12
Avery
I'm curled up on my couch, laptop balanced on my knees, managing Liam's social media accounts. The puppy posts from this morning are performing even better than I projected.
Over three hundred thousand impressions. Engagement rates are through the roof. Comments are flooding in about how sweet he is, how the puppies are adorable, how they ‘didn't know Nova had this side to him.’
This is exactly what we needed. The narrative is shifting.
Then I refresh my news feed, and my blood pressure spikes.
Renegades' Liam Novak Drops $400K on Lamborghini Hours After Media Day!
I click through to the article, my jaw clenching tighter with each word. There are photos of him at the dealership, grinning beside a blindingly green Lamborghini.
Are you fucking kidding me?
The salesman is shaking his hand. Liam looks thrilled with himself. The picture screams reckless, spoiled, and impulsive. Why the heck did he have to have the picture taken? He could have bought his Lamborghini quietly.
Nobody likes a show-off. Even one with a gorgeous face like Liam.
Four hundred thousand dollars. On a car. The same day we had media availability where he was supposed to project maturity and responsibility.
And this is exactly why I can't be with him. This right here. The impulsiveness, the excess, the complete disregard for consequences.
I close the laptop and force myself to breathe. This is business. Just business. I'll handle it tomorrow. I’ll draft a statement tonight and manage the fallout. It’s what I do.
I pick up my phone. The puppy content is still trending. At least we have that. I schedule a few more posts for tomorrow, craft captions that emphasize Liam's compassionate side, his commitment to rescue animals.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jennifer:Saw the Lamborghini story. We need to discuss first thing tomorrow.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I set my phone down and head to the shower. I try not to think about Liam, about the hurt in his eyes this morning when I told him to leave it alone. I can’t help but wonder if buying an obscenely expensive car hours later might be connected to that hurt.
Not my problem. Not my responsibility.
Except it is my problem, professionally speaking. And some traitorous part of me wonders if it's my responsibility too, personally.
The hot water beats down on my skin, but it does nothing to wash away the tension coiling in my stomach. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool tile, and as images fill my mind.
Liam grinning. Liam focusing on something. God, he’s good-looking. I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to force it out, but it only morphs.
That grin shifts, and a hungry expression replaces it. The one he gave me right before his hands found my waist, pulling me against him.
A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the heat of the water. I slide a hand over my stomach and cup my breast. Slowly, I circle the nipple until it turns into a hard, aching pebble beneath my touch.
Except, it’s not my hand I’m feeling. It’s Liam’s.
I let out a moan as I imagine the sheer size of his hands and how incredibly gentle they are. The way he’d worship my body with those hands.
My head falls back, water sluicing over my skin as my other hand drifts lower. I can almost feel Liam’s mouth on my neck, those exquisite kisses that started as a soft press of his lips and deepened until I was arching against him.
My fingers find my clit, and a sharp, desperate moan escapes me.
This is what I can’t forget. God, the man can do wonders in the bedroom. It wasn’t just his thick, perfect cock. It was the way he used it. Slow, deliberate strokes that made me beg, the possessive, driving rhythm that shattered me completely.
My breath hitches as my fingers move in a frantic, circling rhythm, mimicking the way he’d move inside me, hitting a spot that made my vision blur. I picture his eyes, dark and intense, locked on mine as he moved, as he filled me, as he owned me.
