Page 31 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

SADIE

T he powder room door clicked shut behind me, and I pressed my back against it. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized—flushed cheeks, eyes too bright, hair escaping from its pins. Mom's words echoed in my head, and even in my mind they were sharp and cutting despite her gentle tone.

Some marriage this is turning out to be.

She wasn't wrong. I was asking Harrison for the benefits of marriage—a home, his support, his monetary backing, his acceptance of my family, and worst of all, sex.

But I wasn't offering him the reality of what a true marriage looked like.

I couldn't. We didn't know each other. I was just playing house and he was doing what rich men did—pouring their money and resources out to make a woman happy.

I splashed cold water on my face and tried to breathe normally.

This was supposed to be simple. A contract.

A business arrangement that benefited us both.

Instead, I found myself watching him when he thought I wasn't looking, memorizing the way he tilted his head when he concentrated, the way his shoulders relaxed when Eloise climbed into his lap.

The woman in the mirror looked back at me with guilty eyes.

I was falling for my fake husband, and Mom could see it written all over my face.

I wasn't sure if it was the stress of the day, or the cramped space I stood in, but it all made my stomach churn again, which had been happening more often.

Anxiety always made me feel things physically, but never like this.

A soft knock interrupted my spiral. "Sadie? Eloise is asleep."

Harrison's voice carried through the door, and I dried my hands and opened it, forcing my features into something neutral as I opened it and tried to act normal.

The problem was that I wasn't okay. I was spiraling and I knew it.

Fatigued, overly emotional, snippy with everyone, and just downright unable to manage the life I was living anymore.

He studied my face in the dim hallway light. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." The word came out too quickly, but I plastered a smile to mask it. "Just tired."

"You sure?" he asked, stepping back to give me space, and my eyes flicked toward the guest bedroom door where I knew Mom was curled up in the bed I was supposed to sleep in. My throat constricted again, and I turned toward Eloise's door. Harrison must've read my mind.

"Your mom probably expects us to share a room…" The apologetic wince on his face made me feel a strange camaraderie in this mess. "But I can sleep on the floor. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

Heat crept up my neck. "You don't have to do that."

"It's no trouble."

But it was trouble. Everything about this arrangement had become trouble.

The way he moved around the bedroom with quiet consideration, gathering a pillow and blanket for himself.

The way he turned his back while I changed into pajamas, giving me privacy without making it feel awkward.

The way he settled onto the floor as if it didn't bother him at all.

I lay in his bed—our bed now, I supposed—and stared at the ceiling.

The sheets smelled like him. the pillow smelled like him, and I wanted him to be here with me.

Below me, I could hear him shifting, trying to find a comfortable position on the unforgiving floor, and my heart ached to make all this mess just stop.

As much as I wanted to hate him simply because my mother wanted me to hate him. I didn't. I loved how he was thoughtful and sweet and such a good dad. My heart was already getting wrecked over this, and I didn't want it to hurt anymore, but I had no one else to really talk to. Harrison was it.

"Harrison?" I said softly.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything today. The way you handled Mom's questions, the way you made her feel welcome. You didn't have to do that."

There was a pause before he said, "She's important to you. That makes her important to me."

The words hit me squarely in the chest. I pressed my lips together, fighting the sudden tightness in my throat. This was exactly what Mom had warned me about. I was reading too much into his kindness, mistaking his natural decency for something deeper.

But then I remembered the way he'd looked at me tonight during dinner, when Mom had been telling one of her rambling stories. There had been something in his expression that went beyond politeness, beyond the terms of our agreement.

"Sadie?"

I realized I'd been quiet too long. "Sorry. I was thinking."

"About what?"

About how I'm falling in love with you. About how terrified I am that you'll figure it out and decide this is too complicated.

"Nothing important," I said, but my voice cracked on the last word.

I tried to cover it with a cough, but Harrison was already moving. "Are you getting sick? Let me get you some water."

"No, I'm fine." But he was already on his feet, and I sat up quickly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Really, I can get it myself."

We collided in the darkness between the bed and the door. His hands came up instinctively to steady me, one on my waist, the other on my shoulder. I found myself pressed against his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin through his thin T-shirt.

Neither of us moved.

I could hear his breathing, slightly uneven now. My own pulse hammered against my ribs. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, I could see his face, the way his eyes had darkened as they searched mine.

"Sadie." My name came out rough, almost broken. "I need you to know—having you in your own room was impossible. I couldn't stop thinking about you. And now, with you here…" He swallowed hard. "I feel like something inside me is going to explode."

My breath caught. When we crossed the line the first time, we swore it didn't have to mean anything. And maybe it didn't that first time. We were just two consenting adults with hormones and we fixed the problem. But the subsequent times have meant things, very loud, very powerful things.

I didn't think I could keep up with this charade at all anymore.

I didn't really want an arrangement with him.

I wanted him. I wanted things I shouldn't want with a man this much older than me, and it was impossible for me to separate the logical facts of the arrangement from the things he made my body feel when I was around him.

"Harrison—"

"Can I have you?" His question came out raw and desperate. "Please. I know we said the sex doesn’t mean anything, but I can't. I need… I mean, I want…"

I answered by rising on my toes to close the distance between us.

His mouth found mine in a hungry, urgent collision, and all my careful resolutions scattered.

This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was exactly what Mom had warned me about.

I was being swept away by the luxury, the convenience, his pampering, and most of all the chemistry between us and I would be sorry.

I didn't care.

His hands tangled in my hair, pulling it free from its messy bun. I arched against him, every nerve ending alive with desire. We stumbled backward toward the bed, hands grasping, mouths seeking. When my knees hit the mattress, I fell backward, pulling him with me.

He covered my body with his, his weight pinning me in a way that made my pulse trip. His mouth traced a hot path down my neck.

“You undo me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp against my skin. “Every time I’m near you, I can’t think straight. I can’t keep my hands to myself.”

My fingers dug into his shoulders. “Harrison?—”

“I tried to stay away,” he said, brushing his lips over the curve of my jaw. “But you look at me, and I forget every reason I shouldn’t touch you.”

His words curled inside me, tightening everything. This wasn’t supposed to be happening again. I was supposed to be strong, to draw a line and keep it. Instead, I was melting into him, chasing the heat of his mouth, the press of his body.

His hand slid under my top, fingers splaying against my stomach. “You make me lose every bit of control I have,” he whispered, lifting the fabric until it cleared my head. His gaze swept over me, reverent and hungry. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

I shook my head, but my breath caught as his palm cupped my breast. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve rolled away. Instead, I arched into his touch, my own traitorous body begging for more.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine until I was clinging to him. “I think about you all day,” he admitted between kisses. “What you’d sound like if I touched you here…” His fingers brushed between my thighs, across the thin fabric, and I gasped.

“Harry…” My voice was already unsteady, the sound betraying me.

“I want you so badly it’s driving me out of my mind,” he said. “Tell me you feel it too.”

I did. I felt it everywhere—my skin hot where he touched me, my pulse pounding in places I didn’t want to think about. My mind screamed at me to stop, to remember this was a mistake, but my body was already answering him.

He pushed my shorts down, trailing kisses over my bare thigh, each one a small surrender. I hated myself for not pushing him away, for letting him see me like this again, but when his mouth found me, every thought scattered. My hands fisted in the sheets.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was rough with need as he looked up at me. “You taste incredible. I could spend hours here.”

I bit my lip, trying not to fall apart too quickly, but his tongue was relentless. I told myself it was only physical, just relief, but the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing he wanted—shredded that lie.

He rose over me, his breath warm against my cheek. “I need to be inside you.” The blunt honesty in his tone sent another shiver through me.

I nodded before I could stop myself, and then he was there shedding his clothing, sliding into me with a slow, claiming push that made my toes curl. I clung to him, unable to keep the soft sounds from spilling out.

“This is where you belong,” he said, his forehead pressing to mine. “With me. Around me. You feel too perfect for it to be anything else.”

I wanted to tell him it wasn’t true, that this was only temporary, but the words wouldn’t come. Every steady thrust pulled me further under, every whispered need in my ear erasing my protests.

“You make me lose myself,” he groaned. “I can’t stop wanting you. I don’t even want to try.”

The truth in his voice broke something in me. My nails dragged down his back, my body moving with his. I hated how good it felt, how much I wanted him to keep going, keep saying those things that made it impossible to think.

My breath hitched, pleasure cresting too fast. He caught my face in his hands, holding my gaze as he pushed me over the edge. “That’s it,” he said softly. “I want to feel you all around me. I need you like this.”

I shattered, clinging to him through every wave, my head a tangle of guilt and craving. My body spasmed and my hands clawed at his flesh, begging for more. And Harrison kept going.

He drove into me again, deeper, his voice rough. “You have no idea how badly I want to stay here forever. How much I want to keep you like this.”

His words sank straight into my bones, stealing what was left of my breath. I couldn’t think—only feel him, all of him, his body straining against mine.

“Don’t let go of me,” he rasped, his pace turning urgent. “I need all of you.”

I held on, and a moment later he buried himself fully, groaning my name as he spilled into me, his body shuddering with the release. He stayed there, forehead against mine, breathing hard, as if letting me go wasn’t an option.

When he pulled out, I lay curled against his side, his arm heavy and warm around me. His breathing had evened out, and I thought he might be asleep until his fingers began brushing over my hip bone possessively.

"No regrets?" he murmured into my hair.

But I did have regrets. I regretted letting my emotions get involved in this because I knew it was just sex and what Harrison wanted wasn't a life with me.

He wanted to save his daughter's school, and I was just compassionate—and maybe foolish—enough to want to help him.

He wasn't unkind or inconsiderate, and if I'd have said no to sex tonight he'd have respected me.

But a man has needs, and I was, after all, his wife.

It was only right that I should take care of his needs, right?

And it was only fair that he would meet my needs—well, at least some of them.

even if my emotional needs went unmet because I had some ridiculously unrealistic fairy tale expectations for this thing to work out as a happily ever after and not an "arrangement" that ended in five years.

"No regrets," I whispered back.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I felt myself beginning to drift toward sleep. But then Mom's harsh, rattling cough echoed through the thin walls, and reality crashed back in.

I went rigid in Harrison's arms. He felt the change immediately.

"What is it?"

How could I explain? How could I tell him that when he kissed me, I'd forgotten for a moment about Mom's diagnosis, about the five-year limit on our marriage, about all the ways this could end badly?

I was in love with a man who would walk away from me in five years. Assuming he didn't decide before then that the complications weren't worth it. Assuming Mom didn't get worse. Assuming I wasn't already carrying his child.

The thought sent ice through my veins. We hadn't used protection. In the heat of the moment, neither of us had thought about consequences at all except for once.

What if I was pregnant? What would that mean for our arrangement? What would it mean for the five years we'd agreed to?

I was in too deep now. There was no going back to the careful distance we'd maintained before. I'd crossed a line in my own heart tonight that I could never uncross, and I had no idea where it would lead us.