Chapter 10 Olog #2
I give her another inch, then another, until I'm seated fully inside her and she's trembling in my arms. I hold completely still, letting her adjust, my forehead pressed against hers as I fight for control.
"Okay?" I manage.
"Move," she demands breathlessly. "Please, Olog, move."
I pull out slowly, watching her face, then thrust back in with just enough force to make her cry out.
Her head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering closed, and I set a rhythm that's deep and possessive and probably too rough but she's meeting me thrust for thrust, her hips rocking against mine with desperate urgency.
"Look at me," I growl.
Her eyes snap open, hazy and unfocused.
"I want you to see exactly who's inside you right now," I tell her, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust that makes her gasp. "I want you to know this is real. That I want you so badly I'm breaking every professional rule I've ever made. That I'm ruined for anyone else after this."
"Olog," she sobs. "Oh God, Olog—"
"Say my name again."
"Olog."
"Louder."
"Olog!"
I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing the sound as I angle my hips to hit deeper, harder, chasing the rising tension in her body.
She's close, I can feel it in the way she's clenching around me, in the pitch of her breathing, in the desperate way she's clinging to me like I'm the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
I slide one hand between us, finding the swollen bundle of nerves and circling it with firm pressure, and she shatters.
Her orgasm hits like a tidal wave, her entire body seizing, inner walls clamping down around my cock with enough force to drag me over the edge with her.
I bury my face in her neck, muffling my own harsh groan against her skin as I come harder than I ever have in my life, my hips jerking through the aftershocks as I empty myself inside her.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
We just breathe.
Her fingers are still tangled in my hair, her legs wrapped around me, her forehead pressed against my shoulder. I can feel her racing heartbeat against me, can smell the salt of her sweat mixing with jasmine perfume and sex.
"That was real," she finally whispers.
"Very real," I confirm roughly.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her expression soft and vulnerable and terrifyingly open.
"What happens now?"
I brush a strand of damp hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
"Now," I say slowly, "we clean up, rejoin that godforsaken dinner party, and pretend we weren't just fucking in a public restroom."
She huffs a breathless laugh.
"And after the wedding?"
I meet her gaze steadily.
"After the wedding, we figure out how to make this work when you're not paying me by the hour."
Her eyes fill with tears, the good kind this time, and she kisses me softly.
"I'd like that."
We manage to make ourselves presentable with remarkable efficiency considering we just thoroughly desecrated a luxury hotel restroom.
Bliss's dress is wrinkled and her carefully styled hair is a disaster, but she looks happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way I haven't seen all weekend.
I retrieve my ruined shirt from the floor, grimacing at the wine stains.
"I have a backup in the room," I tell her.
"Of course you do."
I arch an eyebrow.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're the most prepared person I've ever met," she says fondly. "You probably have backup cufflinks and emergency shoe polish."
"And a lint roller," I confirm. "Standard protocol."
She starts laughing again.
I help her down from the counter, steadying her when her legs wobble slightly, and she grips my forearms for balance.
"Wow," she breathes. "Okay. Walking is harder than I expected."
Pride surges through me, primitive and possessive.
"I'll carry you if necessary."
"As much as I would enjoy that," she says wryly, "I think showing up to the rehearsal dinner in your arms might raise questions."
"Let them ask questions."
She smiles, reaching up to straighten my collar even though I'm not wearing a shirt.
"I like this version of you," she murmurs. "The one who doesn't care what anyone thinks."
"I've always been this version," I tell her honestly. "I just buried it under professional protocol. You make me want to stop hiding."
Her expression softens impossibly further, and she rises on her toes to kiss me gently.
We're still standing there, foreheads pressed together, when her phone buzzes loudly from where it fell on the floor.
She sighs and pulls away, retrieving it from beside the vanity. Then she goes completely still.
"Bliss?"
She stares at the screen, her expression unreadable.
"What is it?" I ask, crossing to her.
She turns the phone toward me wordlessly. The notification glows brightly against the dark screen:
Your booking with Olog ends in 12 hours.
Reality crashes back with brutal efficiency. Twelve hours. Half a day.
Then the contract expires, the payment processes, and we return to being strangers who happened to share a weekend.
I regard her face carefully, trying to read her reaction, but she's gone carefully blank in that way she does when she's protecting herself.
"Bliss—"
"We should get back," she whispers, her voice perfectly controlled. "They'll be lining up for the processional soon."
"We need to talk about this."
"About what? The app is just reminding me the booking is almost over. That's... that's what I paid for. A weekend. And the weekend is almost done."
"That's not what this is anymore."
"Isn't it?" She meets my gaze, and the vulnerability is back, raw and painful. "How do I know you're not just saying what I want to hear? How do I know this isn't part of the service?"
I grip her shoulders, forcing her to look at me.
"Because I just violated every single clause in my terms of service," I say flatly.
"Because I locked us in a public restroom and fucked you against a sink instead of maintaining professional boundaries.
Because I am falling for you so hard I can't think straight, and I haven't been able to think straight since you opened your hotel room door two days ago looking like you were about to face a firing squad. "
Her breath catches.
"Olog—"
"Twelve hours," I continue. "Fine. We finish this wedding. We get through tomorrow. But the second that timer expires, I'm asking you out properly. No contract. No gig app. Just you and me figuring out if this insane chemistry translates to something real."
She searches my face for a long moment.
Then she nods.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
I kiss her forehead, then step back and offer her my arm.
"Ready to face the firing squad?"
She loops her hand through my elbow, squaring her shoulders.
"With you? Absolutely."
We move the bench away from the door, unlock the deadbolt, and step back into the hallway just as a harried-looking wedding coordinator rushes past.
"There you are!" she gasps, clutching her clipboard. "We've been looking everywhere! The processional starts in five minutes—everyone needs to line up immediately!"
Bliss squeezes my arm.
"Show time," she murmurs.
I cover her hand with mine.
"Let's go win you a breakup."