Page 84 of Big Dick Energy

“Dallas.”

“What?” His grin widened. “I eat every day, and I'm very good at it.”

I glared at him. “You know what I mean.”

His hand found mine, fingers threading together. We'd been doing this for days now, the casual touching, the intimate glances, the thousand small gestures that sold the story of a couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other.

What terrified me was how natural it had become and how much I was going to miss it when it was gone.

“Hey.” He squeezed my hand gently. “We've got this. We've already convinced your sister, and she's scarier than any photographer.”

“That's debatable.”

“She threatened me with surgical instruments. These guys just have cameras.”

He had a point, but the stakes felt different somehow. Delilah was a test I could pass or fail in the privacy of our kitchen. This was public, and the photos from tonight would live on the internet forever.

“Besides,” Dallas continued, leaning closer until his cologne invaded my senses, “all we have to do is act like we did this morning.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “We absolutely cannot act like we did this morning. We'd be arrested.”

His laugh was low and delighted. “Not the specifics. The general energy.”

“The energy of two people who couldn't keep their clothes on?”

“Exactly.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, soft and sweet. “That energy reads really well on camera.”

“Ready?” Dallas asked.

“Absolutely not.”

“That's my girl.”

The door opened, and I was hit by a wall of sound, shutters clicking, voices calling, the general chaos of people who made their living chasing celebrities.

Dallas slid out before offering me his hand, and I let him help me out like we'd done this a thousand times. He wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close and positioning us perfectly for the cameras.

“Dallas! Over here!”

“Who's the girl?”

“Is it true you got married?”

“Can we get a kiss?”

Dallas waved with his free hand, flashing that megawatt smile, but his hold on me never loosened. If anything, it tightened, protective and possessive.

“Just keep walking,” he murmured against my ear, his lips brushing my skin in a way that would photograph beautifully. “Eyes on me.”

So I looked at him, and for a moment, with his hand warm and steady on my hip and his eyes locked on mine like I was the only person in the universe, I forgot we were pretending.

The maître d' appeared, ushering us inside. The restaurant was exactly what I'd expected from Sam's briefing: upscale Italian, dim lighting, and white tablecloths. Our table sat right in front of the massive window overlooking the street.

“Your table, Mr. Dodger.” The maître d' pulled out my chair. “As requested.”

As requested meant what Sam demanded, who had been very specific about our seating arrangements.

I settled into my chair, very aware of the window beside me. Of the lenses, probably already focused on our table.