Page 167 of Between the Lines

Aiden growls and his hips stutter. Once, twice, pushing the vibrator firmly against my clit. My climax takes me by surprise. My fingers turn into claws digging into Aiden’s shoulder blades.

His body goes rigid, and then he groans against my flesh, muttering my name in his hoarse voice. His hips stutter into me as he finds his release.

An eternity later, we lie sweaty and panting on his bed. He’s still on top of me, inside me. Warm and handsome.

I run my hand over the muscles of his back. My eyelids feel heavy. “I didn’t know you could feel it,” I murmur. “When a man comes inside you? But I did, this time. Without the condom.”

Aiden’s still buried inside me, and I feel a faint twitch. He groans against my temple. “The death of me,” he mutters again.

I nuzzle against him. “Are you gonna pull out?”

“No,” he says and tugs me firmly against him. “We’re gonna sleep just like this.”

His mouth returns to my temple, and his hand sweeps in slow circles over my hip. Soothing and warm. I’m close to sleep when I hear him mumble in my ear.

“You said you were falling for me, Chaos?”

“Mm-hmm, yeah. I did.”

“I’ve already fallen.”

CHAPTER 59

CHARLOTTE

An unknown phone number is calling. I’ve gotten used to answering them. It could be someone on Aiden’s team or from Polar Publishing. Might even be Aiden calling from a work phone I’m not familiar with.

“Hi, it’s Charlotte,” I say.

“Hi there! My name is Audrey Kingsley. I’m calling from theNew York Globe. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

I shake my head as if she can see me. “No, not at all.” I rarely get calls from journalists about the books I’ve written. They’d usually rather talk directly with the subjects than me.

“That’s fantastic. Thank you so much for taking my call,” she says. “I would love to chat about a story I’m writing.”

“Oh? What’s it about?” I ask. The next memoir release isn’t scheduled for months, yet. It’s too early for the press, and besides, Polar handles all of that.

“It’s a deep dive into the predatory practices of reality television,” she says.

I pause, and my hand tightens around the phone. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s an investigative journalism piece on the often exploitative nature of dating shows, especially what women gothrough on some of these programs,” she continues. Her voice is professional, and I hear the flip of papers. “You were onThe Gamblesome years ago. I would love to hear your version of the story.”

“My version… of the story.”

“Yes. What really happened in terms of the relationship you were in,” she says. “I’ve done some digging, and from what I’ve gathered, there were a lot of things that happened that season that were never aired.”

I stare out the window, barely seeing the turquoise of Aiden’s infinity pool. “And you want to… publish this?”

“Yes. You’re the key piece in my analysis, actually.” She gives a little laugh, almost like she’s embarrassed. “All roads point back to that first season. Would you be willing to meet up? I’m happy to travel wherever you are.”

She doesn’t know where I am. She doesn’t know I’m writing a memoir about Aiden. She’s really not calling about my current job.

She’s calling about the past.

I thought those calls were long over.

“Because you want to mention me in an article? I don’t want to be included.” My voice comes out harsh.

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