I already know what he’s going to say. “Stop. I don’t need to hear Mateo’s Top Ten Reasons to Have Daily Sex. Not again.”
“I’m going to keep telling you until it sinks in,” he insists. “Sex is medicine! It reduces anxiety, lowers the risk of cancer, boosts immune function, triggers endorphins and oxytocin—”
“Stop! If it was anyone besides Luka Zoric, I might actually take your advice. But I can’t, Mat. You know that nothing good will come from having sex with my fake fiancé. I’ll just get attached, and it’ll make things even more complicated.”
He makes a sound of disagreement and I can practically hear all the words he’s holding back. Mateo doesn’t let his conscience get in the way of his sexual desires. Sometimes I wish I could be like that, too. Just take what I want without worrying about the consequences.
“Hey,” Mateo says gently. “What’s really going on?”
A tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. I shrug and wipe at my face. “I don’t know. I guess this isn’t the homecoming I thought it would be. It’s not warm and fuzzy and exciting like when you and I moved in together.”
“Yeah, honey, I know,” he says soothingly. “Hey, but I still have the ‘Fuck It,’ ‘Hot Damn,’ and ‘Sexy Bitch’ pillows if you want them.”
That makes me laugh and silence hangs between us for a beat. Mateo sighs and I feel the weight of how much he misses me too. “You’ll get used to it eventually. So will I. I promise.”
Mateo is so good at getting on with life. Sex and a few mixed drinks are all it takes to pull him out of a funk. I wish that was all it took for me to put aside my emotions.
“I’m not a bad person for doing this, am I?” The question flies out of my mouth before I even realize I’d been thinking it, but it must be there subconsciously. Always hanging over me.
“God, Brooklyn, no. You’re doing what you need to do to become the person you know you are. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I’m living a lie,” I murmur.
“You’re taking part in a temporary and mutually beneficial arrangement,” Mateo argues. “Come on, you know what people do to get ahead in this game. You’re not evencloseto that level of what-the-fuck. And besides, it’s all for a good cause. You’re helping him, too.”
I nod as if he can see me, already feeling better at his words. We talk for a few minutes more and then hang up. Suddenly worn out, I lie back on the huge bed and spread my arms out like wings. The mattress feels foreign beneath my body.
Am I ever going to feel okay about this situation? All I can do is pray that all of this will be worth it…and that I don’t lose my soul in the process.
Luka
Chapter 13
There’s something Brooklyn doesn’t know about me.
Something she’s going to learn soon if this tension between us doesn’t give.
As our bakery consultant bustles around Aimee Patisserie, assembling a lavish tray of wedding cake samples for us, it takes everything I have not to stare at my fiancée. Her eyes are wide, her mouth falling open as she admires the glass cases of pastel-colored desserts, flaky pastries decked with sliced fruit, tiny cakes dusted in gold flakes or studded with nonpareils. The last time I saw that much naked desire on her face, she was riding my hand to an orgasm.
It doesn’t help that the bakery is closed to the public while they host our cake tasting. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to pull Brooklyn into a storage closet to have my way with her.
“Please, have a seat,” our consultant says with a grin. She’s an older woman in a flour-dusted apron with a maternal air, and she gestures to a cute but flimsy-looking wrought iron bistro table and chairs that I’m sure Brooklyn appreciates. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just water would be great,” Brooklyn says, eyes flicking to me for approval. I nod. She’s been incredibly considerate of my alcohol limits, which I’ve found oddly endearing.
It’s been interesting living with her the past couple of weeks. We’ve had a few moments that felt like we were getting close to having something physical happen between us—Brooklyn sliding past me in her clingy bathrobe to pour herself a coffee one morning, shower fresh and clearly nude judging by the sight of her hard nipples through the silky fabric; the electricity between us as we’d sat shoulder to shoulder to review her new headshots; the way she’d opened up to me about her parents one night as we shared a single gin and tonic out on the balcony.
Yet even when we’re in close proximity, sparks flying so fast and hot they’re undeniable, she’s kept herself closed off from me. I can’t tell if it’s because of something specific that I’ve done or if it’s her way of sticking to those boundaries she loves so much.
Both, probably.
I’ve never been one for boundaries, though—so it’s taken all my willpower not to cross hers. Especially with the chemistry between us. But ever since the night I got a text from one of my former hookups who happened to be in town, Brooklyn has had this wall up.
It’s not like I haven’t been trying to make it up to her. I sent flowers as a housewarming gift on her second day in the penthouse. I talked my brother into loaning out his private chef to come over and prepare us dinner, hoping Brooklyn and I could have a “moving in together” celebration of some sort. My fiancée interacted with the chef more than with me, though, drained a glass of Chardonnay in a hurry, and then went to bed before dessert was served.
Three days ago, I opened an account for her at a designer furniture gallery in River North and encouraged her to shop for whatever she liked, hoping she’d rearrange our newly shared space into something that made her feel like she had some ownership of the place. The account hasn’t been used, nor has she added a single personal touch to any area of the penthouse outside of the guest room.
I’m at a loss as to what else I can do to get closer to her—to make her feel comfortable. Part of it is that the next few years are going to be a nightmare if we can’t live together in peace, but I’m not going to lie: I also want her, and I’m not above doing everything I can to get her into my bed. My cock jumps to life at the smell of her shampoo in the air, the sight of her ass in workout leggings when she heads out to hit the gym, the sound of her giggling on a phone call. It’s all I can do not to grab her in my arms and bend her over the couch, or the kitchen island, or anywhere else convenient and give us both release.
