I’m pissed that’s why I’m here, wearing a beautiful dress coming from Ives’ money. I’m wearing makeup, prepared like my life depends on it. Yeah, maybe it really depends. Maybe I just want distractions, I’m just taking Dana’s advice. That’s it. I want to meet someone. Not Ives, not that cold self-centered guy.
His name was Ethan. My blind date. Button-up shirt, safe smile, definitely the kind of guy who updated his social media every weekend just for fun.
“You must be Marla,” he said, standing as I approached the table like some overly rehearsed gentleman.
“I must be,” I replied, sliding into the seat across from him. He laughed, too loud. Like I was already hilarious.
The restaurant was nice. Not Ives-level nice. No mood lighting or silent waiters judging your fork placement. Just good music and a chalkboard wine menu. Comfortable, vanilla, just like Ethan.
He smiled too much, laughed like he was trying out for a toothpaste commercial, and had this weird habit of pausing after his own jokes, like waiting for the audience laugh track that never came. Still, I smiled back. Tried to be normal, tried to forget about the man who kissed me like I was a fever he couldn’t sweat out and then ghosted me like I was a glitch in his system. No big deal.
“So,” the guy said, leaning forward with a grin, “I read somewhere that people who drink their coffee black are more likely to be psychopaths. You strike me as a latte girl though, right?”
I sipped my wine. “Oh, totally. Especially if it comes with emotional unavailability and poor impulse control.”
He blinked. Then laughed, like I was the funniest thing on the planet. “You’re sharp. I like that. A little spice.”
I gave a polite smile. “You say that now.”
“You know, I actually feel like we really vibe,” he said, his voice dropping into what I assumed was his flirting tone. “You’re easy to talk to.”
Was I? Because internally I was debating whether to fake a phone call or throw myself into the waiter’s tray just to escape this conversation.
I forced another smile. “That’s sweet.”
He reached across the table, lightly touching my hand. “I’m glad I came out tonight. You’re stunning.” I was about to fake a reason to run when it happened. The shift, like the air around me changed temperature. And then, his voice.
“Marla.” I froze. Because of course. Of course he was here.
I turned slowly and found Ives Mercer standing near the bar, dressed in black-on-black like he invented the color, jaw clenched, eyes locked on me like I’d just committed treason. And suddenly? That sweet, bland date in front of me felt like a mistake I was seconds away from paying for.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said, standing up so fast I knocked over my water glass. He didn’t answer the question. Just stared at me like I’d betrayed him.
“You’re out on a date? Seriously? Do you even think?”
“Excuse me?”
“What if someone took a picture, huh?” He stepped closer, voice low but tight. “What if it ends up online? You think a headline like ‘Fake Fiancée Gets Frisky with Random Guy’ is going to help your case?”
I scoffed. Of course, still about the press, the performance, and the lie we were selling. But then I felt it, heat rising behind my eyes. A tear threatening to escape. Asshole.
“This isn’t about the press,” I snapped. “This is about you being a control freak.”
“Control-?” He laughed, bitter. “You’re part of my image, Marla. You don’t get to run around playing make-believe with some guy like this.”
I took a step back, jaw tight.
“I brought you to do one damn job,” he said, voice cold. “And this? This wasn’t it.” I stared at him, stunned. And then I laughed sharply.
“Right,” I said. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Everything his mouth says, it hurts. I turned to walk past him, done with the humiliation. But he grabbed my wrist, not hard, but enough to stop me. My chest heaved, and his jaw clenched.
“Let me go.”
“You went on a date?” he whispered, voice low now. “With some loser who doesn’t even know you?”
“Yeah,” I bit back. “So what?”
He stared at me for a moment, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back up. “I’m jealous,” he said quietly, like the words physically hurt to say out loud.
I blinked. “What?”
“I saw you smiling at him.” He shook his head once, jaw tight. “Like it didn’t mean anything. Like I don’t-” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but before I could speak, he stepped closer. Too close. The next thing I knew, he was pulling me, fast, into the passenger seat of his car parked across the street. The door slammed shut behind me. My heart thudded in my chest, confused and racing. Then he leaned in and kissed me. Hard. Like he’d been holding himself back for weeks and finally let go.
“You don’t get to do that,” he muttered against my mouth, his voice rough and frayed. “Smile at someone else like that.” I gasped as his hand slid up my thigh like he had every right.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” he said. “What happened between us…” His mouth found the curve of my neck, and I arched into him without thinking, like my body remembered before my brain could catch up.
“I hate you,” I whispered. But my hands were already tangled in his shirt.
“Liar,” he muttered, sucking just below my jaw. “You came undone for me, Marla. You’re still doing it.”
I tugged at his shirt, practically tearing it open. “Then shut up and do something about it.”
He grabbed my chin, made me look at him. His voice dropped. “You want it rough?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Please.”
That was all he needed. He shoved the seat back and pulled me into his lap. The tension was thick. His hands slid under my dress, grabbed my ass, squeezed hard enough to bruise. “No panties?” he rasped. “You came here like this?”
“I was done waiting.”
He growled and pushed the dress up around my waist, his fingers dragging over my wet slit. “You’re soaking.”
I moaned, hips rolling into his hand. “Touch me. Ives, please.”
He slid two fingers inside my pussy and crooked them just right. I gasped, clenching hard around him. “That’s it,” he muttered, thumb rubbing slow circles over my clit while he finger-fucked me. “This is what you wanted? While that fucking idiot was talking?”
I bit my lip, moaning into his neck. “Yes.”
He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into my mouth. “Taste yourself.”
I sucked them like I was starving. His eyes burned.
“Fuck, baby. Look how ready you are,” he said, voice ragged. “You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I cried. “Please. I want your dick so bad… fuck me, please.”
“Beg louder.”
“Please, Ives,” I moaned. “I want you to fuck me. I need it. I need you to ruin me.”
He growled and shoved the passenger seat all the way back. “Get on your knees. Now.”
I dropped between his legs, unzipped him, pulled his cock out, hard and thick and ready. I licked the tip, then wrapped my mouth around him. He grabbed the back of my head and groaned. “Yeah, take it, just like that.”
I sucked him deep, fast, messy. He hit the back of my throat and I didn’t stop. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, you’re perfect. You suck my dick like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
When he pulled me off, my lips were swollen, eyes glassy. “Back on top,” he ordered. “Now.” I climbed onto his lap, straddling him. He grabbed his cock and ran it through my slit, then shoved it inside me in one brutal thrust. I screamed.
He started fucking me fast, hard, deep. No rhythm. Just raw hunger. His hands were everywhere, pulling my hair, gripping my ass, squeezing my tits through the dress. “This pussy is mine,” he growled in my ear. “You hear me?”
“Yours,” I moaned, riding him harder. “All yours.”
“Say it again.”
“It’s your pussy. Fuck, Ives, don’t stop.” He slammed into me over and over, the car rocking. Windows fogged. Moans filled the air. Sweat, heat, skin slapping skin.
“You’re gonna come all over daddy’s cock,” he breathed. “Do it.”
And I did. My whole body convulsed. I sobbed his name, thighs shaking as I came hard around him. He followed right after, groaning loud as he emptied inside me, holding me tight like he’d break if he let go. We stayed tangled like that, gasping, sweating, fucked-out and lost in it. The car windows were fogged. The city blurred. And my heart? Still pounding. Because I realized two very real, very terrifying things. One, I just slept with Ives Mercer. Two, I wanted to do it again. And again. And again.