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"Tell me," he growls, voice rough. "Tell me you need me."

"I need you," I gasp, back arching as he angles his hips, hitting that spot inside me that has my vision going white.

His fingers find my clit, rubbing tight, ruthless circles.

I shatter.

Pleasure detonates, my entire body locking up, my orgasm slamming into me so hard that I sob his name.

Liam follows with a raw groan, his thrusts turning erratic as he buries himself deep one final time, spilling inside me, his entire body trembling.

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Our breathing is ragged, the only sound in the quiet apartment. His forehead presses against mine, his hands still gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.

We don't talk for a while.

Liam carries me to the couch after cleaning us both up, pressing a kiss to my forehead before vanishing into the kitchen. I sit curled up in the corner, wearing nothing but his shirt, staring at the muted glow of the city lights outside my window. My body is warm, sated, aching in a way that feels good—but my mind won't stop spinning.

This was supposed to be fake.

It was supposed to be a performance. A way to control the narrative, keep the threats from spiraling, protect both of us.

But nothing about tonight felt fake.

I hear Liam's voice in the kitchen, low and steady, and when he returns, he flops onto the couch beside me, stretching an arm across the backrest like he owns the space. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair is mussed from my fingers, and he looks as wrecked as I feel.

"I ordered pizza," he says simply.

I blink, thrown by the normalcy of it. "What kind?"

"The good kind."

A slow smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "So, pepperoni and jalapeño?"

He smiles and nods. "Obviously."

I shake my head, settling into the cushions. The tension that had been buzzing between us since we left the gala has faded into something quieter, something less sharp. We're both too exhausted to keep fighting.

For the first time in hours, my heartbeat feels steady.

We don't speak while we wait for the delivery, but it's not uncomfortable. I stretch out on the couch, my legs across his lap, and he absently traces patterns on my bare thigh. Every now and then, I catch him looking at me, but he doesn't say anything, and I don't press.

Because if I do, I'll start asking questions.

Questions likeWhat happens now?andAre we still pretending?

And I'm not sure I'm ready for the answers.

The knock at the door startles me from my thoughts.

Liam stands, stretches, and grabs his wallet from the counter before opening the door. A minute later, he's carrying a pizza box back into the living room, the smells of melted cheese and spice curling into the air.

He sets the box on the coffee table, grabs two plates from the kitchen, and flops down beside me again, nudging my knee with his own.

"Eat," he says.

I do.