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“Seriously. Do you want me to fuck you again? Is that why you’re being a brat right now?”
“No.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of fucked-up assumptions you’re making about what happened tonight, but this isn’t a hookup, and nothing you could do or say is going to stop me from spending the night with you. So just go to sleep, and we can figure everything out in the morning.”
31
IZABELLA
Exhaling a shuddering sigh, I let my body relax into the bed. As if he were waiting for me to settle, I feel his hold on me soften and his breathing slow. With my eyes open, I stare into the dark room, just about making out the shapes of the furniture. My case and everything that was left after I threw out my Penelope-style clothes have all been carefully unpacked and hung in the closet or folded into the dresser. The idea that I’m staying here is still strange to me, but nowhere near as strange as the fact that I’m naked and in bed with the guy who blackmailed me to pretend to be his fiancée.
I don’t know how we went from fighting to kissing to fucking, but I know that tonight changed everything, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. Gulliver and I had sex. I hadn’t intended for it to happen, but I’m not sorry that it did. I don’t believe that you have to be in love or save yourself for marriage. Sex is simple. I wanted him and he wanted me; my hymen is hardly a defining factor, or at least not to me anyway.
Since I opened my hotel room door and found him standing in the corridor, things have been gradually changing between Gulliver and me. The first day he bought me back here, I could feel his guilt, but I don’t think he’s treating me differently because he feels sorry for me.
Before dinner, he asked me to pretend with him, and I couldn’t resist. A part of me desperately wants the fairy-tale picture he’s painting for me, but I’m not sure where the lies end and reality begins anymore.
He said this isn’t a hookup, but what does that mean? What does any of this mean?
Gulliver said that he fucked me like he owned me, like my pussy belonged to him, like he wasn’t pretending. But then he cared for me like I was precious to him, like he wanted to protect me from the way he made me feel.
A part of me desperately wants all of this to be real, but if it is, what now?
I wake up sprawled across his chest, my legs tangled with his as he holds me to him, like even in his sleep, he was trying to stop me from getting away. The sound of someone knocking on my bedroom door has me untangling myself and fending off his hands as he reaches for me. Grabbing the towel Gulliver threw on the floor last night, I wrap it around myself, then open the door a little way and find Beth standing on the other side.
“Good morning, Miss Izabella. Yolanda is here,” she says politely.
“Thank you. Could you let her know I’m just about to take a shower but that I’ll be ready for her in fifteen minutes,” I say, my voice full of sleep.
“Of course. Would you like some breakfast?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
“Is there anything in particular you would like? I’ve made blueberry and cream cheese crepes for Mr. Winslow and his guests, but I can make you whatever you would prefer.”
“Crepes would be lovely. Could I have some coffee as well, please?”
“I’ll bring it right up,” she says with a nod before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hallway.
Exhaling sharply, I close the door. When I turn around, Gulliver is sprawled naked in my bed, his head resting on my pillow as he watches me intently.
“Good morning,” he says gruffly, his eyes smoldering, his hair sexily rumpled.
“Hey. I have to go shower. The journalist from The New York Times will be here soon, and I need Yolanda to make me look less bruised.” I gesture to my face.
“Come here,” he says, not moving, just staring at me with his dark, intense eyes.
“I can’t, I need to get ready,” I deflect, taking two steps toward the bathroom. “You should go and get ready too.”
“After you come here,” he says, his tone steely.
Sighing, I glance toward the bathroom, then back to him again. “You’re making this weird, Gulliver.”
“How?”
“We had sex.” I shrug. “I’m sure you weren’t a virgin before last night, so you know how this goes. The sleepover was…whatever it was, but if we carry on like normal and just go and do what we need to do, it doesn’t have to be weird. Right now, you’re making it weird.”
“Come here, and then I’ll go,” he coaxes.
