Read Online Pretending He's Mine by Lauren Blakely - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren Blakely
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he told Jill everything. Her eyes widened and she punched him on the arm, as if she were proud of him. “Can you get me an audition for Escorted Lives? Hell, I’d be happy to play a receptionist at the agency. Anything, anything at all.”
Reeve stopped running and kissed Jill quickly on the forehead. “You know I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
Then he ran across town, showered, changed and caught the subway to the New York Public Library where Sutton was waiting outside by the lions. Damn, she looked sharp in black leather boots, a short skirt, and a black coat cinched at the waist. All that luscious hair was pinned up again and she had her glasses on. He couldn’t help himself. His eyes wandered to her legs, and just as he suspected, he saw the slightest hint of lace. Thigh-high stockings again. She was killing him, especially because she had that same plastic smile on as she did last night, and he couldn’t read her.
She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Hell, no. That was not going to do. “After six months together, all I get is the cheek?”
He shook his head and placed his hands on her face. He forced her to look at him, her blue eyes meeting his browns, and he gazed at her, as her pupils grew bigger and her walls started to fade away. Her body shifted the slightest bit closer, but he didn’t move. He stayed totally still. He wanted her to feel the weight of his stare. He wanted her to feel undressed with his eyes, unwound by his touch. And then, there it was. The slightest parting of her lips. He wasted no time, diving in for a deep and hungry kiss on the steps outside the library as book borrowers and researchers and students and tourists and anyone and everyone streamed up and down the steps. They were a postcard of kissing. They were the couple reunited after the naval hero was at sea. They were lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other after weeks apart. They were every kiss on every street that anyone ever wanted to gawk at, that anyone ever wanted to be. She moved against him, her chest lightly pressing against the cotton of his tee-shirt beneath his scratched leather jacket. Just when he felt her start to give in completely, he pulled apart, grabbed her hand and led her up the steps.
Still wobbly from the kiss, she missed a step and stumbled. In one swift move, he grabbed her elbow, then slid an arm around her waist.
“You okay?”
Her eyes were wide, the tiniest bit of shock in them. It would only have been a small tumble. It would only have caused a minor scrape or bruise. Still, she seemed glad to have been caught.
“Thank you.”
Then he stopped and gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m always happy to catch you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
That kiss.
He kissed her like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. She ran her fingers absently across her top lip, as if she could recall the kiss. She wanted to revel in it. To live in it. To encase herself in that bubble of an afternoon kiss. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the least when it was all an act. When he had the raw talent to pull that off, to make a kiss seem so believable that she’d suspended disbelief out there on the steps. She had to restore the balance of power somehow, especially after the way she’d tripped. She was woozy and drunk from his kisses, so drunk she could barely walk straight. She had to right her ship. So as they wandered through shelves upon shelves of hardbound volumes on science and literature, on history and make-believe, Sutton chatted in a low voice.
“So you were an American lit major,” she said as they rounded a corner on the way to Renaissance Astrology. The smell of musty old books was strong, and there was dust in the air. Nearby, quiet patrons worked on computers or slouched down in crackly leather chairs with their tomes, the pages lit by the faint flow of green lamps with pull-down chains.
Reeve nodded. “Yep. Ernest Hemingway. Ralph Ellison.
Reeve stopped running and kissed Jill quickly on the forehead. “You know I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
Then he ran across town, showered, changed and caught the subway to the New York Public Library where Sutton was waiting outside by the lions. Damn, she looked sharp in black leather boots, a short skirt, and a black coat cinched at the waist. All that luscious hair was pinned up again and she had her glasses on. He couldn’t help himself. His eyes wandered to her legs, and just as he suspected, he saw the slightest hint of lace. Thigh-high stockings again. She was killing him, especially because she had that same plastic smile on as she did last night, and he couldn’t read her.
She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Hell, no. That was not going to do. “After six months together, all I get is the cheek?”
He shook his head and placed his hands on her face. He forced her to look at him, her blue eyes meeting his browns, and he gazed at her, as her pupils grew bigger and her walls started to fade away. Her body shifted the slightest bit closer, but he didn’t move. He stayed totally still. He wanted her to feel the weight of his stare. He wanted her to feel undressed with his eyes, unwound by his touch. And then, there it was. The slightest parting of her lips. He wasted no time, diving in for a deep and hungry kiss on the steps outside the library as book borrowers and researchers and students and tourists and anyone and everyone streamed up and down the steps. They were a postcard of kissing. They were the couple reunited after the naval hero was at sea. They were lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other after weeks apart. They were every kiss on every street that anyone ever wanted to gawk at, that anyone ever wanted to be. She moved against him, her chest lightly pressing against the cotton of his tee-shirt beneath his scratched leather jacket. Just when he felt her start to give in completely, he pulled apart, grabbed her hand and led her up the steps.
Still wobbly from the kiss, she missed a step and stumbled. In one swift move, he grabbed her elbow, then slid an arm around her waist.
“You okay?”
Her eyes were wide, the tiniest bit of shock in them. It would only have been a small tumble. It would only have caused a minor scrape or bruise. Still, she seemed glad to have been caught.
“Thank you.”
Then he stopped and gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m always happy to catch you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
That kiss.
He kissed her like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. She ran her fingers absently across her top lip, as if she could recall the kiss. She wanted to revel in it. To live in it. To encase herself in that bubble of an afternoon kiss. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the least when it was all an act. When he had the raw talent to pull that off, to make a kiss seem so believable that she’d suspended disbelief out there on the steps. She had to restore the balance of power somehow, especially after the way she’d tripped. She was woozy and drunk from his kisses, so drunk she could barely walk straight. She had to right her ship. So as they wandered through shelves upon shelves of hardbound volumes on science and literature, on history and make-believe, Sutton chatted in a low voice.
“So you were an American lit major,” she said as they rounded a corner on the way to Renaissance Astrology. The smell of musty old books was strong, and there was dust in the air. Nearby, quiet patrons worked on computers or slouched down in crackly leather chairs with their tomes, the pages lit by the faint flow of green lamps with pull-down chains.
Reeve nodded. “Yep. Ernest Hemingway. Ralph Ellison.
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