With my hips, I nudge her legs more open, and slide the head against her wetness. Her eyes roll back, and she rocks against me, seeking me out.
I loop my fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head. “Put it in,” I tell her, in a rough voice that leaves no room for argument.
Wrapping her hand around the base, she rubs the tip of my dick against her pussy, then slides it inside, inch by inch. I let her lead. Let her take me as she can. At one point, she inhales sharply.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head, lets go of my dick, and wraps her arms around my neck. “No. It feels so good.”
That’s my cue. I ease in the rest of the way, and then still myself when I’m inside her.
Because…hell.
Heaven.
Bliss.
This is it.
Me. Right now. This moment in time.
Her wet heat is intense. Everything, everything, everything about this feels so incredibly good.
Her fingers thread their way into my hair. I clasp her hips and start to move, giving her time to adjust. I watch her expression, the concentration in her brown eyes as she gets used to me. I follow her cues, giving slow, lingering thrusts, until she relaxes completely, letting me fill her. Her knees fall open, her mouth softens, and she nods.
Finally she locks her gaze to mine and whispers, “Fuck me.”
Two words that light up every inch of my skin.
As I fuck her, she fucks me back. I sink deeper inside and she matches me, rising up to meet me. We set a rhythm, and we are more than in synch. We mesh.
I try to take in every sensation of our first time. The flush that darkens the skin of her chest. The scent of vanilla lotion on her shoulders. Her noises, like a woman unleashed.
Her lips are swollen and parted, and they’re begging to be kissed. I dip my head to her mouth, capturing her lips as I thrust into her. We kiss—rough, hard, sloppy, mixed with sighs that tell me she’s in another world, but that world is right here with me.
I slide my hands under her thighs, and she raises her legs up higher.
“Wrap them around me,” I tell her.
She hooks her ankles around my back. “Like that?”
“Just like that,” I repeat, then close my eyes as the pressure becomes almost too much. My quads tighten, and I can only imagine how incredible it will be to come inside her. But I stave it off as she rocks up into me.
I drive harder and deeper, hitting some spot within her that trips a switch. She gasps, shuddering. She tugs me tighter with her crossed ankles, and this is it. This is how I will take her to the edge, all tight and snug around me. Beneath me. Under me. She writhes and bucks, and she starts to lose control.
“Oh God, oh God,” she moans, and her noises turn feral, echoing in my ears.
Her body is like water, like fire. She is all the elements, all woman, all vulnerable, soft, strong femininity.
She cries out—a long, low, endless, gorgeous cry. She raises her face to me, clutching her hands around my neck, hunting, and searching. In a flurry, her lips are on my ear, and she whispers, as if I needed the corroboration, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Like a chant.
And, fuck, I was wrong if I thought this moment couldn’t get any sexier. It did. It has. Hearing her say that in my ear, hearing her tell me she’s there even though I already know, is the hottest thing ever. Because she simply had to voice it.
I join her, fucking her hard to my own release, inside her at last.
A minute later, after our breathing settles, I brace for the awkward to set in. But it doesn’t arrive. Not as I pull out, grab the condom, and toss it into the trash can. Not as I return to her and kiss her eyelids. Not as she heads to the bathroom to clean up. And not as I ask her if she wants to watch another episode when she walks back into the living room.
Still nude.
We watch Castle and Beckett attempt to solve another murder.
We return to who we were, munching on gummy bears and pouring more margaritas and guessing plot twists, until I tug her close and Charlotte Viagra kicks back in. Soon, we’re going for round two, this time on my couch, and it’s not long until I hear my new favorite song as she does that thing again where she moves her lips against my ear to tell me she’s coming.
After, we crash, and I wake up to Fido playing the piano on my head to let me know he’s hungry, Charlotte sound asleep snuggled in my arms, and the morning sun streaming across the terrace.
We’ve already broken our first rule.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I get the Bat-Signal in the early evening after two glorious days of nearly non-stop fucking, with occasional breaks for work and the bare minimum of sleep.
The alert comes via text as I’m running along the West Side Highway.
At the gym in my building. Dipstick is here. He’s staring at my ring.
I sniff opportunity, like a dog. Bradley is why she said yes to being my fake fiancée in the first place, to ward off his obnoxious gift attacks, and to exact her clever revenge. Thank god he lost her. But still, he’s scum, and now I get to rub his loss in his face.
I break right and sprint across town, dodging pedestrians, guys in suits, women in dresses, construction workers, and everyone else in New York on this Tuesday evening as I make my way to Murray Hill. Once I reach her building, my breath coming fast, sweat streaking down my chest, I tell the doorman I’m here to see Charlotte. Since I’m on her list of approved-at-all-hours visitors, he waves me in. I head to the elevator and downstairs to the gym.
I find her in seconds. She’s jogging on a treadmill at a light pace, and Bradley watches her from the exercise bike as he pedals.
I lock eyes with him, give him a quick tip of the hat, and march over to Charlotte. After I hit stop on her machine, I kiss the hell out of her. She’s not expecting me, but she doesn’t question it. She goes with it, melting into my kiss, and soon the kiss moves from PG to PG-13. It veers into R territory when she hops off the treadmill, wraps her arms around me, and tells me to come upstairs for a quickie before we have to go to The Lucky Spot.
That’s me. Captain Fiancé at your service.
As I leave, I take a gander at Bradley. He’s huffing and puffing, and looks mad as hell.
I jut up my shoulders.
What can I do? The woman wants me.
* * *
The next Bat-Signal comes from my mother later that evening as I’m working in the small office at the back of our bar, surrounded by boxes of cocktail napkins and cabinets where we store our top-shelf liquor.
At first it appears as an invitation via text. Hi dear! We have tickets for the Fiddler revival tomorrow night. Two extra. Can you and Charlotte attend? We can all go to Sardi’s beforehand.
To say I’m not a fan of musicals would be a gross understatement. In fact, I’m surprised my mom even asked, because I’m known in the family circle for my variety of unapologetic excuses for declining all invitations to anything involving song-and-dance numbers, ranging from I’m watching paint dry, I’m busy rearranging my ties, to I’ll be having elective dental work done instead.
But none of these excuses makes it from my brain to my fingers to the phone, because my first thought is that Charlotte adores Broadway. I pop out of the office to find her manning the taps at one end of the counter. “Weird question,” I say as I join her. “Would you want to see Fiddler on the Roof tomorrow? With me?”
She studies my face, then places her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“I’m serious.”
“Maybe it hasn’t set in yet.”
“I mean it.”
“Should I take you to the ER now to get checked, or wait for the chills to start?”
I tap my watch. “The invitation expires in five seconds. Five, four, three…”
She claps. “Yes! Yes, I want to go. I love revivals. That would be amazing. I’m not even going to ask where your bag
of excuses is. I’m just going to enjoy myself.”
“Good,” I say, and I’m stepping closer to drop a quick kiss on her cheek when I stop myself in the nick of time.
Panic flickers across her eyes, and she makes a small jerk of her head. Jenny’s here, and so are waiters and waitresses on the floor, taking drink orders.
Shit.
How the hell did that almost happen? I’m not averse to PDA, but not here at work with customers, our manager, and staff circulating.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
From her spot mixing a vodka tonic, the dark-haired Jenny raises a well-groomed eyebrow, but says nothing. Charlotte doesn’t wear her ring here, but Jenny’s reaction makes me wonder if our employees can sense the change. Like animals sniffing out a storm, do they know their bosses are banging? Can they tell, too, it’s a temporary thing? Questions race through my brain—am I standing too close to Charlotte, am I staring too hard, is it completely obvious from the way I look at my business partner that I’m picturing her naked and fucking my face right now?
I shake my head, chasing off the dirty thoughts. I try to make light of my gaffe. “We almost broke another rule,” I say, just to Charlotte.
“Which one?”
“The no weirdness one.”
She laughs and pats my shoulder. “You’re okay, Holiday. That wasn’t even tiptoeing on weird.” She lowers her voice and speaks just to me. “It was actually adorable, truth be told.”
Ah hell, now I’m blushing. Because…
Wait.
What the hell?
I must really have a fever. I’ve volunteered myself for the pain and suffering of musical theater, and I’ve been dubbed adorable. I am not okay with this. This is not acceptable. Charlotte is so getting fucked from behind tonight so she knows there’s nothing adorable about me.
I’m only manly and rugged.
“Great,” I say, coolly drumming my knuckles against the bar, like my new casual attitude will resurrect my street cred. “So we’ll go tomorrow. Only ’cause you want to.”
My phone buzzes once more. I grab it, and my shoulders sag as I read, The Offermans will be there too :)
I turn to Charlotte. “It was an ambush,” I say, then share the details.
Her smile never falters. “It’s okay. I don’t mind going with them.” She leans in closer and whispers, “In fact, it’s been even easier to play your fiancée the last few days.”
“Why’s that?”
Her voice drops even lower. “Because of the way you fuck me all night long.”
A bolt of lust slams into me, and I’m ready to drag her to the office, slam the door, and screw her here at work.
But Jenny calls her over, and I return to the computer with my new wood.
As I answer emails from suppliers, it occurs to me that Charlotte’s comment about being adorable should make me feel weird. But it doesn’t bug me, and I ask myself why.
Maybe because Charlotte seemed so happy to see the show. Hell, taking her to Broadway is the least I can do for her, since she’s pulling off a fantastic performance this week to help seal the deal on my dad’s sale.
Mystery solved. I like making Charlotte happy because she’s my friend, and friends help each other.
There. I teetered, but avoided breaking another ground rule.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The reporter joins us at Sardi’s. His name is Abe, his face bears a passing resemblance to a horse, and his clothes might belong to an older brother, given that they appear two sizes too large. I’m also not sure if he has a driver’s license yet, or if he’s even started shaving.
He snaps photos of the two families toasting and nibbling on appetizers, and I’m truly amazed at what a puff piece this feature article is going to be. Must be why the magazine assigned a cub reporter to it. But then, Metropolis Life and Times is known for giving the best blow jobs in the journalism business. Open up and take it all in.
The photos are technically candid, but we’re all keenly aware of the lens as we order, chat, and raise our glasses as black-and-white caricatures of theater and movie stars preside from the walls of this Broadway institution. Only couples are in attendance this time—Mr. Offerman and his wife, my dad and my mom, and Charlotte and me. Ordinarily I’d tease Harper that she was banished tonight, but she’s probably thrilled to sit out this required event and skip the phony “we have no clue the reporter is here” conversation.
But I get why Mr. Offerman set up the story. Pieces like this aid in the transition of a business, and showing the friendly handoff of a jewelry powerhouse as well-known as Katharine’s will reassure customers. We sure look polished and spit-shined for the magazine. I’m wearing a light green button-down shirt and a pale yellow tie with cartoon pandas on it, while Charlotte looks stunning in a black short-sleeved dress with a pink ribbon cinched through slim belt loops.
“You didn’t bring your daughters along tonight,” I remark to Mr. Offerman as I finish an olive. “They’re busy with end-of-year school stuff, I presume? Or not fans of theater?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “We only had six tickets, and it seemed more important to bring the men.”
I nearly choke on the olive pit. “Excuse me?”
“My girls don’t get involved in business affairs,” he says, knocking back some of his scotch before signaling to the waiter for another.
“I’m not involved in my father’s business, though, and you invited me,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his logic.
“True, but I’m sure your opinion is more vital than, say, your—”
His remark is cut off when the reporter taps me on the shoulder. “Picture of you and Charlotte by the bar? Our society page would love one of the happy couple.”
My gut twists as I stand, knowing this photo is a sham. It’ll either run online tomorrow and then be out of date when we split up in a few more days as planned. Or it will never run because…well, because we won’t be the “happy couple” much longer.
As we step away from the table, Charlotte shoots me a look that says she’s thinking the same thing. That we’re skirting the line. Our charade seemed fine at first—a plausible enough way to ensure my romantic entanglements didn’t derail Dad’s business deal—even though I was lying to my family. Now, it borders on bald-faced manipulation as I lie to, well, everyone, leaving a pit in my stomach.
But the end justifies the means, I remind myself as we head to the bar. When I talked to my dad this morning, he said he expected to sign the deal by the weekend, once the final bank paperwork is completed. I hate the thought that Mr. Offerman might have walked had I not fit the mold he wanted. Still, I’m starting to see myself as more of a snake oil salesman, and I don’t care for this side of me.
The good part is I’ll only have to lie for another few days.
The bad part is I only get a few more days of pretending.
“Smile for the camera,” Abe says as we reach the bar, the sketches of Tom Hanks and Ed Asner in the background.
I wrap my arm around Charlotte and flash a grin, then steal a quick sniff of her neck. She smells like peaches. I dust a quick kiss on her cheek, and her breath catches. She inches closer, and yup, what was fake is real again, and that nagging feeling drifts away. There’s heat between us. Sizzle even. The camera’s got to be picking up on the sparks.
When I let go of her, I shoot a sheepish grin at the reporter. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. She’s too lovely.”
“It’s obvious you like her,” he says, then lowers his camera and retrieves a notebook from his pocket. “But I can’t help but wonder, when did it become exclusive?”
“Sorry?” I ask, knitting my brow.
“It’s new, right? The exclusivity in your relationship?”
“Of course we’re exclusive. We’re engaged,” Charlotte says possessively, wrapping a hand around my arm as she deflects his question.
“I can tell,” the reporter says, pointing at Charlotte’s rock. “I was asking, tho
ugh, when it became exclusive.”
A hint of red blazes across Charlotte’s cheeks, and I chime in. “The engagement is relatively new, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, it must be new,” Abe says, like a dog grabbing a bone, refusing to let go. “You were in last month’s South Beach Life magazine with a Miami chef, and just a few weeks ago I believe you were seen with a celebrity trainer.”
Fuck me and my playboy ways. I tense, my muscles tightening, and here it comes—the situation my father desperately wanted to avoid.
“That was just chatter,” I say, as I maintain my grin. “You know how it goes.”
“You mean with Cassidy? It was casual with Cassidy Winters?” he asks, inserting the adjective of his choice—casual—as if he can get me to agree to use it.
“No, I wasn’t saying that it was casual. I was saying it was chatter. Meaning there was nothing going on,” I say crisply, correcting the bold little bastard.
He nods and strokes his chin. “Got it. But that’s not the case with the chef. Because in Miami last month, you were tagged in a Facebook photo that has you giving her a kiss on the cheek.”
He reaches for his phone, slides his fat thumb across the screen, and shows me the photo. He had it ready and waiting. He’d called it up in advance, preparing to pounce. I shrug, my mind quickly playing out scenarios. Then I go for it. I pucker up and give Abe a quick air kiss on the cheek. I fight every instinct to cringe as my lips come within millimeters of his baby face, but I’ve got to pull this off. “See? I’m just an affectionate guy.”
He wipes his palm across his cheek. “So it was nothing with the chef?”
I nod and gesture to his face. “Just like that was nothing,” I say, wishing I could give him the brush off he deserves. But if I walk away, or say ‘no comment,’ it will just fuel him. Answering coolly gives me the greatest chance of diffusing this bomb.
Abe anchors his attention to Charlotte. “Does it bother you that up until a few weeks ago, Spencer Holiday was in the papers as a noted New York City playboy?”
She shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “No. I know who he comes home to at night.”
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