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“I had the best dream.” She grins, her stretch moving my hand higher up her leg.
I’m not letting her win after a full day of messing with me, so I squeeze her thigh before removing my hand. “I’m even better in real life.”
“Bold claim.”
I wink at her and get out of the car while my dignity is still mostly flaccid.
What the hell am I doing? This isn’t me, winking and being suggestive. What the hell is she doing to me?
Thank fuck David booked us a two-bedroom suite. Ash goes to her room to get ready, and I go to mine. Tonight, it’s showtime. We’re going to sell this fake relationship for all it’s worth.
And I’m going to wind her so tight she’ll have no choice but to run back to her little vibrating friend when we get to the hotel. Oh yeah. I heard her in the shower this morning. Hearing her cry out triggered my release as I frantically beat off under the covers like a damn teenager. It couldn’t be helped, considering how we’d woken up. The way she’d touched me, squeezed me before she’d panicked.
There’s a spark between us, one she’s perversely fed and protected from my efforts to snuff out, and ignoring it is quickly becoming impossible. If we can figure out how to turn it on in public and off in private, we’ll nail this and come out unscathed. I’ll get that edge I need, she’ll soften up.
Tonight’s the test.
Ashley’s waiting when I walk out of my room and she’s aced the assignment. Her dress is subtly sexy, a flowy cherry blossom pink number with a sweetheart neckline and a lower hemline than I’ve seen on her, hitting just above her knees. Her pale blonde hair artfully tumbles over her shoulders in gentle waves, her makeup soft and dreamy.
Since sex bomb is her flavor of villain, looking this sweet has to be a trap.
“Not that,” Ash says, motioning to my shirt.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” It’s a standard white button-up. Perfect for a night on the town.
“It’s boring.” There’s a black shirt folded over a chair and she picks it up. “Wear this one. Lea sorted it out, so let’s see if she got it right.”
There are no cameras in our room, but she steps up to me anyway, unbuttoning me, her eyes holding mine while she works, a smug little smile widening on her face as she tugs the shirt out of my pants.
I don’t know why I’m letting her undress me right now when we need to save this energy for the cameras. She walks around me to pull the shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and from behind me her fingers gather the hem of my undershirt, and this, right here, is why I haven’t stopped her.
Her touch is electric.
Because she can, she slides her fingers slowly up every ridge of my abdomen as she pulls the shirt up. It’s excruciating how tight my skin goes, everywhere she touches. Places she doesn’t touch too. It’s the most exquisite torture.
Her palms slip over my nipples, and I shrug the shirt off, turning to face her, raising one eyebrow to ask where this is going.
She smirks, but there’s a bit more color on her face and she reaches for the new shirt and pushes it against my chest. This is going nowhere.
Good. Because that’s what I want. Chemistry in public. Not in the privacy of our suite where I’m tempted to take this to her bedroom.
I pull the shirt on and Ash stops me from doing up the last couple of buttons. The short sleeves hug my biceps, just the right side of too tight. She traces a finger down my arm, over the rise of my muscle, into the dip inside my elbow. My cock is already thickening against my thigh.
“You need a tattoo,” she says, messing up my hair with her fingers before walking away.
Okay, she wins this round. I have to adjust myself and all she’s done is touch me.
I’ll win the next one.
I go back into my room to look in the mirror. She’s nailed it. This look is edgier without coming off as dangerous or douchy and with her all sweet and sexy at my side…this is going to work.
We leave our hotel, holding hands. Our first stop is a bourbon tasting for a distillery owned by an actress repped by my agency. The place is crowded but other patrons are pushed back to give the photographer space. This is a publicity stunt as well as a chance to show off this fake relationship, after all. We drink and listen, Ash leaning against me, my arm around her. Until the photographer’s assistant sweeps her aside, engaging her in conversation while they photograph me.
Our eyes meet, and I see it, and maybe only because she’s had a few bourbons, but she’s hurt. They don’t want her. They want me.
The distiller is talking, pushing another glass toward me—this one is their top-of-the-line, rare collection whatever. The camera fires off shots, but I can’t concentrate, the bourbon I’ve already drank isn’t sitting right. I stop the guy with one raised finger.
“Ash? Baby, come try this one.” When the photographer opens his mouth, I shake my head slightly, shooting him down. Ashley walks over and I box her between me and the bar, where they can’t pull her away without going through me. The distiller doesn’t care. He launches back into what he does care about—the bourbon—as he pours her a glass.
