The Fakers

4: Liam

I found Danielle outside, hailing a cab with her back to me. While her tits weren't anything to write home about, her derriere made me wonder if I was an ass man after all.

"Danielle!" I called out to her.

She ignored me.

She fucking ignored me. No one ignored Liam Fucking Black. No one. I was seeing red.

"Hey," I said gruffly, clutching her upper arm. "I was talking to you."

Danielle gasped and nearly jumped out of her skin when I touched her. Oh. Maybe she didn't hear me earlier. She looked up at me with those wide green eyes of hers, and with her mouth slightly open in surprise, I just couldn't help myself.

I pulled her in by the arm I was still holding, and Danielle's hands shot up to my chest in order to catch herself.

Before she could push away from me, I swiftly wrapped my arm around her neck and pressed my lips against hers. It was admittedly aggressive – forceful, even – and I realized that there was a good chance of her slapping me, but Danielle's body just melted into mine.

Rhett Butler, eat your heart out.

Her hands slid down to my sides, and she clutched my shirt as she kissed me back. Tasting the gin on her tongue, I became intoxicated by an all-consuming desire that burned through my veins.

"I'm taking you home with me," I said, my voice authoritative even though my body felt weak and my head was spinning. I was getting the sense that she liked the man to take charge, and I had every intention of exploiting that.

Danielle disentangled herself from me and tried to catch her breath. I gave her an irresistible smile, just for good measure. She blinked a few times, probably in an attempt to regain her composure. (My dimples had that effect on people.) Then, without a word, Danielle opened the door of the yellow taxi that had been patiently waiting for her this whole time.

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

"Sorry, I'm sleeping in my own bed tonight," she said, stepping into the taxi. I was about to rip my hair out and scream when she looked up at me expectantly. "But you can join me if you want."

This girl would be the death of me. I just knew it. I practically dove into the car.

* * * * * *

I was right about one thing: Danielle was not an exhibitionist. She was paying more attention to our goddamn driver than she was me, chatting him up as if he was an actual person. Taxi sex was definitely off the table.

Feeling antsy and impatient, I slid a hand under her dress and up her thigh, but she grabbed my wrist before I could find out if she was wearing any underwear.

"Wait," she laughed, sliding away from me in the backseat. "I don't want to make Mo uncomfortable."

The burly taxi driver glanced up into the rearview mirror. "Don't mind me, Ms. Vaughn," he said with a wave of his hand. "You could kill someone in my car and I'd be okay with it so long as you put plastic down beforehand."

"That settles it," I murmured into her ear as I closed the space she futilely tried to put between us. "Now where was I?"

Danielle shivered when I nibbled on her earlobe, but she didn't let me move my hand up any further. "You're going to have to wait," she repeated, her voice fainter this time. The car came to a stop and she visibly breathed a sigh of relief. "But not for long. We're here."

She paid our driver handsomely – it was no wonder he liked her so much – and we exited the vehicle.

"I like your place," I said, impressed, as Danielle ushered me into her apartment. It could have been featured in a glossy catalogue with its white couches, crystal chandeliers, and gold accents. Granted, it wasn't as nice as my bachelor pad, but it was still a lot nicer than what I was expecting from a twenty-something no name actress.