The Fake Girlfriend

Chapter 28 Spicing Things Up

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. And. Oh. By. The. Way. Steamy chapter *tugs collar uncomfortably*

Nick and I laughed together, singing along to every word of the songs- his voice beautifully hitting every note while mine faltered and wavered like a broken record. But he didn't care, it was almost as if it made him laugh more, pull me closer to him and rub his hand up and down the length of my arm.

The movie had ended and I sat snuggled up to his side, our backs against the couch, and Criminal Minds on the television. Our legs tangled up underneath the blanket, Nick's calf pressed against mine, my eyes wandered to the arm wrapped around me. My eyes dancing across his forearm to where his tattoo layed etched into his skin.

"What does this mean?" I asked, lightly tracing my fingertip across the inner crevice of his elbow.

Nick looked at me, watching my finger skim it's edges. "It means God is greater than the highs and lows."

I stopped tracing it, letting my hand fall into my lap and watching as his face seemed to long for my touch once more. "Why did you get it?" My voice softer.

Nick cleared his throat, his eyes falling to where my hands rested in my lap, traveled down to wear our intertwined legs were concealed beneath the blanket. Then he spoke, "Because no matter how sucky the life seems, God is greater than it all. No matter how awesome my career may be going or how nice the clothes on my back are or the increasing number of fans, God is still greater," he says. "It's a humbling reminder to remember who is in charge and that I'm merely just a man and things may suck now but it's all under control."

I stared at his face, memorizing the contours and dip of cheekbones, the shadow above his upper lip and the angle of his eyelashes; their descend before the dip and then the shot towards the sky.

He caught me staring, but I wasn't embarrassed, his face told me he had been doing the same thing. The clicking of our brains as we memorized each other, each swoop and curve and sharp turn of a roadmap that made us who we are.

His other hand lifted, lightly falling onto my cheek, his long fingers reaching around my face to touch the tip of my ear. I closed my eyes, wishing I could imprint this feeling into a nice steel filing cabinet in my heart. I leand into his touch, feeling him supporting me, feeling him tell me if I wanted I could fall over, I could fold into myself and let go and there he would be: holding me up.

I reopened my eyes, wondering when we had gotten closer to each other, when the distance had been eradicated and there was just breath and aching lips. Nick's eyes stared at my mouth, then back up to meet my gaze before closing the remaining emptiness separating us.

His lips caressed mine, like a touch of feathers silently tracing the edge of me, a stroke of a paint brush sweeping across a canvas. It was sweet, oh, so sweet. His arm, the one that had been slung over my shoulders, now slid down my back, pressing me closer to him, his palm splayed out against the bottom of my spine.

Nick's lips traveled down from the corner of my mouth, dragging themselves across my jawline, only to return back to my own. Sweet kisses, such sweet kisses. His fingers danced across my back, his hand leaving my cheek and joining the tango down my spine. He was a typewriter and I was his paper, his hot kisses and steamy finger inking me with words I've never known before. A language I've never been exposed to.

As his hand slid around my hip, imprinting me with an alphabet, I suddenly thought of Anna. The Anna who had kissed Nick like this before, who had felt his lips on her. And the thought made me feel sick.

I went still, my spine rigid and frozen and Nick's eyes opened, worry sketched into his irises.

"Rayne?" he whispered, his voice still a bit husky. "What's wrong?" He moved back to look at me fully, his hands burning holes through my hip bones, searing through flesh and calcium until my insides were exsposed and he could see the uneasiness I felt.

I thought of the fashion show, Nick's wondering eyes following her across the room. Her black silhouette looking flawless in nothing but a simple black dress and I envied that. I envied the attention he gave her.

These thoughts popped words out of me before I could stop them, "Are you really over Anna?" And I regretted it immediately, and I also hated the curiosity of his answer that struck me with it.

Nick's face went blank, his hands dropping and ice everywhere. Where his hands had been, where the space between us was now void of oxygen and coldness seeping into my stomach, overwhelming me. His eyes looking on me like he now didn't recognize me, as if I was an object in his way and he didn't register my presence.

"Is that really what you're asking me right now?" His voice not betraying anything, just a straight line of octaves and notes that sounded monotone to my ringing ears.

My heart clenched with guilt, the passion of the moment obliterated and my shame evident on my cheeks. But, I nodded, knowing now I couldn't back out of it. I needed to know his answer. "Yes," I whispered, my voice nothing but a low hum of minimizing self confidence.

His jaw tensed and I could see the strain in his neck muscles, the rotating of gears in his brain. "Where did this come from?" he asked. "Why are you bringing this up now? Of all times?"

He avoided the question.

He avoided the question.

I let my shoulders rise and fall in a shaky shrug. "I just can't help but wonder, Nick... The way you were looking at her at the fashion show-" I stopped and cleared my throat. "It's evident, you know. And it hurts... To see that." My eyes are dancing around him, refusing to land anywhere for more than a second.

He took in my hurt expression and shamefully looked down. "I don't want to hurt you," he murmurs.

My heart chips at the corners.

"So that means you aren't over her," I breathed, it wasn't a question.

His eyes met mine, the silence soaking in for ten seconds too long. "Rayne-" he starts, but then stops himself.

I shoved the blanket off of my legs. "I should go," I whispered, my voice up an octave. Pushing myself to my feet, I smoothed out my shirt.

Nick sat, watching me, then he mumbled, "You don't understand."

I shook my head fiercly, swallowing emotions in my throat. "Yeah, I don't understand." Then I walked out of the room, grabbing my jacket and purse and dragging my heavy feet out the door.

***laughs uneasily*** Comment? Vote? Don't hate me?