His hand lifts, hovering near my face. Waiting. "May I?"
I manage a nod.
His fingers brush my cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s featherlight, almost reverent, and entirely at odds with the controlled businessman who critiques my eating habits.
"You're trembling."
I clear my throat. "I'm fine."
"Lying already?" His thumb traces my jawline. "We need to work on that."
My pulse hammers in my ears. "I'm not?—"
"Grace." He leans in, close enough that I can see flecks of darker gray in his eyes. "If you can't handle a simple touch without shaking, my mother will see right through this."
The mention of his mother snaps me back. Performance. Contract. Business arrangement.
Not whatever this heat pooling low in my stomach thinks it is.
I straighten my spine and force my breathing to steady. "Right."
Asher leans closer, his breath skates across my skin as his hand reaches around my head, threading through my hair.
In an instant, my mind short circuits and it’s Richard’s face I see in front of mine. His breath coasts across my cheek. His hand yanking on my hair. His words whispered in my ears, making me shiver with dread. “You want this? Don’t you?”
At the time, I thought he meant his touch, something I absolutely did not want. But now I know that his unwanted advances were the cost associated with him selling my manuscript.
I break away from Asher, putting space between us. This is useless." I huff, pulling my hand back from his and dropping my face into my palms. "I'm not going to be convincing."
That means no payment. Which means moving back to Michigan. Which means losing everything. My chest aches at the realization.
"You give up too easily." Asher's voice is honest, not demeaning but not gentle either.
I whip my head to the side, anger simmering in my veins. I can feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes, threatening to escape.
He's not wrong. I have a bad habit of quitting things if I'm not immediately good at them. Every sport I tried growing up never lasted more than a month before I was begging my mother to letme quit. And she did. Every time. Much to my father’s dismay, who wanted me to tough things out, grow through adversity. But my mother never wanted to force me into situations where I was unhappy.
"This is why we're practicing. Chemistry isn't manufactured," he murmurs. "It's discovered. Now take a deep breath."
Just like the last time he ordered me to breathe, my lungs respond to his command, sucking in a deep breath and focusing on him.
Asher leans in close, his palm brushing my cheek softly, his breath ghosting over my face.
"I'm going to kiss you now." He says the words so simply, but something flutters inside me. Butterflies flapping their wings against the walls of my ribcage.
This is a bad idea.
This is all supposed to be fake.
There should be boundaries.
But any boundaries there might have been come crumbling down when his lips press against mine.
The kiss is deliberate. An experiment between us. His lips are soft yet commanding. Without thinking, I find my hands reaching for his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The kiss deepens, and something shifts. It doesn't feel like practice as his tongue slips between my lips. It doesn't feel like practice as a tingling sensation travels down my body, straight to my core. And it definitely doesn't feel like practice when he moans into my mouth as if I'm the best thing he's ever tasted.
Strong hands find the small of my back, drawing me closer until my body is flush against his. I fit against him in a way that feels dangerously right.
