Page 100 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Her eyes widen slightly. “You what?”

I turn away, trying to regain control. “The point is that Blackwell is dangerous. Burt was feeding him information about our business, our marriage, our fucking lives. And instead of telling me, you decided to handle it alone.”

“Because I wanted to help you,” she says, her voice softening. “Because I care about what happens to you and your company.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to voice.

“This goes beyond our agreement,” I finally say.

We stand in silence, the unspoken truth of our evolving relationship filling the space between us.

“What happens now?” she asks.

“Now I deal with Burt and the fallout. We need to identify everything he shared with Blackwell and mitigate the damage.”

“I’ve already started compiling that information,” she says, gesturing to her laptop. “I can show you.”

I move closer, standing beside her as she opens her evidence files. Her shoulder brushes against my arm, and I feel her warmth through my shirt. I feel... hunger. Need. Desire.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For protecting what’s mine.”

Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us. Something that makes my chesttight and my control fragile. I’m at the edge again. One small misstep, that's all it will take...

“I need to go to my Brooklyn studio,” she says suddenly. “To clear my head. To process all this. Everything is on the laptop.”

The thought of her leaving now, after everything that just happened, triggers something primal in me. Before I can analyze the impulse or talk myself out of it, I catch her wrist.

“No,” I say, my voice rough.

She turns back, surprise flickering across her face. “Gideon, I need some space to—”

“Don’t you fucking move,” I tell her.

She wrenches free of my grip. “I’m not one of your servants. You don’t own me.”

She starts heading for the elevator.

I close the distance between us in one stride, blocking her path.

“No, I don’t,” I tell her before I can stop myself. “You own me.”

My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and I crush my lips against hers.

She freezes for a heartbeat, just long enough for me to begin doubting myself, before she melts against me with a soft sound that unravels the last of my control. Her hands grip my dress shirt, pulling me closer as I back her against the wall.

The kiss is nothing like our carefully choreographed public displays of affection. It’s more like the kiss we shared in my office, after those weeks of denial, but this time it’s sheer rawness, it’s desperation, is fueled by the residual fear of almost losing her and the relief of finding her safe. I taste her gasp when my teeth catch her lower lip, feel the tremorthat runs through her body when my hand grips her hip.

“I couldn’t fucking stand it,” I murmur against her mouth, the words escaping before I can stop them. “Hearing him threaten you. Knowing I couldn’t get to you fast enough.”

Her pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed as she looks up at me. “But you did. You came.”

“I will always come for you,” I say, the fervent promise slipping out before I can consider its implications.

A small noise escapes her throat as she pulls me down for another kiss, her body arching against mine. I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist as I press her more firmly against the wall.

33

Ava

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