The Fake Affair

1. Whiskey and Regrets

ONE

WHISKEY AND REGRETS

Bella

It’s probably not a great sign that I’m hiding on the terrace at my best friend’s wedding reception, clutching a crystal glass of whiskey like it’s my emotional support animal. The late August air wraps around me like a warm whisper, but I barely notice it over the pleasant buzz of expensive liquor.

Audrey’s perfect wedding turned into Audrey’s perfect afterparty… and here I am, the maid of honor, ghosting the celebration, but it’s not on purpose. My feet are killing me from running around all day. I just need a moment of rest and solitude.

That’s a lie. I really am hiding.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, I glance over and see the reception winding down—abandoned flutes, stilettos, and the remnants of a five-tier cake.

I take another sip, savoring the burn. The whiskey is probably worth more than my monthly rent—which is due in a week. Luckily, I’m starting at a new job on Monday. It’s the only thing going well for me right now.

“Interesting choice of drink.”

The Scottish accent hits me before I register the words. Deep, rich, and smooth like the whiskey I’m drinking. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is—I’ve spent the entire wedding avoiding him.

“The champagne wasn’t cutting it,” I say, still facing the city lights. My heart is doing this weird stuttering thing I’m blaming entirely on the alcohol.

Logan Fraser moves into my peripheral vision in his perfectly tailored tux. He has that whole devastatingly handsome thing going on—sharp jawline and subtle muscles under the tux that makes him look like he's stepped out of a magazine cover. He’s the kind of man who probably has women signing NDAs before one-night stands.

“A woman after my own heart.” He lifts his own glass—whiskey, same as mine. “Though I usually prefer drinking alone in my study rather than out here while sitting on the steps.”

“Well, it’s your sister’s wedding. You’re contractually obligated, or something like that, to be social.” The words come out snarkier than intended. Maybe I should slow down on the whiskey.

He lets out a low chuckle that does things to my insides. “And what’s your excuse for hiding out here, Bella?”

The way he says my name in that accent is panties-dropping sexy. Has he always said it like that? I’ve known him for years—well, known of him through Audrey—but I don’t remember his voice affecting me this way before.

Maybe because I’ve only heard him speak a handful of times since the Fraser siblings moved from Edinburgh ten years ago.

“I’m not hiding. I’m just taking a break from all the... happiness in there.”

Lying’s never been my strength, so I go with a half-truth. It comes out easier than admitting that watching everyone celebrate love tonight feels a bit like trying to smile with glass in my throat.

Thunder rumbles, and my whiskey sloshes as I rise too fast, the hem of my dress catching on the edge of my heel.

Logan steadies my hand. "Careful," he murmurs, his voice smooth as butter and rich as honey. "That's thirty-year-old Macallan."

"Of course it is." I force a laugh that lands somewhere between brittle and breathy. "Only the best at a Fraser wedding."

His thumb brushes my knuckles and lingers, just long enough to wake a low ache in my chest. When he lets go, the feeling doesn’t. “You sound almost bitter, love.”

“Not bitter.” I turn toward him, even though every instinct screams to stay facing the skyline. Bad idea. His eyes meet mine—blue-gray, sharp and stormy—and my resolve threatens to unravel like cheap silk. “Just... aware of the differences.”

Another rumble of thunder, closer this time. A few drops of rain scatter across the terrace railing, cold against my bare shoulders.

“We should head inside,” Logan says, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.

“Probably should.” I lift the crystal glass and drain the rest of the Macallan, the heat of it hitting the back of my throat.

The rain catches us full on, driving us back through the double doors near the main entrance. We stumble into a room that smells of cedar and worn leather, something carved out of another time. A study, maybe. Or a secret kept too well. It feels too still to belong to a wedding.

Logan closes the door with a quiet click, and somehow the silence that follows feels heavier than the storm. I become acutely aware of my own breath, of how the room shrinks with him standing there, close enough to touch, far enough to want.

Lightning fractures the sky beyond the glass. For a heartbeat, it paints his face in silver. He looks like something pulled from a fevered dream, too sharp for reality. Dangerous. Unreadable. Devastatingly beautiful.

"You've been avoiding me all day."

My spine presses against the nearest bookshelf. A row of spines digs into my back as I manage what I hope is a nonchalant scoff. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He sets down his glass. "Every time I’ve tried to speak to you, you've disappeared faster than my father's inheritance.”

I snort at that—I can’t help it. “Did you just make a joke about your family drama?”

“Thought it might make you smile.” His face softens, but not in the way that’d make conversation, or any of this, simpler. “You’ve looked like you needed one all evening.”

Oh. That’s... unexpectedly sweet. Heat unfurls in my chest, and I don’t know what to do with it. I want to blame the whiskey, but I know it’s not that. It’s him. It’s always been him. This sudden, unnerving gentleness in a man who usually only exists in sharp edges and shadows.

“Logan...” I start, but I’m not sure how to finish. Warn him away? Encourage him? My brain feels fuzzy from the whiskey and his proximity.

“I’ve always liked how you say my name.” His accent wraps around the words like ribbons of silk. “No pretense. No agenda. It’s just,” he pauses, eyes searching mine, “...real.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment.” But I don’t move away when he steps closer.

“I know enough.” His hand comes up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “I know you’re the only one of Audrey’s friends who never tried to get my attention.”

I roll my eyes. “So, what? Am I supposed to throw flips because you noticed I don’t think you’re the center of the universe?”

He laughs. “I also know that you have a very sharp tongue and you’re not afraid to speak your mind. I admire it too.”

His phone rings. It’s Audrey.

Logan answers. “Aye... what do you mean ‘now’? The storm’s getting worse... right. No, I understand... safe travels.”

He ends the call and looks at me, and the moment his eyes meet mine, a delicious shiver runs up my spine. It’s got to be that classic in my head, I’m doing dirty things to you promise that lingers in those luminous irises. “They’re leaving for their honeymoon now.”

My throat feels incredibly dry, but I pull my brows together and frown in response. “What? They aren’t supposed to leave until morning.”

Logan shrugs as he pockets his phone, momentarily breaking eye-contact to look at the storm raging just outside the windows of the study. “Something about the storm affecting flights for tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The party’s over then. Just like that, the night’s center shifts. The music, the people, the celebration—it’s all gone. And whatever’s left is this. The two of us in a room filled with things unsaid. “I should probably?—”

“Come home with me.”

I freeze. Not from fear. From recognition. I know this path. I’ve lingered at the edge of it in quiet moments, dared to imagine what it would feel like if the line between us ever snapped. His voice, low and steady and unflinchingly sure, turns imagination into fact.

His eyes find me again. My pulse stirs beneath my skin, a slow throb that deepens with every second he holds my gaze. This is why I kept my distance tonight. One look from Logan Fraser and I come undone.

I should say no. I should definitely say no. This is Audrey’s brother. This is?—

I moan a little as he steps toward me and his lips crash into mine, tasting of whiskey. I’ve wanted to taste his kiss for ages, a secret I’ve pushed away repeatedly. My hand flattens over his shirt, the hard planes of his chest muscles a tantalizing temptation. I feel his strong body press me harder against the bookshelf. Books dig into my back, but I couldn’t care less because his tongue is doing things that make my toes curl in my heels.

I let my fingers trail up his neck and into the softness of his hair. I am consumed by him, and with his hands on my hips and his cock growing hard in his pants, I feel a thrill knowing he’s into me too.

Then, there’s cold air where his warm body was. He pulls back just enough for me to feel the loss of him, his breaths coming in deep pants.

“This is a terrible idea,” I gasp.

“Probably.” His Scottish brogue has gone thick and rough, his voice husky. “Say no, lass, and I’ll call you a car right now.”

No doesn’t seem to exist in my vocabulary tonight. My entire body is alive for him, craving his touch, needing to feel his naked skin on mine.

I look up at him without hesitation, saying, “Take me home with you.”

His answering smile is downright sinful.

Later, I’ll blame the whiskey or the emotions of the wedding, maybe even the way the night wrapped around us like it was always going to end here—but right now, watching Logan’s strong hands loosen his tie as his driver winds us through the quiet streets toward his penthouse, all I can think about is how some mistakes are worth making, no matter how beautiful they burn.

His driver doesn’t blink when I step out with Logan, doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow as my Scottish sex god places a hand on the small of my back and guides me through the gleaming lobby of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive buildings, like I belong there, like he’s done this with me a hundred times.

The elevator ride takes forever, or maybe it only feels that way because Logan keeps stealing glances at me, slow and smoldering, his blue-gray eyes holding mine with a promise I feel everywhere. My heart stumbles against my ribs, not from nerves or alcohol, but from the way he looks at me like he already knows how I taste and wants to be reminded.

His penthouse is everything I imagined it would be—sleek lines, cold elegance, a skyline so sharp it could cut—but none of it really lands because Logan is already reaching for me, tugging me toward a leather couch with that rare kind of urgency that still manages to be careful, like he’s starving but still wants to savor every inch.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs.

The low timbre of his voice sends a ripple of heat between my legs, and I know— God , I know—I should be smarter than this. But as I look up at him, all I see are his storm-colored eyes, his parted lips, and the raw, simmering need he’s barely holding back.

I answer by pulling him down to me.

His lips crash against mine with the hunger of a man who’s waited far too long, and I melt into the kiss, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as I drag him down with me onto the couch. His body covers mine, all heat and hardness, and I let out a moan when our chests press together, when I feel his erection grinding lightly against my thigh through layers of clothing.

I pull him closer, greedy for more—for the press of him, the taste of his mouth, the heat that’s been curling low in my belly since he first touched my hand outside. I sink into it, into him, letting the kiss consume me. Every inch of my skin is hypersensitive. My nipples harden under the thin lace of my bra just from the brush of his breath, and when he pulls back to look at me, his eyes searching, I already know what he’s asking.

"Don't stop," I whisper, breathless.

The moment I say it, I feel the shift. His hands move with new urgency. He slides my dress from my shoulders, tugging it down and off until it’s a forgotten puddle on the floor. I’m left in sheer lace—barely decent, utterly exposed—and the way his eyes drag over me makes my breath catch.

“You’re more stunning than I imagined,” he says, voice reverent, like I’m something sacred.

I raise an eyebrow, teasing even as arousal throbs between my legs. “Way to reveal that you’ve been fantasizing about me.”

His smile is slow and wicked. “You’re a beautiful woman, Bella. It’s nearly impossible not to.”

“And you,” I say, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, “are a tease.”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

I don’t. Not at all. Not when he looks at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.

I tug at the buttons, popping each one with deliberate slowness, revealing inch after inch of tanned skin and lean muscle. I rake my nails lightly down his chest and feel the way his body tenses, responding to my touch.

“Less talking,” I say, my voice a little breathier now, “more touching.”

His grin deepens—carnal, confident—and his shirt joins my dress on the floor, followed by the rest of our clothes in a blur of impatient hands and soft curses. When he stands above me, fully naked, my mouth goes dry. He’s gorgeous . All taut muscle and long, sculpted lines, with a cock that makes my pussy flutter in anticipation.

He leans over me, and I fall back against the couch cushions, letting him cover me again. His lips find my neck, warm and searching, and I let out a soft gasp when his mouth closes over one of my nipples, teasing and sucking until my back arches off the cushions.

“Dammit, you’re soft all over,” Logan groans against my skin, his hands sliding over my waist, down my hips, his touch reverent and possessive.

“Then touch me,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair, already trembling with want. “Everywhere.”

He does. His fingers trail lower, finding the slick heat between my thighs, and the first stroke is enough to steal my breath. My body jerks, hips lifting off the couch as he circles my clit in slow, maddening spirals.

I can’t stop the moan that escapes me. “Logan,” I gasp, biting my lip.

“You just hold still, love.” His lips graze my collarbone as his fingers continue their torturous rhythm, teasing and coaxing and sliding just deep enough to keep me on the edge without giving me what I need.

My thighs tremble as he holds them open, his grip strong and commanding, and the pressure keeps building, winding tighter with every stroke.

“You’re not playing fair,” I manage, voice ragged.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he shifts lower, and the first stroke of his tongue against my clit is so devastating, I cry out. I grip the back of the couch, the cushions, his hair—anything to keep from flying apart. His mouth is hot, relentless, and so damn skilled I can barely think.

He alternates slow, sinful licks with deeper, firmer strokes that leave me a wreck. My body is on fire. My skin tingles. I’m panting his name like a prayer, my hips trying to move against him, to get more.

He hums against me, the vibration pushing me to the edge. His tongue circles once more, presses hard, and I shatter, my orgasm tearing through me in waves so intense I see stars. My thighs clamp around his head, my whole body shudders, but he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking me through it, slower now, tender, coaxing every drop of pleasure from me until I’m limp beneath him, boneless and gasping.

“Fuck!” I yell, overwhelmed, undone.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, breath warm against my inner thigh. “Let me give you something you won’t forget in a hurry.”

I don’t get a chance to respond. Before I’ve even caught my breath, Logan scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing. His chest is warm against mine, his heartbeat steady as he carries me to the kitchen.

“This is madness,” I whisper, breath hitching.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees, and that damn smirk is back. “But you’re not tellin’ me to put you down, are you?”

“No,” I say, voice shaky. “Not even close.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The marble island is cold beneath my bare skin as he sets me down. I gasp, the contrast shocking, but he steps between my legs before I can say a word. His body radiates heat—his cock thick and ready—and I want all of him.

"You're impossible," I whisper, dragging my nails up his sides, leaning in until our lips barely touch.

“And you're crazy if you thought I wouldn't want this.”

My laugh is sharp with lust. "Oh, you think you're doing me a favor, Mr. Fraser?"

"I'll make sure you remember this."

His hips press into mine, hard and hot, and I moan, the contact electric. My fingers trail down his stomach, past the taut ridges of muscle, until I wrap them around his cock.

“Bella,” he growls, warning rough in his voice.

“What?” I purr, stroking him with slow, steady confidence. “I thought you wanted me to remember?”

“Bloody hell,” he groans, his hands gripping my thighs tighter. His head falls back, the sight of it making me ache.

I smile, wicked and triumphant. My thumb teases the tip of him, slick and hot, and he hisses through his teeth.

“I’m feeling a little hungry,” I murmur, sliding off the countertop. My breasts bounce as I land, and his eyes go dark.

“I plan to ravage you,” he growls, voice feral.

“Not yet.” I interrupt him with a grin, kneeling between his legs. I take him into my mouth slowly, relishing the size and heat of him, the way he groans and fists my hair.

“Oh Jesus,” he swears, pushing deeper.

I take him again and again, letting him fuck my mouth just the way he wants. I moan around him, letting the vibration drive him wild, feeling his control fray.

“Enough,” he rasps, dragging me up by the shoulders. “You’ll ruin me before we even get to the bed.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Oh, love,” he mutters darkly, “you’ll regret that.”

He carries me, breath ragged, into the bedroom. The sheets are cool against my overheated skin as he lays me down. I watch him, heart pounding, desire still thrumming under my skin.

“Logan,” I whisper, voice softer now, raw with everything this night has become.

Before I know it, he’s inside me. Stretching me in the most delicious way. I cry out, breath stuttering as my body clenches around him, the thickness of him pushing deeper until I feel it everywhere. He fills me completely, the pressure hitting so deep I can feel it low in my belly, a thick, aching pulse that spreads with every slow thrust.

His cock drags against the most sensitive part of me, the friction just enough to make my thighs shake, to make my toes curl. I cling to his shoulders, fingernails pressing into the warm muscle there, trying to ground myself against the rush of sensation blooming under my skin.

Each time he moves, I feel it higher. Aching pleasure coils through my core as his hips roll with maddening control, driving into me with a rhythm that keeps me right on the edge. He grinds just slightly as he bottoms out, and the pressure lands squarely in that tender spot deep inside, sending a ripple of heat straight through my belly.

I moan against his throat, biting down gently as the pleasure builds sharp and fast. His cock keeps stroking that place inside me that makes everything else blur—the world, the rules, the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this. All I can feel is the heat curling tighter in my belly, the slick pulse of my body clenching around him, and the way he groans when I do.

My body rocks with his, helpless against the rhythm, helpless against the flood of sensation that keeps cresting through me, higher and hotter. I feel like I’m going to break apart. And the way he fucks me, steady and deep, makes me want to.

His accent slips into Gaelic, rough and warm against my skin, and every thrust feels like something sacred.

And even though I know better, even though I promised myself this was just a mistake—I still can’t stop wishing this night didn’t have to end.

* * *

Morning comes, bringing with it the harsh reality of what I’ve done. I blink awake to find Logan standing near the windows, wearing a gray hoodie and running shorts. His back is to me, one hand in his pocket.

“It’s time to end this,” he says, his accent clipped and cold. “I need you gone this morning.”

My heart stops.

Then, he adds, “Make it quick.”

The sting of humiliation burns harsh. Of course. This is Logan Fraser—and this is exactly what I should expect from him after a one-night stand. Because that is what this is, right? Right.

Logan disappears into what must be his en-suite bathroom. I don’t wait around to hear more.

I find my dress freshly pressed on his closet door, alongside some designer sweats I won't touch. I don't need his charity. Everything about last night feels like an embarrassing mistake now.

I order an Uber with shaking fingers as I silently exit his penthouse. He doesn't come after me—of course he doesn't.

As my ride arrives, I make a promise: Logan Fraser will regret this.

I just don't know how yet.