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When he pulls up to the curb outside my building, he doesn't just unlock the doors and wait for me to leave. He kills the engine and gets out, walking around to open my door. The street is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the freeway.

He walks me to the front door, his hand resting on the small of my back. The touch is light, but it feels like a brand through the silk of my dress.

We stop outside my door. “Goodnight, Rory,” he says. He’s standing too close. I can smell the chocolate and wine on his breath, and the deeper, darker scent of him. He reaches out, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, and my eyes flutter shut of their own accord. “Thank you for tonight.”

“I had fun,” I say, my voice sounding breathy even to my own ears. I open my eyes, looking up at him. “Even if it was all pretend.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs. He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow.

Before I can respond, he closes the distance. The kiss isn't what I expected. It’s not a PR move, and it’s not a polite goodnight. It’s hungry and desperate, his mouth crashing against mine with a force that sends me reeling. My hands fly up to his chest, clutching the lapels of his suit, and for a second, the world just stops spinning.

He tastes like heat and chocolate. His tongue sweeps against mine, a slow, possessive stroke that makes my knees turn to water. I moan into his mouth, the sound lost in the quiet of the hallway, and pull him closer. I melt against his muscular body. forgetting about our arrangement. I just want this.

He pulls back, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes dark with a heat that makes my skin burn. I look at him, my brain finally catching up with my body, and I scramble for the safety of the script.

“Ryan,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “There’s no one here to see that. You can stop now.”

He looks at me, and the expression on his face is something I’ve never seen before. It’s raw and honest and terrifyingly real. He straightens up, his hands dropping from my waist, but his gaze never wavers.

“This is real, Rory,” he says, his voice flat and steady. “At least for me.”

He turns and walks away before I can find the words to stop him. I stand in the doorway, the cold air biting at my skin, and watch the taillights of his SUV disappear into the mist. My lips are still tingling from the pressure of his mouth, and my heart is screaming a warning I’m not sure I can ignore anymore. This fake dating feels more real than anything I’ve ever felt before.

CHAPTER FIVE

RYAN

Usually, by the time I step out of the elevator and into the hallway of my apartment building, the city is just distant noise. But now, the hush presses in, so thick I can feel it ringing in my ears, closing over me like a fist. My keys drag down my pocket, heavy as the exhaustion grinding deep in my bones, every step toward my door slow and shadowed by the memory of Rory on her doorstep, lips parted, blue eyes round and startled, her shock a perfect echo of my own desperate need.

I told her I wasn't pretending. The words had torn loose before I could think to stop them, hanging between us, sharp in the damp Seattle night. I don’t regret it. But the way she looked at me, like I was a puzzle dumped onto the table with no warning, clamps around my ribcage, brutal and relentless, squeezing every last drop of air from my lungs.

My apartment is all sleek corners and cold, expensive pieces, everything laid out too perfectly, too precisely, like nobody’s been living here at all. It’s the kind of place a guy picks out when he’s waiting for his real life to show up and rescue him from all the silence. I toss my keys on the marble countertop, and they hit with a sharp, lonely clatter that echoes throughout the whole open-plan space. No need for lights. The streetlamps outside spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows anyway, stretching long crooked shadows across the hardwood, making everything feel vast and a little haunted.

I need to get my shit under control. I shed my suit jacket, letting it fall onto a leather armchair, and tug at my tie until the silk slithers free. My skin feels too tight for my body, a restless energy buzzing in my limbs that even a triple-overtime game couldn't exhaust.

The bathroom is cold, all slate tile and chrome fixtures. I kick off my shoes and strip, my movements jagged and impatient. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see a man very close to losing control.

I step into the shower and crank the handle to the left, waiting for the water to scald. It hits my back in a punishing spray, but it’s not enough to drown out the image of her. Rory. The way her curves filled out that dress at dinner. The way her genuine laugh lights me up from the inside out.

I lean my forehead against the wet tile, closing my eyes. Big mistake. Behind my eyelids, she’s right there. I see the way her eyelashes fluttered when I leaned in. I feel the ghost of her palm against my chest, the heat of her skin through my shirt. She’s all soft edges and sharp wit, a combination that’s currently wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

My hand finds its way down, my fingers wrapping around the thick, heavy length of my cock. It’s rock-hard, aching with a pulse that matches the thrum of the water against the floor. I groan, the sound lost in the steam, and start to move. I’m not just horny; I’m starving for a woman who thinks we’re playing a game of make-believe.

"Rory," I breathe, the name a jagged prayer. I picture her in this shower with me, the water slicking down her skin, making those incredible breasts glisten. I imagine her pinned against this very wall, her legs wrapped around my waist and those blue eyes dark with the same hunger that’s currently eating me alive.

I increase the pace, my thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive head, catching the beads of pre-cum that smear against my palm. Every stroke is a memory of how she felt against me at the door. I want to fuck her. I want to sink into her until I don't know where I end and she begins. I want to hear her scream my name, not because there’s a camera nearby, but because she can't help it.

The friction is goddamn torture. I’m close, the tension coiling in my gut like a spring being wound too tight. My breath hitches, coming in ragged gasps that fog up the glass door. I can almost feel her hands on me, her nails digging into my ass as I drive into her pussy, hard and deep and real.

I hit the edge and go over, my body jerking as I explode into my hand. The release is violent, a series of hot pulses that leave me shaking and hollowed out. I stand there for a long time, watching as the water washes the evidence of my desperation down the drain with my chest heaving. It didn't fix anything. If anything, the ache in my chest is sharper now, a dull roar of realization that I won’t be happy until Rory is mine. Forever.

I eventually kill the water and step out, dripping onto the mat. I wrap a towel around my waist and walk back into the bedroom. My phone is sitting on the nightstand, its screen dark. I pick it up, the glass cool against my damp palm. I shouldn't text her. It’s late, and this isn’t a real relationship.

I unlock the phone anyway. My thumb hovers over her name.

Me

Just got home.