I’m sucked into the kiss, clinging to him as any worry that was plaguing me before slowly drifts away.
The pretense of practice evaporates as his hand slides up the side of my thigh, and I feel exposed in the pajama shorts, knowing that he could reach underneath. He doesn’t, though, just strokes my thigh as he kisses me.
A distant chime breaks through the haze of desire—Asher's phone, reminding us of reality.
I break the kiss, gasping for air. Asher's eyes are dark and full of heat, and I can feel the fire lacing my skin, sure I'm flushed red.
"That's enough practice," I rush out, jumping up from the couch and running away.
11
GRACE
Practice.
That's what he called it when he kissed me.
I pace in the bathroom of Asher's penthouse, the place I ran to after I ended that kiss. My fingers press against my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his mouth, my heart beating overtime.
This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real.
I repeat the words like a mantra, trying to convince myself. The contract I signed is the only real thing between us. Cold, legal, transactional. Not whatever just happened.
But that sure felt real.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and see a stranger staring back. Shiny hair, smooth body, clear skin. Ever since my makeover by Asher's personal stylist, I no longer feel like myself.
"Get it together, Grace," I whisper to my reflection. "It's just business."
But business doesn't taste like desire. Business doesn't leave your knees weak and your skin burning where his hands touched.
I splash cold water on my wrists, trying to cool the heat racing through my veins. I need to focus on what matters: surviving in New York, paying off my loans, re-building my career. Asher Caine is a means to an end. A very attractive, commanding, infuriatingly skilled means to an end.
One year. I just need to get through one year of pretending. One year of pretending to be someone I'm not. Someone worthy of marrying Asher Caine. One year of kisses like that one.
God,that kiss.
I've been kissed before. Good kisses, bad kisses, drunk kisses. But nothing like the way Asher Caine claimed my mouth like he owned it. Like he ownedme.
I press my forehead against the cool marble counter. I'm out of options. This arrangement is my last chance to make it in New York on my own terms. I can't afford to confuse business with pleasure.
But my body didn't get the memo. It's still thrumming with electricity, still craving more.
I wonder what Asher likes… What would it feel like to have him on top of me? What would it feel like to be dominated by him?
I have to shake off those thoughts.
This is fake. Fake, fake, fake.
I step out of the bathroom, shoulders squared, pretending my heart isn't still racing and that my legs aren’t trembling. Asher’s office door stands partially open, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. I find him there, leaning back in a leather chair that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe, fingers tapping away on his cellphone.
He doesn't look up when I enter, but his posture shifts almost imperceptibly, acknowledging my presence. The air feels charged, dangerous.
"We need to set some ground rules." My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
Asher locks the device and sets it on the end table, his gray eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Ground rules?" he questions, amused.
The space between us feels like necessary protection, so I move to the chair that’s farthest from him and cross my arms, anchoring myself. "No more kissing outside of public events. And even then, only when absolutely necessary."
