Page 87 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Less talking," she suggests, lifting her arms to help me remove the garment. "More of this."

The hoodie lands somewhere behind the couch, leaving her half-naked in my lap, firelight playing across her skin in a way that makes my breath catch. I've seen her like this countless times now, but the sight never fails to affect me—not just the physical beauty, but the trust implicit in her willingness to be vulnerable, to be completely herself with me.

"You're staring," she observes, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice despite everything we've shared.

"Appreciating," I correct, hands resuming their exploration of newly exposed skin. "You're beautiful, Lena. Especially like this—completely real, completely yourself."

Her smile is soft, intimate in a way she reserves just for me. "Then touch me like you mean it, Donovan."

I oblige, my hands and mouth mapping familiar territory with renewed appreciation—the sensitive spot at the base of her throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder, the subtle weight of her breasts in my palms. She moves against me with increasing urgency, her own hands busy with the buttons of my shirt, pushing fabric aside to find skin.

"Too many clothes," she murmurs against my mouth, tugging at my remaining layers with growing impatience.

"Easily remedied." I stand suddenly, lifting her with me, her legs automatically wrapping around my waist as I carefully maneuver us onto the rug before the fire. She lands beneath me with a soft laugh that transforms into a moan as I trail kisses down her neck, her chest, her stomach.

The rest of our clothing falls away between kisses and caresses, discarded carelessly around us as skin meets skin in the warm glow of the firelight. We take our time, exploring with the thoroughness of those who know each other's bodies well yet still find wonder in each discovery. When I finally enter her, her legs wrapped around my hips, her hands tangled in my hair, the connection feels both familiar and brand new—as if we're finding each other again for the first time.

"I love you," I whisper against her lips as we move together, the words both declaration and promise.

"I love you," she echoes, her body arching to meet mine, her eyes holding my gaze with unguarded emotion.

We find our rhythm easily, the synchronicity of those completely attuned to each other's needs and desires. The fire crackles beside us, casting dancing shadows across our entwined forms as tension builds, as pleasure spirals higher between us. When release claims her, I watch in wonder as she comes apart in my arms, my name on her lips, her body tightening around mine. I follow moments later, unable to resist the pull of her, the perfect connection we've found together.

Afterward, we lie tangled on the rug, my arm cushioning her head, her leg thrown across mine as our breathing gradually slows. The fire has burned lower, bathing us in gentle warmth as night presses against the windows.

"I could get used to this," she murmurs, tracing idle patterns on my chest. "You, me, middle of nowhere, no phones, no schedule."

"We could run away," I suggest, only half-joking. "Build a cabin, live off the land, become forest hermits."

"You'd last approximately three days without decent coffee," she points out. "And I'd miss indoor plumbing."

"Fair points. Weekend escapes it is."

She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face with unexpected seriousness. "But we could do this more often. Prioritize time that's just for us, away from everything else."

"I'd like that." I brush my knuckles gently along her jaw. "Time for just Max and Lena, no other identities required."

"Speaking of identities..." She hesitates, a familiar furrow appearing between her brows. "Victoria mentioned extending the Luminous Beauty contract for another year. With some adjustments to reflect our 'evolved relationship status.'"

"How do you feel about that?" I ask carefully, aware of the complex emotions she has about her professional obligations.

"Conflicted," she admits. "On one hand, it's good money and exposure for both of us. On the other hand, I'm trying to move away from performing relationships for public consumption."

"We don't have to decide tonight," I remind her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "This weekend is about us, not contracts or campaigns."

Her smile returns, warm and genuine. "You're right. Future problems for future us."

"Exactly." I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Present us has much more interesting activities planned."

"Oh really?" She raises an eyebrow, mischief returning to her expression. "Such as?"

"Such as testing Dave's claim about the supposedly comfortable bed," I suggest, already shifting to stand, pulling her up with me. "Among other theories that require thorough investigation."

Her laugh—uninhibited, joyful, completely real—follows us to the bedroom, where we spend the rest of the night proving various theories about comfort, compatibility, and creative uses for limited space.

In the morning, I wake before she does, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her asleep beside me—hair a tangled mess across the pillow, one arm flung dramatically above her head, lips slightly parted in peaceful slumber. Three years ago, I was a bartender with a dusty guitar and a fear of both failure and success. Now I'm in a cabin in the Catskills with Lena Carter, watching her sleep and planning breakfast, music flowing through my mind for the first time in years.

Life takes unexpected turns, relationships begin in the strangest of ways, and sometimes what starts as performance becomes the most authentic thing you've ever known. As Lena stirs beside me, reaching for me even before she's fully awake, I send silent gratitude to whatever cosmic alignment brought her into my bar that night with her ridiculous fake relationship proposal.

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