Grumpy Fake Boyfriend

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Grumpy Fake Boyfriend Page 6

by Jackie Lau


  Chapter 10

  Will

  “Will!” she shrieks. “It’s freezing.”

  “Why go to the beach if you don’t want to go in the water?” I ask. “Isn’t that what we’re here for? Or are we here so you can have an intense sexual experience from your fake boyfriend rubbing sunscreen on your shoulders?”

  “You ruined all your hard work.” She scrambles to her feet. “You’ll have to apply sunscreen on me again when we get out.”

  “Oh, joy. More moaning.”

  This woman is driving me mad.

  But I have a job to do this weekend, so I can’t stay away from her for long.

  I did my job by rubbing sunscreen into her skin like a dutiful boyfriend. I tried not to focus on her smooth, tanned skin, and how wonderful it was to touch her everywhere.

  Except then she got into a moaning war with Krista, and I couldn’t take it anymore. Is that what she sounds like when she receives clitoral stimulation?

  “You don’t need to be inappropriate in public like Krista and Jordan,” I say.

  “It’s not very public. It’s just a few friends on a private beach.”

  I release a sigh of frustration. “It’s still inappropriate to act like that when other people are around, and I resent that you tried to involve me in it.”

  “You kissed me with tongue yesterday. In front of everyone.”

  “Can you stop with that already? I had to shut you up so you didn’t blow our cover.”

  “You admitted you’re attracted to me.”

  “Yeah, I did. So what?”

  She steps closer. “Didn’t you enjoy it when I moaned? Didn’t it make you think of what it might be like to—”

  “The deal was that I would act like your boyfriend for the weekend. I assumed that would include the occasional touch and peck on the cheek, not an erotic sunscreen performance.”

  This woman will be the death of me, I swear.

  I hadn’t expected to have fun this weekend, and I was surprised to find I was enjoying myself earlier.

  But I’m not having fun now. No, I’m having a problem I never anticipated. Sure, I thought Naomi was cute before, but I hadn’t expected to desire her so badly.

  Perhaps throwing her into the lake was a mistake. Because now water is dripping down her body, and her nipples are puckered—I can see them through the thin fabric of her bikini. I presume that’s because of the cold water, but maybe it’s partly because I excite her as much as she excites me.

  After all, she mentioned orgasms and clitoral stimulation in my presence. I suspect she really does want me to take her to bed. And not so we can lie side-by-side without physical contact.

  I scrub my hands over my face. I cannot deal with this.

  Suddenly, I’m knocked off my feet and fall sideways into the water. I splutter as I come up to standing. “What was that for?”

  “Payback,” Naomi says. “You threw me into the water—”

  “So you should pick me up and throw me into the water. Come on, let’s see you try to pick me up.”

  “You’re too big. I can’t.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder, and I drop my voice real low. “I’m too big for you? Is that what you’re saying? Baby, I know you can handle me.”

  Oh, God. What am I doing?

  Her eyes widen in surprise, but then she smiles coquettishly. “Are you propositioning me, Mr. Stafford? I accept. Want to go back to the guesthouse and see if we can be as loud as Jordan and Krista?”

  “For the last time,” I grind out. “This is not a competition.”

  “Okay. Fine. We don’t need to be loud. Or are you loud when you have sex?”

  “I’m not loud. But that doesn’t mean it’s not good.”

  Jesus. Why do I keep saying this shit? I should have stayed in the guesthouse and not come down to the beach while Naomi was in her bikini.

  “Ignore that,” I mutter. “I’m just playing around.”

  Her eyes dance. She enjoys seeing me uncomfortable. How sweet.

  She takes my hand and leads me farther from the shore, until the water is up to her shoulders and partway up my chest. I glance at the public beach to the north, all the colorful umbrellas and towels laid out on the sand. It’s far too crowded for me, but right now, this private beach also seems crowded, with Naomi Kwan right in front of me.

  “Touch me,” she says. “This is your chance to feel up my breasts without anyone getting a good look.”

  “No.”

  “Do you not find me attractive anymore?” There’s a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

  I look back at the beach. Krista and Jordan are no longer rubbing sunscreen on each other. Instead, they’re making out.

  I don’t want her to feel like she’s not as good looking as make-out girl over there, so I slide my hand up to cup her breast.

  Touching Naomi’s breast is the right thing to do, isn’t it? Any nice man would do the same. Although the thought of anyone else touching her sends anger coursing through my veins.

  Dammit, what is wrong with me?

  I roll her nipple through the fabric until it tightens even more. Her breasts are not large—an A or a B cup, I’m not sure—and I can hold her entire breast in my hand. She feels so good.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asks, and to my satisfaction, her voice is a little breathy.

  “Mm-hmm.” I want to go to shallower waters and tug her nipple between my teeth.

  Except I would never do that in public.

  Or with my friend’s little sister.

  Who is now touching my crotch.

  “There might be some shrinkage due to the cold water,” I say. “In case you were wondering why I’m not as big as you were expecting.”

  Damn. I can’t seem to help myself.

  “You feel plenty big,” she says playfully, with heat in her eyes.

  The sun beats down on my wet shoulders and hair, caressing my skin. Naomi continues to touch my cock, which, naturally, hardens at her attention. Back on the beach, Ian and Tom are still throwing a football, Ridhi and Julia are lying back on their beach towels, and Krista and Jordan are making out.

  I want to kiss Naomi. I wrap my arms around her and press her against me.

  She kisses me first. Her lips are warm and wet, and she slips her tongue into my mouth to play with mine. I drop my hands to squeeze her ass before I slip a hand under her bikini top and fondle the pebbled skin of her breast. When I flick my thumb over her nipple, she moans into my mouth. A different sort of moan than she made when I rubbed sunscreen into her skin.

  I want to press down on her while she lies beneath me and begs me to enter her. I want to thrust inside and bring us both to the peak of pleasure...

  I want a lot of things I won’t allow myself to have, no matter how willing she is.

  With much difficulty, I step back from her.

  “This is not going to happen,” I say.

  “I don’t know. You seem pretty interested.”

  “I won’t deny that you’re a beautiful woman.”

  “Are you going to deny that you’d like to fuck me?”

  God help me, but I like hearing that word come out of her pretty mouth.

  I remind myself of the first time I saw her, in my dorm room at U of T, when she was in middle school and wearing braces.

  Except that was seventeen years ago, and the image doesn’t stick, not when she’s standing before me. She walks into shallower water so I can see more of her skin.

  Fuck, this is hard.

  When I step toward her, she wraps her arms around my waist and grunts.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Trying to lift you up so I can throw you in the water. But I was right before. You’re too big. Let me try it another way.”

  She steps around me so we’re standing back-to-back. She links her arms with mine, leans forward, and lifts me up. My feet are above the sand—just barely.

  And then we fall sideways into the water.
I surface for air at the same time as she does. She’s laughing, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, and her eyes are dancing. I can’t help but smile, too, and I want to kiss her again and take her to bed.

  But that will not happen.

  We will sleep in that tiny double bed tonight, and she will probably insist on taking more than her share of it, but we will not have sex. I will keep my hands to myself. I will keep my mouth to myself. Hopefully, unlike last night, she won’t wear a skimpy tank top that does little to hide her nipples, but I suspect that’s too much to ask.

  “I need you to rub more sunscreen on my back,” she says as we step onto the beach.

  “No.” I scramble farther up the beach to where Ian and Tom are playing catch. “Can I join you guys?”

  For the next half hour, I throw a football around as I try to forget about my fake girlfriend, who’s sitting just over there, laughing as she talks with her friends.

  Still, I can’t help sneaking the occasional glance.

  Chapter 11

  Will

  Hallelujah!

  Praise the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

  We have been moved to a new room, and this one has a king-sized bed!

  Krista and Jordan have been relocated to the guesthouse, where they will cause minimum disruption, and Naomi and I are in the main house in their place.

  The two of us are hanging out in bed. Everyone wanted a little downtime before dinner, and I’m certainly not complaining. Krista and Jordan were the most enthusiastic about this, and they’re probably fucking like bunnies in the guesthouse.

  I try not to think about that.

  Fortunately, due to aforementioned king-sized bed, there’s lots of space between me and Naomi. She had a shower and smells of rosemary mint shampoo, a smell which I never considered arousing before, but I quite like it.

  Actually, the only reason I know it’s rosemary mint is because I looked at the shampoo bottle. At first, I could only tell it was something herbal. Not knowing exactly what it was bothered me so much that I set down my laptop and went to the en suite washroom to check.

  Naomi is reading now. She’s curled up on her side, facing away from me. I’m composing an email to my agent, and then I, too, will attempt to lose myself in the pages of a book. Hopefully I won’t be so distracted by her presence that I can’t read.

  My phone buzzes, indicating a new text message. It’s Sam.

  Can u babysit on mon? she asks.

  I hate how my sister doesn’t use full words. I like the idea of text messages, since it cuts down on verbal communication, which is often tedious, but I don’t like how the English language is disintegrating.

  As for my nephews, I love them and I would babysit them on Monday if I could—even if they are sometimes little terrors—but I can’t. Because I’m in Grand Bend with Naomi and a couple of nymphomaniacs.

  I type a reply. Sorry. I am at a beach house with friends for the long weekend.

  I should have known better.

  A few seconds later, my phone rings, and I reluctantly answer.

  “You’re really at a beach house with friends?” Sam practically shouts in my ear.

  “Calm down,” I say. “No need to scream.”

  “You’re there with a woman, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I lie. “There are eight of us. Mostly friends of friends, because clearly I do not have seven friends, even counting the online ones.”

  “Hmm.” She seems suspicious. “You’re voluntarily spending a whole weekend with people, yet you don’t want to spend a week at a resort with your family?”

  “I said I’d think about it,” I grumble. “And I’m not here willingly. I owed someone a favor.”

  I can imagine Sam frowning. “You went to a beach house because you owed someone a favor? That makes no sense.”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “No. It will require more than five minutes, and you know I don’t like to spend more than five minutes on the phone.”

  “Come on. Or I’ll tell Mom you have a new girlfriend.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  The result would be my parents planning an engagement party, wedding, and baby shower, even if I insist I am not, in fact, dating anyone.

  And that’s why it’s one of my sister’s favorite threats.

  “I’m kidding,” Sam says.

  “Are you really?”

  “Yes. This time, I’m kidding.” She pauses. “Isn’t it nice to spend a long weekend at the beach with people? For once, I’m jealous of you.”

  “It’s tolerable.” Though refusing to fuck my fake girlfriend is taking far too much willpower.

  Sam laughs. “Aw, you love it.”

  Once again, my extroverted family doesn’t understand me.

  I get off the phone and finish my email. I’m not in the mood to read a fantasy novel, so I go to Goodreads and look up reviews for my books. This is probably not the healthiest thing for an author to do, but it can be entertaining. The bad reviews in particular.

  I was enjoying this book until page 45. I couldn’t believe my eyes when the F-word appeared three times in three pages. DNF.

  People who trash novels because they contain swear words confuse me. I don’t fucking understand them.

  Another reviewer describes me as a heathen. I don’t bother reading how he came to that conclusion, though he happens to be correct.

  Then there’s this one: This book epitomizes everything that is wrong with science fiction today. Isaac Asimov would be rolling in his grave. It was a bore from start to finish. Six hours of my life I will never get back. The author seems to fancy himself a comedian, but the book is not funny. At all.

  The review goes on and on, describing my many failures as a writer. I can’t help but wonder why the reader finished the book if he hated it so much, and why he wasted even more of his time writing such a tedious review.

  The next review attacks the science in the novel. Stafford’s understanding of fusion energy is poor at best.

  That reviewer is full of shit. I bet he doesn’t have a PhD in the subject. Unlike me.

  To improve my self-esteem, I look at the positive reviews.

  Best. Book. Of. The. Year. [Followed by a gif of a cartoon alien raising his tentacles in the air.]

  Hmph. I hate the trend of using. One. Word. Sentences. For. Emphasis. I’m not sure if this review is making me feel better because the reviewer liked my book, or worse because clearly the English language is disintegrating even further.

  “What are you snickering at?” Naomi turns toward me.

  I immediately look away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I keep my gaze averted. “That shirt. Your breasts. Almost popping out.”

  My command of the English language is disintegrating, too.

  “Fine, fine. If you insist.” A moment later, she says, “I’m sitting up now, and I’ve adjusted my shirt. No need to worry about a wardrobe malfunction.”

  I cautiously turn in her direction. She’s wearing jean shorts and a baby pink shirt with what I believe are called cap sleeves, and she’s adorable.

  I momentarily forget what she was asking me.

  “Right,” I say. “I was reading reviews of my books to entertain myself, and to witness the shocking destruction of the English language.”

  She slides closer to me. “It’s so hot when you talk like that.”

  I look at her as though she has sprouted six tentacles, like the Megwa aliens in my books. But she is, of course, a zillion times more attractive than the Megwas.

  “Will,” she says. “I—”

  I kiss her. I don’t want to hear whatever was going to come out of her mouth; instead, I want to feel her mouth against mine, the soft pillows of her lips.

  It feels so damn good.

  I massage her breast with one hand, like I did in the lake. But her stupid clothing is in the way. I lift up the bottom of her shirt and am
just about to pull it over her head when I remember that I need to control myself.

  I jump away from her like I’ve been shot.

  “What kind of horrible disease do I have?” she asks.

  “You know what it is.”

  “I’m single. You’re single. Aren’t you?”

  “Obviously, or I wouldn’t have agreed to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

  “What happened to the woman you brought to Jeremy’s wedding?”

  I grit my teeth. “Carly was more in love with the idea of turning me into the world’s biggest science fiction writer than anything else. She’s a publicist—not in publishing, but still. She wanted me to do signings and go to several conferences and...”

  “Lots of other equally horrifying things?”

  “Precisely.”

  It felt like she wanted to turn me into a completely different person.

  So I broke up with her.

  For some reason, that has happened multiple times, not just with Carly. Like my parents, many of my exes thought I needed a personality adjustment. Women never seem to want me for who I am, but for who they think I could become.

  But I’ve learned from my mistakes. I like myself the way I am, and I refuse to date women who treat me as a makeover project.

  I assume most women feel that way about me.

  Naomi nods. “I see. Is that why you don’t want to sleep with me? Because you’re afraid I’ll take over your life and try to turn you into a social butterfly? I promise I’m not looking for anything serious. But we have two more nights here. Might as well have some fun, don’t you think?” She adjusts the neckline of her shirt so it’s a bit lower.

  I allow myself to look. Just for a moment. I’m surprised she only wants a weekend fling—I’d assumed she was a relationship person.

  It doesn’t matter, though. This can’t happen.

  “You’re Jeremy’s little sister,” I say.

  “Did he make you promise to behave yourself this weekend?”

  “He did, and I intend to keep that promise.”

  “Jeremy always spoils my fun.” She slides closer. “I’m twenty-nine. He doesn’t need to know.”

  “Tempting as it is, I regret to say I must decline your advances for reasons of propriety.”

 

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