"True. Most people just tell me what they think I want to hear."
"That's what happens when you're worth millions of dollars."
"Not with you, though."
"I'm immune to your charms, Clay."
His eyebrow raises. "That kiss said otherwise."
My face burns. "That was ... acting. I'm just trying to bring my A-game here."
"Okay, baby. Whatever you say." He says it with such knowing confidence that I want to step on his foot.
"Don't fall in love with me, Sebastian. I'd hate to break your heart when this ends."
Something flashes in his eyes. Oh God. He thinks this is a challenge. "Sure."
The way he says it—all capitals, emphasized—makes me wonder if I've miscalculated somewhere. But before I can analyze it, he presses a soft kiss on my temple, and just like that, whatever coherent thought I had disintegrates into dust.
Two glasses of champagne later, we're expected to be a little more affectionate. Sebastian takes this duty seriously, pulling me onto his lap during the speeches, kissing my bare shoulder, brushing his lips along my knuckles. Each time, I feel a throb, the heat of need burning through me.
His hand rests possessively on my thigh, thumb tracing small circles that send sparks up my spine. Without a warning, he kisses me—supposedly for the cameras, but the way his handcups my jaw feels too intimate to be fake. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and I open to him without thinking. He's a darn good kisser—I have to give him that—and I find myself shifting on his lap, wanting more.
When we break apart, both breathing hard as though we've just run a marathon, Sebastian's eyes are stormy. "We should do that more often."
"For the photographers?"
"Fuck the photographers." His voice drops lower. "I like kissing you."
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I unconsciously rub my thighs together. This is dangerous territory. "Sebastian..."
"Tell me you don't feel it too."
I can't lie, not with his hand on my thigh and the evidence of his arousal pressing against me. "I do. But let's not make things more complicated."
"Doesn't have to be." He kisses me again, deeper this time, and embarrassment washes over me when I hear myself moan. "Come on, baby. Let's get out of here."
"We can't just leave our own wedding reception."
"Watch me." He stands, keeping me steady as he announces our departure to hoots and whistles from his teammates. Anya catches my eye across the room, her expression carefully neutral but eyebrow raised in question. I give a small nod that I'm okay.
Am I? I don't know. All I know is I want this, whatever he's offering. I can blame it on the alcohol, sure, but Sebastian and I both know I can easily drink him under the table. Ihandle my liquor well, and I haven't had anything stronger than champagne.
No, whatever's about to happen, it's all on me.
Sebastian guides me toward the elevator, murmuring excuses about an early flight tomorrow for our honeymoon. It's a lie. We're spending the night at an exclusive boutique hotel that occupies the top floors of one of the city's sleekest skyscrapers.
The moment the elevator doors close, leaving us alone, something shifts in the air. There has always been some kind of weird tension between us—as we argued, as we talked, as we existed in the same space.
Tonight, though, it's different.
Something's different. And I don't know if I should be glad or scared. Our gazes lock, and electricity crackles.
"Fuck, I've wanted to do this all night." Sebastian backs me against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine.
I should stop this. I should remind him this marriage is for show. Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer as his hands slide down to grip my ass.
"You've been driving me crazy," he growls, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist as he pins me to the wall with his hips, grinding against me, the friction driving me crazy. "All night. That fucking dress."
