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His hands slid under my dress, slowly and reverently. I gasped when his fingers brushed the bare skin above my knees. Sucked in a breath when he moved higher. My thighs trembled.

“Let me take care of you, Mags,” he whispered.

All the reasons to stop—this is fake, this is dangerous, this will ruin you—dissolved the second his mouth touched me.

I gasped, hands flying to his hair before I could stop myself. My fingers curled into the thick strands, needing to hold on to him or else I’d float away. He groaned low in his throat, like he liked that. Like he wanted more.

He flicked his tongue over me in languid strokes, testing, exploring. When my hips rolled involuntarily, he growled and pulled me closer, his grip on my thighs tightening.

I forgot how to breathe.

Every thought in my head disappeared. Every drag of his tongue, every press of his mouth sent sparks up my spine. He was patient and thorough, finding what made me tremble, what made me bite down on a gasp, what made my fingers clench tight in his hair. When I whimpered his name, he moaned against me.

I tipped my head back and bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Pleasure surged through me, but it was the emotion that wrecked me. The care in his touch. The way he held my thighs like he was holding on for dear life. The way he worshiped me with every stroke of his tongue as if this wasn’t a mistake, but something he’d chosen to do.

I tried to hold on, tried to ground myself in the moment, the room—anything.

But I couldn’t.

I came apart with a sound I didn’t recognize, a cry I didn’t mean to let loose. My hips bucked against his mouth as a wave of heat crashed over me, shattering everything I thought I was holding together.

He let me ride it out, his touch steadying me as I shook.

I sagged back against the wall, chest heaving, vision blurring. Roman was still on his knees, looking up at me like I was the sun.

That was what undid me. Not the pleasure, not even the orgasm, but that look. The desire in his eyes said I was something he wanted. Not for show. Not for the pack. Not because we were pretending.

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t break the spell or ruin the moment or call it what it was.

But maybe it was already too late. I had the sinking, unbearable sense that I’d just let him see the real me, and he didn’t leave.

He wanted me.

I left the room first.

My cheeks were on fire. My hair was a disaster. Roman’s touch was still burning on my thighs. No matter how hard I tried to pull my dress into place or smooth down the wrinkles, I might as well have been walking in wearing a neon sign that read Just Got Oral in the Guest Room.

Behind me, I heard Roman’s unhurried footsteps. The soft whoosh of his palm running through his hair, the tug of fabric as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. I glanced over my shoulder. He was so casual, as if he hadn’t had his head between my legs five minutes ago.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself to keep walking.

When we stepped back into the crowd, it was like the air got sucked out of the room. Conversations stalled. Someone dropped a fork. My skin prickled. Everyone was trying to look like they weren’t looking at us.

My gaze landed on the wives—perfectly styled, impeccably dressed, half-pinned curls still holding strong in the humid air. One raised her brows and whispered to the woman next to her. Another made no effort to hide her smirk. Across the table, someone nudged her mate with a look that could only mean they finally did it.

Seraphina choked. It wasn’t a little cough—it was a full-on, eye-watering, champagne-down-the-wrong-pipe moment. She slammed her glass down and blinked hard, as if trying to make sure we were real.

I wanted to crawl under the table. Or fake a fainting spell. Or slip out the back door and never come back. Roman took my hand and intertwined our fingers like it meant nothing.

Or maybe like it meant everything.

My stomach somersaulted. My brain was still somewhere back in the guest room, refusing to reboot. The only thing I could focus on was the warmth of his palm against mine, the quiet certainty with which he guided me back to our seats as if we hadn’t just taken our entire fake dating strategy to a sky-high level.

I should’ve let go. I should’ve said: What the hell did we just do? Or: We can’t act like this now. But I didn’t. I let him hold my hand. I let him pull my chair out for me. I let him tuck me back into the crowded table and pretended I wasn’t unraveling in real time.

I sat there, a little dazed and a little high from whatever the hell had just happened between us.