Intimate Mergers

by Raleigh Davis

  He’s blowing off his family for me. Yes, it’s just for one night, and the event is dinner at a cousins’ house, nothing too major, but it feels very significant. I’m hired to fake it, whenever and wherever he wants. What I want wasn’t part of the bargain.

  “Thank you,” I say gruffly into my tea. I should tell him no, it’s fine, but there is something I’ve been wanting to see. Something I won’t be able to see back home, at least not exactly like this.

  Paul might even like it himself. Or he might be horrified by it.

  Actually, probably not. Anyone who willingly hangs out with Finn will probably appreciate this.

  “Well?” he prompts. “Think big.”

  I am, but not in the way he’s suggesting. “Well, there’s this event…”

  Three hours later, we’re sitting in a high school gym, the metal bleachers cold and hard. The seats are only half-filled, so every noise bounces off them, the walls, and the high ceiling until my ears are ringing.

  The skeptical look on Paul’s face has been there since I told him where I wanted to go. “I don’t think I’ve ever been inside an American high school.” The curl of his lip says he isn’t planning on visiting another one anytime soon.

  “You didn’t go to high school here?” I thought we went over that when we were making up our grand love story, but I can’t seem to remember it.

  “No.” He’s staring up at a banner that declares the Lady Timberwolves were some kind of basketball champion from 2010–2011. “I was at the American School until high school, then came over here when I got into Stanford. My mother thought Harvard was more appropriate, but I liked Stanford better.”

  Wow. He makes it sound like picking between two of the most prestigious schools in the world is like trying to decide where to go for lunch. I suppose he always knew he’d have his choice of universities, that the entire world would be at his feet, the way it always has been.

  “She can’t have been that upset,” I say. “Stanford isn’t exactly a step down.”

  A smile crosses his face. “Actually, she was furious. Didn’t speak to me for the entire first quarter. I had to pay my tuition from some money an uncle left me.”

  “Your mother did that?” I swivel on the bench to face him fully. “Wait, you actually rebelled? Went against your mother like that?”

  “I was younger then.” He looks like he’s remembering his younger self fondly and wistfully. “And it was what I really wanted.”

  “What made her start talking to you again?”

  A rumble comes from the crowd near one of the exits, a flurry of excitement. The entertainment must be starting soon. I ignore it, focusing on Paul and his answer.

  “My aunt here—her sister—told her how well I was doing in school, how good Stanford was for me. My mother might seem like a tyrant, but she truly does wants what’s best for us. So she relented.”

  His brow, which is normally so smooth, is wrinkled. This story, while it worked out all right, is still upsetting to him. If his aunt had never said anything, would his mother have ever made amends? Perhaps he wonders the same thing.

  “I’d met Mark,” he goes on. “No one knew who I was, at least beyond a dozen or so people, and that was freeing. No one to report back to my mother, no one watching to ensure I was always and forever acting as I should be. They say you change in college—at least they do here—and it was true.”

  He makes it sound like he escaped a prison when he came to college. Which I understand—this was an escape for me too.

  And now we both have to go back.

  “You don’t have to leave it behind forever,” I say. “You’ll be able to come back and visit.”

  I probably won’t though. I breathe through the pain because I want to enjoy this night. And savor Paul’s reaction to it.

  “It’s not—”

  He’s cut off by a blast of music from the bank of speakers next to the ring set up in the center of the gym. Paul winces while I grin.

  “That’s Kane Griffen’s music,” I shout into his ear.

  “They all have their own music?” he shouts back. “And what kind of name is Kane Griffen?”

  “A wrestling name.”

  The gym doors slam open as a fog machine does its best to shroud the entrance in mystery. The figure in the smoke and darkness is massive, muscles bulging even in the shadows.

  “I’ve come for my revenge,” a deep voice booms through the gym. “Fenix, your time’s up. Tonight.”

  I hold my breath even though I know what’s going to happen next.

  A cackle comes through the speakers, low and creepy. “Never. You’ll never take me down.”

  Kane comes running up the aisle, searching for the source of the voice. “Where are you? Face me like a man!”

  The cackle comes again, Fenix mocking Kane’s challenge. Fenix badly injured Kane’s best friend with dirty tricks in a match a few months ago, and Kane’s been trying to make him pay ever since. Tonight the big showdown is finally supposed to happen.

  Kane keeps looking for Fenix, and Fenix keeps mocking him from somewhere in the wings. I know the match won’t happen until the very end of the night, but I still hold my breath as I watch the scene play out. I can’t help but be caught up in the drama as the music swells, Kane dissolving into frustrated rage when his revenge remains out of reach. With one last shout, his entire body flexing, he yells for Fenix, then disappears through the gym doors.

  The music dims for a minute as the stagehands rush around, setting up for the coming match.

  “This is what you’re going to miss from America?” Paul is even more skeptical now. “Wrestling’s fake.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really? I never noticed.” I hold up a hand when he tries to talk again. “Don’t think about how it’s fake. K-dramas are fake, but you like those, right?”

  “Like is a strong word.”

  Oh, right. God forbid he admit he likes trashy TV. “Wuxia is also fake.”

  He splutters in indignation, the first time I’ve ever seen him actually flustered. And speechless. “It’s… That’s… That’s not the point, to be real!”

  I seem to have touched a nerve. I hide my smile. “Wuxia movies aren’t real. But you still like them.”

  “Of course I do.” His indignation hasn’t settled at all.

  “Well, this is like a K-drama crossed with wuxia and then drenched in American sauce.” It’s ridiculous and loud and very clearly acting, but I love it all the same. These wrestlers can jump and flip and fall, and none of that is faked.

  “American sauce?” He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Ranch dressing, in fact.”

  He laughs as he turns back to the ring. The first match is finally beginning, with two guys I don’t recognize squaring off against each other. They’re not quite as polished as Kane or Fenix, their moves more hesitant, less fluid. And way less acrobatic. But they have potential, and one is super committed to his character, which makes me grin. I love it when the performers are so clearly enjoying themselves.

  “Are these guys professionals?” Paul asks as they leave to cheers and waves. “This is definitely not WrestleMania or anything.”

  I shake my head. “No, this is a backyard wrestling league. Guys who just love it and want to do it however they can, wrestlers looking to break into the big time. It’s not as glitzy or well produced, but I think it’s more fun.”

  He makes a noise that’s supposed to be skeptical, dismissive, but I can hear the curiosity too. This is more fun than he was expecting.

  We watch the next two matches without talking much, sharing a package of Red Vines as we cheer on our chosen champions. Paul is slowly getting into it, yelling loud enough to surprise me at a particularly impressive move.

  Rather than tease him about it, I yell my approval too, then pass him the Red Vines.

  By the time we reach the climax of the fourth match, Paul’s on his feet with the rest of us, shaking his fist when it looks like the heel might
escape his well-deserved fate. But finally, finally, good prevails with an awesome suplex. The ref counts off, and when he hits three, the entire crowd releases a sigh.

  Then the place erupts in cheers.

  “Holy shit,” Paul says to me as he claps. “Did you see that? It was amazing.”

  “I did.” I clap myself as I watch him. He’s grinning like I’ve never seen before, simply pure, aggressive joy. He still looks noble, but more like a prince at play. Not one burdened with running a kingdom. Or a family. “I figured you’d like it.”

  His hands slow, then stop, his expression going serious. “I do. Thank you so much for bringing me.”

  His gratitude is so heartfelt it makes me ache. I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “It was nothing. And now you can come back anytime you’re here in the Bay Area.”

  “There’s probably wrestling in China now too.”

  I shrug, trying to pretend it’s no big deal. “There is. It won’t be quite the same as here though.”

  “No,” he says thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be.”

  A hint of music comes through the speakers, swelling and rising. As it does, the crowd goes completely silent. The music marches on, building into Kane’s theme.

  When Kane comes out, the crowd loses its mind. It’s a smaller group, but we’re all so invested in this show it feels like there are ten times as many of us.

  This is what we’ve all been waiting for. And when Fenix appears, we know it’s on.

  The match is everything I hoped it would be, full of highs and lows and amazing, jaw-dropping moves. This might not be professional wrestling, but I’m supremely entertained. And moved too—when Kane finishes off Fenix, I feel his triumph sizzling through my own veins.

  Paul does too. Somewhere in the match he’s taken my hand, squeezing it tight each time it looks like Fenix might slip free again. But now he’s squeezing it tight with anticipation as we both watch Fenix on the floor of the ring, waiting to see if he’ll get up this time.

  The ref counts to three. Fenix doesn’t move.

  Kane throws his massive arms up in victory, smiling through his exhaustion. He’s done it. His quest is over.

  I toss my arms around Paul, too happy to care if I’m being a dork. He holds me close, his body hard and hot against mine. A shiver runs through me, heated and ticklish.

  When his mouth finds mine, I’m more than ready. He kisses me deeply, unthinkingly, nothing but emotion between us. This is our triumph right here, our bodies meeting, surrendering to this need.

  As the crowd continues to cheer and stomp, Paul kisses me as if we’re the only two people here, his tongue tangling with mine, his chest vibrating as he groans into my mouth.

  He lifts his head too soon, leaving me panting and needy. I don’t care if it’s a terrible idea or if I’m completely unsuitable or if he’ll break my heart when I leave. I have to have more of him.

  His mouth flattens, his nose flaring as he looks down at me. “We need to get out of here,” he says grimly.

  I can’t argue.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paul drives us home like he’s racing someone. Or something. The car tires actually squeal a few times when he takes the turns.

  I’m not afraid—the car is never out of control—but the way his face is set, stern, determined, makes shivers run up and down my entire body. He has a very specific destination in mind, beyond just his house.

  When we arrive at his compound, he takes us to another garage on the other side of the house. Of course he has two garages—he’s got two stables, so why not?

  And I took him to a night of wrestling.

  But he liked it.

  I don’t know what’s going through his head right now as he leads me up a set of stairs I haven’t seen before. It seems like we’re going up to his wing of the house, but I can’t be entirely sure. His mood is like a thundercloud around him—dark, electric, and my nerves are sizzling from it.

  We see no one else as we climb the stairs, not even a single servant. What excuse did he give his mother for why we didn’t come to dinner tonight? Is she waiting somewhere in her wing to confront him about it?

  Paul doesn’t look like he’s thinking of that though. His hand is wrapped around my wrist, his grip like iron. I’m excited and a bit embarrassed at how hot I find that.

  When we arrive at the door to his bedroom, he practically kicks it open, then shoves me inside. I stumble, catching myself only by grabbing at his shoulder.

  The contact ignites the air between us. He spears his hand through my hair and kisses me like I’m the only source of air left in the room. Like he’ll die if he ever lets me go. I can barely keep up with him, and I kind of don’t want to even try. I want to let him consume me.

  But I’m not supposed to want that. This was supposed to be a business relationship only.

  I force some space between us even though it hurts to do it. My mouth is tingling, my pulse is drumming, and I can’t catch my breath.

  Paul doesn’t immediately let me go. “If you don’t want this…” The want in his voice makes it growly, deep.

  “We can’t.” My protest is as weak as my resolve.

  “We can do whatever we want.” The arrogance in that is insanely hot. “This can be only for us. We don’t have to answer to anyone else.”

  But we do. He has to answer to his family. I have to answer to Immigration. We can’t block out the world.

  “We don’t live just in this room.”

  “No, but here we can take something for us. Wasn’t that the point of coming to this country?” He’s relentless. “To carve out a space all our own?” His grip on my waist tightens, reminds me how solid his hold is on me. “We’re still here. We still have time. Let’s take what we can.”

  It’s not very noble, that sentiment. Those are the thoughts of a conqueror—but sometimes princes start out as conquerors. They take what they want and only after do they settle into ruling it. And sometimes a prince has to fight to keep what’s his.

  “And after?” I ask. But even as I do, I know it’s a silly question. There is no after for us, which is why we should seize the present, just like he says.

  “Don’t worry about after.” He nips at my mouth, already sensing my surrender. “There’s only now.”

  I sigh and raise my arms to wrap around his neck. I give up and give in because he’s right. I do want this, and I’ll take it, and I’ll let him take me.

  God, I want so fucking badly for him to take me. Like when he lost control and bit my lip, only more and worse.

  He reaches down and under the backs of my knees, and I’m suddenly in his arms and he’s carrying me to the bed. Kind of like in a fairy tale, except fairy tales were never as hot as the expression in his eyes, as wild as the rise and fall of his chest, as urgent as the pace of his steps.

  Paul wants me on that bed now. Immediately. He can’t wait.

  When he sets me on the bed, it’s not gentle. It’s… it’s mean almost. But “I’ll make you pay in the best, most sexual way.” I bounce as I land, and his hand hooks in the waistband of my jeans, reminding me that he’s not letting go. That I belong to him.

  I reach for the waistband, ready to shuck them off.

  “No.” The ringing command in that makes my nipples hard. “I’m taking them off.”

  My eyes roll back because he’s so mean and sharp and just vicious. Or at least he sounds that way. The prince is gone and the conqueror has taken over.

  I never knew Paul has this in him. I never knew I could bring it out in him.

  With a rough jerk, he unbuttons my jeans, then tears them off me. His usual grace is entirely gone. There’s only needy desperation in his movements now.

  “I’ve wanted you for so long.” He grinds that out as he stares at my bare legs, starting at my ankles, then slowly, reverently following the lines of them to where I’m swollen and wet for him. “So long. You haunted my dreams.”

  He makes it sound like it’s
my fault that happened… and he’s going to punish me for it. Punish me with pleasure.

  I swallow hard, try to pull air into my lungs. It’s too much; he’s too intense. I’m going to combust under his gaze. “You did?”

  His gaze catches mine, and the jut of his eyebrows says You know what you did.

  I actually don’t—I had no idea I was haunting his dreams—but I shiver as I remember our encounters, each and every one. Underneath his cool exterior, while he was discussing horribly boring points of immigration law, this was boiling.

  “I did.” He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how you affect me.”

  Don’t pretend. That’s what we’ve been doing, but not here. Here we’re being real and raw, and he’s admitting that the effect I have on him is raw and real too.

  I stretch, lifting my breasts, shifting my legs, reveling in the surge of power arcing through me. I can bring a prince to his knees. Me.

  His breath comes with a sharp inhale, a noise of severe triumph. “So damn beautiful.” He runs his hands down my thighs, squeezing with possessiveness. “Beautiful and mine.”

  He’s practically grunting the words, which turns me on even harder. Paul losing control is so unexpected, so glorious, I’m on fire with it.

  “Yours,” I agree. Because it’s so true—I never want another person’s hands on me except his.

  “Not completely.” There’s cold stone in his tone as he pulls my panties off. Then comes my bra, and I’m entirely naked.

  He doesn’t take me in with only his eyes. His hands run over every inch of my skin, as if he means to memorize me by touch. And he’s not entirely gentle about it—he takes my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and tweaks, rumbling with satisfaction when I gasp with pleasure.

  I’m vibrating from the inside out once he’s done, making noises I never have before. Between my legs I’m damp and achy, and I’d touch myself, only I don’t think Paul in this mood would like it.