Page 24 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I cross the gap between us in three long strides, and I don't stop until I'm standing directly in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at me. Her scent hits me immediately—champagne and jasmine and the faint, acidic tang of panic—and my chest tightens with a visceral, overwhelming need to fix this.
"Are you hurt?" I ask.
She shakes her head, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. "No, I'm—I'm fine, I just?—"
"You are not fine."
Her face crumples again, and she presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying and failing to stop crying. Her voice comes out muffled and broken. "God, this is so humiliating. I'm sorry, I just—I can't do this anymore, Olog, I can't?—"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
She drops her hands, staring up at me with raw, unfiltered anguish. "Yes, I do! I hired you to pretend to be my boyfriend, and now you're covered in wine because my ex's fiancée is a psychopath, and you've been miserable all day, and I—" Her voice cracks. "I know you regret last night. I know you think I'm some desperate, pathetic client who can't keep her hands to herself, and you're probably counting down the hours until this nightmare contract is over, and I just?—"
I grab her face.
Both hands, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up so she has no choice but to look directly into my eyes.
She goes completely still.
"Listen to me," I say, my voice low and rough and stripped of every professional filter I've maintained since the moment I woke up this morning. "I do not regret last night. I have not been miserable. And you are not pathetic."
Her breath hitches.
"Then why—" she whispers. "Why have you been acting like you can't stand to be near me?"
"Because I crossed a line."
Her brows furrow. "What line?"
"The professional one," I say, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, feeling the wet heat of her tears against my skin. "You hired me to provide a service, Bliss. A performance. I am supposed to play a role, execute the contract, and leave. I am not supposed to?—"
I stop.
She's staring at me with wide, glistening eyes, her lips parted, waiting.
I force myself to finish.
"I am not supposed to want you."
The words land between us like a detonation.
Her eyes go even wider.
"But I do," I continue, my voice dropping into a rough, guttural register I can't control anymore. "I woke up this morning with your body wrapped around mine, and it took every ounce of discipline I possess not to roll you onto your back and?—"
I stop again, my jaw clenching, my control fraying.
She's breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her pupils dilated.
"And what?" she whispers.
I lean down until my forehead is nearly touching hers, until my breath ghosts across her lips, until the last shred of professional distance between us is nothing but a fragile, crumbling illusion.
"And claim you," I finish.
Her breath catches.
We're frozen like that, suspended in the heavy, electric silence, and I can feel the exact moment the dynamic between us shifts irrevocably.
