Chapter 11
OLIVE
Not Even Bi
He blinks like I just slapped him. “Wait—what?”
I look away, cheeks burning. My voice cracks as I rush on. “And I’m just some stupid, desperate fangirl writing steamy scenes about her fake fiancé—pathetic enough to cling to every crumb of affection you throw my way. Even if you’re not into it the way I am.”
I see it—him processing my words. Finally.
Maybe now he’ll get it. Maybe he’ll leave me alone, which, at this point, is all I want. To be alone.
I swipe at my cheek and turn away. “This is so embarrassing.”
But instead of taking the hint—he laughs. Like it’s the best joke he’s heard all year.
“You think I’m gay?”
“Maybe this is funny to you, but it’s not funny to me.” I sniff, the sting in my chest quickly turning to frustration.
Seriously—who is this guy? First, he kisses me like it’s a game. Then he needs a fake wife. Then he gives me the orgasm of a lifetime. And now? He’s laughing at me.
Sure, I was a willing participant—up until now.
But I’m done. I’m not here to be used by this man anymore.
A long, tense silence follows.
Then, very softly, he says, “Olive… I’m not gay.”
My eyes snap to his.
His voice is low but steady, like he’s saying it more for my sake than his own. “I’ve never been gay. Not even a little.”
I soften at the obvious discomfort behind his words. He must still be struggling to admit the truth—even to me.
“Ash, it’s okay,” I say gently. “It’s not like I’m going to out you or anything.
I agreed to be your beard, and I’m sticking with it.
But what’s not okay is dragging me around and using me—just because you get some kind of thrill out of it.
And in case it escaped your notice? I’m painfully straight.
And you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen, so yeah—I can’t exactly resist you. ”
…Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?
Abort mission. Rewind time. Cheeks, please stop combusting.
Why is my mouth unsupervised? Say something normal.
Anything. “Weather’s great.” No—do not say weather.
Breathe. Pretend you’re cool. You are not cool.
You are a human megaphone for intrusive thoughts.
“What’s a beard?” Ash looks genuinely confused, like he’s never even heard the term before.
I blink. I’m pretending to be married to a man who doesn’t even know the term for what I supposedly am to him. Fantastic.
“A beard,” I say, exasperated, “is someone who pretends to be a romantic partner to hide the other person’s real sexual orientation.”
“That’s a thing?” He still looks bewildered—in a way that’s somehow irritating and kind of endearing.
“Olive,” he says slowly, “let me be very clear. I’m all for people living their truth. And yeah, I get that it’s not easy for everyone to be out, so I can see why someone might hide it. But I’m not hiding anything. I’m straight.”
My stomach drops. “What?” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “You really believed that this whole time?”
I nod slowly, dumbly, my heart thudding in my ears. “But you said—” I scramble to gather my thoughts, trying to recall his exact words. This can’t be real. “You said you don’t swing that way when it comes to women.” It comes out more accusatory than I meant.
Ash drags a hand through his hair and exhales slowly. “I meant… I wasn’t looking for love. For anything real,” he says at last. “Every woman I’d been with—it was casual. Surface-level. Physical. I don’t do messy emotions. No drama. No heartbreak. Predictable—that’s what I wanted.”
“So… not gay,” I murmur, cheeks flushing.
His mouth twitches, and for a second I think he might laugh. “No. Not gay. Not even bi, if you can believe it.”
I tilt my head, still reeling. “Then what was Liam talking about? He said you had some kind of weird love affair with your manager back in the day.”
Ash groans. “God, that again?”
“You’re saying there was no torrid romance with your middle-aged business handler?”
He shoots me a flat look, lifting one arm in a deadpan shrug. “His name is Scott. He’s twice my age and once yelled at me for getting croissant crumbs in his Benz. I lived with him for a few months—that’s probably what Liam meant.”
My brows lift. “You lived with him?”
“Yeah,” Ash says, tone more serious now. “It was when I was struggling with alcohol. Scott basically stepped in to keep me clean. We kept the drinking problem quiet, so when the tabloids started speculating, we just let them. The ‘secret romance’ story was easier than the truth.”
I fall quiet, absorbing all of it. The part about his alcohol problem lodges in my brain, something to come back to later. But right now, I’m still reeling—trying to make sense of what I just learned.
Ash scoots closer.
“I’m not gay, Olive.” His voice is low, rough with something that feels like restraint. “I’ve wanted you from the moment you assaulted me in Liam’s apartment with nothing but a bath mat and a scowl.”
I blink. “You’re serious?”
He lets out a shaky laugh—like he can’t believe I still don’t see it. “Do you know how many nights I’ve wanted to crawl into your bed and touch you the way you write about in your little notebook?”
My mouth goes dry.
“I’ve jerked off to the thought of you so many times, Olive. Every sound you make. Every look you give me. You’re in my head all the damn time and it’s driving me fucking crazy.” His voice drops, rough and low, a darker edge threading through it as he steps closer.
“Let me prove it.” His eyes blaze. “If I were gay, I wouldn’t be this hard for you right now.”
With one swift motion, he pulls the towel off.
My eyes flick down. My breath catches.
I’ve seen him before—accidentally—but this is different. He’s hard. Thick. Gorgeous. And very much not joking.
“Ash—”
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he says, voice tight. “Respect Liam’s sister. Stick to the rules. But if you really don’t see how badly I want you… maybe I’ve hidden it too well.”
I stare at him. He stares back. It feels like we’re standing on the edge of a cliff, and the next move could change everything. Play it safe—or leap, and hope we fly.
“Olive, I know this is a weird situation. We’re fake-engaged, living together, stuck in this contract until it ends.”
He closes the space between us, and suddenly I’m against the wall—heart racing, body aching, his hands braced on either side of my head. But he doesn’t kiss me yet. He just stares.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he says roughly.
“Trying to keep it fake. For Liam. For you. And Liam would lose his mind if we started something. But I want you. I want to cook you dinner. I want to tell you how beautiful you are. I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name. I want to hear you cry out mine. I want to bury myself in you and stay in bed for days—until you can’t walk. ”
A shiver races down my spine, and he pauses, eyes locked on mine, voice quieter now. “Or we can do none of that. Or all of it. It’s your choice.”
Then he retreats back, giving me space to think.
But I’ve already made up my mind.
I move toward him deliberately—and pull him to me.
Then his mouth is on mine—hot and sure and demanding. I gasp, and he takes full advantage, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s wanted this forever. I feel like I’m unraveling, like every nerve ending has come alive just for him.
His hand grips my waist, dragging me flush against him.
I feel the heat of his bare skin, the hard press of his body, his erection pressing into me.
One of his hands tangles in my hair. The other slides down, gripping my hip, and then lower—grabbing a fistful of my thigh to hook my leg around his waist.
I whimper into his mouth, and he groans like he’s on the edge.
His lips trail down my neck, hot open-mouthed kisses that make my back arch. When he sucks gently at the spot just below my ear, I shiver.
“Ash,” I whisper, clutching his shoulders. “This is insane.”
“I know,” he murmurs.
I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer. He kisses me again, slower now, deeper. Like he’s tasting something he never thought he could have.
His hand brushes up under my shirt, spreading across my stomach, warm and possessive. I gasp when he cups my breast, thumb circling through the fabric of my bikini top.
“Fuck, Olive,” he whispers against my jaw. “You’re killing me.”
My fingers trace the line of his spine, the ridges of muscle in his back. I’ve never been touched like this—never been kissed like a secret and a promise all at once.
He pulls back just far enough to look down at me, his eyes soft and wild all at once.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod, breathless. “More than okay.”
I reach down, guiding his hand to where I ache, my body already humming with anticipation. He presses his palm against me—firm, gentle—his thumb circling through the fabric of my bikini bottom, where I’m still wet from before.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, his voice low and rough, a sharp contrast to the tenderness of his touch.
I arch into his hand, biting my lip to stifle a moan, my composure unraveling. “Yes,” I breathe, voice trembling. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He obeys, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles—drawing pleasure from me with every pass, building a heat that spreads through my entire body.
“You have no idea,” he mutters against my throat, “how many times I’ve wanted to do this.”
“Me too,” I whisper, sliding my hands down his back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. I push him back slightly, straddling him, letting my palms roam over his chest—every tattoo a secret I want to learn by heart.
His hands grip my hips, guiding me as I move against him, the friction dizzying. Sparks fire through me with every shift, a slow burn threatening to become a wildfire.
“Tell me if this feels good,” I say, grinding down against him, breath catching when I feel him thicken even more beneath me—a hard, undeniable response to my touch.
He groans, head tipping back, hair a dark halo against the pillow, mouth parted in pure, desperate need.
“Fuck, yes,” he pants. “I want you out of this bikini. Now.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. And I don’t need one. I shimmy out of the bottoms and toss them aside.
He reaches into the nightstand and comes back with a condom, and the sight of that—his practiced confidence, the way he watches me while sliding it on—makes me ache all over again. “I’m also on the pill,” I manage. “So we should be safe.”
He kneels between my thighs, pausing just long enough to brush a hand down my cheek. “Still sure?”
“I will literally die if you stop.”
That earns me wicked grin. And then he’s pressing into me—slow, thick, perfect—and I can’t do anything but gasp. He fills me in a way no one else ever has. Like he was made for this. For me.
His forehead drops to mine. “Fuck. You feel like heaven.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. “Then don’t stop.”
He starts to move. Slow at first, savoring every drag, every grind, until I’m moaning into his mouth and clutching his shoulders like I’m drowning in him. The rhythm builds, deep and steady, until it’s all-consuming.
Every thrust drives the breath from my lungs, every whisper of my name in that raspy voice makes my toes curl.
We fall into a rhythm that’s equal parts sweet and filthy—kisses that linger, gasps between words, skin slapping against skin.
His hands pin my wrists above my head, the sudden dominance sending a surge of heat through me. I surrender to it, letting him take control—a decision that feels both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Do you like this?” he growls, his hips slamming into mine.
I moan, the sound ripped from my throat, my body tightening with need. “Yes,” I cry, voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. His rhythm is relentless, pushing me closer with every thrust. His name spills from my lips like a mantra.
“Together,” he commands, voice low and rough.
His thumb finds the swollen bundle of nerves between us, and I cry out, the pressure sending me spiraling. “Yes—Ash—”
He groans, hips stuttering. “Olive—fuck—I’m gonna—”
The climax hits like a tidal wave, pulling me under. I arch off the bed, screaming his name, pleasure unraveling me completely. His release follows, his breath ragged against my neck, our hearts pounding in sync—wild, frantic, connected.
He collapses onto me, his weight solid and grounding, yet oddly gentle. He kisses my forehead, voice hoarse. “That… was exactly what I needed.”
I smile, fingertips tracing the sweat on his back, a soft, lingering gesture. “Me too,” I whisper.
Our breaths slow, the world fading away as the warmth of the bed wraps around us—quiet, steady, safe. Like a promise neither of us dares to speak out loud.