Page 8

Bree

"You take the bed," Ken says when we step into the suite my father assigned us. "I'll take the couch."

I glance around the room, familiar from childhood summers—but I still feel a little floored. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Private balcony. A massive king-size bed and a sleek leather sofa that screams do not touch more than comfort.

Ken lets out a low whistle. "This is what he gives the fake boyfriend? Damn. If this is hospitality, I’d hate to see what guilt buys."

"Don't be ridiculous. That couch is too small for you."

"I've slept in worse places."

The casual comment hits harder than it should. I remember what Ashton said about Ken working his way through college. About surviving.

"Look," I say, "we're both adults. The bed's big enough to share."

His eyes darken. "Bad idea, Princess."

"Why? Afraid you can't keep your hands to yourself?"

"More like afraid you can't. "

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. "Cocktails on the beach in thirty minutes," I read.

Ken grabs his bag. "I'll change in the bathroom."

I watch him disappear behind the door, trying not to remember how he looked without clothes. Trying even harder not to think about sharing a bed with him tonight.

Because we will.

The beach party is in full swing when we arrive. String lights twinkle overhead, and the ocean provides perfect background music. Board members, executives and their spouses cluster around elegant tables, while servers weave through with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

I expect Ken to stick close, hiding behind my social connections.

Instead, he works the crowd like a pro, laughing with the men, charming the women.

He doesn't talk shop—he listens, jokes, teases. Whatever men talk about when they’re flexing in business-casual.

And they’re eating it up. Even Ashton claps him on the back with an approving grin, like I’m not the only one who underestimated his friend.

Every few minutes, though, his eyes find mine across the party.

Each look feels like a touch.

"He's good," Clara appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. "Almost too good."

"What do you mean?"

"The way he keeps checking on you without hovering. The casual touches that look natural but are perfectly timed for maximum impact. The stories about you that sound completely real."

I accept one of the glasses. "He's just playing his part. "

"Is he? Because I just watched him shut down Matthews' attempt to undermine your project. Again."

I follow her gaze to where Ken stands with a group of board members. Matthews is there, clearly agitated, while Ken looks perfectly calm.

"What happened?"

"Matthews-Monkey tried to suggest your water treatment program was too risky. Ken asked him to explain exactly which chemical compounds he was worried about. In front of everyone."

"And?"

"And Matthews couldn't name a single one. Ken then went into this detailed explanation of how the system works, complete with safety protocols and FDA guidelines. It was..." She fans herself. "Kind of hot, actually."

"He must have memorized it."

"Or maybe he actually gives a damn about your work. And about you." Clara sips her champagne. "Unlike my lottery tickets that don't give a damn about me. Twenty bucks a week, and still no private island." She pats her purse where I know tonight's ticket is tucked away.

Before I can answer, Ken appears with a plate of appetizers. "You should eat something," he says, offering me what looks like a fancy crab cake. "You skipped lunch on the plane."

I start to reach for it, but he holds it to my lips instead. The intimate gesture makes my pulse spike, especially when his thumb brushes my lower lip.

"How thoughtful," Mrs. Patterson coos from nearby. "What a catch you have there, Bree."

Ken's eyes never leave mine as I take the bite. "I'm the lucky one," he says, and for a moment, I almost believe him.

Later, as the party winds down, Ken finds me near the water's edge.

"Ready to head up? "

I nod, suddenly very aware that we'll be sharing a room. Sharing a bed.

The walk back to the house is quiet. Tension hums between us—strange and electric and unspeakably loaded. In our suite, Ken grabs sleep clothes from his bag.

"I'll change in the bathroom."

When he emerges in blue sleep pants and a gray worn t-shirt, I'm already in bed, wearing the burgundy silk gown I definitely didn't pack specifically for this trip.

He slides in beside me, keeping carefully to his side. "Goodnight, Princess."

"That's it?"

"What else were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Maybe some discussion of how you suddenly became an expert in toxic chemicals?"

He rolls to face me, and in the dim light, his eyes are serious. "I told you, I do my homework."

"Why?"

"Because this matters to you."

"But why does that matter to you?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "I told you. Maybe I'm tired of watching assholes like Vince Matthews win. Maybe because I believe in your project. Or because I see that you deserve the position and people deserve corporate CEOs like you. Maybe I like you—you know I don’t, but maybe I do."

"We should sleep."

"Right. Sleep." He rolls away, putting careful distance between us. "Goodnight, Princess."

"Goodnight."

But sleep doesn't come. Not with the memory of his hands on my skin. Not with the heat of him just inches away .

Not with the terrifying realization that maybe none of this is pretend anymore.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Clara : Just saw Matthews-Monkey cornering your father after the party. Something about "concerns" regarding the water treatment project.

Ken's voice comes through the darkness. "Everything okay?"

"Matthews is making his move."

The bed shifts as he rolls to face me again. "Then we'll stop him."

"We?"

“Yes, we.” His hand finds mine under the covers. "You're not in this alone anymore, Princess."

And that’s when I kiss him.

My mouth’s on his—hot, insistent, and not even a little polite. I kiss him like I’m starving. Like I just realized I’ve been pretending for days and I can’t do it for one second longer.

And he kisses me the same way.

I clutch his shirt, yanking him closer until his body presses fully against mine, heat and muscle and barely contained control. He groans into my mouth, one hand sliding down my side, gripping my hip through the silk.

"Fuck," he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at me. "Say the word and I’ll stop."

I drag him back to me. "Don’t you dare."

Our mouths crash again, messy and hungry. His hands roam over my body like he’s been memorizing it in his dreams. When he cups my breast through the silk, his thumb brushing over the nipple, I arch into him with a gasp.

"Jesus, Bree. "

He peels the gown up slowly, reverently, as if unwrapping something sacred. When I lift my hips to help him, he groans and presses a kiss to my stomach, then lower.

"You’re soaked, baby."

I don’t respond. I can’t. His mouth is already on me, his tongue teasing, tasting, driving me to the edge in seconds. I fist the sheets, biting back a cry as he sucks gently on my clit, fingers stroking inside me with devastating precision.

When I come, it’s like my body splinters apart. Heat crashes through me in waves, my legs trembling against his shoulders. He doesn’t stop until I’m gasping and pushing weakly at his head.

Then he climbs up my body, kissing me again with the taste of me on his tongue.

"Still think this is pretend?" he growls against my lips.

"Shut up and fuck me, Ken."

His eyes flash. "I was hoping you’d say that."

He strips quickly, and my breath catches. "God, he’s gorgeous. Broad chest, abs, and that cock—thick, long, already hard. I bite my lip.

“Eyes up here, baby.”

He kneels between my legs, sheathing himself with practiced ease, then presses the head of his cock against me.

"Ken. Please."

He thrusts in, slow and deep, stretching me until I gasp. We both freeze, eyes locked, the air between us electric.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You feel like heaven."

Then he starts to move, rolling his hips with fluid, perfect control. Every stroke hits deep, his pelvis grinding against my clit just right. I wrap my legs around him, dragging him closer, needing more.

"God, yes… ju st like that…"

His hands grip my hips, pulling me onto his cock with each thrust. Our rhythm builds, frantic and raw, sweat slicking our bodies together. He buries his face in my neck, biting gently as I claw at his back.

"I’m not going to last," he pants. "You feel too fucking good."

"Come with me," I gasp. "Ken, I’m—"

Pleasure rips through me again, harder this time. I cry out his name as I shatter beneath him, muscles clenching around his cock. He groans, hips jerking as he comes deep inside me, holding me tight like he never wants to let go.

For a long moment, we just lie there. Breathless. Tangled. Silent.

Eventually, he rolls to his side, pulling me with him. His hand finds my waist. My head finds his chest.

No words. Just warmth.

And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel alone.

Not even a little.