Chapter 19 #2
I cross the space between us.
She lets go of the dress, exposing her back. My eyes fixate on the lace band of her bra, so dainty and delicate it wouldn’t take much to tear it off her.
Shaking my head, I try to concentrate.
She gathers her hair, holding it up and away from the zipper. My hands hover for a second before I touch her—skin warm beneath my fingers as I slide the zipper up, slow and careful, fearful that if I move too fast, she might step away before I’m ready.
She exhales, the sound strangled and shaky. I’m close enough to smell her perfume—an addicting sweet citrus.
“There,” I say, my voice lower than I mean for it to be.
When I look up, she’s watching me in the mirror. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s an intensity in her eyes that pins me where I stand.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
I nod, forcing myself to step back before I do something stupid—like undo the zipper and let her dress fall to the floor.
She sits on the edge of the bed to slip on her heels. “Okay,” she says, “so how exactly does this work? We walk in and say we want to get married?”
“Basically. We’ve already got the paperwork started, so it’s just signatures and vows now.”
“Right.” She flattens the fabric over her thighs. Her brows pinch, a line of worry settling between them.
“What’s wrong?”
She exhales through a small, worried smile. “I just realized we’re going to have to kiss, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.” I tug on my tie, the tightness of it suffocating—as if the thought of kissing her hadn’t already been at the forefront of my mind.
“We can’t go in there unprepared. Everyone in that courthouse has to believe this is real. If we’re going to pull it off, we need to at least rehearse it once.”
“Like right now? Just us two? Alone? Isn’t that against your rules?”
She blinks, eyebrows lifting. “Every good performance must be rehearsed. This wouldn’t be for our enjoyment—it’s for practice. So we look natural and not like strangers who’ve never touched and are getting married.”
I blow air through my nose. “It’s just—I really don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Gavin,” she says, amused, “it’s a kiss. We’ve kissed before. It’s not a big deal.”
But it is a big deal. We’ve never kissed alone.
And God, do I want to kiss her—take those bee-stung lips and press them to mine, slip my tongue in and coax out every sexy little sound she doesn’t realize she makes.
Real or fake, I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give, even if it’s under the pretense of practice.
“Maybe just once,” I relent. “To really sell it.”
She grins and extends both hands toward me, palms up. “Fine. Let’s make it official.”
I take her hands, and we stand there—awkwardly at first—like we’re at the altar instead of the middle of a hotel room. Her eyes glint with amusement as she says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
Her smile widens as she steps even closer, her hands winding around my neck, our bodies flush as she tilts her chin up. The fragile atmosphere between us turns heavy, like one wrong move could break whatever this is.
I reach for her waist without thinking, hands resting lightly against the soft fabric of her dress. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts back to my eyes.
“This is just for practice,” she reiterates, and I’m not sure if she’s reminding me or herself.
“Mmm-hmm” is my response; the ability to utter more would be impossible.
When our lips meet, it’s nothing like the first time. That kiss had been rushed, messy, too much adrenaline. This one is slow. Intentional. Her mouth moves against mine like she’s testing how we fit, learning the shape of us.
It’s should be just a peck.
But it’s not.
I pull back a breath, enough to see her—to see her reaction, only to lean in again. Her hand finds my jaw, thumb grazing my cheekbone. Every nerve in my body is standing at attention. When her tongue tangles with mine, all sense of reason ceases to exist.
I dig my fingers into her hips, needing to erase any distance between us. Her breasts mold against my chest, soft and round.
She threads her fingers through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. A whimper escapes me before I can stop it, and my glasses shift—one side lifting. I couldn’t give a shit; it would take a hell of a lot more than that to tear me from her.
My hands start to wander, skimming across the satin, grabbing a handful of her ass. Her response is to deepen the kiss, forcing my neck to bend at her will. I explore, grazing under her breasts, sliding around her ribs, enjoying the discovery of every perfect inch.
The desire to push this—the want to take it much further—I can hardly control myself. But I have to. Because none of this is real. It’s me, with years of unrequited feelings coming to the surface, and her only reacting to our physical chemistry.
With as much restraint as I can muster, I slowly disentangle myself, breaking our connection.
We stare at each other, both of us catching our breath.
“Well,” she says after a beat, voice a little wobbly, “that should do it.”
“Yep,” I quip.
Neither of us moves for a second. Then she clears her throat and steps back, fixing her dress like she’s not sure what to do with her hands.
I adjust my glasses, turn toward the mirror, and throw my hair back up—needing the distraction. “Ready?”
“Sure,” she says, her tone too bright. “Let’s do this.”