Page 49 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

His response is immediate and consuming. One hand tangles in my hair while the other slides lower, pulling me flush against him. The sensation of his body, solid and warm against mine, ignites a hunger that's been simmering since that first night. My hands explore with new purpose, sliding beneath his t-shirt to find bare skin, tracing the contours of muscle and bone.

"Lena," he gasps against my mouth as my nails scrape lightly down his back. "Are you sure about this?"

"More sure than I've been about anything in a very long time," I reply, already tugging his shirt upward.

He obliges, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion before returning to me. His kisses trail from my mouth to my jaw, down the sensitive column of my neck, making me shiver with anticipation. My own shirt is the next casualty, discarded somewhere behind us as we stumble toward his bedroom, unwilling to break contact long enough for a more dignified journey.

The backs of my knees hit his mattress, and I sink down, pulling him with me. He braces himself above me, his eyes dark with desire but also something deeper, more meaningful.

"I've thought about this every day since that night," he confesses, his voice rough. "About you, here, with me. Not because we got caught in the rain, not because we needed cover for security. Just because we wanted each other."

"I want you," I affirm, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "The real you. Not the performance."

The words open something between us—a new level of honesty, of vulnerability. His kisses become more urgent, his hands more purposeful as they map my body with reverent attention. I match his urgency, need building with each touch, each whispered confession against heated skin.

Our remaining clothes fall away, barriers physical and emotional dissolving until there's nothing between us but truth. When he finally slides into me, the sensation is overwhelming—not just physical pleasure but emotional connection, raw and unfiltered. My hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring myself as we find a rhythm together that feels both new and achingly familiar.

Unlike our first night together, there's no rush now, no desperation born of thinking this might be our only chance. Instead, there's a deliberate exploration, a savoring of each moment, each sensation. His eyes never leave mine, maintaining the connection that transcends the physical as we move together.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, his voice strained with restraint as he watches pleasure wash over my face. "The real you. No filters, no performance."

The words push me closer to the edge, vulnerability heightening every sensation. My back arches, seeking more, deeper, closer. He responds instinctively, adjusting to give me exactly what I need, his own control visibly fraying.

"Max," I gasp, feeling the tension building, coiling tighter. "I'm?—"

"I know," he murmurs, his movements becoming more focused, more intent. "Let go, Lena. I've got you."

The permission is all I need. Release crashes over me in waves, my body shuddering beneath his as pleasure washes away thought, fear, everything but this moment, this man. He follows soon after, my name a prayer on his lips as he collapses beside me, gathering me close as we both struggle to catch our breath.

For long minutes, we lie tangled together, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my cheek, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. The late afternoon sun filters through his blinds, casting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets, across our entwined bodies.

"Well," he says finally, his voice a pleasant rumble beneath my ear. "That was..."

"Yeah," I agree, unable to find adequate words. "It was."

He shifts to look down at me, his expression suddenly serious. "This changes things, you know."

"I know." I prop myself up on one elbow, studying his face. "For the better, I think."

"Me too." His smile returns, soft and private. "So we're really doing this? A real relationship?"

"While being paid," I add with a touch of irony. "It's very meta."

His laugh vibrates through me where our bodies touch. "Only you could turn this into a postmodern romance."

"One of my many talents." I lean down to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "So we sign the contracts?"

"We sign the contracts," he confirms.

The thought is strangely liberating—a secret reality behind the public fiction, the exact opposite of my usual carefully curated half-truths. Max's hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, and I'm struck by how natural it feels now, how genuine compared to all our practiced hand-holding for the cameras.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, observing my contemplative expression.

"That this isn't at all what I expected when I walked into The Copper Key that night."

"Looking for a convenient fake boyfriend to save your career?" His tone is teasing, but his eyes watch me carefully.

"Looking for anything but the real thing," I admit. "Real is scary. Real is unpredictable."

---