hands together, calluses skipping along each other, trying to quell the rising wave in my body, the feeling that I’m buzzing like a high-tension powerline.

  I grab the plates we used for our sandwiches, the glasses we drank lemonade from. I take them inside, decide not to bother with the dishwasher, and wash them by hand. I can hear Daniel and Rusty upstairs, the old wooden floor creaking above my head, occasional snippets of conversation — pajamas, did you get your molars, I need the tortoise pillow.

  I can’t hold still. When Daniel’s voice leaks down to me it’s low, steady, calm, just like always. I bite my lip and remind myself to breathe.

  I find myself putting away clean dishes. I wipe down every surface: the counters, the table, the sideboard, even though they’re already pretty clean. I find myself on the back porch with a broom in my hand, sweeping at the light dusting of bright green pollen that’s collected in the corners, because I feel like a shark: if I stop moving I might die.

  The porch is practically sparkling when I hear the scrape of the screen door opening.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asks Daniel’s slow, deep voice.

  I turn, the broom still in one hand.

  “There was pollen?” I say.

  “Yeah, it’s outdoors,” he says, and then he’s crossing the porch to me, taking the broom from my hand, tossing it down with a clatter. “Who are you, Cinderella?”

  He grabs me by the waist, sliding his hands up my ribcage, and already I’m hanging onto his shoulders, the thick muscles there moving and flexing under my hands.

  “You just think that because I’m so meek and tidy,” I say, and he laughs.

  “My two favorite things about you,” he teases, his nose brushing mine, his fingers finding the bare skin on my back. “You never speak your mind and you’re never a mess.”

  I kiss him, and this time it’s like floodgates open. He leans into me, pushes me against the porch railing, the wood solid against my back. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and an arm around his waist and already the kiss is deeper, hungrier, my tongue against his.

  Daniel sinks a hand into my hair, tilts his head, presses himself against me. I realize with a warm jolt that he’s already hard, his length pressing against my hips, and the knowledge is a shockwave. I pull him even closer, hook two fingers through a belt loop and tug.

  He crashes against me, a low sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He skims one hand along my thigh, grabs my skirt in his hand, hikes it until his fingers can steal underneath it and I sigh.

  I reach a thumb underneath his shirt, right above the waist of his pants, brushing the fuzz there and the kiss slows, suddenly less furious as Daniel’s hand moves to my inner thigh and I shift my stance, hoisting one leg, a noise escaping my throat.

  “What was that?” he teases, his lips still brushing mine. Now my hand is fully under his shirt, and I can feel the vibration of his voice there.

  “Shut up,” I whisper, taking another kiss.

  His thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I bite his lip, but he doesn’t go further. I’ve got one foot propped against the porch railing, my knee against his hip, balancing on one leg. Daniel presses into me again, harder, his thumb still teasing at me, his length like iron.

  Then he pauses. His thumb sneaks under the elastic of my panties, the pad rough against the soft skin of my hip.

  “This was a bad idea,” he says.

  I go rigid instantly, his thumb still stroking my hip underneath my underwear.

  “What?”

  “I thought this would work better,” he says, and lets me go.

  For a second, I’m completely dumbfounded, and then Daniel catches my hand, backs up, pulls me along.

  “Daniel, what the fuck are you—"

  He backs up against the wicker couch, sits, pulls me so I’m straddling him, my skirt covering his lap.

  “You’re an asshole,” I laugh, his hands already up my skirt.

  He grabs my hips and pulls me down, against him, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t make a noise.

  “Why, you don’t think this is better?” he says.

  I kiss him again. I can’t stop. I roll my hips against his erection, separated by what feels like a hundred layers of fabric, the friction delicious. He pushes back, sits upright, anchors me tightly to him. For one wild second I think we could just do it right here. I’m wearing a skirt. There’s no one around, the farmhouse surrounded by forest.

  Except Rusty’s upstairs, asleep, and sometimes kids wake up.

  Daniel breaks the kiss. He leans back, heavy-lidded eyes looking up at me, one hand on my ribcage as his thumb traces along the bottom of curve of one breast. I’m breathing hard, and with every swell of my chest his hand moves more until he’s cupping me with one hand, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  “You are wearing a bra,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

  “Of course I’m wearing a bra,” I say, my own hands on his chest.

  “I couldn’t tell,” he said. “It drove me crazy all day long.”

  “You think I’d go cake tasting with no bra on?” I tease, bending down. He palms my breast harder, grins, shrugs.

  “I entertained the thought,” he says. “And I kind of enjoyed imagining that your nipples were just one layer of fabric away.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble,” I murmur, teasing.

&nb
sp; His other hand is on my thigh. It slides up and I lean my forehead against his, my hips rolling automatically, my own body out of my control.

  He skims a thumb along my panties, right over my clit, my swollen lips, nothing but a single layer of thin cotton separating us, and I gasp. There’s a hitch in Daniel’s breathing, and then he does it again, this touch slower, more deliberate.

  “That much, Charlie?” he murmurs. I’m pretty sure my panties are soaked straight through, and all I can do is nod and then he’s kissing me again, pulling me in, his thumb tripping over my clit, moving to one side, swiping under the fabric and suddenly there’s nothing at all between us.

  I grab his hair. I make a noise into his mouth, a single note of a moan, and he answers me with another low rumble. I’m a ticking time bomb. I’m a powder keg. Primed, ready, dangerous, about to alter myself and everything around me when I explode.

  This is the cliff’s edge: this touch, this moment, this heady rush of skin to skin.

  “Daniel,” I finally whisper. “We can’t undo this.”

  His hand stops moving.

  “Do you want to?” he asks.

  I’m still over him, the porch light off, everything draped in the blue-black of night. It feels like we’re wearing a cloak, like we’re alone in this world of our making.

  “No,” I say. “But I just—”

  I take a deep breath. I have no idea how to say what I’m about to say. I just know I need to say it.

  “—this will change things,” I say in a rush.

  “I know,” he says, his voice low, soft, steady.

  “Before, the one time we kissed, I could forget that,” I say, the words still spilling out of me. “But this is more—”

  “I didn’t forget it,” he says.

  “I didn’t forget it forget it,” I say. “I moved on. Life moved and I pretended it didn’t happen and after a while everything was fine, it was better than fine, but I can’t forget again.”

  “I don’t want to forget anything,” he says. “I’ve got no intention of forgetting this, or of undoing it, or of letting this slip through my fingers again.”

  “You had a good excuse,” I say, mostly teasing.

  “I want to change us,” he murmurs. “I know there’s no taking it back and I want this anyway, Charlie.”

  We kiss again. I think I’m trembling, a seismic shift somewhere deep inside my core.

  “I want this too,” I whisper, and I kiss him, a kiss that turns into a full-body plea, Daniel’s hands on me. He moves me to one side, tangled in my legs, until I’m on my back on the wicker couch and he’s on top of me, skirt hiked around my hips as I tug it down on one side because despite everything I know that Rusty’s in the house, and I know she cannot learn about the birds and the bees from witnessing us.

  Finally, Daniel rises, holding himself up against the arm rest, his powerful arm stretched over my head.

  “Come on,” he says, and stands up, holds out one hand.

  I take it, rise, my skirt falling back to my knees.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, still breathless.

  “My bedroom,” he says, hand on my back, pushing me toward the house.

  I stop, stiffen, look at him.

  “The door locks,” he says, opening the sliding screen door.

  “She won’t hear us?”

  “Not if you’re quiet,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

  Now we’re in the kitchen, and he kisses me, up against the counter.

  “Is that legal?” I ask, but Daniel just laughs, pushes a hand up my skirt.

  “It’s safer than the kitchen, that’s for sure,” he says. “If we fuck in my bedroom she at least has to knock. And don’t you dare say ‘language’ right now, Charlie. We’re clearly having a very adult moment.”

  I laugh as I kiss him, even as he snaps the elastic of my panties against my hip and makes me gasp.

  “I would never,” I protest between kisses.

  “You would and you have,” he teases, and now both hands are under my skirt, the hem going higher and higher. I’ve got one hand under his shirt again and I slide it down until I find the hard ridge of his cock, and I squeeze.

  Daniel groans, both hands closing around the flesh of my upper thighs, pushing me so hard against the counter that I’m sure it’ll leave a bruise. Not that I care.

  “I wouldn’t when you’ve got both your hands up my skirt in your mom’s kitchen,” I manage to say against his ragged breathing.

  He just presses against me harder, leaning me back over the counter until my head hits the cabinets and he presses his lips to my neck, his beard tickling me. Another noise escapes me, and I clench my teeth together, trying to control myself.

  Be quiet be quiet be quiet.

  Then he pulls back, lets my skirt fall. He gives me one more firm kiss and pulls me away from the counter, spins me, smacks my ass.

  “Go,” he orders.

  We’re up in the stairs in ten seconds. In fifteen he’s closing his bedroom door quietly, clicking the lock into place, twisting it once.

  “See?” he murmurs. “Locked, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even opened the lock-picking kit I got her last Christmas.”

  He’s to me in three strides and he hasn’t even kissed me when I’m taking his shirt off, desperate to feel his skin on mine.

  “Tell me that was a joke,” I ask between kisses, my mouth still pressed against his, and I can feel his smile.

  “Fuck yes, it was a joke,” he growls, his hands roaming my back, pulling me closer. His skin is warm against mine, intoxicating, and already I’m pulling at the button on his pants, trying to get them off without looking down.

  I yank it. The button finally pops off and I get the zipper down and Daniel groans quietly as his boxer-clad cock springs into my hand, long and thick. His head drops to my shoulder as I stroke him once, twice, hard, root to tip. He’s big, but I’ve seen him in gym shorts before so it’s not a surprise.

  I stroke him again and he inhales sharply, kisses me on the neck, puts his lips to my ear.

  “Charlie,” he whispers, his fingertips climbing the column of my spine. “How the fuck do you get this dress off?”

  I let him go, lift it over my head.

  “Oh,” he says, as I reach behind myself, unhook the strapless bra, let it fall to my feet.

  For a long moment, he just looks at me. He looks at me like he’s taking notes, like he’s memorizing. His gaze feels like a caress, like a kiss, like some sort of worship and at the same time I take him in: the wide shoulders, the thick arms, the muscled chest, the dusting of light brown hair that thickens at his bellybutton, leads below the band of his boxers, his pants splayed open around his cock.

  Then he reaches forward, the backs of his hands against my breasts, pinches my nipples between two fingers, flicks them with his thumbs.

  “Oh fuck,” I say, my own hands reflexively going to his wrists as he captures my mouth with his. He pushes me backward and then his bed is there, behind me, and then I’m on my back, Daniel on top of me, my blood rushing through my veins with the pounding, unceasing rhythm yes please, yes please, yes please.

  I grab his pants and shove. Somehow, they come off and he’s kneeling between my legs, boxer-clad, one ankle in his hand, resting on his shoulder, the other roaming up my thigh. This time he doesn’t hesitate, but slides his fingers under the thin fabric instantly, his eyes on my face.

  I’m soaking wet. I know it. I know my panties are soaked through and I know that Daniel’s fingers are already slick as he runs a thumb over my lips.

  I gasp when he finds my clit, reflexively grab the bedsheets and Daniel leans in, my ankle still on his shoulder as he massages it again, the thick pad of his thumb sliding over the sensitive nub with a jolt. His eyes don’t leave my face as he does it again and again, pushing my leg to one side, leaning down, planting himself on one elbow.

  Now he’s rubbing me with his soaked fingers, panties shoved to one side. He l
owers his head, takes one nipple between his teeth and I grab his hair in one fist, fighting the urge to shout as he moves faster and faster, one of my legs flung over his back.

  Suddenly, he stops. He sits up, grabs my panties, yanks them off and I kick, sending them flying into some corner and then we’re both kneeling on his bed, torso to torso, my hand wrapped around his cock.

  Not good enough. I reach into his boxers, grab him bare, bring his head down to mine for a deep, hard kiss as I pump him slowly, listen to the noise he makes.

  It’s beautiful, a low growl, a note I’ve never heard before. I want to hear it a thousand times, want to feel the vibration of it echo through my own mouth that many times again. His hand is tight on my hip, on my lower back, his fingers leaving divots.

  I let him go. The boxers come back and we move until I find myself against the brass bars of his headboard, cool stripes running the length of my back. Daniel’s on his knees and he lifts me, mouth on mine, my legs splayed, until I’m sitting on him.

  I’m stroking his cock again. He’s pinching a nipple with one hand and holding onto the bars with the other, pressing me back, pressing me against them. He’s brutal and soft all at once, gentle, teasing, rough.

  He reaches between my legs again, and this time he finds my clit instantly and I sigh, my head back against the bars, my hips bucking against his hand as he kisses me, drags his lips against my jaw.

  “You like that,” he says into my ear. It’s not a question. I nod anyway.

  He pauses, strokes my entrance.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice wondrous.

  Daniel slides his fingers into me smoothly, slowly, and I grab the top bar of his bedframe, somewhere over my head. I make a noise, eyes half open, and Daniel kisses me.

  His cock is in my hand, hard and thick, a drop of precum running down the tip as I stroke it. It’s taking all my self-control not to guide it to my entrance, not to lift myself up and lower myself onto him even as his hand moves inside me, stroking my front wall, thumb still massaging my clit.

  Then he pulls away from the kiss for a moment, pauses. There’s a flash of foil, a flutter, and then his mouth is on mine again as we’re rolling a condom over him, his hand over mine. He groans softly into my mouth and I let the sound wash over me, through me, his fingers still spiking pleasure through my nerves with every stroke.