Page 142 of Faking the Goal

My gaze moves around the room again, and suddenly every asshole smiling at her becomes a candidate.

That one?

Maybe.

The guy by the stairs?

Wouldn't surprise me.

The blond asshole who just called her babe?

My fingers curl into my palms.

Fuck.

I force my hands open again.

It doesn't matter.

Maybe she's hooked up with one of them. Maybe she's hooked up with five of them. Hell, maybe she's slept with every guy currently looking at her like Christmas arrived early wearing an emerald-green dress.

So what?

That was before me.

Before us.

Fake us, technically, but that's beside the fucking point.

Whatever Taylor did before this arrangement is none of my business, and I'm not going to start judging her all over again when I just promised her I wouldn't.

Still, that familiar surge of something hot and territorial starts crawling beneath my skin, the same primitive shit that seems to come out of nowhere whenever another man looks at her for too long.

I've never felt it with anyone else.

Only her.

And right now, surrounded by men who aren't even bothering to disguise how badly they want her, the urge becomes almost impossible to ignore.

I want her against me.

I want my hands on her.

I want every single one of them to look over here and know she's with me.

The thought barely finishes forming before I reach for her.

My arm circles her waist and I pull her firmly against my side.

Taylor lets out a startled little gasp, her head whipping toward me, but my attention is already sweeping over the room.

And that's when another thought hits me.

Her stalker could be here.

We have no idea who he is. For all we know, he's one of the people at this party right now, blending into the crowd and watching Taylor without either of us realizing it.

Which means pulling her close isn't just me acting like some possessive fucking caveman.