His gaze searched mine, looking for what, I wasn't sure. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him because his arms tightened around me and he pulled me closer once more.
"Maybe we are," he agreed softly, his breath warm against my temple.
And there, in the quiet of his music room, with the city lights spilling through the windows and the lingering notes of his playing still echoing in my memory, I realized something that should have terrified me: I was falling for my fake husband. Hard and fast and without a safety net in sight.
Chapter 24
Rafe
Iwoke before the sun with Cecelia’s body curled against me. Her breathing was deep and even, and she had one hand tucked beneath her cheek like a child. I didn't move, didn't even breathe for fear of waking her. Just watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks, and the slight part of her lips that made something in my chest ache with a sweetness I'd never felt before.
Her dark hair spilled across my pillow like ink, a stark contrast to the white linen. I'd never seen anything more beautiful than her in that moment, vulnerable and trusting as she slept beside me.
How the fuck had we gotten here?
The question echoed in my mind as memories from the previous night flooded back. Taking her to the club. Showing her that part of myself I'd kept hidden from everyone. The way she'd touched herself while I watched, the way she'd let me lay her back against the sofa and take my pleasure between her perfect breasts. And then after, coming home, sitting at the piano and letting her see the rawest, most wounded parts of me.
I'd told her things I'd never spoken out loud. About my parents. About Gabriel. About the piano being the only place I'd ever found a voice. And instead of pulling away in disgust or offering empty platitudes, she'd held me. Fucking held me while tears slid down her face. Tears for me. As if I deserved them. As if I deserved her.
She'd peeled away my defenses one by one, and I'd let her. Hell, I'd helped her, offering up secrets I'd guarded for decades like they were nothing. The club. My voyeurism. The dark need that had driven me there time after time, seeking release without vulnerability. Yet with her, I craved both.
I studied the curve of her cheek, the small freckle just beneath her left eye, the way her nose turned up slightly at the end. Even the tiny scar on her chin that I'd noticed the first time I saw her but had never asked about. I wanted to know the story behind that scar. Wanted to know every story, every detail, every secret. Wanted to know all of her.
The first time I'd seen Cecelia had been at Nouvelle Femme's year-end function three years ago. Cecelia and her parents had surprised Evie thanks to Liam. I remembered the exact moment she'd walked into the room. She'd worn a green dress that matched her eyes, her hair pulled back in some complicated twist that left a few strands free to frame her face. She'd laughed at something Evie’d said, and the sound had cut through the din of the party, reaching me across the room like it was meant for my ears alone.
I'd wanted to approach her then. Had taken three steps in her direction before stopping myself. She was Evie's little sister. And so much younger than me. Off-limits in every way that mattered. So I'd kept my distance, watching her from afar, telling myself it was for the best.
And now here she was. In my bed. My wife, at least on paper.
Unable to resist touching her any longer, I reached out and gently, so fucking gently, brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
“Perfect,” I whispered. “You’re so perfect.”
She stirred slightly at my touch, a small frown creasing her forehead before smoothing away again. I froze, not wanting to wake her, not ready for this moment to end. But the damage was done. She shifted, turning her face more fully into the pillow with a soft murmur that wasn't quite words.
As I watched her, something cold and heavy settled in my stomach. A realization that hit me straight between the ribs. I didn't just want Cecelia in my bed today, or tomorrow, or for the duration of our arrangement. I wanted her forever. Wanted to wake up to her face every morning, to hear her laugh, to feel her body pressed against mine as we slept. Wanted her permanently, completely, with a desperation that stole my breath.
The thought terrified me.
Forever wasn't something I'd ever allowed myself to consider, not with any woman, and certainly not with one who'd only agreed to marry me because I'd essentially blackmailed her into it. What the fuck was I thinking?
Panic gripped me, squeezing my chest until I couldn't breathe. I eased away from her and slipped out of bed. Thankfully, she didn't wake, just curled more tightly around the pillow I'd been using.
I needed to clear my head. Needed to put some distance between us so I could think straight, could remind myself of all the reasons this wasn't, or couldn't be, real. We had an arrangement, a deal. I'd be a fool to forget that, to let myself believe it could be more.
My phone was on the nightstand. I grabbed it and padded silently into the bathroom, closed the door then turned on thelight. The sudden brightness made me squint as I typed out a message to Liam.
Me: Gym in 30?
His response came almost immediately.
Liam: Bit early, even for you. Something wrong?
Me: Just need to hit something. You in?
Liam: I'll be there.
I showered quickly, letting the hot water pound some sense into me. By the time I stepped out, I'd almost convinced myself I was overreacting. So I had feelings for Cecelia. So what? It didn't have to mean anything beyond the physical. Didn't have to change our arrangement. I was a grown man, not some lovesick teenager who couldn't separate physical touch from emotion.
