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Love.

Especially love.

I don't say it.

I'm not that brave.

Not yet.

Instead, I kiss him again and hope he can somehow understand everything I'm too frightened to put into words.

All our clothes are gone now, and he walks me backward until I feel the bed behind my knees. He pushes gently on me, and I’m laying down now.

Mitchell crawls over me, his gaze is locked on mine, intent written all over him. He leans down captures my lips while his hands press my thighs apart.

I’m so wet right now. So hot and needy for him that I ache with it.

“Mitchell!” I gasp as his fingers slide through my slick, spreading it around and coasting over my clit.

“Fuck, Firecracker, you feel so goddamn good,” he growls, fitting his cock to my entrance.

Then, he flexes his hips and presses inside me.

And my heart gives itself away anyway.

Because this time I'm not only giving Mitchell my body. I'm trusting him with the rest of me too.

He doesn't know that. Maybe I don't entirely know it myself until this moment.

But as his gaze catches mine again, I stop protecting myself from what this has become.

I let myself want him.

Not for tonight.

Not for the remaining days of our ridiculous agreement.

I just want him. For as long as he’ll let me have him.

I want to know the man beneath Mitchell Knight's billions, secrets, and impossible control.

And I want him to know me.

Not Layla Hawthorne, reporter.

Not the woman writing his story.

Just Layla.

His Firecracker.

The realization is terrifying. Because somewhere along the way, Mitchell became more than the story I'm trying to uncover.

He's becoming part of the life I'm starting to imagine.

And if I'm wrong about him⁠—

If I'm wrong about us⁠—