Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

to us. And so with him being the first person who I deeply cared for, I think I’ll always carry fond memories of him because he was an important part of my life at that time. But I don’t think about Mike when I’m trying to go to bed, or when I’m planning my week, or when I’m checking my phone for missed calls or messages, and I definitely wasn’t thinking about him when I kissed you.”

He grins. “You mean when I kissed you.”

“What? Are you kidding? We’d still be in that stairwell if I’d waited until you kissed me.”

He scoffs, a smile branding each of his features. “I’m ready to call the front desk and see if they have cameras.”

“You should. It will prove my theories about memories and how they’re often wrong and disjointed.”

He runs his fingers over his hair. “What if we modify the rules?”

“I’m listening...”

His grin hits me in the chest and makes that throb between my legs more insistent because it’s filled with confidence and intention, and his gaze is focused on my mouth. “Tonight, we forget about the rules.” He takes a step closer to me, and my heart spins out of control. “I want you to be here because you want to be here, not because you feel obligated, or because I asked, or for any other reason.”

I nod. “I am.”

Pax takes another step, closing the gap to a few inches between us. “I need you to write a new set of rules for me because right now, I want to kiss you so fucking bad that I can’t even breathe. I want to kiss you and touch you and hear my name on your lips.”

My heart is trembling, shaking like I’ve just jumped from the hot tub into the swimming pool and can’t get warm. “I don’t want to be your rebound,” I tell him honestly. “I’m not … I thought I could do no strings attached, but I can’t. I’m a knitter, or a stitcher, or I don’t know what, but I come with strings. I like consistency and loyalty and dependability, and I can’t do a one-night stand, especially not with you. You mean too much, and Rae means too much.”

His blue eyes are a contradiction of lust and humor as he reaches forward and places his hand on my waist. “Stitch, baby, stitch.”

25

Paxton

My mouth comes down on hers, kissing her like my life is dependent on this moment. She tips her head back, allowing me full access to her lips as my hands travel beneath her coats and shirts and finally graze against her skin. The feel of her flesh against mine sends shockwaves of heat and awareness through me. I shove the layers higher, skating my hands across her bare skin with both of my palms. She rewards me with another soft moan that has me kissing her harder, my tongue challenging hers with questions about how this has taken so long. Why haven’t I been kissing her like this for years? That lost time creates a frenzy inside of me, wanting to touch and feel her everywhere. I familiarize myself with her skin, graze over the lace of one bra cup and acquaint myself with the way her back arches and her breaths become gasps. I trace over the same pattern, this time slowing over her pebbled nipple I feel through her bra, pinching and twisting the sensitive spot with just enough pressure to gauge her reaction. She leans more fully against me, her jaw dropping enough that she’s barely reciprocating my kisses as she gasps again. I move my other hand to cup her second breast, tracing over the nipple with my thumb.

Poppy drops her head back. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

I nip her bottom lip with my teeth, and she gasps, either in surprise or pleasure and arches her back further. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then along her jaw until I reach that sensitive spot behind her ear, increasing the pressure on her nipples. A quiet moan slips from her lips, and she pulls her head back, her eyes burning with lust and passion and desire and so much more that I don’t have time to identify because she reaches between us and unzips her jacket, and then her second coat, allowing me to raise her shirts without any restrictions.

“That feels so good,” she whispers, shucking the outer layers off and letting them fall to the floor. I glide my hands back over her sides, smiling against her neck as she growls out an objection. I trace her collarbone with my tongue and run my hands over her thighs, her ass, her back—attempting to memorize every dip and valley as I explore her body while her hands travel over me, doing the same. Pleasure radiates through me, warning me to go slowly. I broach the next border and reach for the hem of her shirts and slowly pull them over her head, leaving her in a lavender bra. I trace the straps of it with my fingers, pulling them taut and then lax. The air is filled with static as we stare at each other, realizing we could probably stop here and leave a million questions for both of us to explore separately for the rest of time or to cross this barrier and test these theories that have kept me awake at night, wanting to redefine our rules and future.

Poppy reaches for my sweatshirt, and I grab it along with her, pulling it and my tee underneath off in one quick swipe.

Her gaze remains on mine for several seconds, an energy passing between us as well as a mutual respect and understanding that feels significant—like we’re both aware that this moment is greater than a search for pleasure and a release. Her gaze lowers to my exposed skin for several long seconds before returning my stare. “I need you to make a joke or something,” she