Page 55 of Fake Dark Vows

“Get out,” I whisper.

“Rose, please. I know that I can trust you. If there was any other way out of this situation, I’d have taken it, but there isn’t. I need you.”

“Get out.” Louder this time. I march back to the door and open it so hard it bounces on the hinges. “Get out!”

I slam the door behind him and lean against it, my chest heaving with the effort of containing the sobs building up inside me. Then I sink to the floor as the tears start flowing.

CHAPTER 19

Brandon

I stare at the closed door.

What did I expect? For her to throw her arms around my neck and thank me for the opportunity? Or a promise from her to be the best fake fiancée a man could wish for? Or perhaps I thought that there would be a repeat performance of what happened on the beach—my ego convincing itself that she literally couldn’t get enough of me.

I should never have asked.

I knew it was a terrible idea, but I’ve always trusted Sam’s advice in the past, so why should he let me down now?

Glancing left and right along the street, at the unremarkable houses with their neglected front yards and their drunken lopsided mailboxes, I weigh my options. I’ve blown it with Rose, but I should at least apologize to her and part on amicable terms, even though it’s unlikely that we’ll ever cross paths again.

I face the door. My finger hovers over the doorbell, but I don’t push it. Best for all concerned if I walk away and erase the conversation that just took place inside her living room from my mind.

I turn away. Turn back again. Glimpse a neighbor’s curtain twitching a few doors along and force myself to walk along the bumpy path and back to the sidewalk without a backward glance.

I dismiss my driver—I need to walk, clear my head, get some caffeine into my veins.

Eyes lowered, one foot in front of the other, I head towards Central Park and try to apply Julia’s filing system to the thoughts scrambling over each other inside my head.

No one told me why Rose left the island, and I didn’t get a chance to ask her, although I can guess. My mother took one look at the two of us on the porch, damp, and covered in sand, and her instant reaction was to avoid a scandal. I can picture it now: the raised eyebrows and pursed lips, the cold, emotionless instruction for Rose to get herself cleaned up.

An image of Rose’s shirt being ripped apart springs to life inside my mind. I did that. She had me so aroused that a shit load of throbbing concussion couldn’t compete with the throbbing in my cock.

Until that night, sex on the beach was the name of a cocktail I avoided whenever I checked out a bar menu. It was something that happened to teenagers, kids getting drunk and frisky on cheap alcopops, and shoving their hands inside each other’s pants. It didn’t happen to people like me.

Only, it did.

And I can still feel her lips wrapped around my hard-on, still feel her teeth rubbing against me, and her hair stroking my chest and abdomen as she moved.

Jesus, fuck. I’d had blowjobs before. So why…? What was so special about this one?

The booze maybe? The sound of the waves licking the shore? Or did Rose spike my drinks with something that wiped me out so she could take advantage of me?

I dismiss this thought with a grunt as I take advantage of the green man and cross the road, dodging a woman dressed in Lycra and pushing a baby stroller. I literally just offered Rose Carter a million bucks and she turned me down. What happened on the beach happened because we were both caught up in the moment, and neither of us had the willpower to stop it.

I can’t face going to the office. My tie is suffocating me, and my shirt feels as though it shrunk in a hot wash the last time it went into the laundry.

Another image flashes into my head. The feel of the sand beneath my knees as I pounded into Rose knocks me sideways, and I dodge the flow of pedestrian traffic by dipping into a small local café.

I order a double espresso to go, extra-hot, without making eye contact with the barista, a young Latina woman with a gold hoop through her septum.

The first time I had sex—more fumble than fuck—I walked around high school with a grin on my face for days. And it wasn’t the only time. Every new position, every new orifice, every new sensation was mulled over, examined with a sexual microscope and added to a tally stored inside my overactive teenaged imagination until they became the norm. Until new experiences occurred less and less frequently.

So, why am I now pacing the sidewalk, an espresso in my hand, an erection in my pants, and an image of Rose’s moonlit breasts in my head?

An email alert pings on my watch. It’s from Julia.

I swallow a couple of Tylenol, wash them down with coffee, and unlock my phone. I need to get Rose out of my head and get it back in the game.