Page 5 of The Fake Affair

His cock drags against the most sensitive part of me, the friction just enough to make my thighs shake, to make my toes curl. I cling to his shoulders, fingernails pressing into the warm muscle there, trying to ground myself against the rush of sensation blooming under my skin.

Each time he moves, I feel it higher. Aching pleasure coils through my core as his hips roll with maddening control, driving into me with a rhythm that keeps me right on the edge. He grinds just slightly as he bottoms out, and the pressure lands squarely in that tender spot deep inside, sending a ripple of heat straight through my belly.

I moan against his throat, biting down gently as the pleasure builds sharp and fast. His cock keeps stroking that place inside me that makes everything else blur—the world, the rules, the reasons we shouldn’t be doing this. All I can feel is the heat curling tighter in my belly, the slick pulse of my body clenching around him, and the way he groans when I do.

My body rocks with his, helpless against the rhythm, helpless against the flood of sensation that keeps cresting through me, higher and hotter. I feel like I’m going to break apart. And the way he fucks me, steady and deep, makes me want to.

His accent slips into Gaelic, rough and warm against my skin, and every thrust feels like something sacred.

And even though I know better, even though I promised myself this was just a mistake—I still can’t stop wishing this night didn’t have to end.

* * *

Morning comes,bringing with it the harsh reality of what I’ve done. I blink awake to find Logan standing near the windows, wearing a gray hoodie and running shorts. His back is to me, one hand in his pocket.

“It’s time to end this,” he says, his accent clipped and cold. “I need you gone this morning.”

My heart stops.

Then, he adds, “Make it quick.”

The sting of humiliation burns harsh. Of course. This is Logan Fraser—and this is exactly what I should expect from him after a one-night stand. Because that is what this is, right? Right.

Logan disappears into what must be his en-suite bathroom. I don’t wait around to hear more.

I find my dress freshly pressed on his closet door, alongside some designer sweats I won't touch. I don't need his charity. Everything about last night feels like an embarrassing mistake now.

I order an Uber with shaking fingers as I silently exit his penthouse. He doesn't come after me—of course he doesn't.

As my ride arrives, I make a promise:Logan Fraser will regret this.

I just don't know how yet.

TWO

THE NEW ASSISTANT

Logan

My Manhattan penthouse feels empty this morning, haunted by the memory of a certain brunette and flashes of our night together. Adjusting my tie, I remember emerging from my work call yesterday to find her gone. No note, no goodbye, just the untouched clothes I’d left for her.

I still don’t understand. One moment, I was firing an incompetent project manager, and the next, she’d vanished. I’d prepared everything—even planned to take her to breakfast. I’m not usually this... considerate. But she’s gone, and here I am, trying to shake the image of wild curls on my couch and whiskey-flavored kisses.

My phone buzzes. It’s Sandra from HR, reminding me about the new executive assistant starting today. I’d left the hiring to her while focusing on an AI startup acquisition. “Perfect candidate,” she’d said.

Two hours later, I stride through the Monarch Ventures lobby, mentally preparing for the day. Publicly, Monarch is a rising star in tech investments. Privately, it’s part of the empire I’ve built—my fifth company, but the one closest to my heart. My security guard murmurs greetings as I pass. My Edinburgh accent still draws double takes, and it’s just as strong as ever, even after a decade in New York.

My corner office, with its panoramic city views and intimidating glass desk, is exactly as I left it. Sandra appears promptly at half-past eight, tablet in hand. “Your new executive assistant is here, Mr. Fraser.”

“If this one’s as incompetent as the last, you’ll join them in the unemployment line,” I reply, not looking up from my reports.

“She’s exceptional,” Sandra insists.

“Send her in. And forward her resume to my computer. I should know who’s running my life.”

The click of heels on hardwood. A familiar scent. My head snaps up. Bloody hell.

Bella stands in my office, her curls tamed, but those red lips unmistakable. She looks every inch like a corporate professional, yet all I see is the woman I kissed for hours.

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