“I hate you,” I lied, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust.
“No, you don’t,” he said, one hand sliding around to pinch my nipple, the sharp pleasure-pain sending me spiraling.
He fucked me through another orgasm, my body convulsing, my cries muffled by the bed. Still, he didn’t relent, his stamina a testament to his military training. His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back to claim my mouth in a filthy, possessive kiss.
“Mine,” he growled against my lips, his thrusts growing erratic, his control finally cracking.
“Yours,” I gasped, and that word undid him.
He came with a roar, spilling deep inside me, his body shaking as he poured himself into me, marking me in the most primal way. We collapsed together, his weight pinning me, his arms caging me, our breaths ragged in the aftershock.
He rolled us, pulling me against his chest, his lips brushing my temple. “All I want is you,” he murmured, his voice soft now, vulnerable.
And in that moment, with his heartbeat under my cheek, I believed him.
For a long moment, there was only breath.
Only heat.
Only us.
And then, quietly, I said the one thing I hadn’t let myself say.
“I want you to stay.”
His arms tightened around me.
He didn’t speak right away.
Just exhaled, long and slow, his breath stirring the curls at my temple. His body, still flush against mine, was all heat and tension. Like he couldn’t believe I’d said it. Like the words might vanish if he acknowledged them too fast.
“Portia,” he said finally, my name a gravel whisper in the dark. “You mean it?”
I closed my eyes. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I mean it.”
His hand slid down my spine, slow and reverent, as if mapping the truth into muscle. “Then I’m staying.”
I wanted to believe that. I wanted it so bad I could taste it.
But the real world didn’t give a damn about heat and want and bruised promises whispered in the dark. The real world was six weddings barreling toward me like a champagne-fueled freight train.
I pulled back just enough to see his face. “You know I can’t—” I hesitated, trying to find the words. “I can’t be yours publicly. Not now. Not with the weddings. With your brothers.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me like he already knew where I was headed.
“If they knew I was sleeping with the planner,” I went on, “it’d derail everything. Especially after the Monte situation. Half of them would think it’s unprofessional. The other half would think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”
I smacked his arm. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” He cupped my cheek again. “So we keep it quiet.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m okay with whatever you need me to be—so long as I get to touch you when the doors are shut.”
I exhaled, shaky. “It won’t be easy.”
