Excerpt of That Kind of Guy by Talia Hibbert

He wrapped his arms around her and spoke into the fall of her hair. "I'm about to fake-boyfriend you."

After a moment, she relaxed against his chest, flashing him a familiar smirk. "Is that a verb?"

"It is now." He grazed a kiss over her cheekbone. Lips, skin, pressure. He'd done this a thousand times—not with her, but then, it shouldn't really matter that it was with her.

And yet, it did. The way the tension slid out of her body, the way her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, the way she stared at his mouth when he was done… it all mattered.

"Is this what fake-boyfriending is?" she whispered.

"It's a process," he told her solemnly, and kissed her forehead. He could hear his own pulse and it was frantic.

She smiled a little. "This isn't bad."

"Glad to hear it. Tell me when to stop."

"You don't need to stop."

The TV screen of his mind glitched, flashing a fantasy he wasn't prepared for: Rae, under him, begging him not to stop. Then the glitch vanished, and it was back to his regular programming.

He swallowed, then kissed her jaw. She gave a soft, helpless moan that was doomed to live inside him forever. He'd never forget it. He'd be at the supermarket in fifteen years' time trying to choose a flavour of ice cream, and out of nowhere he'd remember Rae moaning because he'd kissed her fucking jaw.

"Oh my God," she muttered, stiffening in his arms, her gaze skittering away. She was embarrassed. "I'm so sor—"

"Don't." He nudged her chin until she looked him in the eyes. And then, finally, he kissed her on the mouth.

He hadn't exactly planned to. They hadn't even discussed this. He'd been waiting for her to bring up Physical Fake Boyfriend Boundaries, but she never had, and now… here they were. He started carefully, his lips gliding over hers, testing, asking—but soon enough, a seething, potent something spilled out of him, turning the slight touch intense. He felt as if he'd shoved her against the nearest wall and hiked up her skirt. Kissing her like this, barely breathing her in, was making him shake. He just hoped to God she wouldn't notice, because he didn't know how to explain it.

The way she kissed him back was dizzying. She was careful, too, her lips slow and curious, like a question. Is this what we're doing?

He increased the pressure, his hands tightening around her hips. Yes. This is what we're doing.

Her tongue barely touched his, sweet and slick and sexy as fuck. Okay. I like it.

That's when things spiralled out of control.

She was hot, liquid, molten. She pressed herself against him, and he shocked himself by feeling the opposite of nothing. He felt everything, all at once, without an ounce of bloody warning, and wondered how he hadn't seen the signs. He raised a hand to cradle the back of her neck and grew rapidly addicted to the feel of holding her in secret, private places. Places no-one else could touch. He wanted to run his unworthy palms up her thighs, to trace a finger down the column of her spine, to sweep his thumb over the dip of her navel. He settled for pushing his tongue deeper into her mouth. She tasted of wine in a silver cup, of cool, clever steel. She kissed like she was starving, and it made his chest cave in. He'd feed her. Of course he would. Whatever she wanted. As long as what she wanted was him.

He didn't realise he was hard until delicious pain shot through his body. His jeans were throttling his cock. Devouring his fake girlfriend with an audience of Way Too Many hadn't made him hesitate, but a public erection felt a little too far and a lot too teenage. He meant to break the kiss gently, but in the end, they came up for air as if they'd been drowning. They stared at each other with matching wide eyes, and he wondered if they had matching thoughts. Maybe. Because she looked shocked, and he sure as shit felt shocked.

He was into Rae. Who knew?