Fake It Baby One More Time: A Fake Romance Collection

by Logan Chance

  “I want to eat it,” he says in a voice hot enough to melt the butter on the table. “Maybe it just needed to be pounded a little harder.”

  “It probably did.” I scoot away from the table before I climb on it and ask him to pound me.

  After another fail on Wednesday with Thighs Spread Wide, and another night of Vin isolating himself in the basement with surveillance, I’m a little cranky and a lot nervous by the time Thursday evening rolls around.

  “What time will everyone be here tonight?” Vin asks when I enter the living room where he’s sprawled across the couch with the television remote in his hand, lazily flipping through the channels.

  “Six o’clock. How’s the lounging going?”

  He sits up a bit, his eyes meeting mine.

  “I’m very busy right now.”

  I laugh, folding my arms and leaning against the wall. “How’s that?”

  “I’m getting into character.”

  I push off the wall. “Make sure your character is out of here by six pm.”

  He chuckles and then resumes flipping through Netflix on the oversized 80-inch flat screen.

  With the clock ticking down to showtime, and another impending cooking disaster looming, I plod upstairs, changing into jeans and a white-flowy blouse. So no hairs ruin my chances of acceptance into cookbook club by falling into the food, I twist my hair up into a tight knot like I usually wear to work.

  When I’m done adding a little gloss and mascara, as well as a pearl necklace with matching earrings, I am the epitome of a nouveau riche housewife. All I need is a glass of wine to complete the look.

  Ugh, wine.

  I rush downstairs. How could I forget to chill the white wine? There’s no way this will be cold by the time everyone gets here.

  “What’s wrong?” Vin asks when he spots me running around the kitchen like a nurse in the labor & delivery ward of a hospital.

  “I forgot to chill the wine.”

  Vin stops me, resting both hands on the top of my shoulders. “It’s ok. Your husband is here to help.”

  Is it weird that I like hearing him call himself that? Is it even weirder that his words have calmed my frazzled nerves.

  He reaches for the stem glasses from the cupboard. “All you really need to do is overchill the wine glasses. Then let the bottles sit in an ice bath.”

  Intrigued by his shortcut, I watch him wet the glasses, fill them with ice, and place them in the freezer. Then, he grabs a large salad bowl, fills it with ice and water before plunging the bottles of white into the bath.

  “How do you know how to do this?”

  He winks as he grabs a towel to dry his hands. “I know a thing or two about these kinds of parties.”

  My dirty mind creates a fantasy of Vin as a bartender—shirtless—behind a bar, tossing bottles in the air, and letting me drink shots from his navel.

  “Is that so?” I ask, mesmerized.

  “It is,” he toys with me in a husky murmur.

  He gets that smirk on his face, the one I previously said makes other women drop their panties and me roll my eyes. Well, this time, I don’t roll my eyes. In fact, I do something very unsettling—I smile back.

  As he inches closer, my heartbeat thuds so loud, I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

  His hand reaches out to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind my ear. His lips are so close. So close, I could reach out and touch them with the tip of my tongue.

  I’m afraid to even breathe, trapped in this moment with him. Afraid I might actually reach out and lick the perfect tiny arch of his top lip.

  I swear he can tell what I’m thinking just by the way he stares at me, like he’s gaining access to all my secrets. And I’m ok with it.

  “They’ll all be here soon,” I tell him, barely above a whisper. “I need to butter my breasts.”

  His sultry eyes drift down to my cleavage. “Do you need me to help with that?”

  Before I can answer, the doorbell rings, and then, just like that, it’s over. He steps away.

  “What are you cooking tonight?”

  “Chicken Under Covers,” I answer, trying to pull myself together and lose the image of Vin’s large hands slathering my boobs with creamy butter.

  He laughs and then his brow furrows as he removes the hardback I ordered from its little display stand on the counter. “What kind of cookbook is this?” He stares with amusement at the picture of a bound bird on the cover. When I say bound, I mean bondage bound.

  “It’s a parody on 50 Shades Of Grey and a cookbook,” I tell him, on my way out to answer the door.

  When I return to the kitchen, with the ladies in tow, Vin is on his way out. He greets them, before stalking over to me, and pulling me in, flush against his hard chest. “I’ll see you later tonight.” And then he kisses me, quick, hard, and consuming. “Good luck, babe.”

  He’s out the door, before I have time to catch my breath. Before I have time to stop thinking about Vin as more than just an assignment. Because, that’s what he’s becoming.

  “Does Vin ever tie you up?” Kelly asks, a bit too eager for my response. She runs red nails through long blonde hair, leaving not a strand out of place. She’d probably pluck it from its roots and toss it to the wolves if one ever dared to defy her.

  “He, uh, likes handcuffs,” I lie. Maybe it’s not a lie. He seems like he’d be into that.

  “Stop,” she says, with wide eyes.

  “He’s so damn into you,” Helena adds.

  I’m going to say it—these women are obsessed with Vin. Maybe more than me. Like they want him to enter the house and take off all his clothes.

  Also, I just want to mention one thing: chicken under covers was a huge success. Mainly, because everyone, besides me, is half drunk.

  But the cookbook set off an interesting conversation about everyone’s sex lives. Turns out, only one person in this room is getting it on a regular basis—me. So, really, no one. But I have to keep playing the part.

  When the ladies first arrived and saw the cookbook, it was hard to contain their sex talk, it was like a highly contagious toxic virus that leaked and spread.

  The five of us—Miffie, Helena, June, Kelly, and me—are congregated around the dining room table, and for an hour now we’ve talked about every topic under the sun: sex, wine—whether a Chianti from Italy is better than the Sangiovese from other regions—what we’re all wearing to Miffie’s charity dinner tomorrow, and back to sex.

  “Be honest, Addison, he’s got a big dick, am I right?” Miffie asks without a care in the world.

  I nearly spit out my wine. I don’t know how to answer this question. “Uh, he’s adequate.”

  “Adequate?” June side-eyes me, with a scrunch of her nose. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t spoil the fantasy,” Kelly chides me.

  I touch the pearls at my neck. “I just mean he meets all of my needs...adequately.”

  “Ladies,” all heads, including mine turn at the deep sound of Vin’s voice, “how was dinner?”

  My eyes nearly pop out of my skull at the sight of Vin standing in the entry of the dining room.

  I lick my lips, my eyes meeting his from across the room. A heat travels up my neck, into my cheeks, and I’m very aware of the way he’s staring at me right now.

  “Sweetheart, you’re home.” I bound from my chair, setting my wine glass down on the table, and move to stand with him. “Please, excuse me for a moment.” Taking his hand, I lead Vin out of the room.

  “I’m adequate?” he asks once we’re alone.

  “Well I don’t know the size of your…” I can’t finish my sentence.

  Vin leans in closer. “I meet your needs?”

  I shake my head, unable to think when his eyes don’t stray from mine. His fingers play with the strand of pearls around my neck, brushing against my erratic pulse. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “That so?” His lips hover over mine.

>   “I meant that you get the job done.”

  “I would more than get the job done.”

  “If you say so.”

  He’s too close. “You want me to show you right now?”

  My hand lands on his rock-hard chest, and heat burns through the material of his shirt. “Show me?”

  “Is that a question or a request?”

  Boisterous laughter spills from the adjoining room, breaking me of the Vin spell I’m under.

  “I was just caught off-guard.” I step away from him, gaining my bearings just a bit. “And you shouldn’t eavesdrop on women’s conversations.”

  “I only heard a little bit. The part about my dick.” He moves toward the basement door. “Just so you know, it’s impressive.”

  And with that tidbit of info, he disappears into his sanctuary. I rejoin my guests and chug a glass of wine as the party winds down.

  After a little bit longer, they pack up and leave.

  I clean up the last of the wine glasses from the dining room and roll my shoulders to try and free up some of the tension knotting them. I’m definitely in the coveted club now, but I’m losing hope this case isn’t going to be another dead end. Not one of them dropped anything useful.

  Feeling a little frustrated at our lack of leads, I head downstairs, and give two raps to Vin’s closed basement door before opening it.

  “Should we maybe do a little snooping?”

  A slow grin appears on Vin’s gorgeous face. “I like the sound of that. Go get your gear.”

  It takes me about ten minutes to change into black leggings and hoodie. After I insert my bluetooth piece into my ear, I grab my Glock, check the rounds, and slip it into the holster under my shirt.

  When I head downstairs, Vin waits for me at the bottom dressed as dark as the night.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Sixteen

  Vin

  My dick is more than adequate, just an fyi. And if I don’t break this case soon, it’s going to explode. For three days, I’ve been holed up in the basement, trying to keep my distance from Addison. It’s been fucking torture being around her since I tasted her lips. Torture tasting her sexual innuendo meals. All I want to do is spread her legs and eat her.

  Before we leave, Addison picks up a black leash a neighbor left when they dropped that wandering cat off last week.

  “What do you need that for?”

  “It’s our excuse for walking the streets this late at night. We’re trying to find our cat.”

  “Smart.” I open the back door and we both slip through. “But it’s not that late.”

  “Eleven-thirty on a Thursday night is considered late to most.”

  In my normal life, this is usually when my night began. When, and if, I did have a night off, this was about the time I would hit the local bar with friends and play darts or pool. And now, living here, I don’t know what to do with all this pent up...frustration.

  It’s a pain in the ass having these feelings appear out of nowhere. I’ve never had to worry about this shit before. I don’t think I’ve ever cared for a woman before in my life. Besides my mother.

  Addison follows me outside, and we go a few blocks in silence, both of us casing the road and backyards. Everything is asleep. No mob bosses running around demanding their money.

  “It’s weird how well these people are hiding the fact they’re working for the mob,” I say.

  “What’s even more weird is it hasn’t tipped anyone off,” she replies.

  With how nosy this neighborhood is, Addison’s right. It is suspicious. Or the criminals are that good.

  We stop in front of the Sander’s darkened mini mansion.

  “Are they home?” Addison asks.

  I shrug. “We’ll find out.”

  We do a basic layout of the front, then move into the backyard. There’s no moon in the sky lighting the way for us, and I’m regretting not bringing my night-vision goggles.

  “I’m going in through the garage,” I tell her.

  “I’ll check around back, see if I can get into the basement.”

  Yes, we’re about to do a straight up B&E. Don’t try this at home, kids. It’s illegal, but I like to think of it as part of our job to ensure everyone in this city is safe. And to keep them safe, we need to break into their houses to make sure they’re all on the up and up. Pretty fucked up thought process, I know, but it works.

  I turn on my bluetooth, so I can communicate with Bucks, slip around the outdoor grill, and jump the fence to end up in their driveway.

  The lock on the side entrance gives easily, and I slip through and stand on the hard concrete of their empty garage.

  “Car’s gone,” I say to Addison. Which, I agree, is odd for eleven-thirty on a Thursday.

  “I’m almost into the basement,” her whispered response comes in through my earpiece.

  I get to work, illuminating the neatly organized shelves with my mini flashlight, scanning for anything out of place.

  At first glance, everything appears very ordinary, things anyone would have in their garage—extension cords, garden shears, tools, camping gear. All very suburban. Except the crisp, new hundred-dollar bill nestled between the plastic storage bins on the bottom shelf. I grab it, inspecting how not laundered it appears. Could they have dropped this here?

  I tuck it into my pocket.

  “I can’t get into the basement, can you come around and give me a hand? Northeast corner of the house,” Addison’s voice sounds in my ear.

  “On my way.” As soon as I hop the back gate, the garage door opens. “Someone’s home,” I whisper as I sprint across the yard to where she’s crouched, fiddling with a latch, by a window leading into the basement.

  “Did you hear me?” I ask when I reach her.

  “I can’t get this latch.”

  “Leave it.”

  She huffs, and then we sneak from the property. Once our feet hit the pavement, we power walk back to our house.

  Inside the kitchen, she yanks out her earpiece and tosses it on the counter. “We didn’t find anything. Again.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I pull the hundred-dollar bill from my pocket, and she gasps before she snatches it from my hand.

  “This is it?” she nearly squeals, with a big ass grin on her face, holding it up, letting the fluorescent light shine through the fibers.

  “Yes, a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Probably slipped out of the laundry.”

  “Grubbs can run it for prints.” Her blue eyes sparkle like I just gave her a new washer and dryer better than the one we have. “If it’s so new of a bill, it most likely won’t have too many on it. And we can now get a warrant to bug their house.”

  “You’re so smart.”

  And beautiful. How had I never really noticed this before? How had I never really noticed her? I’ve spent so many days, years, looking at her face and never really seeing her.

  “I’m so excited, I could kiss you,” she gushes.

  And then she leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine. And fuck. The air charges in an instant. In 0.1 seconds, I have her hoisted up, with her legs around my waist, and her tongue running along mine.

  My needy mouth waters for her. I move into the living room, and we land in a pile on the couch.

  This kiss isn’t like the others—it’s hungrier—and I won’t lie, I might die if I don’t get more.

  I pull her closer, and roll so she’s on top of me.

  And then her hips do the tiniest of movements, grinding against my steel dick.

  Her lips leave mine to kiss along my jaw, up to my ear. “Yeah, you’re more than adequate,” she whispers, before nipping my lobe.

  “Fuck, Addison.” I grip her hips, rocking up into her, letting her feel the thickness of my cock. I’ve never gone from zero to sixty in nanoseconds before, but she does that to me.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t…” Her words trail off because I am kissing her again, not letting her finish that negative thought.
>
  Maybe we should.

  Maybe we should a whole lot more.

  Every cell in my body is enjoying this as I glide my hand beneath her shirt, up the satin skin of her stomach, to palm her tit. She purrs.

  “You like that?” I ask against her lips.

  “Yeah,” she pants.

  I squeeze her nipple, and she meows. My hand freezes.

  She pulls away and perched on the top of the couch is the fucking cat. Staring. Mocking. Ruining the mood, instantly.

  “I’ll put it outside.”

  “No,” she rubs a hand against her kiss swollen lips, “I just got a little carried away. I’m sorry.”

  She bounds from the couch, and without another word, leaves the room.

  I pick up the cat. “Looks like we’re both sleeping alone tonight, bud.” When I open the back door, his big cat eyes stare at me. Why do animals always look so sad? “Want to stay inside tonight?” I ask him.

  And then I set him down on the kitchen tile and let him sleep indoors tonight.

  “That bill you found came up clean,” Grubbs says through the phone.

  I punch against the wall lightly, wishing the bill would have come back with anything useful. Grubbs gives me the findings on the crisp hundred-dollar bill I found in the Sander’s garage as I lean against the wall. “What about the warrant?” I already know the answer as the question leaves my mouth. But, just maybe.

  “No. We got denied for the warrant to bug the house.”

  This case is just not going as easily as we planned. We can’t punish people for having money lying around. Even if the bill is new.

  I still don’t trust Greg. I don’t trust anyone. I finish up with the phone call, waiting for Addison to come downstairs so we can head to this thing.

  And then there she is.

  Holy hell. How am I supposed to keep my hands, and my mouth, off that tonight at Miffie’s charity event? Addison drifts like a moon goddess down our flight of stairs in a white dress that accentuates her breasts, and then flows from her trim waist, stopping above her knees. She has on these hot, strappy heels that match the fire-engine red smeared on her sexy-as-fuck lips.