Page 86 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I reach for the scotch and refill my own glass. The liquid amber catches the light as I swirl it, watching her over the rim as I take another sip. The burn spreads through my chest, loosening something that’s been wound tight all day.

I lean back in my chair, studying her. “Your exhibition was exceptional.”

The subject change catches her off guard. More color fills her cheeks. “You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.” I stand, needing to move, to put some space between us. “Your professor was right about the emotional depth in your recent work.”

“Professor Marshall talks too much,” she mumbles, but I can tell she’s pleased.

I walk to the windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline as twilight settles over the city. Blackwell is out there somewhere, plotting his next move. Possibly watching us at thisvery moment.

“What happened to the original?” I ask, turning back to her. “The portrait of your grandmother.”

Her expression shutters. “I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does.” I step closer. “Everything that matters to you matters to me, Ava. That was part of our arrangement.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “No, it wasn’t. Our arrangement was about saving your company and my getting financial freedom. Emotional involvement wasn’t part of the deal. Remember?”

“Then why are you here?” I ask quietly.

The question hangs between us. We both know she didn’t need to come. Phone calls or texts could have maintained our cover story just fine.

She drains her glass and sets it down with a decisive click. “I already told you,” she says, her words slightly softer around the edges from the alcohol. “Celebrate my graduation, give you a break from all this corporate bullshit, and so we could be seen going home together.” She waves her hand dismissively. “God, do you always interrogate people bringing you drinks?”

I can see through the lie. Her eyes don’t quite meet mine, and she’s biting her lower lip. It’s a tell I’ve come to recognize when she’s holding something back. The scotch has lowered both our guards, and I find myself moving toward her, drawn like a magnet.

“Why are youreallyhere?” I ask again, my voice dropping to a near whisper as I stop directly in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. I’m barely holding myself back. Barely hanging by a thread...

Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. Her breath catches visibly. The air between us feels electric, charged with something we’ve been fighting for weeks.

“Gideon, I—”

The thread snaps.

Before I can stop myself, I lean down and press my lips to hers. The kiss is gentle at first, questioning, but the taste of her mixed with scotch ignites something primal in me and it’s all I can do to pull back. When I do, her eyes are wide, pupils dilated.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically, shocked at my own lack of control. “That was—”

She surges forward, cutting off my apology as she crashes her lips against mine. This kiss is nothing like the first. It’s hungry, desperate, weeks of denied need pouring out at once. It’s like a match to gasoline. All the tension, the frustration, the barely contained rage at Blackwell, it transforms into a different kind of heat entirely. The scent of her fills my senses, sending blood rushing south so fast I feel light-headed.

I grab her waist, pulling her against me as the kiss deepens. Her mouth opens under mine, and I taste scotch and something sweeter, something purely Ava.

My brain screams at me to stop. We have an agreement. No emotional involvement. But my body has other ideas, and right now, it’s winning the argument.

The agreement doesn’tactuallysay we can’t fuck.

“I want you,” I growl against her mouth. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into this office tonight. I’ve wanted youevery fucking dayof the past few weeks.”

I back her against my desk, lifting heronto it and stepping between her thighs. Paperwork scatters to the floor. I don’t care. For the first time in days, I’m not thinking about Blackwell or moles or business threats. I’m thinking about nothing but the soft curves pressed against me and the little sounds Ava makes as I kiss down her neck.

“What about the windows?” she gasps as my hands slide under the hem of her dress, her eyes darting to the floor-to-ceiling glass behind us. “Anyone could see.”

“We’ll give them a good show,” I promise, kissing the exposed skin of her shoulder. “Let Blackwell’s goons see what I do to my wife.”

The possessiveness in my voice surprises us both. If this is supposed to be for show, a performance in case we’re being watched, why does it feel so goddamn real?

Her hands are at my belt, urgent and eager. “Condom?”

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