“Jesus Christ, Dixon,” she says, voice shredded. “You make a girl feel like a goddamn goddess.”
I press my forehead to hers and smile, trying to mask the ache in my gut. “You are.”
She grabs my shirt and yanks me down, legs wrapping around my waist. “Now get inside me.”
I shake with need, but my brain is still barely operational. “You okay?”
“If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll fire you as my fake boyfriend.”
I laugh, the sound scraping my throat. “Can’t have that.”
We scramble, blind and frantic, to strip off what’s left of our clothes. She starts with my belt, hands clumsy but urgent, and as soon as my jeans are down, she palms my cock and whistles softly.
“Fuck, you’re huge.”
I raise an eyebrow, blood pumping loud in my ears. “Stop, I’m blushing.”
She narrows her eyes, slides a thumb down my length, and grins wickedly. “No, you’re not.”
It’s a minor miracle I don’t come the second I enter her, her body so tight it stuns me, and I pause, biting my own lip.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
She pulls me deeper, her voice gone breathy with impatience. “Harder—please, I want to feel how much you want me.”
So I give it to her, everything I’ve got, slamming in until her head knocks the headboard, and she barks out a laugh that melts into a moan. She takes me with total, reckless abandon, rolling her hips and grinding against me like she’s never, ever been satisfied. I watch her face for a cue, but all I see is hunger and triumph, so I lose myself to it, to her, and let go.
Our rhythm gets wild fast; she scratches at my back with her nails, urging me harder, and I say her name like a prayer, over and over, until she tenses on my cock and comes so violently she almost throws me off. I keep going, fucking her through every last spasm, and as soon as she slumps back, exhausted, she giggles.
“You’ve ruined me. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
I collapse beside her, gasping. “You’ll manage. You’re Emma Rowan.”
She turns, catlike, and bites my shoulder. “You’re not allowed to stop.”
And so we don’t. For the next half-hour or maybe the next century, I lose track: she climbs onto my lap and rides me slow and mean, murmurs in my ear that she owns me, that I’ll never fuck anyone else as well as I fuck her. She makes me say it, makes me tell her she’s the only one. I do, a hundred times, until I finally let go, emptying inside her until the world goes white and my vision tunnels. We’re both obliterated, sticky and shaking, clinging together like we’re trying to invent a new species.
After, we lie tangled in the hotel sheets, staring at the ceiling. She drapes her leg over mine and sighs.
“Are you going to pretend this never happened tomorrow?”
I laugh weakly. “Not if you don’t.”
She pokes my chest. “It doesn’t count, you know. It’s all for publicity.”
I roll her under me, pin her arms, and nuzzle her neck. “If this is for PR, I want a fucking raise.”
She grins, wild and sharp, then flips us so she’s on top again. “Just remember who saved your career.”
I tug her hair, and she yelps. “You needed me more than I needed you, you know.”
“Lies and slander, Dixon.”
I kiss her, and it’s gentle this time, not a battle but a truce. I taste her, the salt of her sweat, the mineral tang of her skin. She softens, just a little, and we lie there, not talking, letting the world turn without us for a minute.
Tomorrow it’s back to interviews, red carpets, the gauntlet of staged affection. Tomorrow we’ll have to explain the new markson our throats and the look in each other’s eyes. But tonight, for once, there’s nothing fake about it.
She falls asleep first, hair tangled over the pillow, a small smile on her lips. I watch her, dizzy with it, and try to memorize every detail, every freckle and unfinished thought. I want to remember this, precisely as it is, before the morning comes and we’re both forced to lie again.
