The night passes in a haze of introductions and fake smiles. Worth doesn’t leave my side. His hand is either splayed across the small of my back, curled around my fingers, or guiding me through the crowd.
When he introduces me, it’s never just “Mya” or “my girlfriend.” It’s always:“This is my woman.”
At one point, I finally whisper, “Why not just say girlfriend?”
“Sounds too juvenile for what this is, Kitten.”
Whiplash. Again.
The more the night goes on, the more confused I become. Every protective gesture, every whispered word in my ear, every lingering glance feels too real—too much like something a man in a real relationship would do.
And yet, I can’t forget. This is business. A performance. Nothing more.
So why is my heart not getting the memo?
The gala finally winds down, and I can breathe again. My cheeks ache from smiling, my feet are screaming in these heels, and if I have to shake one more hand and engage in any more small talk, I might combust.
When we slip out the back exit, the night air hits my overheated skin. The driver is waiting by the curb. Worth’s hand finds my back once more.
The door opens and I slide inside, exhaling in relief. The moment Worth follows me in, the door thuds shut. He signals for the driver to move with a clipped nod, then reaches forward and slides the privacy partition up in one smooth motion.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he pivots suddenly, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss.
I squeak in shock, but it’s swallowed immediately by the hungry drag of his tongue. His kiss is rough, unyielding, as if he’s been starving for me all night.
My stomach free-falls like I’ve just stepped off the edge of a cliff.
“Worth—” I try, breaking the kiss, breathless. “We shouldn’t.”
My protest sounds pitiful even to my own ears, especially when my hands are fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
The next thing I know, he’s sliding off the seat and onto his knees.
Onto his knees in his goddamn car.
“Worth,” I hiss, looking towards the tinted windows. “What are you doing? We’re going to get caught.”
But he doesn’t stop. His big hands are already curling under my dress, dragging me forward until my ass is at the very edge of the leather seat. His eyes lift to mine, blazing and hungry, and my entire body trembles.
“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he rasps, lips brushing over my throat, along my collarbone, scorching everywhere they touch. “But don’t lie to me, Mya. You want this as much as I do.”
My nails scrape over his shoulders as he leans down, desperate for an anchor. “I don’t?—”
Worth’s teeth nip my thigh and I jolt, a sharp gasp ripping from my mouth.
“Don’t lie to me, Kitten.”
“This is a bad idea, Worth,” I babble, my head tipping back against the seat as his mouth moves, hot and wet against the inside of my thigh. “We’ll regret this. We have an agreement. This is—oh God—this is only a recipe for disaster.”
A whimper escapes me, humiliatingly loud in the enclosed space. My thighs clench and my chest heaves.
“I’ve been craving you since Singapore,” he growls, voice muffled against my skin. “Couldn’t get the sound of you falling apart out of my head. Couldn’t get your taste off my tongue.”
His hands grip me tighter, keeping me in place—one spreading my thighs wider, the other pressed firmly on my hip. My arguments tangle in my throat, dissolving into incoherence the second his hot breath fans over where I need him.
And then his mouth is on me.
“Worth—” My protest splinters into a scream as he sucks my clit, hard, pulling it between his lips and flicking with maddening precision. My back bows off the leather seat, fingers clawing for purchase in his hair as pleasure detonates low in my belly.