Chapter 9 Bliss
BLISS
Iam pressed against cold marble and overwhelming heat, my mouth still tingling from the force of Olog's kiss, my body vibrating with want and need and the terrifying realization that I just crossed a line I can never uncross.
His hands bracket my hips, pinning me to the counter, and his chest heaves against mine as we both struggle to catch our breath. The bathroom feels impossibly small with him in it, the air thick and charged, every nerve ending in my body screaming for more.
But then he pulls back.
Not far—just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes my throat tighten.
"Why were you crying?" he demands, his voice rough and raw in a way I've never heard before.
I blink at him, my brain still foggy from the kiss, from the feeling of his massive body pressed against mine, from the overwhelming reality that this is happening.
"What?"
"You were crying," he repeats, his grip on my waist tightening fractionally. "In here. Alone. Before I came in. Tell me why."
I swallow hard, my hands still resting on his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath my palms. His skin is impossibly warm, the black tattoos curving over his muscles like a map I want to trace with my tongue.
Focus, Bliss.
"I—" My voice catches. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
The fierce protectiveness in his tone cracks something open inside my chest, and suddenly I'm angry—furiously, irrationally angry—because this isn't real. This can't be real. He's paid to care. Paid to defend me. Paid to look at me like I'm something precious.
"Why?" I snap, shoving at his chest even though he doesn't budge an inch. "Why does it matter to you? You're on the clock, Olog. You're getting paid to give a shit about my feelings. That's literally the entire point of this arrangement."
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the ash-gray skin, and his eyes flash with something dark and dangerous.
"You think I'm acting right now?"
"I don't know what you're doing," I shoot back, my voice rising.
"I don't know what any of this is. I just know that tomorrow this whole thing ends, and I go back to my real life where nobody actually wants to defend me or feed me hors d'oeuvres or—or look at me the way you've been looking at me all night, and it's killing me, okay?
It's killing me because I hate that I had to pay someone to make me feel like I'm worth protecting, and I hate that it's working, and I hate that I'm falling for a man who is contractually obligated to pretend to care about me. "
The words tumble out in a breathless rush, my eyes stinging with fresh tears, and I hate myself for crying again, for being weak and desperate and stupid enough to catch feelings for my fake boyfriend.
Olog goes completely still.
His hands are still on my waist, his body still caging me against the counter, but his expression shifts into something I can't read—something intense and almost furious.
"You think this is pretend?" he whispers.
"Isn't it?" I whisper.
He peers at me for a long, excruciating moment, his eyes boring into mine, and then he moves.
He steps fully into my space, forcing my thighs wider to accommodate the sheer size of him, his hips pressing flush against mine in a way that makes my breath hitch.
One of his massive hands slides up my spine, tangling in my hair, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to look directly at him.
"You think my reaction to you is part of the service, Bliss?"
His voice is low and rough, vibrating through my body, and the raw honesty in his tone makes my heart stutter.
"I—"
"Answer me."
I swallow hard, my hands curling against his chest, and I force myself to meet his gaze even though it feels like staring into the sun.
"I don't know," I admit shakily. "You're really good at your job, Olog. You've been perfect all weekend. So yes, I think maybe you're just that professional. That you're trained to make clients feel special."
He makes a sound like a half laugh, half growl, that sends a shiver racing down my spine.
"Professional," he repeats, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"You think a professional loses sleep because his client smells like jasmine and champagne and drives him absolutely insane every time she laughs?
You think a professional has to white-knuckle his way through an entire evening because watching other men look at you makes him want to commit violence? "
My breath catches.
"Olog—"
"I haven't been professional since the moment you rolled over in your sleep last night and wrapped yourself around me like you trusted me to keep you safe," he continues, his voice dropping even lower.
"I haven't been professional since I realized that the idea of you going back to your life tomorrow—without me—makes me want to break the furniture. "
Oh god.
"You—" My voice comes out as a whisper. "You're not supposed to say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because this is a transaction," I say desperately, even as my body betrays me by arching closer to him.
"Because you're being paid to be here. Because I hired you to pretend to be my boyfriend, and if you start saying things like that, I'm going to believe you, and then when this is over I'm going to be completely destroyed. "
His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head further back, and his eyes blaze with something fierce and possessive.
"What if I want you to believe me?"
I can't breathe.
"What if I'm not pretending?" he presses. "What if every single thing I've done this weekend, every time I've touched you, defended you, wanted to throw your ex-boyfriend off a balcony, what if none of that was fake?"
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"That's insane," I whisper. "You don't even know me."
"I know you hide in bathrooms when your family makes you feel small," he whispers.
"I know you're brilliant and sarcastic and you hate wearing heels but you do it anyway because you're trying to prove something to people who don't deserve your effort.
I know you chew on your bottom lip when you're nervous and you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they don't land.
I know you're brave enough to hire a complete stranger off a gig app because you refuse to let your ex-boyfriend see you broken. "
Tears blur my vision.
"Stop," I choke out.
"I know you deserve someone who sees you," he continues relentlessly, his thumb brushing away the tear that spills down my cheek. "Someone who makes you feel safe. Someone who wants to protect you not because he's being paid, but because the idea of anyone hurting you makes his blood boil."
"Olog—"
"And I know," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "that I crossed every professional line I have the moment I let myself want you for real."
I look at him, my chest heaving, my entire world tilting sideways.
"You're serious," I breathe.
"Deadly."
"But—" I shake my head, trying to make sense of this, trying to hold onto some shred of logic. "But you're still getting paid. The contract—"
"I'll give the money back."
I blink at him.
"What?"
"Every penny," he says flatly. "I'll refund your entire payment. Right now. I'll send it back the second we leave this bathroom. Then this stops being a transaction and starts being something real."
My mouth falls open.
"You—you can't just—"
"Watch me."
He pulls his phone out of his pocket—somehow it survived being shoved into his tailored pants—and taps the screen with his free hand, his other still tangled possessively in my hair.
"Olog, wait—"
"Transaction cancelled," he says, showing me the screen where he's already initiated the refund through the app. "Payment returned in full. Contract voided."
I regard the glowing confirmation message, my brain struggling to process what just happened.
"You—" My voice cracks. "You just gave up a massive payday."
"I don't want your money, Bliss," he says roughly. "I want you."
The confession hits me like a painful physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
"But what if this is just—just adrenaline?" I stammer. "What if we're both caught up in the fake dating thing and the wedding drama and tomorrow we wake up and realize this was a huge mistake?"
His grip on my waist tightens, his hips pressing harder against mine in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Does this feel like adrenaline to you?" he rumbles.
No.
It feels like drowning and flying and burning alive all at once.
It feels like every romance novel I've ever read and every fantasy I've ever had and every desperate, aching want I've shoved down because I didn't think I deserved it.
"I'm terrified," I admit in a broken whisper.
His expression softens fractionally, his thumb tracing soothing circles against my jaw.
"Of what?"
"That you'll change your mind," I confess. "That this is just some—some hero complex because you saw me crying and felt bad for me. That tomorrow you'll wake up and realize I'm just a mess who can't handle her own family and you'll regret everything."
He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"Bliss," he whispers. "I have made exactly three impulsive decisions in my life. The first was getting these tattoos. The second was starting my gig service. And the third was accepting your booking request even though every professional instinct I had told me you were going to be dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"The kind of dangerous that makes a man forget his rules," he murmurs. "The kind that makes him stop caring about contracts and star ratings and professional boundaries because all he can think about is how badly he wants to keep her."
Oh God.
"So no," he continues, his voice rough and absolutely certain. "I'm not going to change my mind. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and regret this. The only thing I regret is that I wasted an entire day pretending I didn't want to kiss you every time you looked at me."
A broken laugh escapes my throat, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
"You're really not acting right now?"
"No."
"This is real?"
"Yes."
I search his face, looking for any hint of deception, any crack in the armor—but all I see is raw, blazing honesty.
He means it.
He actually means it.
The realization crashes over me like a wave, and suddenly I'm kissing him again, my hands fisting in his hair, my legs wrapping around his waist as I pour every ounce of fear and relief and desperate want into the kiss.
He groans against my mouth, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs, hauling me closer, and the marble counter digs into my spine but he's kissing me like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning.
"Bliss," he rasps against my lips. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me."
"I want you," I gasp. "God, Olog, I've wanted you since you walked into that lobby and looked at me like I was the only person in the room."
He makes a rough, possessive sound deep in his chest, and his mouth trails down my throat, his tusks grazing my skin in a way that makes me shiver.
"You were the only person in the room," he growls. "You've been the only person I've seen all weekend."
His hands slide higher, pushing the silk of my dress up my thighs, and I arch into him, my fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.
"Someone could walk in," I manage breathlessly.
"I locked the door."
"Right. Good. That's, oh gods—"
His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear, and coherent thought abandons me entirely.
"We should—" I gasp. "We should probably get back to the dinner."
"No."
"People will notice we're gone."
"Olog—"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes molten silver, his breathing ragged.
"Do you want to go back out there?" he asks roughly. "Back to your toxic family and your smug ex and all those people who make you feel like you have to be someone you're not?"
I gaze at him, my heart pounding.
"No," I admit. "I really, really don't."
A slow, predatory smile curves his mouth.
"Then we're staying right here."