Need.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting for self-control. It’s always been this way around him, which is the very reason I set up my rule in the first place. I may not be a believer in all things lovey-dovey, but even I know that the combination of pretending to be Matt’s girlfriend while also sleeping with him is dangerous.
My brain knows this. My body? Wants him. Always.
I’d been so sure that spending more time with him would cure my attraction to him—that being forced to deal with his arrogance on a regular basis as his faux girlfriend, with the constant exposure to all his flaws, would rid me of any desire for the man.
So far . . . my plan’s not working.
7
MATT
Saturday Morning, September 23
I’m not sure what annoys me more. That Sabrina’s been one step ahead of me the entire time, and I didn’t have a clue, or the fact that I want her like crazy, even as I know that, too, is probably part of her plan.
Or maybe not, I amend as I study her expression in the mirror’s reflection. Five minutes ago, she looked smug as can be after she ensured our “relationship” made it onto the socialite gossip chain.
Now she’s both mad and turned on. Probably mad because she’s turned on.
I can relate.
“Get out.” She says the words calmly. All the heat comes from the lethal warning glint in her eyes.
“Okay,” I murmur, letting my lips almost touch her ear but not quite. I tell myself to release her. To honor our agreement, but my damn body won’t obey.
She hisses out a little breath at the contact, even as she arches toward me, her body belying her words. “Seriously? You can’t go one month without sex?”
I grit my teeth in frustration. “You’re telling me I’m the only one wanting right now?”
My other hand slides up her waist until my fingers brush the underside of her bra. In response, she bats my hand away, and even in my irritation, I nearly smile, because it’s so her. So us.
She whirls toward me, and the air all but crackles around us. With anger, with sexual tension, with whatever else is between us, always.
I wish I knew what it was. I’m not sure it has a name. Because even though I know down to my very core I’m not cut out for the monogamous-relationship thing—I don’t want a serious girlfriend ever, much less a wife—the woman in front of me is the only one who’s ever made me think maybe.
Maybe.
Helpless against the onslaught, I do the only thing I can think of. I kiss her.
My fingers tangle in her hair, and my mouth is urgent as it claims hers.
She stiffens immediately, her hands going to my shoulders, ready to shove me off.
I gentle my touch, even as I ease closer. I let her know that she can step away if she chooses, but I intend to make damn sure she makes another choice.
I kiss the corner of her mouth softly. Kiss me back.
My lips drift over her stubborn jaw. Want me back.
I feel the moment she capitulates, her small body softening against mine. I pull her closer, my mouth finding hers again . . .
“Sabrina, how’s everything fitting?”
Sabrina reels back at the sound of the saleswoman’s chipper voice, and she slaps her hand against my mouth, her eyes commanding. Be quiet.
“I’m all good, Mon, thanks!” Sabrina says with an equally chipper tone. I’ll give her credit—her voice is as smooth and even as it always is. Not easy to ruffle, this one.
Monica, however, doesn’t get the hint. “You need another size on anything? I’ve had a couple people tell me that the off-the-shoulder dress is running a bit snug.”
“Haven’t gotten to that one yet. I’ll let you know,” Sabrina says, pressing her palm more firmly against my mouth.
“Isn’t that blue turtleneck gorge?” Monica babbles on. “The second I saw it, I knew it would look uh-mazing on you.”
“I love it,” Sabrina says. “It’s definitely going home with me.”
I narrow my eyes, because I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even seen the shirt yet.
She presses her hand harder against my mouth. Shut up.
I smile against her palm.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it. Just pop your head out or give a holler if you need more champagne or a different size or anything. Mr. Cannon, how are things going on your side?”
I bite back a laugh, and Sabrina rests her forehead briefly to my shoulder in defeat.
“Any ideas?” I whisper against her fingers.
She lifts her hand, and though I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain, trying to come up with a solution, she knows when she’s beat. Sabrina lets out a little sigh and shakes her head.
“Mr. Cannon?” Monica asks again.
I clear my throat, feeling a bit like I did in prep school when Mrs. Gallagher caught me feeling up Jen Fowler in the utility closet. “All good, thanks,” I say, not bothering to keep the amusement out of my voice.
There’s a moment of confused silence, and I imagine Monica uttering a silent ohhhhhh as the situation clicks into place in her mind.
“Okay, great!” she chirps, her voice a full octave higher than before. “I need to run out to the front real quick, but I’ll be back in a bit!”
Sabrina and I stay perfectly still until the lingering silence tells us Monica’s left the dressing room area.
“Well,” Sabrina says in a quiet voice, stepping back. “That was . . . horrifying.”
“Come on. You’ve never hooked up in a dressing room before?”
“Not since I was seventeen and in a mall,” she says, pulling a shirt off the stack of clothes to try on and tugging it over her head.
“I like it,” I say, nodding at the fitted red top.
“Shut up,” she mutters, attempting to detangle her hair from a tag.
“Need a hand?”
“No,” she snaps irritably. “I need for you to get out of here and go figure out what of the stuff she brought you you’re going to buy. You know what, just buy all of it. It’s the least you can do after—”
“After what?” I ask, swatting her hands aside and carefully pulling the dark strands of her silky hair away from the tag at the back of the shirt.
“After we defiled their dressing room.”
“Defiled?” I say with a laugh. “It was a kiss. We didn’t even get to the good stuff.”
“Thank God for that. I nearly violated my own rule.” She sounds genuinely horrified by the realization.
I catch her chin with my fingers, studying her face. “When did you turn into such a prude?”
“I’m not a prude; I’m a professional. This may be a game to you, but it’s not to me. This is my job.”
“Are you forgetting why we’re here in the first place?” I ask, stepping closer. “For my job. And believe me when I say that my career being on the line is just about the only thing that could compel me to come to you for help.”
She blinks, and for a split second, I swear I see something other than the usual disdain on her face. Something that looks a bit like hurt. Then she lifts her chin and it’s gone.
“Get out. Go back to your dressing room and prepare your credit card for a workout.”
“I don’t get why you’re so pissed about this,” I grumble as she tugs on a pair of pants. “Wasn’t this the plan? To let people think we’re together?”
“The key word there being plan,” she snaps, buttoning the pants. “We’re supposed to plan when people see us together, not get caught acting like teenagers.”
I grin. “You know the reason I think you’re really mad?”
“I’m just about to faint from holding my breath, dying to know.”
“You’re mad that we got interrupted. You’re mad that I only kissed you, that I didn’t put my hands all over you.” To piss her off, I reach out and play with a strand of her hair.
Sabrina lifts a warning finger. “Touch me one more time, and I’ll tear up our contract, leaving you on your own.”
I study her for a moment, debating just how serious she is. Best not to risk it.
My hand drops. “All right. You win this one. Get whatever you’re going to get,” I say, waving a hand at the enormous pile of clothes. “But have Monica send the stuff to your apartment. We’re not carrying the bags around with us.”