by Stella Gray
What am I even doing? Sleeping with my playboy fake fiancé? God. He’s a manwhore. Straight up. And I can’t be doing this.
Sure, he said he won’t mess around while we’re married, but why should I trust him to keep his word? Anyone with a string of women he knows solely by nicknames like “loves anal” isn’t bound to keep his stallion in the barn.
I slide off the couch and adjust my clothes, then grab my purse off the floor. I’m so disappointed. In myself. In him.
“Come back,” he says, a lazy smile on his face, acting as if I might actually stay.
I shake my head and head for the door. “Thanks for the evening, Luka. Have a good night.”
Brooklyn
Chapter 12
Moving in together. It’s momentous. A threshold I’ve never crossed in any of my past relationships. Not that Luka and I are actually in a relationship.
I step into his massive penthouse and pause in the foyer. No matter how many times I come here, the place always takes my breath away. The wall of windows framing the city’s most iconic skyscrapers, the height of the ceilings, the warmth of the wide-plank wood floors, the fireplace. And now, it’s my home.
But instead of welcome, all I feel is intimidated. Like I don’t belong. I can’t quite get my legs to move me forward, or my hand to stop clenching around the key Luka gave me. I don’t even know if he’s here, and honestly it would be better if he wasn’t.
Was this all a huge mistake? I don’t have a lot of experience with roommates, having never lived with anyone aside from my parents or Mateo. Will Luka and I just go about our separate lives, ignoring each other as we play out the next few years of this marriage? Or will it be more like what I had with Mateo, where we’d take turns cooking each other dinner, fight over whose turn it was to take out the trash, or wander into each other’s rooms for outfit checks? Actually, scratch that last one. I can’t imagine Luka ever worrying about what he’s wearing.
The sterile white of the walls and OCD-clean interior give me a pang as I realize what a stark comparison it is to the first place Mateo and I had together. We’d jumped up and down on the freshly assembled Ikea bed I’d picked out and then went to Etsy to order cute little throw pillows with swear words on them to spice up the plain gray sofa we’d found on Craigslist. Money was tight at the time, so we shared everything—hair and skin products, Mateo’s collection of vintage rock T-shirts, food. Even our mugs of coffee, especially after staying up until the wee morning hours drinking wine and talking about our dreams for the future.
That era of my life is over now. I highly doubt my fiancé is someone I’ll stay up late with, snuggling on the couch binge-watching Sex and the City while eating cold Chinese leftovers. Time moves on, people change. I get all that. Yet I’m not sure if I should let myself grieve over the good old days I had with my bestie, or just keep my chin up and hold it all in.
My phone rings, displaying a number with a Chicago area code. I pick it up.
“Is this Miss Moss?” a man says.
“Yep—are you calling from the moving company?”
“The van’s about five minutes away,” he affirms. “My instructions are to use the elevator around back.”
“That’s right. Security knows you’re coming, and the door’s propped open,” I tell him.
We hang up and I take a deep breath, trying to shake myself out of this melancholy mood. Then I drop my key into the little ceramic dish on the entry table and head into the den. I’ve been here before, of course, but I’ve never really wandered around, and I don’t know how many rooms or closets the penthouse has. I don’t know when the housekeeper comes, either, though by the look of the place I imagine it’s often. I poke around a bit and find that besides Luka’s master bedroom, there’s an office, a guest room, and a small home gym.
I catch a whiff of Luka’s aftershave as I head back to the den. My stomach does a little flip in anticipation of seeing him. Though I paste on a smile, it wavers for a second when I see him standing there in dark jeans and a button-down that hugs his torso just right. It takes all my willpower to banish the lingering memory of his fingers stroking me until I came in his hands.
“Hey you.” He nods at me, showing off perfect teeth. “Welcome to our home.”
Luka runs a hand through his tousled hair and walks slowly over to meet me. He almost looks…nervous. Gone is the exuberant attitude of the other night when we announced our engagement to the entire world; all I see now is an insanely sexy but hesitant man who might actually have no idea how to handle having a woman in his house for more than a single night.
“Thanks,” I say. “I was just doing a quick walk-through. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. It’s your place too, now. Mi casa es su casa.”
He gestures at the room around us, as if I haven’t seen it all before.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “Look, I’m sure this must feel strange to you. I’m used to having a roommate, but you’ve probably lived alone for your entire adult life. I’ll try not to crowd you.”
Luka shrugs. “I’m honestly not home much.” He pauses, reconsidering. “I mean, I didn’t used to be home much. I’m sure we’ll find a way to cohabitate here without killing each other.”
I wonder if it’s hard for him to be home instead of partying hard every night and waking up in random women’s apartments. Or only showing up here long enough to fuck before kicking the night’s flavor to the door and starting all over. Guess it’s game over for him now.
I should know better than to ponder Luka’s love life. It’s not good for me. Tension coils along my shoulders and I rotate them to work out the knots.
“You stressed?” he asks, pulling me close and gently massaging my shoulders with his thumbs. His touch is like magic, and I find myself leaning my head into his chest, inhaling his cologne and letting out a slow exhale.
“Less stressed now,” I murmur.
I’m enjoying our closeness way too much, even though I’m well aware that the power he has over my body is dangerous. It’ll be a long time before I forget the way he made me feel when he fingered me…or the way that booty call text hit me like a bucket of ice water afterward.
“Anyway,” I say, trying to keep my tone light as I force myself to step away from him. “I’m sure if you keep me busy enough with modeling gigs, I won’t be home much myself.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, hesitating for a moment before adding, “so I was thinking about the bedroom situation—” His voice trails off as the elevator in the hallway dings open.
It’s the guys from the moving company, and they’ve brought up three dollies packed with my boxes and things. Luka stands back as they wheel everything in. A man in blue coveralls holds out a clipboard to me and asks me to sign off on the items.
“Where should we put everything?”
For a moment I’m thrown. I hadn’t given it much thought up until now. The boxes holding my belongings aren’t that big, and the sum of them would easily fit into Luka’s room without displacing anything, but I can’t bring myself to invade his personal space when we barely know each other…and besides, we never talked about whether or not I would sleep in the same room. A shiver goes through me at the thought.
Before Luka can direct the men to the master suite, I point down the hallway and lead them toward the guest room, flinging open the door.
“This room is fine,” I tell them. I glance behind me at Luka and see his brow lift.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Whatever you think is best.”
It’s better this way, I tell myself. Living in the same apartment as Luka is going to be challenging enough. He sidles up to me after I show the movers where to stack everything.
“There’s plenty of space for you in my room,” he says. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
The look in his eyes tells me it’s definitely not what he wants. He probably thinks if we cozy up in bed together, sex will become a natural routine. Whi
ch it very well might.
Exactly why I’m putting my foot down.
“Yes.” I keep my voice low. “There’s nothing in the contract that says I have to sleep in the same room as you. And I think having some boundaries right up front is a good idea.”
He cocks his head and looks as if he’s about to argue. But the moving men flit around the doorway and there’s no way to keep talking without them overhearing us.
“Just know my door’s always open,” he says, a devilish gleam in his eye.
I raise my chin. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
The movers finish up, and after I thank them and show them out, Luka and I stand there like neither of us knows what to do next. Though I know what my body wants to do next.
“I should unpack,” I say, taking a few steps back before my animal urges can override the “boundaries” I just made such a big deal about setting.
“Sure,” he says. “I have some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to it.”
“Right. Great. See you later.”
This all feels so strange that I don’t know what else to say. It’s going to take a while for both of us to acclimate, I’m sure. He gives a little nod and turns, and I let myself watch his ass as he walks away from me.
My throat goes tight as I hear the door click. I’m alone in this big penthouse. It’s quieter than I expected, big and lofty. And empty. For some reason, I get the sudden sting of tears. Going into my new room, I shut the door behind me, sinking down onto the plush settee. It’s a good-sized room with a luxurious, impressive bathroom, a walk-in closet, and comfortable furnishings, all neutral tones and dark wood. The view isn’t as pretty as the one from the living room, but it’s better than the view of a parking lot filled with cars that I had back in LA.
Needing to distract myself, I grab the box of my toiletries and take it into the bathroom. I start putting things away, changing my mind, rearranging and trying again. After half an hour, I’m still working on the same row of skincare products in the huge mirrored cabinet. In between feeling overwhelmed and surprisingly lonely, I can’t stop wondering what Luka is doing.
Reaching for my phone, I wipe at my eyes and dial Mateo.
Thankfully, he answers on the second ring. “This was a mistake,” I wail.
He scoffs. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of all the banging already?”
I roll my eyes and let out a giggle. “Shut up. You know there’s no banging going on. We’ve barely even touched.”
He clucks his tongue, chastising me. “I’m sure you’ll be singing a different tune tomorrow. There’s no way a person can sleep next to you and not want to fool around. Trust me, I’d know.”
“Very funny.” I look to the ceiling, once again fighting off tears. I feel like I should say more, but I don’t trust myself not to start crying. Hearing Mateo’s voice is making me more and more homesick by the second.
“Ugh. I’ll never understand you. So if you’re not calling to tell me how many orgasms you had today, why are you calling me?”
I travel across the room and sit on the edge of the bed. It’s big enough to hold five people. “Maybe because I miss you.” I sigh. “Look, the truth is…I took the guest room. When it came right down to it, I couldn’t move into Luka’s room with him. It’s too weird.”
“Double ugh. Go get a pen and paper. I want you to write this down.”
I already know what he’s going to say. “Stop. I don’t need to hear Mateo’s Top Ten Reasons to Have Daily Sex. Not again.”
“I’m going to keep telling you until it sinks in,” he insists. “Sex is medicine! It reduces anxiety, lowers the risk of cancer, boosts immune function, triggers endorphins and oxytocin—”
“Stop! If it was anyone besides Luka Zoric, I might actually take your advice. But I can’t, Mat. You know that nothing good will come from having sex with my fake fiancé. I’ll just get attached, and it’ll make things even more complicated.”
He makes a sound of disagreement and I can practically hear all the words he’s holding back. Mateo doesn’t let his conscience get in the way of his sexual desires. Sometimes I wish I could be like that, too. Just take what I want without worrying about the consequences.
“Hey,” Mateo says gently. “What’s really going on?”
A tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. I shrug and wipe at my face. “I don’t know. I guess this isn’t the homecoming I thought it would be. It’s not warm and fuzzy and exciting like when you and I moved in together.”
“Yeah, honey, I know,” he says soothingly. “Hey, but I still have the ‘Fuck It,’ ‘Hot Damn,’ and ‘Sexy Bitch’ pillows if you want them.”
That makes me laugh and silence hangs between us for a beat. Mateo sighs and I feel the weight of how much he misses me too. “You’ll get used to it eventually. So will I. I promise.”
Mateo is so good at getting on with life. Sex and a few mixed drinks are all it takes to pull him out of a funk. I wish that was all it took for me to put aside my emotions.
“I’m not a bad person for doing this, am I?” The question flies out of my mouth before I even realize I’d been thinking it, but it must be there subconsciously. Always hanging over me.
“God, Brooklyn, no. You’re doing what you need to do to become the person you know you are. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I’m living a lie,” I murmur.
“You’re taking part in a temporary and mutually beneficial arrangement,” Mateo argues. “Come on, you know what people do to get ahead in this game. You’re not even close to that level of what-the-fuck. And besides, it’s all for a good cause. You’re helping him, too.”
I nod as if he can see me, already feeling better at his words. We talk for a few minutes more and then hang up. Suddenly worn out, I lie back on the huge bed and spread my arms out like wings. The mattress feels foreign beneath my body.
Am I ever going to feel okay about this situation? All I can do is pray that all of this will be worth it…and that I don’t lose my soul in the process.
Luka
Chapter 13
There’s something Brooklyn doesn’t know about me.
Something she’s going to learn soon if this tension between us doesn’t give.
As our bakery consultant bustles around Aimee Patisserie, assembling a lavish tray of wedding cake samples for us, it takes everything I have not to stare at my fiancée. Her eyes are wide, her mouth falling open as she admires the glass cases of pastel-colored desserts, flaky pastries decked with sliced fruit, tiny cakes dusted in gold flakes or studded with nonpareils. The last time I saw that much naked desire on her face, she was riding my hand to an orgasm.
It doesn’t help that the bakery is closed to the public while they host our cake tasting. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to pull Brooklyn into a storage closet to have my way with her.
“Please, have a seat,” our consultant says with a grin. She’s an older woman in a flour-dusted apron with a maternal air, and she gestures to a cute but flimsy-looking wrought iron bistro table and chairs that I’m sure Brooklyn appreciates. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just water would be great,” Brooklyn says, eyes flicking to me for approval. I nod. She’s been incredibly considerate of my alcohol limits, which I’ve found oddly endearing.
It’s been interesting living with her the past couple of weeks. We’ve had a few moments that felt like we were getting close to having something physical happen between us—Brooklyn sliding past me in her clingy bathrobe to pour herself a coffee one morning, shower fresh and clearly nude judging by the sight of her hard nipples through the silky fabric; the electricity between us as we’d sat shoulder to shoulder to review her new headshots; the way she’d opened up to me about her parents one night as we shared a single gin and tonic out on the balcony.
Yet even when we’re in close proximity, sparks flying so fast and hot they’re undeniable, she’s kept herself closed off from me. I can’t tell if
it’s because of something specific that I’ve done or if it’s her way of sticking to those boundaries she loves so much.
Both, probably.
I’ve never been one for boundaries, though—so it’s taken all my willpower not to cross hers. Especially with the chemistry between us. But ever since the night I got a text from one of my former hookups who happened to be in town, Brooklyn has had this wall up.
It’s not like I haven’t been trying to make it up to her. I sent flowers as a housewarming gift on her second day in the penthouse. I talked my brother into loaning out his private chef to come over and prepare us dinner, hoping Brooklyn and I could have a “moving in together” celebration of some sort. My fiancée interacted with the chef more than with me, though, drained a glass of Chardonnay in a hurry, and then went to bed before dessert was served.
Three days ago, I opened an account for her at a designer furniture gallery in River North and encouraged her to shop for whatever she liked, hoping she’d rearrange our newly shared space into something that made her feel like she had some ownership of the place. The account hasn’t been used, nor has she added a single personal touch to any area of the penthouse outside of the guest room.
I’m at a loss as to what else I can do to get closer to her—to make her feel comfortable. Part of it is that the next few years are going to be a nightmare if we can’t live together in peace, but I’m not going to lie: I also want her, and I’m not above doing everything I can to get her into my bed. My cock jumps to life at the smell of her shampoo in the air, the sight of her ass in workout leggings when she heads out to hit the gym, the sound of her giggling on a phone call. It’s all I can do not to grab her in my arms and bend her over the couch, or the kitchen island, or anywhere else convenient and give us both release.
I just want her. And, fuck, I want her to desire me just as much. I replay how it felt to slide my hand inside her pants the night of our private Celebrity Chat screening party. How her smooth, bare pussy lips felt beneath the pads of my fingers. Her wetness slicking over me as I played with her clit until she soaked me. She pretends that she doesn’t want me, but I’ve replayed that memory in my mind every night since she’s moved in, using it to my advantage while I jack off alone in my room. Her body didn’t lie.