Chapter 9
OLIVE
Below the Belt
The lights are blinding.
The air is too warm.
And Ash is standing so close I can smell his cologne—subtle and spicy, like cedarwood and something else I can’t name but feel in the back of my throat.
Viktor is counting down—dramatically, slowly, as if we’re preparing to step off a cliff together.
“Three… two…”
Ash tilts his head slightly, his hand warm and steady on my waist.
I nod once. That’s all I can manage.
“One.”
And then we kiss.
It’s soft.
Careful.
No tongue, no heat—just lips, gently meeting. The perfect, chaste kiss that’ll look great on camera.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because the second his mouth touches mine, my heart stumbles in my chest like it forgot how to function. My breath catches. My brain goes fuzzy around the edges.
His lips are warm.
Firm.
Intentional.
The kiss lasts maybe two seconds. Three, tops.
And still, my knees are slightly wobbly when we pull apart.
I force a smile for Viktor, who lets out a sound that can only be described as swooning.
“Yes! Perfection! You look like you just shared a secret. One more, but this time with just a hint of separation—lips barely parted, eyes full of sin!”
I can’t breathe.
I steal a glance at Ash. He looks… unreadable. Calm. Professional. His expression is steady, lips set in a faint line, like that meant nothing to him.
Of course it didn’t.
Why would it?
He’s not into me like that. He’s gay. It didn’t mean anything. Just a photo op.
He said he was fine with the kiss, but I can’t stop thinking how exhausting it must be—having to hide who he really is. Having to kiss a woman he’s not attracted to just because the world isn’t ready for a gay rockstar.
So while I’m flustered and embarrassingly turned on, he is dealing with something much bigger.
That thought is enough to douse the heat still simmering in my chest. And honestly? I’m glad the photoshoot’s over.
When we leave the studio, my cheeks are still flaming.
Ash walks beside me, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from the wind machine, looking every inch the rockstar fiancé. He pulls out his phone, checking the time.
“Hey,” he says casually. “You hungry?”
I glance over. He’s not looking at me, not exactly—just ahead, like it’s no big deal.
“We could grab something,” he adds. “Nothing fancy. Just food. I know a place.”
And for a second, I almost say yes.
But I already have plans. Plans I made before this entire day turned my brain into marshmallow fluff.
“Oh—I can’t,” I say, trying not to sound like I regret it. “I’m meeting someone.”
Ash’s head turns sharply. “Someone?”
I nod, opening my messages to check the café address. “Yeah. A guy I used to know, actually. From college.”
Silence.
I glance up.
Ash is staring at me.
Staring. Like I just announced I’m marrying someone else next month for a different PR stunt.
“You’re going on a date?” he asks, voice low and weirdly flat.
I laugh. “It’s not a date. Just coffee.”
“With an ex?”
“Not an ex,” I say quickly. “It was never like that. We were just friends. Study buddies. And he’s in town, so...”
“So you thought you’d catch up,” he finishes for me.
I blink. “Yeah. Why?”
His jaw ticks. And for a second—just a second—I get this weird flash of something in his eyes.
Possessiveness?
No. That’s not it.
He’s just watching out for me. Like Liam would. Like any guy would for his best friend’s little sister slash fake fiancée.
Totally normal.
Totally not personal.
“How well do you even know this guy? And where are you meeting him?”
“We haven’t seen each other in a while—he moved away.”
“So he could basically be some creep taking advantage of you?”
I scoff, indignant. “Matt’s not a creep. He’s my friend. Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” Ash says, scowling. “I just don’t want some random guy—who could be literally anyone—dragging you into some dark corner and having his way with you.”
I blink. “Wow.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “You still haven’t answered me. Where are you meeting him?”
I throw my hands up. “Café Noir. It’s public. It’s safe. There will be coffee and croissants and absolutely no dragging into dark corners.”
He crosses his arms.
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“How well do you even know this guy?”
“We were close in college,” I say slowly, eyeing him like he’s lost it. “He moved away after graduation, we lost touch, and now he’s visiting. It’s not a crime.”
“What does he want?”
I stare. “Coffee?”
Ash narrows his eyes like that’s a suspicious answer.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “What?” I ask. “You sound like Liam right now.”
“I do not,” he snaps. Then mutters, “Do you need me to pick you up?”
“Nope. I’ll grab a cab.”
I start walking backward toward the curb. “I’ll see you later.”
His jaw clenches again. But he nods.
And watches me go.
Which is... odd.
But I tell myself it means nothing.
Because Ash Ryder doesn’t get jealous.
Not over me.
***
By the time I make it back to the house, the sun’s dipping low, casting amber light across the windows.
It was nice catching up with Matt. He’s always been easygoing, the kind of person you can instantly relax around. He told me all about his new girlfriend—how happy he is, how well things are going.
I toe off my flats at the door and drop my bag by the couch, but my mind isn’t buzzing from the caffeine or the easy conversation over matcha.
It’s buzzing because of Ash.
The kiss. The weight of his hand on my waist. The heat of his palm. I should be over it. But my body clearly didn’t get the memo.
I’m buzzing with this strange, restless energy—and I decide I need to get it out of my system. Once and for all.
I march toward my room with purpose, changing into leggings and one of Ash’s old tour shirts I may or may not have stolen from the laundry pile.
Then I reach for the soft-covered notebook tucked in the back of my nightstand drawer.
Not the one for shopping lists or to-do’s. This is the notebook—my personal sanctuary.
For blog notes. For poems. For journaling and truths I don’t show anyone.
I sink cross-legged onto my bed and open to a blank page.
And I start writing. I imagine Ash and me alone in the photo studio—and I imagine what I wish had happened after our kiss.
The studio’s dim light casts shadows around us, heightening the intimacy of the moment. The cold wall presses against my back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Ash’s body. I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and strong, and it syncs with mine, our rhythms merging into one.
This time, Ash’s kiss is fierce—his tongue delving deep, tasting me, claiming me. I moan softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth, as his hands slide lower, gripping my ass and lifting me with ease.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire against my core. The rough wall scrapes my back, but I don’t care.
His hands find the hem of my dress—right where I want them.
He lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine.
I’m wearing nothing underneath, and the vulnerability of the moment makes my heart race.
His touch is deliberate, his fingers tracing patterns on my thighs, teasing me, driving me wild.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. I arch my back, pressing myself into his touch, craving more, needing more.
Ash’s eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of me, his gaze lingering on my body with an intensity that makes me feel both beautiful and desired.
He presses me back against the wall, his body caging me in, his hands roaming freely over my skin.
His touch is firm yet gentle, his fingers mapping every curve, every dip, as if committing me to memory.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he growls, his lips finding mine again. “So perfect for me.” His words are a heady mix of praise and possession, and they send a rush of arousal through me.
His hands move to the waistband of his pants, unbuttoning them slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
I watch, breathless, as he pushes them down, revealing the outline of his erection, thick and hard, straining against his boxers.
My mouth goes dry at the sight, and I reach out, my fingers tracing the bulge.
I push his boxers down, freeing him. His cock springs free, thick and flushed. I run my fingers along his length, marveling at the feel of him, the heat, the hardness. Ash hisses, his head falling back as he fights for control.
“Fuck, Olive,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips tightly. “You’re going to be the death of me.” His voice is rough, his breath coming in short gasps. “I need to be inside you, now.” His words are a declaration, a demand, and I feel a rush of anticipation, of need, that makes my core ache.
He turns me roughly, pressing me back against the wall, his body dominating mine.
I feel the cold surface against my back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body.
His hands roam over me, possessive and demanding, as he positions himself at my entrance.
I reach back, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him close, needing his mouth on mine.
He doesn’t make me wait. With one swift thrust, he fills me, his cock sliding deep into my wet heat. “So tight,” he murmurs, his voice thick with wonder. “So perfect.”
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through me. I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing myself into him, craving more, needing more.
“You feel so good,” he growls, his voice hoarse with desire. “So fucking good.” His hands grip my hips tightly, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. I meet him with each movement, my body moving in sync with his, our rhythms merging into one.