Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

With my fever dying down, unfortunately, I had no excuse to keep me from catching up with the classes I’d missed. Surprisingly, I’d been doing fine for the past hour. Like the model student I was—MacBook on my lap—I sat in the living room trying to wrap my head around the material from the last accounting lecture. Really! I was concentrated, focused, motivated.

Until the doorbell rang, which was when I jumped off the couch and ran toward it. Anticipation thumped through my veins at the opportunity for distraction. I buzzed the door open, not even bothering to ask who it was—not caring that I wasn’t wearing pants. The massive hoodie I’d found in my closet on the quest for a comfy study outfit covered enough.

All right , maybe I wasn’t quite as concentrated and motivated as I thought. But an hour of accounting was enough. For now.

I flung the door open, and my smile didn’t even waver when it was McCarthy who stepped out of the elevator. A paper bag dangled from his hand, and his brow wrinkled slightly when he saw me.

“You—?” Confusion hung in his voice, finger circling his face to point to what was sitting on mine. I rolled my eyes behind the round glasses.

“Yes, McCarthy. I’m blind. I have four eyes. I suddenly look so much smarter,” I sighed in defeat, noticing the teasing smile forming on his lips. “Let’s get it over with.” Mockingly, my arms opened wide, bracing for impact. Of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

Though, instead of hurling insults, mockery and jokes my way, his hands positioned themselves on my shoulders—my arms slowly falling back beside my body—before he turned me sideways. A second later, he squeezed himself past me and into my apartment.

“You look adorable,” he mocked, already on his way into the kitchen, walking backward to keep his eyes on me. “Much less threatening. I could get used to it.” Another smile tumbled onto his lips. “What about your brother?” He circled his own face once more, to clarify the question.

“Got Lasik surgery a few years ago.” I shrugged, trailing after him as if this was his apartment, not mine. I quickly shook my head. “What are you doing here?” I finally asked as he stopped by the island. “Again.”

Triumphantly, he held a brown paper bag up in the air, smile on his lips like he’d just won a cup. “Thought you might need some fuel,” he said. “What with all the catching up you must be doing.”

His eyes flicked through the apartment, finding my laptop on the ground from when I’d happily jumped at the first opportunity for distraction. Which was him. “And all the statistics we’re about to do,” he drawled happily.

I grimaced. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, it just kind of happened. I did have to catch up, but it was last on my list. For obvious reasons.

“Not to worry.” He laughed when he noticed how off-putting the idea was. “I didn’t come empty-handed. It’s a fair trade. Indian takeout for an hour of statistics? You did miss tutoring on Wednesday.”

My eyes darted to the paper bag. “Indian?”

That’s when I smelled it. The fried goodness of Bhatura bread. McCarthy didn’t know it was my favorite; it hadn’t even been on my factsheet (although, thinking about it, it definitely should have been). Judging by the victorious smile on his lips, it wasn’t just a lucky guess, either.

“Is Wren okay?” It shot out of me, panic setting in. I didn’t remember the last time I’d seen her. Technically, yes, she was avoiding me. But hypothetically, what did McCarthy have to do to get this information out of her?

My panic forced a laugh out of him. Loud, and unapologetic. For a second, it made me forget what I was so worried about. “Wren is fine.”

I shook my head quickly, not understanding. “But you got this from her? Wren Inkwood told you about my go-to order? She—” I cut myself off with a deep breath, eyes still wide, panic still as prominent. “Did you blackmail her? Torture her? What—?”

“She came home when you were sleeping off that fever the other day.” Amusement was still prominent in his usually harsh features, teasing the dimple that would appear if the corners of his lips curled up just another tenth of an inch. “I happened to still be there. We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.”

“You’re lying,” I deadpanned.

“I would never.”

“You—”

He cut me off, just by taking a few steps to stand right in front of me. My head craned upward to keep my eyes on his, telling myself that funny feeling in my stomach came from the uncertainty of his words, not the proximity of his tall frame.

Wren wouldn’t step within a ten-foot radius of this guy. She’d probably see him sitting in her living room and walk right back out the door.

My eyes narrowed in on his when he didn’t back down. “You’re lying.” I wasn’t backing down either.

“Am not,” he muttered. “Scout’s honor.” This time, his grin reached the dimple I’d been so eager to see a moment ago.

“You’re not a scout,” I reminded him. “So that means nothing to me or to you.”

His head fell back when he laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, before it sent a wave of giddiness through mine. “Fake boyfriend’s honor,” he amended.

His hand lifted like he was swearing an oath, and he gave a smile I’d never seen before. Sincere, honest, almost boyish, and it made me want to throw up with how perfect it was. Just for me. I decided to drop it. For now. Instead, I focused on ignoring the tumult in the pit of my stomach, and the urge to find his words kind of cute.

“So how was the game?” That was a good distraction. Though the fact I’d brought up soccer by my own free will concerned me. I guessed anything was better than noticing how nice his hair looked today, how well his clothes fit him.

In response, he grunted. That smile fell off his face, and he dropped our eye contact to move toward the couch. He sat in front of it, rather than on it. I didn’t know why, but I followed suit.

“Could’ve been better,” he elaborated. I hadn’t offered a response to his grunt, though I knew what it meant well enough.

While the highs of soccer—of any sport, I assumed—were high, the lows were all the lower. Dad used to be in a bad mood for days, and now I wondered if he knew how unprofessional it was. So, the thought of losing anything had been frowned upon growing up, and the topic alone made me uncomfortable, even now.

“Oh,” I offered, a little awkwardly. How did one deal with this again?

McCarthy snorted in amusement. “Stop,” he laughed, waving me off dismissively. “It’s fine; happens to the best of us. You don’t have to pretend to feel sorry for me.” As an afterthought he added: “Or that you care, at all.”

His shoulder bumped mine, and I was relieved by how casual it was. Though the smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes, until he said, “Just be there next time?”

“Why?” I asked, then added, “Apart from the contractual obligation and all that.”

McCarthy shrugged, eyes shifting to fish our orders out of the takeaway bag. The rustling of it was loud enough for me to almost miss his muttered words, about lucky charms and winning . But I didn’t.

“Don’t lie, you missed this,” McCarthy teased. “A-B tests, statistical significances…”

I groaned, my head falling back against the couch. Sitting cross-legged, my bare knee almost touching his outspread leg, we hadn’t moved. This was a big apartment, sure, but we’d been eager to start eating, and didn’t waste any time finding a place with the appropriate amount of distance between us. I hadn’t even put on pants.

Either way, I had not missed this. If anything, it was what had kept me in bed a day longer, pretending I couldn’t start catching up the day before, to no one but myself.

“So much.” I flashed him a smile that said the opposite and reached for the rest of Bhatura, ripping off a piece. Sarcasm laced my words before I took a bite, and added, “I couldn’t imagine doing anything more fun with you.”

And it wasn’t supposed to sound like that: kind of sexual, inviting… flirty. It shouldn’t have sounded like that . My eyes immediately shifted, scrambling for another piece of bread.

Did it only sound like that to me?

The daring glance I made as I leaned back only confirmed his lingering gaze, a glint of amusement and something playing in his eyes. Once it caught, I didn’t try to look away. It would’ve cost me a hell of a lot of willpower, and I’d rather save that for when I actually needed it.

With the way the energy in the room shifted, electric and continuing to charge the longer our gazes held; I’d probably need it soon.

“Hmm,” he hummed, and I was grateful when he glanced through the room pretend-thoughtfully. He would take the tension right out of our situation with a bad joke or a mean comment that I couldn’t be sure he really meant anymore. And I was grateful, because it would take my mind off… The Incidents.

From his lips on mine and those strangled sounds of his— ah, fuck. I just did it, didn’t I?

“I can think of a few things.” He shrugged. And the words sounded so casual coming out of his mouth, I hadn’t fully grasped their meaning until one, two, three seconds ticked by, and he playfully looked my way again. “Can’t you?”

This time, my stomach actually flipped. With all the memories of past things, and incidents, lingering touches and random acts of kindness. There was nothing I could do about it.

Trust me, I tried.

I searched his face for even just a hint of mockery, but the way his tongue poked the inside of his cheek to keep him from smiling didn’t look mocking at all. The way he looked at me wasn’t ridiculing in the slightest. It was genuine, daring, a little teasing, though not in the way I was used to.

Trying to laugh it off didn’t work. I was embarrassed by the attempt, which sounded awfully close to a nervous giggle. When my eyes opened, they immediately locked onto his brown ones again, his face just as inviting as it was before.

“You can?”

The words just slipped out. And fuck , if they didn’t sound as sexual, inviting, and flirty as those that had gotten me into this predicament, I didn’t know what would. My tone naturally adapted that slight drawl—the one I used to get free drinks at bars, or past a bouncer—and I batted my eyes in that same way behind my glasses. Those tricks were usually under my control. It didn’t feel so much like it now.

McCarthy’s lips spread into a smirk, slow and dangerous. “Absolutely.”

All it took was a stuttered breath, the hint of a nod, that made me land on his lap in the blink of an eye. His hands on my waist brought all the wrong memories back as he maneuvered me on top of him, and I sucked in a sharp breath. It took everything in me not to acknowledge the situation I found myself in.

Straddling his lap, my breath heavy against his lips, inches from mine.

I still wasn’t wearing pants.

Wide-eyed and not at all in control of the situation, I looked down at him, swallowing thickly when his grip around my waist tightened. I squirmed when his thumb drew circles on my bare hip. I swear I almost lost it right then, and his smirk spread into a teasing smile.

“You know why I’m here,” he said.

And I thought No . I had absolutely no idea. If someone asked for my name right now, the only one that would make it past my lips was his.

He was everywhere, all consuming. Dylan McCarthy Williams had me wrapped around his little finger, and if it hadn’t have felt so good—so right—maybe I would’ve tried to fight it.

All I did know was that I couldn’t just feel his hands on my skin or his breath on my lips anymore, but him underneath me, pressed tightly against the waistband of his jeans. There wasn’t anything in the world that could’ve stopped me from adjusting myself, from searching for just a little more friction, with a tortured moan on my lips.

His head fell back with a groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and right between my legs. He swallowed thickly when his eyes fluttered open again. Through thick lashes, he looked at me like I could give him the entire world.

I expected fireworks and tingling and the heat pooling between my legs to thank me when he seemed to finally close the distance between us, his eyes ten shades darker and his breath heavy. I didn’t expect his forehead against mine, his breath right on my lips as he kept them from connecting with his. He shook his head, eyes closed.

“‘Pearson product-moment correlation’?”

I thought I must’ve heard him wrong. My breath still stuttered in my throat; I still felt him hard underneath me. So why would he—“Define it,” he struggled to say against my mouth.

“What?”

Instead of explaining, he asked, “You want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you, right?”

I nodded. Quickly .

Was my eagerness embarrassing? Yes, absolutely. Would I regret it tomorrow? Among other things, probably. Did I care? No. Not at all .

McCarthy mirrored my gesture. “Good,” he whispered against my lips. A smile took over his face, eyes still closed when he repeated himself. “Good.”

His forehead pressed against mine. “You give me the right answers, I kiss you.” His hands dropped from my waist, lower, lower, until they finally cupped my ass. He groaned once more, throbbing underneath me before almost pleading with me when he said, “And give them to me fast. Please .”

My brain was scrambled and my thoughts messed up: I was sure I imagined his words. It was hard just thinking straight, with his all-consuming presence underneath me, his hands roaming my body and his lips inches from mine. How was I supposed to know anything that way?

His hand trailed down my bare leg, his apparent objective quickly forgotten. It was instinct. The way my hips rolled against his with a strangled sound. His next breath was sharp. “ Athalia ,” he snapped.

The sound of my name passed through me like a bolt of lightning. Energy buzzed through every vein. I felt hazy when I nodded in response. “Fast,” he reminded me. “ Please .”

“What was it again?” I huffed, eyes closing instinctively as my forehead fell to his. “What—I mean—What did you ask?”

God, I was a mess.

“Pearson product-moment correlation.”

“Okay,” I forced out in reply, trying my best to focus. “Okay.” I’d gotten that one right the last time. Minutes before his lips had been on mine, his hands on me and his body between my thighs, similarly to how it was now. I groaned, frustrated.

“Pearson product-moment correlation.” I repeated against his lips, feeling his heavy breath on mine as he nodded. I swallowed heavily. I thought. “It measures the direction… and strength of association between two variables.” I’d never been more eager to get something right.

And it was. I could tell by the way McCarthy placed tender, open-mouthed kisses in the crook of my neck before sucking the skin just enough to make my head fall back with a desperate moan. He managed a nod in between, a muffled Uh-huh breathed against my neck, before he brought his lips up to my ear.

“What about the null hypothesis?” he muttered against my skin, his voice just as desperate for me to get this right. “Can you tell me about it, princess?”

I racked my brain for the answer once more, ignoring the flashes of him showing up around every corner, and the way my heartbeat picked up at that godforsaken nickname. My head fell into the crook of his neck as I thought. trying hard— so very hard— to get it right.

“It’s a hypothesis.” Duh , I thought. But McCarthy nodded, the hand cupping my ass squeezing tightly. A moan slipped out of me, my hips moved against him, and his breath hitched in sync with mine.

“That’s right,” he muttered, encouragingly and sweet. “And what kind?” He kissed my neck again, his tongue rolling against my skin whenever he wasn’t sucking it lightly.

“It’s—” I cut myself off with another moan when he found a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, though I tried my best to see my answer through. “It’s the one we’re trying to disprove,” I choked out. “The one that says there’s no significance between two variables.”

McCarthy groaned against my skin, bucking his hips upward—his way of telling me I was right again.

“And the—” He exhaled loudly, eyes opening to look up at me. Heat resided in the usual calm brown of his eyes, pupils blown so wide, the color was almost nonexistent. He let his head fall against my chest in exasperation, landing right between my breasts. “The alternative hypothesis?” Between each word, he planted a kiss against the fabric of my hoodie, the next one a little higher than the last, until he reached my neck again.

“It’s the opposite.” It shot out of me. “Of the null hypothesis. So—” I sighed once more when he sucked. “It says that there is a statistical significance.”

“Good girl.”

It was enough to send another wave of heat between my legs, and it seemed to have the same effect on him. I felt it. His kisses traveled further up my neck—sucking and nibbling my skin—before his face hovered in front of mine, lust and desire and a thousand other things in his gaze. I don’t think I looked any better.

Then, he grinned, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. “This was by far my worst idea,” he breathed out, his voice little above a whisper as it sent goose bumps down my body. “And to think I had so many more questions to ask you.” His hips bucked upward again, and a strangled whine escaped my lips at the prospect.

I just wanted him. Needed him . There was no other way to explain or sugarcoat it. I shook my head, and I think by the way his mouth crushed mine, he agreed with me.

A surprised but pleased moan parted my lips, his tongue immediately finding mine in a rush of excitement, desperation, need. It was like we’d each been molded for the other; like we’d been supposed to be doing this from the moment we’d met—that’s how right it felt.

Panting against my lips, with the sound of his strangled moans, stifled groans when I rocked my hips against his hard cock, I was surprised I noticed anything around me other than him. Yet something in the back of my head—something I was so grateful for—was conscious enough to hear the sound of the elevator doors opening outside. It could’ve been the neighbors across the hall, sure, but something within me—something I was equally as grateful for—knew that it wasn’t.

My body tensed against his, enough for McCarthy to bring distance between us. “What’s wrong?” Worry flooded his previously hungry eyes, his brows drawing together.

Then, he heard the key rattling in the door, just like I did. And a second later, in a joint effort, I flew off his lap and onto the floor beside him.

We couldn’t have looked more suspicious if we’d tried when Wren stood in the doorway five seconds later. My cheeks burned feverishly, McCarthy tried to casually cover the obvious bulge in his pants. There was nothing casual about his angled leg or the wince that slipped past his lips when he tried to move.

Wren’s eyes darted between us, clearly surprised to see the man in her living room. She was probably as pleased to see him as she was pleased to see me: not at all. Her nose twitched as the door closed behind her. Jesus , I felt like a hormone-driven sixteen-year-old who’d just been walked in on.

Though her presence made me think of something other than the fact she would’ve probably found us sprawled across the floor naked if she’d come home five minutes later. Which was part of the reason for my red cheeks.

We talked. No coercion needed, no harm done.

My eyes narrowed. But McCarthy was busy looking anywhere else, and Wren’s expression was as unreadable as always. After a few seconds of her silent observation—which was the most attention she’d given me since our argument—Wren moved into the kitchen. My gaze followed her until she dropped her tote bag onto the island. The fact she was rushing to unpack her groceries was obvious. Still, I could feel her eyes burning into me from behind the island.

Act normal, Athalia.

I tried. I really tried.

But when I looked back at McCarthy, it seemed almost useless. I wanted to ignore how painfully obvious his tousled hair was, and I hoped Wren missed how rapidly his chest was still rising and falling. I also prayed I didn’t look half as bad.

Not that he looked bad . If anything, this Dylan McCarthy Williams was my favorite one so far: flustered, quiet, turned on.

Feeling my eyes on him, he turned toward me, and a quick reminder of what we’d been doing just five minutes ago punched me in the gut when our gazes met. Hard. I almost winced with how fast my stomach spun. But I recovered.

You good? I mouthed, eyes flicking to his little problem. Although, from what I could tell, it wasn’t all that little.

In return, McCarthy shifted in his position, grimacing with an exaggerated smile before he mouthed back What do you think? His gaze swept over my body once, trying not to linger on the spot where thick fabric was replaced by the bare skin of my thighs.

His voice was raspy, strained and low when the words left his mouth, only for me to hear. And they made my roommate’s interruption just so much more cruel. “I’ve been struggling since the second you opened that door in nothing but a hoodie, Athalia.”

“I’m wearing underwear. And socks.” The long ones I’d wear for early summer tennis games.

I shoved the flattery of the confession to the back of my mind. Though it was hard to ignore the way my heart fell through the pit of my stomach and between my thighs, beating steadily at the way he said my fucking name .

McCarthy snorted, rolling his eyes. “Not making it any better.”

This was dangerous.

Every fiber of my being longed for him, pleaded with me to give in. Desperate and needy, and it so wasn’t like me. In fact, it was so unlike me, I was beginning to think Wren’s entrance was divine intervention. Sleeping with him wouldn’t be a good idea. We both knew it, even before the thought had ever crossed my mind.

There was a whole clause dedicated to it, in that neatly written up contract of his.

#3 No Sex

Short and sweet. I should stick to it— we should.

He’d seemed a lot more determined a few weeks ago. When he’d still been going on about honoring that part of our contract.