Page 72 of Beautiful Lies

“Sure,” Knox replies easily, as if this is normal for us. Like it won’t mean crossing another line.

“Wonderful.” The reporter beams from ear to ear, lifting his camera. “Ready when you are.”

Knox’s hand drifts to the small of my back, warm and steady through the cotton of my dress.

An unwelcome shiver climbs my spine as he draws me closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something dark and expensive that makes my head spin.

“Don’t look so scared, love,” he murmurs near my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “It’s just a kiss.”

Then his lips are on mine.

No warning. No prelude. He just kisses me.

At first, it’s soft, almost gentle, but there’s an undercurrent of possession that steals my breath. The same way it did when he kissed me at the club.

His mouth moves against mine with a confidence that speaks of experience, of a man who knowsexactlywhat he’s doing. And how to do it well.

One hand cups my jaw; the other presses to my lower back, holding me against him like I might vanish if he lets go.

For a moment, I forget everything. The crowd of elegant strangers watching our every move. The cameras flashing in the background that are capturing this moment. The champagne-scented air.

There’s only him. The hammer of my heart, the flutter deep in my stomach, and the treacherous way my body melts into the hard planes of his.

Just a kiss?Jesus.

If this is just a kiss, then every kiss I’ve ever had before tonight was a rehearsal.

And anyone else who wasn’t him had no idea what they were doing.

When Knox finally breaks away, his forehead lingers against mine for one suspended heartbeat, long enough for me to catch a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before the mask slides back into place.

Applause ripples around us, distant and muffled, like sound underwater. Knox’s thumb grazes my cheek in a gesture so tender it could almost be real, and I have to remind myself it’s not. None of this is real.

“Perfect,” he whispers, so quietly only I can hear. I can’t tell if he means the performance… or the kiss.

My lips tingle, warmth spreading from deep within. That’s not supposed to happen. Not fromjust a kiss.

Except it wasn’tjusta kiss.

“Thank you, that was great,” the reporter says, breaking the moment.

Knox and I turn back to him, just in time to see a swarm of reporters approaching, cameras flashing.

The reporters close in, voices rising with questions.

Knox’s hand is still at my waist, anchoring me in place, and I’m suddenly grateful for it because my knees feel like they might give out.

Then, mercifully, a familiar, low voice cuts through the noise. “Knox.”

Dorian stands a few feet away, effortlessly composed in his tailored suit, his expression cool as always. “The dining hall’s ready,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly to me before settling on his brother. “Dad wants you both up front in five minutes.”

Knox nods once. “We’ll be there.”

Dorian gives me a polite smile, too polite, then walks off, slipping back into the crowd.

My pulse hasn’t quite recovered from the kiss when the meaning of his words hits me.

The dining hall.