Chapter 4 #2
"Being comfortable with each other. If we're going to convince everyone this is a whirlwind romance, we can't flinch every time we touch."
His logic is sound, but there's something in his eyes that suggests this is about more than just maintaining our cover.
"What did you have in mind?" I ask, not stepping back when I should.
In answer, Bash's hand rises to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip. The touch is electric, sending sparks skittering across my skin.
"Being married means casual intimacy," he murmurs. "The kind that comes from knowing someone deeply."
"We've known each other for three days," I remind him, even as I lean subtly into his touch.
"Then we have a lot of catching up to do, don't we?"
His lips find mine before I can formulate a response, and this kiss is nothing like the chaste one we shared at Town Hall. This is heat and hunger and barely restrained desire. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and I open to him without hesitation.
My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. His arm circles my waist, drawing me firmly against him until we're pressed together from chest to thigh. I can feel the hard evidence of his arousal against my stomach, and a whimper escapes me.
Bash pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged. "Too much?"
"Not enough," I whisper before I can stop myself.
Something flares in his eyes, dark and wanting. "Charlie," he says, my name a warning or a prayer, I'm not sure which. "We should stop."
"Should we?" My hands slide up to his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled there. "It's our wedding night, after all."
"This isn't part of the agreement." His voice is strained, his control visibly slipping.
"Consider it an addendum," I say, rising on my toes to brush my lips against his jaw. "A mutually beneficial arrangement."
Bash groans, his restraint crumbling as he captures my mouth again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. He walks me backward until my spine meets the cool glass of the window, his body caging mine against it.
"Anyone could see us," I gasp as his lips trail down my neck.
"Let them," he growls, his hands finding the zipper of my dress. "Let them see how much I want my wife."
The dress falls away, pooling at my feet and leaving me in nothing but a lace bra, matching panties, and heels. Bash steps back, his eyes darkening as they roam over my exposed skin.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and the raw appreciation in his voice makes me feel powerful, desired.
I reach for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.
He helps me, shrugging out of the garment to reveal a torso sculpted with lean muscle.
My hands explore the planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair that narrows to a tantalizing trail disappearing beneath his waistband.
"Bedroom," he mutters, lifting me suddenly. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist as he carries me through the door, depositing me onto a bed strewn with rose petals.
His body covers mine, his weight a delicious pressure as he settles between my thighs. I arch against him, seeking friction, finding it as he rocks his still-clothed erection against my core.
"I want you," I confess, my nails scraping lightly down his back. "I've wanted you since that first night at the Harbor Arts Collective."
Bash's eyes lock with mine, searching. "This changes things," he warns, even as his hand slides up my thigh.
"Only if we let it," I counter, reaching between us to work at his belt. "Tonight is just tonight."
It's a lie, and I think we both know it, but it's the fiction we need to proceed. Tonight is just physical attraction, mutual need. Not the beginning of something neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
His pants join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, followed quickly by my bra. When his mouth closes over my nipple, hot and wet and perfect, I cry out, my back bowing off the bed.
"Sensitive," he notes with masculine satisfaction, lavishing the same attention on my other breast.
"Bash," I plead, not entirely sure what I'm asking for.
He seems to know, though, his hand slipping beneath the lace of my panties to find me wet and ready. When his finger slides inside me, I gasp, my hips lifting to take him deeper.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin, adding a second finger, stretching me deliciously. "So perfect."
I fumble for him, finding his length hard and straining against black boxer briefs. He hisses when I stroke him through the fabric, his rhythm faltering momentarily.
"Condom," I manage to say, clinging to that last shred of rationality.
"Nightstand," he responds, reluctantly withdrawing his touch to reach for the drawer.
I take the opportunity to shed my panties, lying naked and wanting as he rolls the condom over his impressive length. For a moment, he simply looks at me, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin.
"My wife," he says again, the possessive tone sending a fresh wave of heat through me.
"My husband," I respond, opening my arms to him.
When he enters me, it's with a slow, deliberate thrust that has us both gasping. He fills me completely, stretching me in the most exquisite way. For a moment, neither of us moves, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of our joined bodies.
Then Bash begins to move, setting a rhythm that has me clinging to his shoulders, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Each thrust pushes me higher, closer to the edge I'm already racing toward.
"Look at me," he commands softly, and I open eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed. The intensity of his gaze, the raw vulnerability there, nearly undoes me.
"I'm close," I warn, feeling the familiar tension building.
"Let go," he urges, his thumb finding my clit. "Let go for me, Charlie."
The sound of my name on his lips is what finally sends me over, my orgasm crashing through me in waves of pleasure so intense I nearly black out. I'm vaguely aware of Bash following me moments later, his body tensing above me as he finds his own release with a deep groan.
We stay joined for long moments afterward, neither willing to break the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Finally, Bash rolls to the side, bringing me with him so that I'm nestled against his chest, my head tucked under his chin.
"That was..." he begins, then seems at a loss for words.
"An excellent start to our fake marriage?" I suggest, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Indeed." His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. "Though I'm not sure 'fake' is the right word anymore, at least for some aspects."
I prop myself up to look at him, finding his expression uncharacteristically open. "What would you call it, then?"
He considers this, his hand now cupping my cheek. "Unexpected," he decides. "And welcome."
A warmth that has nothing to do with physical pleasure blooms in my chest. This isn't part of the plan. Getting physically involved, yes, that was probably inevitable given the attraction between us. But this tenderness, this sense of connection? That's dangerous territory.
"We should get ready for dinner," I say, reluctantly pulling away. "Make our first public appearance as newlyweds."
Bash nods, something shifting in his eyes as the moment passes. "Of course. Business as usual."
But as I gather my clothes and head for the shower, I know that nothing about this arrangement is usual anymore. I've just slept with my fake husband on our fake wedding night, and the most troubling part is how real it felt.
As the hot water washes over me, I try to regain some perspective. This is still a business arrangement. Eight weeks, then we go our separate ways. The sex was good, okay, incredible, but it doesn't change the fundamental terms of our agreement.
What I'm feeling is just the afterglow of great sex combined with the emotional intensity of the day. Nothing more.
I repeat this to myself as I dress for dinner, as Bash and I share a surprisingly comfortable meal in the resort restaurant, as heads turn and whispers follow us through the lobby.
I'm still repeating it hours later as I lie in bed, Bash's arm draped possessively across my waist, his breathing deep and even in sleep.
Eight weeks. Just eight weeks of this pretense, and then real life resumes.
The thought should be comforting. Instead, as I drift toward sleep in the arms of my contractual husband, it feels strangely like a countdown to loss.