Page 41 of That Fake Feeling

Connorpays them no attention and gazes across the room toward the windows overlooking the street, like he’s there in body but not in spirit—merely a mannequin being buffed and primped.

Theroom is as tasteful as the rest of the house, all muted grays and sea greens.Andso huge there’s still plenty of space even with six people and all the photography equipment in there.

Thebed is even bigger than mine, and one wall is lined with sleek, floor-to-ceiling cabinetry.

Butdespite its beauty, the whole thing has an atmosphere of sadness.Thecolors feel more drab than stylish, the design more stark than restful.It’slike a fancy hotel room awaiting the next new guest.Anddespite all the activity, there’s no real energy in the room, no real life.

Thephotographer spots me.

“Rose,” he cries. “Excellent.Comein, come in.Weonly have ten minutes before we have to pack up so we can get to the party in time.”

AsConnorturns his head and his eyes meet mine, the only part of his face that moves is his brow, which lifts slightly.

There’sno sign of even the slightest embarrassment that only a few minutes ago he was secretly rocking himself against my butt in a room full of people, several of whom were looking right at us.

I, however, am now mortified thatIgave as good asIgot.

But, holy crap, he looks good topless.

Myheart goes into overdrive and pumps every drop of blood in my body to my face, flooding my cheeks.

“Clearthe set,” the photographer calls. “Chop, chop,Rose.Comealong.”Heunscrews his camera from the tripod. “Justthree quick things, then we’ll call it a wrap.”

Iwander towardConnorwithout looking at him. “Sherrihad to rush off to something else.”Desperateto get out of here, more like. “Saidshe’d call us in the next couple of days to finish the interview over the phone.”

Connornods but says nothing.Thiscouldn’t be more awkward.

Thephotographer continues his rapid-fire instructions. “First, let’s get you both into bed.Andthink lazySundaymorning.”

Oh,Christ.Aweird sensation ripples through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.Ihave no idea if it’s horror, or embarrassment, or excitement, or some hideous mash-up of all three.

Itake a deep breath and try to pull myself together asImake my way around to the other side of the bed.

“Er, love pumpkin?”Connorsays.

Istop in my tracks, my eyes meeting his, which are full of mischief.

“Whyare you going to my side of the bed?” he asks with exaggerated puzzlement.

I’mnow in even more of a hurry to get out of here than the photographer. “Doesit matter?”

“Justthought it might have slipped your mind.Youdo look a bit”—he rocks his hips forward ever so slightly—“dazed.”

Bastard.

“I’mjust disoriented by”—the thought of your dick on my ass—“all the people in the room.Ofcourse you can have your usual side, sugar plums.”

Icrawl over to the side of the bed whereConnor’sstanding and shove my legs under the covers as quickly asIcan.

Hekneels on the edge and swings one leg over to straddle me on his knees.Hepauses for a second with his hands on his hips, groin directly in front of my face.

Holyshit.He’snot rock hard like before, but there’s definitely a hint of interest behind thosePJs.Myfingers instinctively clutch the comforter.Imaginelooking up at that sight in bed for real.Butpreferably without the bottoms on.

Heswings the other leg over and flops onto his back next to me. “Allright, my love, let’s get tucked in.”

Holyshit,I’min bed with him.Likeactuallyin bed.

“Okay.”Thephotographer means business. “Connor, arm aroundRose, please, andRose, you lean back onto his chest.Justlike you’re lying around on a regularSundaymorning.”