Someone yells, “Kane! Get your ass on the floor!”
The DJ flips to “Ride It.” The crowd whoops.
Grant elbows him. “Come on, superstar. Show your fiancée how the hometown boys dance!”
Wes groans. “You idiots never forget anything.”
“Never will,” Grant fires back. “Get out there before I tell them about prom night.”
Wesley turns to me, gaze half lidded and dangerous. “You in, or planning to stand here and heckle me?”
I swirl the last of my cosmo. “I’m thinking both.”
His face is full of mischief. “Come on, doll. Let’s give them a show.”
He pulls me into the crowd. The beat hits—thick, dirty, pulse heavy—and suddenly he’s touching me again. Firm. Possessive. Everywhere.
He moves with control, the kind that makes your lungs forget their job. My body finds his rhythm instinctively, hips brushing, thighs grazing, every inch aware of him. The crowd cheers, but all I hear is the bass and his breath near my ear.
When he spins me back in, his palm slides up the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. My stomach drops. The bar disappears.
“I want to kiss you,” he rasps, voice shredded from restraint. “I want to be your real.”
My heart stops. “Then…then commit to the bit,” I whisper, trying to sound steady.
His chuckle rumbles through me, dark and hungry. “I’m all in, doll.”
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not an act. It’s possession disguised as a kiss. He kisses me like he’s burning alive and I’m the air he needs. He fists my hair, grips my waist, dragging me closer until my spine arches and my brain dissolves.
Wesley kisses like he plays defense—controlled chaos, muscle and precision until it’s pure instinct. I clutch at his shoulders, slide my fingers through his hair, and he groans against my lips, a deep, raw sound that rattles my soul.
He breaks just enough to breathe, forehead resting on mine. “This isn’t acting, Foxy. Tell me it’s not.”
The words punch through me. He means it. He’s not performing. He’s choosing me.
I want to say it back. Want to tell him that when he kissed me at the harbor, I forgot we had an audience. That every time he pulls me close, I forget why we’re supposed to be pretending.
But if I tell him the truth, I have to tell him all of it—about my family, that my uncle signs his paychecks.
Would he still want me if he knew?
Words refuse to form.
His thumb drags over my bottom lip, slow and rough. “Didn’t think so.”
The song swells into another verse. He twirls me beneath his arm, and the crowd roars approval. When he reels me back in, my chest collides with his. Our laughter bursts loose, shaky and reckless.
“Jesus, Kane,” someone shouts near the dartboard. “You two need a room?”
“Got one,” he fires back, voice rough enough to scrape skin.
Noise swells around us, and I can’t think. My body’s humming, my mind white noise.
“Your ex is watching,” I murmur, just to anchor myself to something.
He doesn’t even glance her way. “I actually don’t give a fuck, doll.” His palm slides along my ribs, fingers catching the edge of my top. “I’m not pretending.”
