"I've got you," he said quietly.
And she believed him.
The rhythm changed. Still intense but deeper now, less about the race to the finish and more about the discovery of each other. The way she clenched around him when he hit a certain angle. The sound he made when she said his name. The moment when urgent became reverent and they stopped performing for each other and just were.
She came first, her back arching off the bed, his name breaking apart on her lips. He followed seconds later, his face buried in her neck, holding her tight.
They stayed tangled together while their breathing slowed. His weight was crushing and perfect. She traced patterns on his back, feeling the muscles jump under her fingers.
"We should—" he started.
"Don't move yet."
"Wasn't planning on it."
Eventually he rolled to the side, dealt with the condom, and immediately pulled her back against him. She went willingly, her head finding the space between his shoulder and chest that seemed designed for it.
"So," she said after a long moment of comfortable silence.
"So," he agreed.
"That was?—"
"Yeah."
She laughed, surprised by how easy it was. How normal. "Very articulate, Captain."
"If you think I'm capable of any deeper thought right now..."
"Good."
His hand traced idle patterns on her shoulder. The room had gone quiet except for their breathing and the distant sound of the city below. She was nearly asleep when he spoke again.
"I need to tell you something."
The seriousness in his tone made her tense. "Okay."
"About Anne. About Paris." He shifted so he could see her face. "I should have told you weeks ago but I was—" He stopped. "I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"That you'd think I was exactly what you accused me of being. The guy who manipulates situations. Who uses people." His thumb traced patterns on her shoulder, restless. "Kate'sbeen relentless about Anne and me getting back together. Dynasty merger, perfect grandchildren, the whole nightmare. Anne met Etienne two years ago and fell hard, but Kate refused to see him as anything but a phase. So Anne asked me for a favor."
Libby waited.
"Last summer I went to Paris. We staged this very public reconciliation attempt that failed spectacularly—Anne threw wine in my face at a charity gala, told me I was emotionally stunted and she'd rather die alone than marry someone incapable of actual feeling." He smiled slightly. "She's dramatic. It was effective. Kate finally backed off."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because our entire relationship was fake," he said quietly. "How could I explain I was involved in another fake-dating scheme while I was falling for you for real? It seemed—I don't know. Damning. Like proof you were right not to trust me."
"Liam—"
"I know it's not the same. I know Anne asked me, that it wasn't manipulation, but I still—" He looked at her directly. "I was a coward. I chose silence because it was easier than admitting I'd been in love with you since you kicked my ass at gin rummy in Portland and I didn't know what to do about it."
He looked at her, his expression raw, stripping away the last of his defenses. "I haven't been fake dating you since that night, Libby. I've just been dating you. You were the only one who didn't know."
She pushed up on her elbow. "You've been in love with me since Portland?"
