Page 160 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead against mine. “Come home,” he whispers. “Please come home.”

I nod, unable to form words past the lump in my throat.

The whole ride back to the penthouse is a long, extended foreplay session. Just a blur of heated lips and hands that can’t seem to stop touching. The scent of his cologne, that blood orange zest, aged cognac amber, vetiver, fills the enclosed space, and I breathe it in greedily. I almost want him to take me right there.

I can’t believe we’re doing this. Actually admitting we love each other. What happens now?

By the time we reach the penthouse, the tension between us is almost unbearable. The elevator ride up is silent except for our breathing, his hand wrapped around mine like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go. We watch the numbers rising in anticipation. Before we’re even halfway, we’re already kissing and groping.

When the doors open, we pull apart and step into the familiar space. I immediately notice my paintings still hanging exactly where he left them. Every brushstroke, every expression of my heart still on display despite my dramatic exit speech demanding he take them down.

“You didn’t remove them,” I say, turning to look at him.

“I couldn’t.” He shrugs, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable it makes my heart ache. “Nothing else felt right.”

I kiss him again, hungrily. From the edge of my mouth I say: “I want you so bad.”

He pulls away. “Wait.”

The epitome of restraint, he leads me forward.

In moments we’re standing in the hallway between our bedrooms. A space that once represented the boundaries of our arrangement.There’s no moment of hesitation. Gideon simply takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom.

It smells exactly like him, and the familiar scent brings back a flood of memories. Nights spent tangled in these sheets, mornings waking to the weight of his arm across my waist, the quiet moments between us when we were just Gideon and Ava, no pretenses or performances.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, voice rough as his hands come up to cradle my face again. “Every night without you here has been torture.”

I rise on tiptoes, pressing my lips to his in answer. This kiss is different from all those that came before. Still hungry, yes, but there’s no pretense of a purely physical arrangement, just the raw honesty of how we truly feel.

His hands move to the zipper of my dress, slowly drawing it down. I ease the fabric down from my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet. I stand before him in just my underwear, suddenly shy despite the fact that he’s seen me naked countless times.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his gaze traveling over me with a reverence that makes me blush. “So fucking beautiful.”

We kiss again.

I reach for him, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. “I never thought we’d be here,” I admit from the side of my mouth, pushing the fabric aside to reveal his hard chest. “I never thought you could feel the same way.”

“I fought it,” he says, stepping back to remove his shirt completely. “I told myself it was just physical.” His pants follow, leaving him in just boxer briefs that do nothing to hide his arousal. “I’ve never been so wrong about anything in my life.”

We tumble onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. His mouth explores my body with exquisite slowness, as if rediscovering territory he thought lost forever. When he finally settles between my thighs, his tongue drawing patterns over my panties that make me arch off the mattress, I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

“Gideon,” I gasp, fingers threading through his hair.

He looks up, his gray eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you need, vixen.”

“You,” I say simply. “Just you.”

He prowls up my body, his mouth sealing over mine in a searing kiss. His hands skate down my sides, fingertips catching the rim of my panties.

“These,” he rasps against my lips, “are in the way.”

With a single fluid motion, he tears them free, the delicate fabric splitting like a sigh. I gasp at the violence of it, the claim in the act, but he’s already reaching for his own underwear, his cock straining against the fabric.

I reach for him, greedy.

“No.” He guides my palm to his chest instead. “You’ll watch.”

My breath hitches as he leans back and strips himself bare. He shoves his underwear down over lean hips and his cock springs free, thick and flushed, and I whimper at the sight, thighs reflexively tightening.

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