Page 27 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

“I see you,” I whisper. “I see…us.”

Nathan groans, deep and wrecked, and then he unleashes himself.

He thrusts into me in one slow, claiming stroke, and I sob—because it’s too much, because it’s not enough. My hands scramble against the sheets, my back arching as pleasure crashes over me raw and unrelenting, his name spilling from my lips.

His pace quickens, each thrust is punishing, making it impossible to anything but take it. The intensity coils around my spine, tightening with every drag of his cock against my walls. I can barely think, barely breathe, much less remember to keep my eyes on us.

On the image in the mirror.

On the sight of my boss fucking me like he wants to brand the image into my soul—like he wants me to know exactly who’s in control.

My cheek meets the mattress for a fleeting second before his fingers knot in my hair, yanking me upright. My vision blurs, a sharp noise catching in my throat—not just from the brutal pleasure of it, but from him touching my hair like that.

I should slap his damn hand away. I should tell him if he doesn’t let go right now, this whole thing is done. But instead… I shiver, relishing the sting of his grip.

“Nathan,” I gasp, half warning, half wrecked plea.

His fingers flex, a ghost of a squeeze, the tension delicious and infuriating all at once. His other hand smooths over my hip in contrast, grounding me before his hold eases—not fully letting go, but a silent concession.

A wordless promise that if I said no, he would listen.

But I won't stop him.

Instead, I meet his gaze in the mirror, watching the way my lips part, the way my body molds to his.

“You keep looking, beautiful.” His voice is molten heat against my skin. “You don’t get to look away.”

I swallow hard, staring into the mirror, watching the way I melt under his touch, his control, his fucking worship. Nathan curses, his grip bruising as he pulls me back onto him, his other hand still curled in my hair, making me watch myself unravel.

“Do you see it?” His voice is raw, reverent. “How you and I fit together so fucking perfectly?”

I can’t respond—not when my body is wound so tight, straining at the breaking point. His grip shifts, pushing me right up against the precipice, holding me there for a torturous, endless second before shoving me over.

A jagged, devastating release wrecks through me, searing itself into my mind as I watch it unfold in the mirror—the way my body convulses in his grasp, the way his arms tighten around me, like he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

Nathan’s rhythm falters, his control finally snapping. A guttural groan rips from his throat as he follows me over the edge, his fingers digging bruises into my hips like he can’t bear to let go.

The room drips in silence, nothing but our labored, uneven breathing filling the space. The mirror reflects the aftermath—the way we collapse into each other, tangled, breathless, undone.

Nathan’s arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against him, his lips pressing into my temple in a quiet, unshakable claim.

“Mine,” he murmurs, his voice steady, certain. “Always.”

Chapter Ten

NATHAN - THE FINAL DEAL

The morning air carries a quiet serenity as Dana stands at our suite’s balcony railing, her hair catching the early sunlight, the soft waves gleaming gold where the light touches them. She hasn’t noticed me yet, and I take a moment to memorize the sight of her—the woman who turned my world upside down in the best way possible.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent my career analyzing risks, treating every interaction like a chess match. I’m always at least three steps ahead. But now? I run my thumb over the edge of the papers in my pocket, freshly pulled from my suitcase. The weight of them is heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.

For the first time, I don’t know if I’m making the right move.

She shifts, as if she senses me watching, then turns, lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re up early.”

“I never went to bed,” I admit, stepping toward her. “Too much on my mind.”

Her brow furrows with concern—the same look she gives me when I’ve worked through meals or let business consume me entirely. She doesn’t have to say a word. I already know what she’s thinking.

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