Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“You’re stealing the show,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but his eyes are serious, burning with pride, with love.
I laugh, soft, nervous, my fingers tightening on the flute. “It’s the dress. Sara picked a good one.” Her name slips out, and guilt stabs me in the heart. Another reminder of the life I’m borrowing.
Max’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something—pain, maybe—crossing his face, but he covers it with a smile.
“It’s not the dress,” Max says, his voice rough, low, like a secret meant only for me. His hand brushes mine, his fingers grazing my knuckles, warm and deliberate.
My pulse races, heat flooding my veins, and a throbbing starts in my belly. I meet his eyes, so blue and so intense, locking onto mine with a blazing hunger. The ballroom hums around us, the clink of silverware and soft laughter of the fine guests blending with the jazz band’s smooth melody. But it’s all background noise, drowned by the way Max is looking at me, like I’m the only woman here, the only person that matters.
My cheeks grow warm under his gaze. “You’re biased,” I murmur, teasing, but my voice trembles, betraying the storm inside me.
“I’m not,” he says as we find our table.
We take our seats and after exchanging greetings with others, some at the table and others coming over in search of Max, the ceremony finally starts. I watch as dinner is served, appetizers first and then a spread of elegance—seared salmon glistening with lemon glaze, lightly steamed asparagus spears with butter. I’m too excited to dig in, so I start with the wine first, needing it to settle my nerves. I take a sip, and the wine is cold down my throat, rich and oaky.
Max watches me, almost as if he can’t take his eyes off me, and I watch him back, intoxicated by his nearness, his presence always pulling me under.
He leans closer then, his tuxedo jacket brushing the tablecloth, his scent—cedar and spice—wrapping around me. “You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman I know, definitely the most beautiful human,” he says, voice low, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m not,” I protest.
His eyebrows rise. “Didn’t you look at yourself in the mirror before you came out? You’re stealing every eye in this room, Amelia.” His fingers linger on mine, hidden beneath the table, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a shiver up my spine.
I bite my lip, trying to focus on the plate before me. The salmon is perfectly cooked and delicate, and the asparagus is crisp, but my senses are hijacked by him, by the heat of his touch, the way his eyes trace my face, my neck, the dip of my neckline.
“Stop it,” I whisper, half-laughing, my voice soft as I nudge his hand away. “Didn’t you say you’d be on your best behavior?”
My heart pounds, the thrill of our secret mixing with the reminder that there is nothing inherently wrong with being this intimate with him. It makes me wonder once again whether I am not just torturing myself and being cruel by not telling him. I’m playing God and the devil all at once. Not wanting the guilt and sin of making him give up his family for me, yet… enjoying the sweetness from pretending to be his. It makes me feel kinda deranged.
“I am on my best behavior,” he murmurs, his grin wicked, but his eyes soften, a flicker of something deeper, something that makes my chest ache. But he pulls his hand back. Not before his thumb brushes my wrist, a promise that lingers.
We eat in silence for a moment, the band shifting to a slower song, a sultry saxophone weaving through the air. Guests around us chat, their voices a low hum—talk of donations, art auctions, city gossip—but I’m lost in Max, in the way his knee brushes mine under the table, deliberate, teasing. I glance at him, catch the spark in his eyes, and desire curls tight in my core.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks.
I nod, and he stands and offers his hand. My throat feels tight as I take his hand, his fingers warm and sure. He leads me to the dance floor, the polished wood gleaming under the chandeliers. The band plays a slow melody, and Max pulls me close, his hand settling on my lower back, just above the curve of my hips, his touch firm, possessive. My body fits against his, the silk dress sliding against his tux, and I feel every inch of him—his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
“You belong with me. Like this. Always,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear, breath warm against my skin.
His hand tightens on my waist, guiding me in a slow sway, the music wrapping around us like a cocoon. I lean into him, my cheek brushing his jaw, his stubble a soft scrape that sends a shiver through me. The room fades, the other couples blurring, and it’s just us, moving together, bodies pressed close, a dance that feels like a vow.