Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Mariah Dietz (best novels to read .txt) 📖

Did he leave? Is he standing me up?

I call him. He doesn’t answer. It feels like ghosting one-oh-one.

My heart is pounding painfully in my chest when a couple of girls gather around me, knowing me by name. They shoot off a multitude of questions about my life and my history with Pax. I disengage with them and am swallowed by another group. I try to enjoy this, reminding myself this was what I wanted, the entire objective on my part for this fake dating. I strive to join in the conversations, paying attention and learning their names, but I quickly realize they only want to know about my relationship with Paxton.

An hour later, I’m about to order a ride when a hand wraps around my waist, and I turn, catching sight of Pax.

“Where have you been?” I ask, turning to face him.

He won’t look at me. Guilt is pouring off of him like sweat, I can see it, feel it, and I have no doubt I could taste it if I got closer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his breath hitting me hard and leaving little doubt as to what he’d been drinking—vodka.

“What in the hell?” I whisper, quickly looking around to see if others are noticing. “Where have you been?”

“I know. I fucked up.” His gaze finally meets mine, his eyes glassy.

“Pax!” Ian approaches us with a smile.

“Shit,” Pax hisses the word, diverting his gaze as he takes a step back.

“Hey, Ian,” I say, moving forward to intercept him.

“Hey, Poppy. Rose and I just got here, but I think we’re going to ditch out, this place is packed. Do you guys want to head over to my place? Some of the guys are going to come and hang out.”

“I think we’re about to call it a night,” I tell him.

Ian’s gaze flickers to Pax. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just been a long week.”

He nods, his attention lingering on Pax. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

I nod. “Say hi to Rose for us.”

He grins and disappears back into the crowd. I turn back to Paxton.

“Thank you,” he says in a whisper.

“Come on. We should go.”

“I need to sit down,” he says.

I place a hand on his back, my gaze becoming speculative of everyone here, worried that someone’s going to see him and know he’s drunk.

By some grace of God, the couch is empty. Pax sits on it and releases a quiet sigh.

I pull the coffee table close to the couch, hoping it serves as a barrier so someone doesn’t sit beside him and also because I don’t want to sit next to him. I’m mad, and I want answers. “What happened?” I ask again, my question a demand.

“Your ex is a dick, Paulson’s a fucking asshole, and I’m feeling the pressure of tomorrow’s game like a fucking house is stacked on my shoulders. Also, I’m pretty sure Candace doesn’t believe we’re dating, which shouldn’t bother me, but she has such a big fucking mouth that…” He shakes his head.

“That’s a lot of f-bombs.”

“It’s not enough fucking f-bombs.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Candace watching us. Stalker.

“How drunk are you?” I ask him.

He blinks and manages to meet my stare. “Why?”

“Candace is watching us.”

“Of course she is.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” I warn him. “You won’t puke on me, right?”

He scoffs. “I’m not an amateur.”

I stand. “That’s not something to brag about,” I stare at him, trying to decide how I’m going to manage to make this look even remotely sexy. He leans back on the couch, legs spread as he watches me, a challenge present in his gaze.

You’ve got this, I tell myself. Flip off your brain. I release a breath and step between his legs. He leans his head back farther, eyes dark with residual anger, a hint of curiosity, and dash of dare. “Don’t let me fall,” I whisper, dropping a knee on the outside of his thigh and then moving the other, so I’m straddling him.

Paxton’s hands wrap around me, one hand resting on my backside. I blame this on the alcohol. He has to look up at me slightly since my neck is level with his eyes that slowly drop to my cleavage. Another strike against the alcohol. When his gaze returns to mine, his eyes are darker, hungrier. A warning bell stirs in my head but is silenced by my own curiosity as his hands draw me closer. I slowly lower myself on him, and for the first time, I kiss my best friend’s brother. My lips are soft, gentle, issuing a fresh reminder of the rules. He groans, and his hands constrict, his mouth bruising mine, challenging me to forget them. I hold the back of his neck with both of my hands and taste the alcohol, breathing it in and tasting it on my tongue and lips like a shot. He pulls me closer, my body flush with his, each part of me fitting against him like a puzzle piece, surprisingly right and snug as I graze his bottom lip with my teeth. He moves his hand, stroking my shoulder and drawing it down the side of my body, his thumb catching the side of my breast, and as wrong as it is, it feels good, stirring that restlessness that has a pressure building between my legs.

I kiss him and taste him, nip, swipe, massage. We go through the steps, again and again, rearranging the actions and testing each of them, changing the pressure and speed. Then I lean back and change the game again as I kiss him softly, slowly. He tolerates it for a few minutes, then his hand moves to my thigh, skating up and down my skin and growing restless. He lets out a quiet growl, and his hand that hasn’t moved from my backside pulls me flush against him again. I feel the hard pressure of his erection against me, and before I can fully register this he leads the kiss, his tongue delivering hard