Chapter 19
“Getaway Car” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
This month’s challenge is absolutely absurd.
Pierce and I are supposed to fake being in a relationship at tonight’s gala and convince at least three people we’re in love.
I’m positive this was Lux’s brainchild. She’s been trying to get Pierce and me together for years—as in, dating.
Can you even fathom the audacity? Hopefully after tonight she’ll realize what a preposterous idea that is.
He’s picking me up because of said stupid challenge, and I answer the door and step outside when he rings the bell.
His eyes widen—in surprise? appreciation?
admiration?—as he takes in my outfit, but that’s a fitting response considering what I’m wearing: a floor-length, one-sleeve black fitted gown with chandelier earrings that reach my shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything for several beats.
“Are we still going?” I ask when the silence grows uncomfortable.
His look turns smoldering. “On second thought, I’d rather stay in.” He reaches above my head to push the door open.
I give him a smug smile. “Too late.” It’s already locked, the alarm activated. He’s not getting inside without my permission.
“There’s always the car,” he growls as he escorts me to the limousine waiting on the street.
True to his word, he has me pinned against the back seat within seconds.
We’re heading to the Bay River Yacht Club, which is less than ten minutes away—a blessing, since I have no idea how my dress will survive Pierce St. James’s ravaging hands.
I’m already regretting the updo my stylist spent an hour on.
Thank god for powder rooms.
Our friends are all waiting for us in the ballroom, and considering the giant grins plastered on their faces, I’d wager they’re all in on Lux’s little plot to throw Pierce and me together. God, if only they knew.
So not only do we need to convince three people here tonight that we’re madly in love, but we also need to remind our friends that we hate each other’s guts.
Because the only thing worse than being in a benefits-only relationship with a man I can’t stand would be having my friends find out about said relationship.
Pierce and I separate naturally during the cocktail hour, and it isn’t until I look up to find his eyes on me that I remember we’re meant to be putting on a humiliating show.
His mouth twitches as he turns away, then lifts his hand to his neck as though he’s scratching an itch.
I know what he’s actually doing, and I know that he knows that I know.
That is way too much knowing for my liking.
In the car earlier, he clamped his fingers around my throat, much the way he’s doing to his own right now. Under the influence of his intoxicating scent and experienced touch, I may have mentioned what a turn-on that is for me. And now the bastard finds this an appropriate time to remind me.
Just wait until I get my hands on that neck myself. He may not find it so humorous.
In the hopes it will keep my mind off Pierce and the heat that’s been growing between my thighs since the minute he showed up at my door, I turn to listen to the group of women next to me discussing the queen and prince consort’s choice of baby name.
I’m on my second glass of champagne and considering a third—seriously, who cares what they name her?
—when a hand slides across my lower back and a familiar scent envelops me.
Pierce leans close to whisper in my ear, “Ready for dinner?”
I’m well aware of what he’s doing. The winner of tonight’s challenge will be the one who looks the most convincing, as determined by our watching friends. He’s doing a stellar job of playing his role so far, but he’s not the only one who knows how to fake something they don’t feel.
Leaning back against him, I say, “Whenever you are, darling.”
He lets out a quiet snort. “Don’t you dare call me that.” His voice is nothing more than a low rumble, too quiet to be heard by the people around us, but just loud enough to make a thrill shoot through my body.
I turn in his arms and adjust his already perfect white bow tie. “Oh, but darling, I know how much you love it.”
His grip tightens around my waist, a tiny promise of exactly what he could do to me if he so wished. “Let’s go eat.” He leads me to our seats, his hand never breaking contact with my body.
Our entire group sits down at the round table. After scooting my chair in, Pierce takes the one next to mine and clamps his right hand on my thigh. I glance down, wondering what the hell he’s thinking, but he just gives it a small squeeze and continues his conversation with Heath.
My dress reaches the floor, so it’s not as though he can access anything, and my legs are under the table, so it’s not as though anyone can see anything. What is he playing at? I start to remove his fingers one by one, but he grabs my hand and tucks it under his.
He keeps it there until the first course is served, and I find I rather miss the weight of it once it’s gone. Don’t tell the prick, though. His ego is big enough as it is. Besides, he’d read into it, and he doesn’t need anything else to hold over my head.
I push back my chair to go to the bathroom after the main course, remembering at the last second that I’m meant to be playing the doting girlfriend. Wrapping my arms around Pierce’s neck from behind, I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Be a good boy while I’m gone.”
Lux coos, and I shoot daggers at her with my eyes. I knew she was up to something.
I move to straighten, but Pierce takes hold of my hands and tugs me back down. “Take your panties off while you’re in there and stow them in your purse,” he murmurs into my ear. “Then we’ll see how good I am.”
My face is ablaze as I move to the restroom. I debate whether or not I should do as he said, but the thought of what he’s planning to do later prompts me to follow through. The car ride was only a tease, and I’m already desperate to sneak away with him.
I’ve tucked my thong in my bag and am washing my hands when Florence Piccadilly joins me at the sinks. “I had no idea you and Pierce St. James were together!” she says, meeting my gaze in the mirror with her own animated one. “You are just the most gorgeous couple.”
I give her a perfunctory smile and reach for the paper towels. “It happened suddenly, but we are crazy about each other,” I say through my teeth.
“Oh, I can tell,” she gushes. “Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”
Score. She will not be receiving an invitation to any wedding of mine, and definitely not one with Pierce. But now that the first person has been convinced that I not only tolerate, but love, that pain in the ass, there are only two more fools to go.
I walk back to the table, my steps a little lighter. As I approach, I can see that they’ve already served dessert. A mini pavlova sits by my spot, dusted with confectioner’s sugar and crowned with strawberries.
“I asked them to hold the whipped cream,” Pierce says. When I don’t respond, he places a hand just above my ass. “Is that okay?”
I nod, because my throat has grown thick. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that he remembered that I’m sensitive to both gluten and lactose, but I’m stunned. I had no idea he’s been paying attention all these years.
I scoot my chair out, but Pierce pulls me down onto his lap instead, then continues a friendly argument with Slate about the merits of solar energy, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. As though I’m not sitting on his lap in a room crowded with people we know.
One of his hands snakes up my back to where my dress dips down, revealing a healthy amount of skin, and starts moving in lazy circles. His other arm rests across my legs, his hand once again firmly attached to my thigh.
I’m beginning to suspect he didn’t share well as a child.
I clear my throat and glance around the table. I’m met with varying shades of amused expressions. “I’m pleased to announce that Mrs. Piccadilly is convinced Pierce and I are getting married.”
Lux grins and claps her hands.
Raising a brow, I say, “You do realize this is all for your little game, right?”
She nods but continues beaming, her face all lit up and glowing.
Fuck me now.
Pierce’s hands are still busily moving over my body in a way that would appear casual to an onlooker, but that I know is anything but. The man doesn’t do anything that isn’t measured and calculated. I’ve been fucked by him often enough in the past month to know that much.
“Let’s go,” he whispers.
I pretend not to hear him and laugh at the story Rhett is telling. In truth, I have no idea what he’s even saying, distracted as I am by the paths of Pierce’s touch.
He tightens his grip on my leg. “Now.”
“I haven’t even finished my dessert yet,” I say, pouting.
“Precisely the course I’d like to start on,” he growls into my ear. “Now take a bite, and let’s go.”
I lean forward and stab my fork into the meringue, then quickly stick it into my mouth.
Pierce takes the utensil from my hand, tosses it onto the table, and shifts me off his lap. “Excuse us,” he says to the rest of the table, maneuvering me past our chairs.
I reward him with an elbow to the side, but he just keeps walking, one arm firmly wrapped around my waist, leading me along with him. Apprehension and excitement both take root in my belly as we exit the ballroom.
“Where are we going?” I say once we pass into the main reception area of the yacht club.
He doesn’t answer, just steers me down a corridor. We stop in front of a doorway, a little metal plaque hanging over it reading “Cloakroom.” My heart rate kicks up a notch.
The attendant looks up from where he’s scrolling on his phone. “Name?”
Pierce pulls a large bill from his wallet and hands it to the teen. “Give us twenty minutes?”
The kid’s face goes from bored to interested in less than two seconds. “You got it.” He can hardly scramble off his stool fast enough as he takes the money.