Chapter 21 OLIVE #2
Ash plucks a final chord and sets the guitar down. “Actually,” he says casually, brushing his hands on his jeans, “we won’t be around next week.”
Liam frowns. “What do you mean?”
Ash shrugs. “We’re going away. For the engagement moon.”
The room stills.
I freeze mid-sip of my soda. Liam turns his full attention on us, eyes narrowing in a way that makes me very nervous.
“The… what now?”
Ash shifts in his seat, suddenly realizing his mistake. “Engagement moon. It’s—uh—a thing, apparently. A pre-honeymoon. I booked a place by the coast.”
“Together?” Liam asks, blinking like he’s trying to recalibrate. “You’re going away together? Alone? For multiple days?”
I try to speak. I really do. But nothing comes out.
Ash jumps in. “It was supposed to be for PR. Photos. Branding. You know.”
Liam squints at us. “Branding,” he repeats slowly, like he’s chewing the word and trying to decide if it tastes like bullshit.
Ash keeps his expression neutral. “Since Olive got suspended, we decided to lie low and cancel all the upcoming PR.”
Liam glances between us, brows furrowed. “Right… but now you’re still going?”
Ash nods. “It’s too late to back out—and honestly, we realized we don’t mind.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to slice with a plastic spork.
Finally, Liam exhales and gives a reluctant nod. “Okay. Fine. I get it. Vacation. Beach. Massages. Whatever.”
Then he points a finger straight at Ash’s chest. “But PR or not, if you so much as breathe wrong near my sister—”
“Understood,” Ash says, hands raised in surrender.
“I’m serious, man,” Liam adds. “You may be all rockstar-hotshot with your guitar and brooding eyes, but I will end you.”
Ash bites back a grin. “I’m actually terrified.”
“You should be,” Liam says, then gets up from the couch and heads for the door. “Good-night, you two lovebirds.”
“Night, Liam.”
The second the door clicks shut behind Liam, and I whirl around to face Ash with my hands on my hips.
“What was that just now?”
He leans casually against the kitchen counter, entirely too smug for someone who’s been publicly threatened with bodily harm. “You’re going to have to be more specific, sweetheart.”
I narrow my eyes. “The mozzarella. The guitar. The blanket hand. The entire evening, Ash.”
He tilts his head, feigning innocence like a cat who definitely knocked the glass off the table on purpose. “I was just being friendly.”
“Friendly?” I echo, crossing my arms. “You sang an erotica ballad with Liam five feet away.”
His lips twitch. “Technically, I never said whose photoshoot I was singing about.”
“Oh my god.” I pace a few steps, cheeks flaming. “You were torturing me. On purpose.”
He shrugs, all lazy confidence and bad-boy charm. “It was kind of fun.”
I blink at him. “You’re impossible.”
Ash pushes off the counter and strolls toward me. “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”
“Don’t,” I warn, even as my pulse kicks up.
“Don’t what?” he murmurs, stepping into my space. “Don’t mention the way you looked when you were squirming under that blanket? Trying so hard to behave?”
I glare. “I was trying to keep a secret. You were trying to drive me insane.”
He leans in, his voice a low rasp against my ear. “You make it way too easy, Hart.”
My breath catches.
Then his hand slides around my waist, warm and strong and familiar, and suddenly I’m not mad—I’m melting.
“I hate you,” I whisper, tilting my head up.
Ash chuckles, low and deep, the sound vibrating through me. “You’re all talk, Olive.” His thumb brushes my jawline, his touch feather-light, almost tender. “But your body tells a different story.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. He’s right, of course. My body betrays me every time, flushing hot at his nearness, aching for his touch.
I bite my lip, trying to hold back the moan that’s bubbling up, but it’s no use. A soft sound escapes, and Ash’s smirk widens.
“See?” he says, his voice a whisper. “You can’t even hide it.”
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine, hungry and demanding. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss is fierce, desperate, like we’ve both been starving for this. His lips are firm, his tongue insistent, and I lose myself in the taste of him—salt and coffee, with a hint of something wild.
“You’re the worst fake fiancé,” I gasp between kisses, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His hands are everywhere, roaming my body like he’s mapping it, memorizing every curve and dip.
“And you’re a terrible fake bride,” he retorts, his voice rough with need. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me tighter against him, and I can feel the hard line of his desire pressing into my stomach.
I shove him back, my hands on his chest, but he doesn’t resist. He lets me push him toward the piano, his eyes dark with want as he watches me. I step closer, my body humming with anticipation, and drop to my knees in front of him.
His breath hitches as my fingers fumble with his belt, my movements clumsy with eagerness. The sound of metal against leather is obscene, a promise of what’s to come. I undo his pants, pulling them down just enough to free him.
His dick is already hard, throbbing in my hands, and I swallow hard, my mouth watering at the sight of him.
“Fuck, Olive,” he groans, his head falling back as he exposes his neck to me. His tattoos—intricate, dark lines that swirl across his skin—flex with his movement, a roadmap of stories I’ll never fully understand.
I glance up, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes are clouded with desire, but there’s something else there too—something raw, something real. “Shut up,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
And then I take him into my mouth.
He groans, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there as I work him slowly, savoring the way he twitches and jerks under my touch. His skin is warm, his taste salty and sharp, like the ocean on my tongue. I hum softly, the vibration sending a shudder through him.
“You’re a fucking tease,” he growls, his hips lifting to meet my mouth.
I pull back, licking my lips slowly, deliberately. “And you love it.”
He does. I can see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his muscles tense under my touch. I stand, shoving him back onto the piano, and he grabs my waist, pulling me between his legs.
His mouth crashes into mine again, his hands roaming my body, squeezing, teasing. I moan into his mouth as his fingers find the waistband of my panties, pushing them down.
I lift my hips, letting him slide them off, and he lifts me onto the piano with him, spreading my thighs. The cool granite presses against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat pooling between my legs.
“You’re such an arrogant prick,” I gasp as he enters me in one swift thrust, filling me completely. His cock is thick and hard, stretching me in the best possible way.
“And you’re my favorite fucking brat,” he groans, pulling out and slamming back in.
I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a brutal pace, each thrust harder than the last. The piano creaks under us, but I don’t care. I meet him thrust for thrust, my body burning, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Fuck, Ash,” I moan, my head falling back as he hits a spot deep inside me that makes my knees weak. His hands grip my hips, bruising, possessive, as he drives into me with relentless force.
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it’s a lie.
He chuckles darkly, his lips against my neck. “No, you don’t.” His teeth graze my skin, and I cry out, my body tightening around him.
“I do,” I gasp, but the words are hollow, a game we both know we’re losing.
His thrusts become frantic, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”
I can’t hold back any longer. “I’m yours,” I breathe—just before I fall apart.
My body trembles, breath caught, as I shatter around him. He follows with a shudder, spilling into me, every muscle tensed in release.
For a moment, we’re still, our hearts pounding in unison, our breaths mingling. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Hart,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost tender.
I smile, tracing the lines of his tattoos with my fingertips. “Likewise, rockstar.”
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, and for a moment, the air between us is heavy with unspoken words. But then he smirks, that cocky, playful expression I’ve come to know so well.
“Now tell me I’m the best damn fake fiancé you’ve ever had.”
I laugh, nudging him. “Don’t push your luck, Ash.”
But when he pulls me into another kiss—this one soft and unhurried—I know we’re both pretending.
Because this isn’t just about a fake wedding or a game of banter.
It’s about us.
Two people who stumbled into something real when neither of us was looking.
And as his lips brush mine, I know the truth.
I’m falling for my fake fiancé. For real.