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

I can ask him if that was really necessary, his hands are cupping my face, and he’s kissing me. It’s a kiss that people write songs and entire books about, a kiss that creates definitions and expectations and makes the rest of the world seem entirely trivial, and I lose myself in it and in him. I kiss him with abandon, feeling every inch of his hot skin and strong muscles that I was admiring just moments ago. His hands move over me with precision and intent, gentle but with a firmness that has my mind creating a map of his movements, reveling in each spot he travels over. He runs over my thighs, my back, my shoulders, and then he’s at my sides, his thumbs grazing the swell of my breasts, making me moan with desire, and then his hands are on my ass, pulling me against his erection that I feel through his sweatpants.

He groans softly, hungrily, his hips pressing more firmly against mine as his fingers slide into my hair and bury themselves in the strands. It’s both alluring and intimidating how he exudes so much confidence and strength. A dark part of my mind—the corner where doubts are born and thrive—questions if I was any other girl, would his reaction be the same? Is this me or the win?

He kisses me again and then pulls back, fingers still tangled in my hair. “What’s wrong?” he asks, kissing my cheek, my nose, my lips, my chin. He’s everywhere, consuming me, the scents of his soap and that masculine earthiness that is simply him invading what he can’t touch.

I shake my head, trying to close the curtain on that dark space, wanting to forget the doubts and questions and lose myself in Pax and pleasure.

He stills, his hips still pressing against mine, making me wish even harder to forget and continue on because I want to feel him inside of me, directing my body and muscles and giving me that same mind-blowing pleasure that left me limp and speechless last night.

When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, his thumb tracing over my cheek. “Talk to me.”

“This is kind of terrifying,” my words come out on their own accord, feeling like a confession to myself. “I’ve known you for most of my life. Making this deal seemed so simple. I told myself I didn’t know you—that what I did know was in relation to you being Rae’s brother and had nothing to do with me, and I’ve been telling myself this for years. But, the truth is, I do know you. I know you better than almost anyone, I’ve just been very careful to draw lines and compartmentalize my feelings and emotions so that they didn’t stray and allow me to see you as anything but my best friend’s brother.”

His blue eyes blaze a trail over my face. “I feel what you said, down to every space and period. And it’s scary as hell because I know my last relationship was a train wreck, and I was partially to blame for how often things got derailed and blazed a path of destruction, and I never want to take those risks with you—with us. I want to prove that your heart belongs with me, that I’m good enough to be the man you call yours and stand beside you through every loss and victory and unknown.”

My heart is pounding so hard and fast, I swear he can hear it.

“I’m just as fucking terrified,” he tells me. “I know how many guys see you and want you. I know you’re too good for me and that had I been smarter, I would have waited for you years ago and not allowed Mike or Chase or any other asshole be a part of your life to create a single ounce of heartache or doubt.”

I shake my head. “I’m too good for you? Not only are you a top draft pick, you’re … you. You’re the most genuinely kind person I’ve ever known, and loyal, and so damn nice that you make me want to be a better version of myself. You’re perfect.”

The smile he gives me in return confirms his perfection. “You’re my perfect. I don’t want to fuck this up, so if you want to slow down and go back to dating and do this for real, without rules or expectations, we can do that.”

“I don’t want to wait,” I tell him, already worried these last few months before he’s drafted won’t be enough. “I want you.”

He untangles one hand and places it over my heart. “You already have me.”

His words feel significant—this entire impromptu conversation does—yet, as his words settle, so do the nerves that have been actively firing off in my head all day long with these thoughts I was unknowingly avoiding. I don’t hesitate another second before lifting to my toes and kissing him, basking in the feeling of his mouth on mine, the warmth of his skin, the taste of his breath, the strength of his touch—I absorb it all.

Pax’s touch turns possessive as his hands dip below my shirt, tracing across my bare skin. I take a step back, kick off my shoes, and discard my shirt like a hindrance and then add my jeans to the pile, leaving my powder blue underwear and bra set on. My heart throbs, and my body aches with need as Paxton’s gaze explores my body, feasting on me like I’m a coveted piece of art tucked into the Louvre where crowds of people gather around me and impatiently wait their turn.

My entire core aches with need, and the longer he stares, the more intense that ache becomes until I feel like I’m going to explode. “Pax.” My voice sounds breathy and distressed, and under normal circumstances or with any other person, I’d probably feel embarrassed about how desperate I sound.

He grips himself as he steps closer to me, and I stare at his hand, the girth of