Page 94 of F*ckboys

"Here?" she asks, her eyes wide with surprise and excitement.

"Here," I confirm, leading her toward the living room. We can't wait any longer, and the gala can damn well wait.

In the middle of the living room, I strip off my suit jacket and bow tie, leaving them crumpled on the floor. Fallon follows suit, allowing her exquisite gown to pool at her feet, followed by her sheer lace bra and panties. Good god, I can't wait to remove those with my teeth later.

We both hop onto the leather couch. The sight of her naked body, glowing under the soft light of the lamp, is almost more than I can bear. My erection is rock hard, eager for her.

"God, Fallon," I groan, pulling her close and kissing her deeply. "You're irresistible. There's no way I could wait until later on tonight."

"Then don't resist," she breathes against my lips, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me closer.

We lose ourselves in each other, our bodies tangled together as we give in to our passion. The glowing light in the living room surrounds us like a protective cocoon, inside of which nothing outside matters.

When we finally rise from the couch, we're both flushed, giddy, and utterly satisfied. Fallon's eyes sparkle like the stars themselves, and I can't help but feel like the luckiest man alive.

"Come on," I say, helping her back into her gown before slipping into my suit once more. "Let's do this. Let's introduce the world to the future Mrs. Aksel King."

Fallon's eyes fly wide open and she glances at me sideways.

"Just checking to see if you were listening," I smirk.

She playfully punches me in the arm, and although she tries to play it cool, I can't help but notice the little red flush developing on her cheeks.

The limousine pulls up to the dazzling venue, and the night air buzzes with anticipation. Reporters and photographers swarm the car, eager to capture the glamorous Dempsey-King duo as we make our grand entrance.

"Ready?" I ask, tightening my grip on Fallon's hand.

"Ready," she confirms, her eyes shining with determination.

As we step out of the limo, a flurry of camera flashes greet us, their staccato bursts blinding and relentless. We walk arm-in-arm towards the entrance, ignoring the shouted questions and intrusive lenses, our focus solely on each other.

"Remember," I whisper into her ear as we reach the doors. "No matter what happens tonight, we're in this together."

"Always," she replies, squeezing my hand. And with that, we stride into the gala, ready to face the world.

Inside, the gala is a dazzling display of wealth and influence. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, champagne flows freely, and the room thrums with conversation and laughter. Many eyes turn to us as we enter, whispers and murmurs trailing in our wake.

I feel Fallon's grip on my arm tighten, her unease palpable. Public scrutiny has never been easy for her, unless she's running one of her programs and speaking to her clients in the intimate environment of her own lecture theater, whereas I'm used to being under the microscope in the boardroom. Still, a boardroom is a much more intimate venue, and without less paparazzi, than a star-studded ballroom. I make an effort to appear relaxed and confident as we navigate the sea of scrutinizing faces.

"Just ignore them," I murmur. "This night is about us."

Fallon nods, a brave smile fixed on her flawlessly painted lips. But as we make small talk with various socialites and tycoons, her discomfort visibly grows. I overhear snippets of crudespeculation about our relationship, including accusations of it being a publicity stunt.

"Did you hear about the cheese factory explosion?" I squeeze Fallon's waist gently as I point over at a tray of charcuterie including a busy spread of cheeses.

Fallon glances at me like I've lost my mind. "Huh?"

"There was nothing left but de-brie." I smirk. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."

She rolls her eyes but her laughter, while strained, seems to help settle her nerves. We continue mingling, and the night progresses smoothly. Between us, we know several attendees who run in our respective circles, and we introduce each other. "This is my partner, Aksel," she says to one group, and "Aksel here is my boyfriend," she says to another, as if testing out the way the words feel in public. And to be honest, I don't care what she calls me, as long as she calls me hers. I'm just grateful to be firmly in her orbit once again.

When lively music fills the hall, I seize the opportunity. "Dance with me," I say, leading Fallon to the floor before she can protest. I pull her close as we sway and twirl, our bodies pressed together intimately.

As expected, our dance attracts even more prying eyes. But Fallon seems to relax in my arms, momentarily forgetting the judging stares and letting herself enjoy the moment. Other than the recent charity event, it's been a long time since I've danced in a formal setting like this, the last time probably back with Fallon at prom. And it somehow feels like that was just yesterday as we once again entwine our limbs on the dance floor.

Although I'm feeling more than satisfied by our earlier encounter, it still turns me on to have Fallon in my arms, guiding her across the dance floor and spinning her around at my will.

The song ends, and I dip her low, her hair brushing the floor. "Was that so bad?" I ask playfully as I draw her back up.

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