5. Chapter 5 #3
I blink a few times, willing my brain to start working again. He complimented me. He just… said something nice. About me. My insides collapse into warm goo.
“Oh,” I manage, barely above a whisper.
He looks away first. His hand shifts on his knee, fingers flexing once.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t stop the ridiculous smile climbing my face. So, I turn toward the window with burning cheeks and hide my grin in the reflection.
Twenty minutes later, the car rolls to a stop. Outside, a wall of flashes erupts like lightning. Paparazzi line up behind barricades and reporters shout names. The roar of conversations competes with the bass of the music inside the venue .
My throat tightens, nerves clawing at me.
“Thirty seconds for the cameras and we go inside,” Dom assures me, clearly seeing the panic on my face.
“Okay,” I say, nodding as I take a deep breath.
Dom shifts beside me, adjusting his tie with calm, bored precision.
The door opens and cameras flash instantly. Dom steps out first, and the crowd reacts like someone just dropped a match into gasoline—the screams double.
He turns and extends a hand, waiting for me to take it. I do, and my heart dives into my stomach again.
He pulls me gently, guiding me out of the car. I step into the lights, and they blind me instantly. Jessica Brooks, nobody seamstress, walking onto a red carpet with Dominic Moreal.
What am I doing?
I grip his hand tighter without meaning to, and he notices. Without looking at me, he slides his other hand to the small of my back and pulls me close enough that our bodies brush.
“Relax,” he murmurs from the side of his mouth. “You’re doing great. ”
We take the first few steps together, hopefully looking picture-perfect. If I see one meme of myself tomorrow, I’m not going out for another five years.
Cameras flash as Dom waves once, the bare minimum he has to do.
And every woman on the carpet melts. I see their longing looks, their eyes dragging over him, slow and hungry.
I don’t blame them. It’s not often you see Dominic’s kind of beauty and presence. It’s effortless and dangerous, especially when he has his arm around your waist.
Something warm and smug curls up in my chest. I shouldn’t feel it, but I definitely do. I lean in slightly with a smile plastered on my face, and let my palm rest on his chest. Solid, warm muscle meets my hand under the fabric.
Dom stiffens almost imperceptibly, and it only makes me want to push more.
My fingers slide higher to his shoulder, then lower toward his abs.
A subtle intake of breath .
“Jessica,” he warns quietly, smiling for a camera like he’s delighted with me.
“What?” I whisper sweetly. “Thought fake girlfriends were supposed to touch.”
“Stop testing me.”
His fingers dig into my waist.
“Why? Can’t handle it?”
We pause as flashes explode again and paparazzi shout his name. Dom lifts my hand off his torso but, instead of dropping it, he laces his fingers with mine.
My heart does a triple axel. He leans down and gently catches my chin between his thumb and finger, tilting my face up for one perfect photo.
But the real moment happens just after the shutter clicks.
His mouth is near my ear and his tone is deceptively sweet.
“Quit pawing at me,” he murmurs. “You look desperate.”
The words sting like hell, but his touch melts me just as much. My brain is conflicted, not knowing what to react to—his soft touch or his harsh words.
I smile like nothing’s wrong .
“You’re an asshole,” I whisper back.
He slides a strand of hair behind my ear, soft and tender, knuckles brushing my cheek longer than necessary.
“Behave,” he murmurs.
I smile for the cameras.
I absolutely won’t.
An hour into the event, after far too much champagne and way too much Dom proximity, I slip away from the team circle and head to the bar for a refill.
I’m not drunk. Just… pleasantly warm. Dangerously inclined to say whatever comes to mind if Dominic keeps pushing me.
Which is a terrible combination around strangers, but here I am.
The bar is crowded, but I spot a group of women in glitter dresses and glossy hair clustered around the counter. As I step beside them, one turns her head slowly, eyes flicking over me in a slow, assessing way .
“Aren’t you…” she murmurs. “Dominic Moreal’s new girlfriend?”
The others whip their heads toward me so fast I hear the collective snap of hair extensions.
“Oh, right!” one squeaks.
Their smiles are sugary, but their eyes are venomous. Not mean outright, not stupid enough to show teeth, but the hostility radiates like a heat lamp.
“I am.” I smile sweetly.
The blonde nearest me leans in.
“Well… lucky you.” Her tone says the opposite. “We’ve, um… heard stories.”
“Stories?” I echo innocently.
Another giggles, lowering her voice. “About the Captain, babe.”
“Oh yeah,” a brunette says. “He liked to… keep busy. Let’s call it that.”
“Very busy,” the blonde adds with a wink.
The group giggles.
I sip my champagne, trying to push away the jealousy gripping my chest.
They lean in closer, like vultures waiting for scraps.
“So? What’s he like? ”
And something inside me, something petty and tipsy, snaps. Because the way they look at me says I don’t belong here, like I don’t deserve him on my arm, like they want to devour him and spit me out.
Absolutely not.
I plaster on my sweetest smile.
“Well,” I say lightly, “Dominic is…” I pause dramatically. “Very intense.” Their eyes go wide. “He talks you through it,” I add, sipping like I’m reminiscing. “Very… thorough.”
One of them actually whimpers.
“How big is he?” the brunette whispers.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance, but I feel the blush creeping up my cheeks at the thought of what Dominic’s working with.
“Let’s just say there’s no getting used to it.”
Oh my God. I’m lying so hard. I’ve never even kissed the man, and here I am bragging about having slept with him.
But the girls’ expressions morph from hostility into naked envy.
“Wow…” the blonde breathes.
“Damn… ”
“God, I knew he had to be good.”
I lift my glass to my lips, trying not to die laughing when their faces suddenly shift. They smile wickedly at one another and turn to me.
“Well, it was lovely talking to you,” one of them purrs.
“So nice.”
“Enjoy your night!”
They slide off the barstools and walk away, whispering to each other.
Which is when I feel warm breath right against my ear.
“Very… intense?”
My soul leaves my body, replaced by shame.
He heard everything.
I close my eyes and pray the ground opens up to swallow me. But Dom’s presence looms behind me, solid and hot and unmistakably amused.
I open my eyes and he leans in closer, just enough that my spine tingles from his voice.
“I talk you through it?” he repeats, tone dripping with slow, mocking pleasure.
Kill me .
Actually, kill me.
I swallow, mortified, but try to salvage my dignity. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
“Eavesdropping is rude,” I say, proud my voice only shakes a little.
Dom’s breath skims my neck as he answers.
“So is lying.”
Humiliation spills behind my ribs, but I refuse to show it.
I turn slowly until we’re face-to-face.
He’s standing too close, he’s too tall, and way too intense. That part of my narrative was true at least.
I force a sweet smile.
“Well,” I say, dripping sarcasm, “I’m sorry for talking about your seemingly nonexistent sex life, but the people wanted an answer.”
His eyes dance with amusement, and he steps closer, propping a fist on my barstool.
“So, in your little story,” he murmurs, “am I any good?”
My stomach flips, traitorous and hot.
“I wouldn’t know,” I snap.
He tilts his head .
“No,” he agrees softly, dangerously. “You really wouldn’t.”
He takes all of me in and drops his voice.
“But keep talking like you do, and I might start correcting those stories.”
Fire.
Lightning.
Panic.
Heat.
I feel it all at once and bite my lip to stop from smiling.
“Maybe I’d let you,” I whisper, too fast.
His eyes flare slightly, like I surprised him. Then he leans in until we’re almost nose to nose.
“Your mouth writes cheques your body can’t cash,” he murmurs.
My pulse is still somewhere under the carpet when Dom plucks the drink from my hand, his long fingers brushing my palm.
He raises the glass to his lips without looking away from me and drinks. I watch him swallow, eyes dropping to his Adam’s apple. His gaze stays locked on mine the entire time, like he’s doing something obscene.
“Thirsty?” I manage, voice faint.
He lowers the glass, tongue sweeping the inside of his cheek.
“Your lies made me parched.”
“They were being awful.” I narrow my eyes.
“So, you decided to brag about sex with me?”
My face flames.
“If you were close enough to eavesdrop, you should have done something.”
He takes another sip. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to step in and rescue you from your own imagination.”
“Okay then.” I plant a hand on the bar, pretending my heart isn’t exploding. “I just added a new term to my list.”
“Oh?” he says. “Do tell.”
“No other women,” I say plainly. “Under any circumstances.”
Silence. Then his lips curl into the most sinful smile I’ve ever seen .
“No other women,” he repeats slowly, savoring my obvious jealousy.
“So you don’t contradict my lies,” I shoot back. “And because it’ll look bad in the press if it gets out.”
He hums and leans in, fully amused now.
“And what,” he whispers, “should I do if I get an urge?”
My thighs press together under my dress at the thought of possible options. All of them include me.
I swallow. “Rub one out in the bathroom.”
Dom stills, then exhales something like a disbelieving laugh. He finally pulls back half an inch to drag his eyes over my dress, then back to my face.
“How do you imagine it?” he murmurs.
My heart stops and kicks in again, heat flooding my core.
Images hit me so violently I have to shut my eyes for a moment. Him over me, holding my wrists, his massive body pinning mine to a mattress. My thighs press together, and his eyes drop instantly. He sees it.
“You’re imagining it very loudly,” he murmurs, voice lowering.
I swallow hard, heat clawing up my cheeks .
“I’m not imagining anything.”
“Shame. I’d love to hear what your imagination comes up with,” he says. “Judging by your face, it’s filthy.”
God help me.
I’m tipsy.
I’m bold.
I’m not thinking clearly. And I hate the way he acts untouchable, unmoved. So I press my palm to his thigh, right above the knee. His eyes flick down, then up, and something shifts behind them.
“See?” I whisper. “You’re not as indifferent as you pretend.”
“You think a hand on my thigh is going to rattle me?”
His laugh is mocking.
“It’s doing something.”
“Barely.”
God, he’s infuriating.
I inch my hand higher, just a little, and his muscle tightens beneath my palm.
“Try harder,” he says quietly, almost taunting.
His gaze drops to my mouth and he exhales slowly .
“Admit it,” I breathe. “If things were different, if this wasn’t fake, you would.”
“You’re drunk enough to say things you’ll regret,” he murmurs.
“And you’re sober enough,” I shoot back, “to think about saying them back.”
He tilts his head, eyes burning into mine like a challenge.
“If I wanted you,” his fingers brush my waist, “you wouldn’t be able to sit right for a week.”
Everything inside me drops, flips, ignites.
He straightens, jaw tight, breathing uneven. He grabs my wrist with intent, and lifts my hand off his thigh, holding it between us. He releases me almost reluctantly, then steps back, leaving a hollow ache where his body was.
“Let’s get back to the team,” he says, already walking.
Like he didn’t feel it.
Like I imagined all of it.
I stare after him, pulse still racing, skin still burning where he touched me.
No .
I didn’t imagine anything.
And next time?
I won’t stop at his thigh.
A slow smile curves my lips as I push off the barstool and follow him.
If he wants to play this game…
I’ll show him exactly how much I can tease.