Page 37 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"No," she admits, slowing her pace. "But I needed to get away from all those people for a minute."

She stops beside a tall window, moonlight streaming in to illuminate half her face, leaving the other half in shadow. The dichotomy feels symbolic somehow—the public and private Lena, the performance and the reality, perpetually divided.

"I don't know what we're doing either," she says quietly, answering my earlier question. "This whole arrangement has become more complicated than I anticipated."

I step closer, drawn to her honesty like a moth to flame. "Because of what happened at my apartment?"

"Because of everything." Her eyes meet mine, unguarded for once. "The way you defended me to my father. How you remember details I mention once in passing. The way you look at me sometimes when you think I don't notice."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "How do I look at you?"

"Like you see me." Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. "Not the Instagram version. Not the brand. Just…me."

The confession hangs between us, fragile and potent. I reach out, unable to stop myself, and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes flutter closed at the contact, her breath hitching audibly.

"Lena—"

The sound of footsteps and voices approaching from around the corner interrupts whatever I was about to confess. Lena's eyes fly open, panic flickering across her features.

"We shouldn't be here," she whispers urgently. "This area's probably restricted."

The voices grow louder—security, maybe, or hotel staff. Without thinking, I back Lena against the wall beside the window, shielding her with my body. Her eyes widen in surprise, her hands automatically coming up to rest against my chest.

"What are you?—"

"Cover story," I murmur, leaning closer. "Couple sneaking away for a private moment. More believable than trespassers."

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by something darker, more primal. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me infinitesimally closer.

"Convenient excuse," she breathes, her gaze dropping to my mouth.

"Entirely practical," I agree, already closing the distance between us.

The first brush of her lips against mine is tentative, questioning—nothing like the desperate heat of that night in my apartment. My hands find her waist, steadying her or myself, I'm not sure which. For one heartbeat, two, the kiss remains gentle, almost chaste.

Then the footsteps round the corner, and Lena makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her arms sliding up to circle my neck as she presses herself fully against me. The kiss transforms in an instant, deepening from cautious to consuming.

I'm vaguely aware of a voice—"Sorry, sir, ma'am, this area is off-limits"—and Lena breaking the kiss long enough to murmur a breathless apology. The footsteps retreat, giving us privacy or plausible deniability or both.

We should stop now. The excuse is gone; there's no audience to perform for. But when Lena's eyes meet mine, dark and wanting, neither of us moves away.

"They're gone," I say, my voice rougher than intended.

"I know," she replies, her fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me back down to her.

This time, there's nothing tentative about the kiss. Her mouth opens under mine, inviting a deeper exploration that I'm helpless to resist. I press her more firmly against the wall, one hand sliding down to grip her hip, the other cradling the back of her neck. She tastes like champagne and desire, a heady combination that makes my head spin.

Her hands aren't idle, moving from my hair to my shoulders, down my back, pulling me impossibly closer as if she's trying to eliminate any space between us. The silver fabric of her dress is cool and slippery beneath my palms, a stark contrast to the burning heat of her skin where my fingers find the low back of her gown.

"Max," she gasps against my mouth when we briefly part for air. It's not a performance, not calculated for effect—just my name, raw and wanting, torn from somewhere honest inside her.

I trail kisses along her jaw, down the elegant column of her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. Her head falls back against the wall, offering more access that I greedily take, nipping gently at the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. The small, breathless sounds she makes drive me wild, eroding what little restraint I have left.

Her leg hooks around mine, pulling our lower bodies into alignment that makes us both groan. My hand finds the exposed skin of her thigh where her dress has ridden up, and I trace patterns on the soft flesh, each circle bringing me higher until she's trembling against me.

"We shouldn't—" she begins, even as her hands tug my shirt free from my waistband, seeking skin-to-skin contact.

"Probably not," I agree, capturing her lower lip between my teeth, drawing a shudder from her. "Want to stop?"

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