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I twist in a circle around the large living room of our one-bedroom suite because—Dash is clingy and has separation issues. Or so I tell myself every night I slip into bed and hug his warm body until I fall asleep. Each time I ask if he still hates it, his gruff answer is yes, yet he doesn’t push me away and neither do I.
Three days of us living together and I’ve already become addicted to him.
From afar, he captivated me, but now that we’re close, he has me hooked.
We’re staying at a luxurious five-star hotel, the name to which I couldn’t even pronounce. Though, Dash faced no qualms. Apparently, he took French in college and actually paid attention.
If he plans to ghost me here, I’m in serious trouble.
The ceiling is so high and arched, leading to another room as I stride farther inside while Dash follows behind. I’m gazing and admiring every inch of this place while his gaze is transfixed on me, like my reactions are more entertaining and amusing. I can feel the heat of it, searing into my back like the caress of warm sunlight on a stormy day.
With a whirl, I turn around to face him, wide-eyed and smiling.
“Would you like me to pinch you again, kitten?” he teases and raises an eyebrow before sauntering closer. His gait, slow like a panther. “Or I could spank your delectable ass while you stare at the Eiffel Tower from the bedroom balcony?”
I back away, remembering the sting of his palm and how I felt it with every step I took the next day. One of the most erotic experiences of my life that taunts my mind every now and then. “You’d be lucky if I let you near my ass again, let alone spank it.”
He stops inches away, hands inside his pockets, and taunts in a husky voice, “Why? You soaked my hand when I spanked your cunt. I can still hear the wet sounds your pussy made and your cry of pleasure.”
My fingers tighten in my skirt while I stand with false bravado instead of squeezing my thighs. Cocking my hip, I taunt, “Now you can live with the memory and die a happy man.”
A haunted look flashes in his pupils but it’s gone just as soon as it appeared. Slowly, his gaze lowers to my parted lips and rises back to mine before he confesses, “I’ll die a happy man only after I’ve tasted your lips and stolen the kiss you owe me from seven years ago, Bianca.”
Hearing the sound of my name on his lips for the first time, said in that low and smooth baritone, lets me know the seriousness behind his confession. His mad and tormented face, when he thought I was going to kiss Justin, reflects behind my vision.
Never had I seen a man look so desperate yet ravenous for a simple kiss. As if it was the difference between life and death. Even if he hadn’t intervened, I wouldn’t have kissed his friend, not after the way Dash was staring at me. Like my kiss was something special.
Something to be treasured.
Something belonging to his lips only.
And even though he can steal it under the pretense of our fake relationship—he never once has. He could claim my mouth as rightfully as he touches and holds me, yet he hasn’t.
But I know he’s waiting. Aching. Not for the perfect moment. But for something else entirely. That’s deeper. Darker. Shattering.
“How can I owe a kiss to someone I believed I’d never meet again?” I softly demand.
“Yet here you stand, soon to become my wife.”
“Only in name. Don’t forget that.”
His eyes glower. “As if you’ll let me.”
The vehemence in his tone has me taken aback and my heart thumping erratically. Naked fear and the urge to run away stabs me at the insinuation he wants more. The reason I chose him hinges on him being unemotional, heartless, and not believing in the idea of love. It’s the only way this’ll work.
The physical attraction, I understand, but beyond it, just the thought scares me. He can’t blur the lines and tilt my world, my heart, upside down. I won’t allow it. The domineering and heartbreaker Dash I can handle, but him in love and fascinated with me—I won’t survive him.
My intuition is telling me it’d be ten times worse than the last time.
“Don’t make the mistake of falling for me, Dash,” I warn. “This—us—can never be real.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” He smirks, despite the fire burning in the depths of his green orbs.
“I’m not the one flying my fake fiancée to Paris to buy an engagement ring.”
He doesn’t even flinch and stares hard, the intensity of it invasive and laser sharp. So nerve-racking, like he’s trying to peer down to my very marrow and is succeeding.
“Why are you so scared of love?” His tone is laced with curiosity without any judgment. He’s trying to understand me.
