"Touch me. Please."
His hand slips between us, circling my clit as I ride him, and he leans forward to take my nipple between his lips.
"Come for me again. Want to feel it, Emmy."
"So close. Don't stop."
The second orgasm crashes over me, more intense than the first. I clench around him, head thrown back, his name torn from my throat. He follows immediately, hands tightening on my hips as he pulses inside me. I can feel his come spilling. Oozing out onto his body. His ropes continue until I collapse against his chest, both of us trembling and overwhelmed. His arms wrap around me, holding me close as our breathing slowly returns to normal.
Colored, stained-glass-filtered light plays across our skin as dusk deepens into night. I trace patterns on his chest, feeling the slight ridge of an old scar. His fingers trail up and down my spine, touch feather-light but grounding.
The rightness of this terrifies me. This isn't fake anymore. Maybe it never was.
"We're in big trouble," Adrian says.
I prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. "So sue me, counselor."
He smiles, fingers tangling in my hair. "I'm serious, Emmy."
"So am I." I take a deep breath, gathering courage. "This stopped being fake a while ago."
"For me too."
A long pause stretches between us as we process this admission.
I sit up. "You know what, we should probably not have existential relationship talks while naked in my grandmother's library."
Adrian laughs, and the sound warms me from the inside out.
"Probably not."
But neither of us moves to leave.
Eventually, we gather our clothes and make our way upstairs. We fall into the guest room bed, not for sex, just to be close. Adrian pulls me against his chest, and I fit perfectly there, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
I fall asleep listening to Adrian's heartbeat, his fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder blade. Tomorrow we'll face reality. Tomorrow we'll figure out what this means.
But tonight, in this house full of memories and first editions and colored light, I let myself believe in the fantasy we've been selling everyone else.
That this—us—could actually work.
Those sixty days don't have to be the end.
That maybe, just maybe, we're writing our own love story instead of just pretending to live one.
===
6
ADRIAN
Iarrive at the office Monday morning, my mind still at the estate with Emmy. The weekend plays on repeat, and the truth I've been avoiding settles in my chest with startling clarity: I'm in love with her.
Not pretending. Not performing for Violet's will or Judith's scrutiny. Actually, irrevocably in love with Emmy.
I haven't told her yet. The words sit on my tongue, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, maybe. I'm picking up her favorite Thai food, planning to finally say what I've been feeling for weeks now.
"Mr. Hale?" My receptionist's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Mr. Whitmore has been waiting for you."
