He doesn't answer. The car feels smaller and more uncomfortable. I feel the heat radiating off him, even across the divide of the luxurious leather seats and the scent of his cologne. It's a dangerous situation.
We pull up to a luxury hotel and I realize I don’t even know exactly why we’re here.
Press dinner? Paparazzi parade? Or another fake lovers' photo op? Nobody tells me anything except what to wear and when to smile.
There's paparazzi waiting, of course. The photographers swarm the car, a hungry, flashing horde of vultures.
He turns to me before the door even opens. "No surprises, Nikki. Not tonight, not here. Stick to the script. We need to project a united front."
"Got it," I reply, batting my eyelashes. "I'll stick to the lover’s script. But I never said whose script, did I? My script's way more interesting than yours. It has actual plot twists and character development."
The moment I step out of the car, the flashbulbs explode in my face, blinding me for a moment. But then it's like a switch flips, and I'm on. My dress is clinging, a slinky, dark green number that shows just enough.
This is my stage now and for this moment, I own it.
Rafe exits behind me. The cameras flash, a relentless strobe of light. The crowd buzzes, a low, excited murmur that rises into a crescendo of shouts. "Nikki! Rafe! Look over here! Over here!"
I make a choice.
A deliberate, calculated act of defiance wrapped in a gesture of affection. I slide my hand into his and interlace our fingers. It's a performance for the cameras, sure, but more than that, it's a calculated move. A test. A jab beneath his armor. I want the world to see it, and I want him to feel my touch.
And he does.
His whole body stiffens. But he doesn't pull away. Not when I lean into him, my shoulder brushing his, my hip pressing lightly against his side. Not when I whisper, "Smile for the cameras, babe. They love to see you happy. They love to see us. Pretend like you're actually enjoying this."
I tilt my head barely enough to press a soft, slow kiss to his jaw. Just enough pressure to leave a lingering warmth, a ghost of a touch. His skin is warm beneath my lips, surprisingly smooth. It's a performance for the cameras, yes, but also a private test.
He doesn't flinch. Not outwardly. His expression remains a mask of suave indifference. But I feel the ripple. Like something subterranean shifting beneath his skin. And I know, once again, with absolute certainty, that I've hit something deep and dark. His tight grip on my hand is his only warning to cut it out.
When we finally get inside the elevator, the tension is nuclear. The doors begin to slide shut, cutting off the world, leaving us in a stifling silence that screams louder than any crowd. He doesn't speak until the doors finally close with a soft hiss, sealing us in.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Nikki," he says. "You're taking liberties that aren't yours to take and overstepping boundaries."
My heart is thundering, a wild drumbeat against my ribs. "So are you. This whole thing. It's a dangerous game. And I'm just trying to make it convincing. For the audience, remember. You said it yourself."
"I told you no surprises," he reminds me. He takes a step closer, reducing the already small space between us.
"And I told you people love romance. We gave them a brief moment. A moment that'll be clipped, replayed, analyzed a million times over. A moment that says exactly what you want it to say, but also, what I want it to say."
He steps closer again, forcing me against the mirrored wall of the elevator. My back presses against the cool surface. His body is a solid, intimidating presence, blocking out the world. His hand reaches out, resting on the wall just beside my head, trapping me. His eyes are dark, intense, burning into mine, his breath warm on my face.
"You gave me a problem," he murmurs. "And I don't know what to do with you."
My lips part, heartbeat slamming in my chest. I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze and raise my chin, challenging. "Then stop thinking," I whisper. "And be a man and do something about it for once."
That’s all it takes.
He slams me back against the mirrored wall with a force that knocks the air from my lungs, his mouth crashing into mine like he’s trying to punish the need out of both of us.
It’s not a kiss, it’s a goddamn declaration of war.
His hands find my hips, grip hard, pulling me up until my toes barely skim the floor. I lock my arms around his neck, clinging, matching his hunger with my own.
His tongue claims mine, rough and relentless, no rhythm, just need. Pure, filthy need. His thigh wedges between my legs, presses up hard, and I can’t stop the strangled sound that escapes me. He swallows it down like a man starving, kissing me harder, deeper, until I forget my name and forget why we’re supposed to hate each other.
One hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so he can drag his mouth down my throat. Teeth scrape the delicate skin, followed by the searing heat of his tongue, and I arch into him, gasping.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he growls against my neck, biting just hard enough to make me flinch, to remind me who holds the power.
