Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(35)

Almost the same way Dexter had asked me to be his fake girlfriend for one night so his family wouldn’t meddle in his love life.

Actually, come to think of it, all three of us—Greyson, Tabitha and I—lied at the beginning of our relationships; Greyson lied about inventing a fake boyfriend, Tabitha lied about being an author and hid her books from everyone, and I lied about being Dexter’s girlfriend.

What pretty little liars we all turned out to be; thank god everything ended well for us.





“Having a good time?” I ask, sidling up to Dexter. He slides a hand around my waist, pulling me in. Pulling me close and planting a quick kiss on my neck, just under my ear; my favorite spot.

I shiver every time.

“I’m having a good time; I just wish Collin hadn’t invited my sisters. Why would he do that? They’re driving me crazy. I mean—just look at them over there.” He nods to the opposite side of the room to where the twins are holding court, gesturing wildly and laughing uproariously.

I have a sneaking suspicion they’re re-enacting the moment they came to Dexter’s defense the night of their 16th birthday party, telling their cousin Elliot to kiss off. Called him a douchebag. Went Twin Gangsta on his cocky ass.

Even though that was more than six months ago, retelling that story is one of their favorite things to do in mixed company.

And they do it so well. So vividly.

So loudly.

The tips of Dexter’s ears turn pink when Lucy throws her arms in the air, shouting, “We’ll wait here while you finish him off!” The declaration is loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

My boyfriend groans. “Why do they insist on telling that story?” He runs a hand through his neatly combed hair, and my eyes follow his movements, trailing down the column of his neck to the exposed skin at his collar. “It’s so embarrassing.”

The top two buttons of his dress shirt, undone. For Dexter, this is as laid-back and casual as he gets. He does own tee shirts; I’ve seen them in his closet, and a few times on the weekends. But he likes to be dressed up. Pressed. Tidy.

It’s my job to muss him up.

I press my mouth against his neck for a quick kiss, sniffing his deliciously male cologne. His woodsy shampoo. “Mmm, you smell good.”

“Daphne, stop. You’re going to make me—”

“—Hard?”

I love how open he is now; how uninhibited we are together. How honest and affectionate.

“Just hearing you say that word makes it worse.” The low baritone of his voice gets lower, and he watches when I bite down on my lower lip, dragging my teeth back and forth.

I glance down the dark hallway off the living room, one eyebrow raised in thought. “Want to check out the spare bedroom?”

My meaning is clear.

Dexter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing and eyes rapidly getting hazy behind the rim of his glasses. Sexy Dexy indeed.

He gives a curt nod. Yes.

Grabs my hand. Hauls me down the dark corridor to the second door on the left, my body humming with need and anticipation with what’s going to happen when we close the door to that dark spare room behind us.

Door locked, it’s empty and pitch black.

Eyes straining, I can barely make out any furniture, let alone Dexter’s fingers when he finds the tie of my emerald green wrap dress—the one I borrowed from Tabitha, fell into like with, and haven’t given back. Wrapped around my waist, the soft cotton fits my body like a second skin, flattering my curves to perfection.

Large hands slide across the bare skin between the plunging wrap neckline, sliding into the cup of my bra, palm gently kneading my breast. Heaven. It feels like heaven.

Muffled sounds reverberate from the party outside, but we don’t care.

“You’re so sexy,” he purrs in the dark, his lips finding purchase on my collarbone. “I’ve been wanting to touch you all night. Untie this dress and have my way with you.”

“Yes,” I breath into his mouth with a sigh; the mouth that I dream about each and every night; those lips that make all the aching in my body go away.

At some point I’m lifted onto the top of a dresser.

Fumbling hands find his belt buckle. Unzip his fly. Push the dark, dressy denim down his lean hips along with his navy boxer-briefs. Untie the sash around my waist. Push apart the cotton of my dress. Push aside my lacey, nude underwear.

My hands roam his torso, his taunt abs, his firm pecs.

I love his body.

I love his glasses.

I love his mind.

“I love you,” I whisper when he pushes into me with a loud groan, condoms forgone when we became exclusive (not that there was any doubt we wouldn’t be).

He thrusts once, then stills. “Did you just say that you love me?”

“Yes.” I bob my head in the dark even though he can’t see me. “Yes, yes, I love you.” I wriggle my pelvis, hoping to urge him on.

He pulls out slowly. Pushes in slowly.

Again and again and again.

“God Daphne, oh god.” He buries his nose in my hair, inhaling with a long drag. “I’m so in love with you.”

Rocking. Pushing. Pulling.

The dresser hits the wall with every mad thrust, our loud moans and mutters drowned out only by the sound of party-goers in the next room. Vaguely I hear Tabitha’s distinctive laugh, but my neck is rolling to the side and I’m drunk on the oxytocin surging through my body.