Chapter 5 #2
His answer is to kiss me again, a slow, deep exploration that says everything we haven’t been able to speak aloud. His fingers find the zipper of my dress, the cool metal a shock against my heated skin. The silk whispers to the floor, pooling at my feet.
His intake of breath is sharp, tangible. “Audra,” he murmurs, his gaze tracing every line of me. “You’re...”
“Real,” I finish, my voice barely a whisper. “This is real.”
He shakes his head slightly, as if clearing it, then lifts me into his arms. I let out a surprised laugh as he carries me the few steps to his bed, lowering me onto the soft quilt as if I’m something precious. He follows me down, bracing himself on his elbows above me.
“I’ve wanted this since we were twenty-two,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
“Me too,” I confess. “So much.”
His mouth meets mine again, and this time there’s no hesitation.
His hands move over me, learning the geography of my body, discovering the curves and hollows that have only existed in memory for a decade.
I arch into his touch, my own hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solid weight of him against me.
“Too many clothes,” I murmur against his mouth.
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that vibrates through my entire body. “I’ve been trying to fix that.”
He makes quick work of his shirt, buttons popping, and then his chest is bare to my touch. I trace the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone, the scattering of freckles across his shoulders that were there even in college. He shivers under my touch, his eyes dark with want.
“You’re not the only one who’s been waiting,” he says, capturing my wrist to press a kiss against my palm. “Every time I saw you in my dreams, you looked exactly like this.”
His other hand finds the clasp of my bra, the fabric falling away with practiced ease. His gaze on my breasts is reverent, appreciative, before his mouth follows where his eyes have been. I gasp as his lips close around my nipple, his tongue doing things that make my toes curl.
“Reese,” I breathe, my hands tangling in his hair.
He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his free hand tracing down my side, over my hip, to the lace edge of my panties. His fingers brush against me through the fabric, and I lift my hips, wordlessly asking for more.
“Patience,” he whispers, but I can feel his own restraint fraying.
I make a sound of protest when he pulls away, only to sigh in pleasure as he removes my panties slowly, his knuckles brushing against my skin. He settles between my legs, his eyes dark with intent.
“I’ve thought about this too,” he says, his breath warm against my inner thigh. “Wondering if you’d taste as sweet as I imagined.”
I’m about to respond with something witty, something to maintain the illusion of control, but then his mouth is on me, and all coherent thought evaporates.
He explores me with a dedication that suggests he’s been planning this for years, and maybe he has.
His tongue finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling, teasing, until I’m arching off the bed, my fingers gripping the quilt.
“Reese, please—”
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them just so, and that’s it. The tension that’s been building for ten years breaks, waves of pleasure washing over me until I’m breathless and trembling.
He kisses his way back up my body, settling beside me as I slowly come back to myself. “Hi,” he says softly, a smile in his voice.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice husky. “That was... something.”
“I hope so.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “I’ve been saving it up.”
I turn to face him, propping myself up on an elbow. “In that case, we’re not done.”
My hand finds the button of his jeans, making quick work of them. He lifts his hips to help me slide them off, along with his boxers. And then he’s naked against me, all warm skin and lean muscle, the hard length of him pressing against my thigh.
I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips as I wrap my hand around him. He groans into my mouth as I stroke him, slowly at first, then with more confidence when he responds with hitched breaths and soft curses.
“Audra, you’re going to kill me.”
“Not before I get what I want.”
He rolls me onto my back, settling over me again. “And what do you want?”
“You. Inside me. Now.”
He reaches for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. I watch him sheathe himself, the motion practiced but slightly clumsy in his haste. Then he’s back, his gaze intense as he positions himself at my entrance.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says, though we both know it’s too late.
“Make me forget the last ten years,” I whisper.
He enters me slowly, inch by delicious inch, giving me time to adjust to his size. I’ve been with other men, but none have ever felt like this—like coming home, like something missing has finally clicked into place.
“Move,” I demand when he’s fully seated inside me. “Please, Reese.”
He pulls almost all the way out, then thrusts back in, setting a rhythm that’s both leisurely and urgent. This isn’t frantic, desperate sex. This is something more—a conversation we should have had years ago, conducted through touch and motion.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his pace. Every thrust hits something inside me that makes me see stars, makes me forget every reason I had for leaving, for staying away.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with emotion.
I open eyes I didn’t realize I’d closed. His face is above mine, his expression raw, vulnerable, his eyes dark with want and something more, something that looks terrifyingly like love.
“I never stopped,” he whispers, his rhythm faltering slightly. “Not for a single day.”
“Me neither,” I confess, and that’s what undoes me. The admission, the truth, the knowledge that all this time, all these years, we’ve both been living with the same ghost.
My orgasm builds, starting as a low hum and rising to a crescendo that steals my breath. Reese follows me over the edge with my name on his lips, his body shuddering against mine.
When it’s over, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, the room quiet except for our slowing breaths. I should say something, should acknowledge how this changes everything, but words feel inadequate.
So instead, I trace patterns on his chest, following the lines of his muscles, memorizing the texture of his skin.
“So,” he says eventually. “That happened.”
“That happened,” I agree.
“Thoughts?”
“Many. Most inappropriate for polite company.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I meant about what this means.”
Reality creeps in like cold air under a door. What does this mean? We’re supposed to be fake engaged. This was very real.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“We could figure it out together.”
“Reese...”
“I know. I know we have an agreement. I know this complicates everything. But Audra—” He tilts my chin up to look at him. “This doesn’t feel fake to me.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it. “It doesn’t feel fake to me either.”
“So what do we do?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
“You should probably check that,” Reese says reluctantly.
I reach for my phone on his nightstand, see Emily’s name on the screen. My best friend from the city, the one who knows all my secrets except this one.
Just got the weirdest call from Cosmo
He says you’re ENGAGED?!?
To someone named Reese at some lodge?
Is this the Cornell Reese from that photo on your desk?
The one you drunk-cried about last year?
Audra ANSWER YOUR PHONE
I NEED DETAILS
TWO WEEKS?! You’ve been gone TWO WEEKS
There are ten more texts in similar vein (Emily’s signature one-line texts), plus three missed calls.
“Everything okay?” Reese asks.
“Emily saw the announcement.” I show him the texts.
“Your best friend doesn’t know about the arrangement?”
“I haven’t told anyone except Cosmo.” And suddenly the weight of the deception hits me. “Oh god, Reese, what are we doing?”
“Hey, it’s okay—”
But it’s not okay. I’m lying to everyone. My friends think I’m engaged. My mother will find out soon and start planning the wedding of the century. And in six weeks, I’ll have to tell them all it was fake.
Except it doesn’t feel fake anymore. It feels real, and that’s terrifying.
“I should go,” I say, sitting up, pulling the sheet around me.
“Audra, wait—”
“I need to think. I need...” I need to not be naked in his bed when I’m trying to be rational. “This was probably a mistake.”
His face shutters. “A mistake.”
“No, not—” I turn back to him, touch his face. “Not this, exactly. Just... the timing. The circumstances. We’re supposed to be keeping things simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
I dress quickly while he watches, the silence heavy with things unsaid. At his door, I pause.
“Reese—”
“It’s okay,” he says, but his smile is sad. “Take the time you need. I’ll be here.”
Back in my suite, I curl up in the window seat and finally call Emily.
“Audra Gabriel, you have five seconds to explain why I had to find out you’re engaged from a Facebook photo taken by someone named Janet Morrison.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
“I... I reconnected with Reese when I got here. And things just... happened.”
“Things? ENGAGEMENT things? In two weeks?”
“We have history, Em. You know that.”
“History you spent the last decade avoiding! You literally changed your flight that time just to skip the Cornell reunion because he might be there.”
I wince. She’s right. “I know.”
“So what changed?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” I pull my knees to my chest. “Being here, seeing him again... it was like those ten years just disappeared.”
“And so you got ENGAGED?”
“He proposed by the lake. The same spot where we used to talk in college.” The lie comes easily because I can picture it so clearly. “It was spontaneous. Crazy. But it felt right.”
“Audra, you don’t do spontaneous. You planned your spontaneity in college.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure about this? Really sure?”
I think about tonight. About the way he touched me, looked at me, said it didn’t feel fake. None of that was pretend, even if the context was.
“When I’m with him, I’m sure,” I say honestly. “When I’m alone, I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
“That it’s too fast. That we’re caught up in the romance of reconnecting. That in a few weeks we’ll realize we’re different people than we were in college.”
“Or,” Emily says gently, “you’re terrified it’s real and you might actually get everything you want.”
“Em—”
“Audra, honey, listen to me. You’ve spent the last decade building a perfect life that makes you miserable. Now you have a chance with the guy you drunk-cried about just last year. Maybe it is fast. Maybe it is crazy. But when have you ever taken a risk on something that wasn’t guaranteed?”
“Never.”
“Exactly. So maybe this is your chance to try.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if it does?” She sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. But I can tell you that you sound different. Lighter. Even terrified, you sound more alive than you have in years.”
“I slept with him tonight,” I blurt out.
“Finally! Was it—”
“Perfect. It was perfect. And that’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem?”
“Because what if it’s too good to be true? What if I’m just the convenient solution to—” I stop myself before I mention the inheritance.
“To what?”
“To his single life. What if I’m just here and available and willing?”
“Audra, no man proposes after two weeks just because someone is convenient. He’s either crazy or crazy about you.”
“Maybe both?”
“Probably both. But that’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”
I laugh despite myself. “When did you become pro-romance?”
“When my best friend finally stopped planning long enough to let something happen. Don’t overthink this, Audie. For once in your life, just feel it.”
After we hang up, I sit in the dark, Emily’s words echoing. Just feel it.
The problem is, I’m feeling too much.
I’m in love with Reese Ashton. Really, truly in love. Not fake engaged in love—real love. The kind that terrifies me because I can’t control it, can’t plan it, can’t guarantee it will work out.
My phone buzzes. A text from Reese: I meant what I said. This doesn’t feel fake to me. Sleep well, Audie.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I want to tell him it doesn’t feel fake to me either. I want to tell him I’m scared. I want to tell him that I’m falling in love with him.
Instead, I don’t respond. I can’t.
Because in six weeks, we’re supposed to stage a breakup. That was the deal. And if I tell him how I really feel, if I let myself believe this could be real, and then lose him again...
I don’t think I’ll survive it.
So instead, I lie awake planning my retreat, building walls around my heart that I should have maintained from the beginning.
Tomorrow, I’ll establish better boundaries. Tomorrow, I’ll remember why we’re doing this.
Tomorrow, I’ll pretend that every real feeling isn’t killing me to hide.