The Decoy Girlfriend(47)

His head gets stuck pulling on the shirt he tossed on the back of the sofa, hiding his smile. She could have extended a man-eating crocodile and he would still have latched on with a thank-you. “Yes,” he says simply, surprised to discover how very much that’s the truth.

There was no other answer, and yet he knows it’s the right one when a pleased flush steals over her cheeks. “Come to bed with me?”

“Freya,” he chokes out.

“You’re the one who said Gareth thinks we should be more affectionate in our posts.”

She yanks him to his feet. He barely maintains his hold on the blanket.

Taft trails after her into the bedroom, still trying to work out what the fuck is happening, when she launches herself on his unmade bed, crawling on all fours to the headboard.

Sweet baby Jesus. He screws his eyes shut, but the image is burned onto his retinas.

Freya props both pillows against the headboard, unnecessarily fluffs them with vigorous fists, then pats the rumpled space next to her with one hand. Her phone is already in the other.

Gingerly, he joins her. “I know for a fact that filming a sex tape was not on Gareth and Moira’s list,” he states.

Besides not being his style to begin with, it wouldn’t fit with his homespun golden-boy image, which was why the cheating rumors in particular were so damaging.

“That’s a shame,” Freya says casually. “It should have been.”

Visuals flood his mind. He snatches at the sheet that’s tossed at the foot of the bed, pulling it up to cover himself. This girl is going to short-circuit his brain if he’s not careful.

“Think about it,” she continues, oblivious to his suffering. “People will be scrutinizing our public appearances, dissecting every look and touch, no matter how convincing we are. But sweet little intimate moments are so much harder to fake. We’re missing an opportunity here.”

He blinks. She’s never initiated an idea like this before.

“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, either. In fact, self-preservation is screaming at me not to. But I’m part of this, and maybe it’s the academically gifted kid in me, but I’m going to do a good job. All of this is happening to you because of me, anyway.”

He gets that she’s apologizing, but he can’t bring himself to share her remorse, not when her actions brought her into his life in the first place.

“Go on, then,” he says, waving a hand and affecting an expression of boredom. He will simply lie back and think of England. He will be stoic and self-controlled. He will ignore his raging boner and the soft, warm body of the gorgeous girl next to him. He will—

Freya’s fingertips gently ghost over the hem of his shirt as she scoots closer.

The “Shit!” flies out of him in a sibilant hiss. His thoughts turn to honey, syrupy and slow, and his teeth ache with want. Scalding desire shoots through his entire body.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing. “I barely touched you, you big baby.”

He huffs. If it wasn’t for the hard-on making movement a bit difficult, he would have leaped out of bed and dashed straight for the bathroom to take care of the problem.

But that wouldn’t resolve the bigger issue—the woman in his bed, the same one working her way determinedly into his heart. The one he’d love to call him baby without any less flattering adjectives before it.

She brushes her lips over his jawline, a bit scruffy from not shaving, but she doesn’t seem to mind. If he turns his head just slightly, she would be kissing the corner of his mouth.

A thrill of pleasure races down his spine, but she breaks their connection the second she gets the picture. She hunches over to edit it, increasing the brightness and contrast. She’d snapped the shot from a height, giving her vaulted cheekbones and a plunging neckline.

And that’s when he registers something that had been totally and utterly lost on him before. His gaze traces the contours of her shoulders and arms with possessive interest. “Are you . . .” He pauses when he hears the rough rasp of his voice. “Wearing my shirt?”

She’s left it unbuttoned, revealing a creamy upper chest and a black bralette that offsets the white button-down to perfection.

Freya doesn’t look up from the phone. “Yes. It helps sell it.”

Taft throws his eyes to the ceiling and counts backward from ten. She’s sadistic. She’s trying to kill him. Slowly.

“You don’t mind, do you?” She looks at him over her shoulder, worrying at her lower lip as she fidgets with the collar. “Sorry, I should have—”

“I like you wearing it,” he interrupts.

There. It’s out there now. All caution has been thrown to the wind.

He can’t bring himself to regret it.

She hurriedly returns her attention to the phone. “Any idea for a caption?”

Without thinking about it, he lazily runs his knuckles over her spine. “I’m drawing a blank. Maybe ask Mandi?”

She tenses as if the suggestion annoys her. “Actually, I think I’ve got it.”

“Perfect.” He dances his fingertips higher up her back. Her shoulders tremble when he reaches the clasp of her bra, but he skims past her shoulder blades, reaching his final destination.

“Oh,” she breathes when his fingers cocoon into her hair. She doesn’t have to tell him to be careful of tangles, because he already is. “Taft.”