Minus the hiccup from the rude reporter who yelled at us on the red carpet, the event continued on smoothly. We stayed for the whole thing—a presentation, an auction, a cocktail party—and departed before most of the other guests, avoiding the traffic. I met a few other high-level celebrities, some who were genuinely curious about me, some who shook my hand with fake smiles in case anyone snapped a picture of them.

I mingled with Leo and those he knew. There were a few acquaintances of his with whom we shared drinks, a few individuals he'd been wanting to meet that he finally got introduced to. We even spoke with the president of the organization's board, who thanked Leo for his generous donation—I overheard something about one million dollars, jeez—and complimented my dress.

On the way home, we didn't fondle one another as I'd hoped, as Leo was on the phone with Petra. Something about a collaboration he wanted to discuss with a rapper we'd bumped into at the party. I half-listened, focused on the New York City nighttime scenery as we drove by. Streetlights illuminating paved sidewalks in front of hopping nightclubs. Busy street-vendors working overtime for late-night tourists eager to eat their wares. Honking yellow taxi-cabs carrying car-loads of drunken party-goers. Lonely ladies standing at avenue corners awaiting a new job for the night.

I yawned, peeping over at Leo as he continued his conversation with Petra. He wasn't downright ignoring me, but he was passionate about this collaboration, and had told me as much after I'd met the rapper in question. He rarely mixed his music with rap or hip-hop, but was recently on a kick of listening to old-school tunes from the nineties and early two-thousands. He was inspired.

I was inspired by watching him. So energetic, so personable after a night of serious socializing; how did he do it? I was beyond exhausted, my throat aching from all the talking, my legs in pain from standing in place and shifting my weight from high heel to high heel, my arm in pain from all the hand-shaking. But he sat there unfazed, his bowtie undone and hanging around his shoulders, a few buttons of his shirt unfastened and showing the light hairs on his chest. So chill, so unaffected—because he did this all the time. Played back-to-back-to-back packed gigs, gave interviews to hungry reporters, attended meet-and-greets for eager fans, went to black-tie events to make more connections...

Thinking of it all made me yawn again.

"You better not be implying you're too tired for what comes next," he said, catching the tail-end of one of my yawns as he hung up the phone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, covering up my mouth as another yawn surfaced.

As it happened, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I knew we'd barely make it past the front door before he began kissing me deeply, his tongue tasting of champagne and chocolate, his lips on fire as they collided with mine. I knew he'd waste no time waiting for me to take my shoes off and climb upstairs. He'd heft me over his shoulder and carry me up, his hard hands pressed firmly against my ass to keep me in place.

I knew he'd not even bother to close the bedroom door before he started disrobing me, slowly, to preserve the dress. But he'd grow restless once I was standing in front of him in my racy underwear, and he'd rip everything off with no remorse.

And I knew he'd let me take care of him first. I'd been dying to get his cock in my mouth since he'd finished me off in the limo. He yanked his tux off, discarded his boxers, and planted before me in all his glory. My mouth watered at the exquisite sight of him.

I knelt in front of him and took him in, my tongue swirling around his girthy length as he shuddered with every in-and-out motion. I cupped his balls and massaged them, caressing the space between them that I'd discovered made him moan and giggle all at once, because he was ticklish but also longed for the attention, the pressure.

He didn't let me go on for long before he tugged me up, grabbed me by my thighs, and guided me to bed. Atop his lavish fake-fur comforter, he spread my legs and crept between them, not bothering to tease me—he went straight in. His tongue lapped at my wetness, toyed with my clit, made its way into my slit with a fierce fervor that made me shake. I seized the bedspread in my hands and squeezed, my knuckles turning white, my legs becoming numb.

I might have blacked out a bit from the pleasure, because next I knew, he was easing his member into me. I noticed the condom wrapper beside us and let out a brief sigh of relief before he plunged, filling me up. God, it didn't matter how many times we'd done this in recent weeks, I couldn't get enough of him. He was so skilled, timing each thrust to leave me panting for more, sometimes sneaking a finger down to tease my clit while he rammed into me.

Tonight was a slower, sensual session, though I felt him harden with my every moan. I felt his impatience to pick up the rhythm and watch me come out of my mind with delight.

"Look at me, baby," he said, when my eyes began to roll back and I sensed my climax approaching. "Look at me when you come, show me how fucking beautiful you are."

I obeyed, drowning in the depths of his golden hazel eyes as I unraveled. Every bit of moisture inside me enveloped his dick as I clamped around him, trembling with every wave that overcame me.

Not long after, he accelerated his pumps to finish, and with a loud grunt of bliss, he toppled on top of me, breathing heavily.

"How is it always so fucking good?" he whispered, moving aside to remove the condom. He offered me a cloth to wipe myself off, then padded off downstairs to fetch us some water. I slithered to the bathroom, removed my excess makeup, and hurried back to bed.

When he returned, his dick still partially erect, I admired him as he set our waters down, slipped on his boxers, and handed me the silky nightgown I'd left at his place for sleepovers.

"A guy could get used to this, you know," he said, as he lowered onto the mattress beside me and placed a kiss on my sweaty forehead.

I put the pajamas on and was brushing through my mess of hair, untangling the curls I'd created for the event. "And a girl could get used to it, too." I finished my brushing and set the brush on the nightstand before guzzling down half of the large cup of water. "But I wouldn't mind sleep, either."

He chortled as he plucked his phone from the nightstand, where I didn't even remember him setting it. Was I in that much of a blur after we got home? Deliriously aroused while half asleep?

"That you might not get used to. The never-ending, never-stopping activity is...a lot." He flipped through his social media outlets, prompting me to grab my phone to do the same. It wasn't something we usually did—lie next to each other and check our phones—but after the sex and the night out, and no matter how tired we were, we needed a little something extra to put us to sleep.

Scrolling through social media never failed to lull me into a sort of fantasy realm. The images, the half-read articles I browsed as my eyes closed helped me fall asleep with ideas for fashion shoots and interviews. I'd have weird dreams of owning my own magazine and being a good boss instead of a tyrant, like my old one.

Lately, I avoided social media before bed. I featured in a lot of those half-read articles and images, accompanying Leo to this or that event, or being photographed with him in our day-to-day activities.

I should have dodged the outlets again that night, but mimicking Leo, I couldn't stop myself from mindlessly peering through the apps, seeking something interesting to read. I didn't have my guard up, and wasn't prepared for what I'd see.

"Oh, wow," I said, coming across a picture of Leo and I—from tonight. "We're already being plastered all over the internet from the charity?"

Leo scoffed. "Yeah, noticed that," he leaned over to identify which picture I'd found, "we're on this one, too." He showed me the photo he'd discovered on his phone; similar to mine, but from a different angle, showing off the slit in my dress. The caption was "it's a hot, hot fall over here," and I blushed as I realized they were referring to my dress.

I stumbled upon a few more pictures, all flattering and with positive comments about us, before finding one that drew my attention because of its background. Belle was in it—I hadn't even realized she was there, but it made sense since she was a wardrobe assistant, and she'd need to be on hand for any malfunctions. At such a high-scale event, her presence was mandatory. But I hadn't seen her, not once, not even—

Oh. Someone had gently pushed me forward after that rude reporter incident—it must have been her, trying to help us out.

I zoomed in on the photo, tipping my head and bringing the screen closer for a better view. Belle was there, garbed in a black, two-piece suit, her curves filling out every inch of the fabric. Her dark hair was up in a bun, and the only distinguishable accent about her was her deep red lipstick, matching my dress color. I zoomed in a little more to see she was watching Leo and I—and grimacing. Kind of glowering, actually, and most definitely at me, at my back.

I elbowed Leo and showed him. "You're sure it's me she's interested in? She looks pissed."

Leo angled forward, squinting at the image. "Who, Belle?" He squinted harder, then erupted into laughter. "Holy shit, that's a good one."

I snatched my phone back, eyebrows bunching. "You think it's funny that she's glaring at me?"

"She's not glaring at you," he said, hurrying to flip through his gallery of photos before pulling up another one of him at a red carpet. Must have been before we started dating, because I recognized it—the Grammys—and I remembered seeing those exact pictures as I watched the musical event. "See?" He pointed behind him on the screen, and there she was—Belle, arms folded, and scowling. It was almost identical to the image I'd presented to him, but in a different area, with a different background. Like she'd been photoshopped between pictures. "That's how she looks in all the photos of events she attends with me."

"Because she's pissed that she can't fuck you? Because you're so hot on the red carpet?" My voice was too high-pitched, betraying my emotion. Jealousy, goddammit. Why couldn't I stop this feeling that Belle and Leo had been involved before?

I expected him to growl at me, to tell me to back off, but instead he only laughed harder and pulled up another picture. "No, because she's uneasy in the spotlight." He had an entire folder dedicated to snapshots of him with her photo-bombing in the background, titled Belle's bad behavior. "She hates being caught in pictures, and she tends to know when the photographer captures her, too, so she instinctively makes a face. Whether I'm alone, or," he flashed one of him with one of his exes, "with a date. See? It's not you or me. It's her. It's how she is." He returned to the article he'd been reading and sighed. "Nothing to worry about, okay? I promise."

I didn't know him well enough to figure out if his promises held meaning yet. He'd rarely promised me anything, so far, but coming from him, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to think he was right, I was overreacting because I was attracted to her, and offended that she seemed to hate me. And sort of disagreeing with Leo's belief that she wasn't into him. To me, it was obvious she was. And as long as that was clear, and it didn't go further than that...I'd accept it.

He just needed to admit it.

I tried to pick up where I'd left off, my thumb pushing onto the screen to scroll through other pictures—but I stopped, sat up straight, and let out a low moan of warning.

"What?" Leo dropped his phone and sat up with me, one hand pressing to my back, the other to my arm. "What is it? If it's another Belle photo—"

"—no, it's not." I swallowed; acid coated my esophagus, and it fell into my tummy, turning it sour. Painful. "It's...that asshole. That reporter who called you out, called me out."

I'd remember his face anywhere, as nondescript as it was. Eyes that oozed evil, a mouth that had been designed to spew profane cruelties, and a long, pointed nose similar to that of a cartoon witch. His profile picture, at the top of the article I'd found, showed him with joined hands, harboring a sneaky snarl, clarifying how nefarious he was. It was a visual file, not an audio, but still I heard his sharp voice addressing us, backhandedly insulting us.

I'd never heard of him before—Stewart Sfuria—but the article already had hundreds of thousands of views.

We'd only been home from the event for an hour and a half.

"Wow, he wrote about us?" Leo shook his head. "Bold move, bucko. What does it say?"

The headline was what had drawn me in—Leo Lee and his precious girl: are we still believing this? The rest of the report was rude and condescending, doubting our relationship and mocking our walk down the red carpet.

"All I had to do was call them out once, and the rest of their way towards the door was a nightmare. I have it on good authority that SHE was uncomfortable during the whole thing. And HE was too busy trying to hook up with rappers to reanimate his music to pay attention. Is that really how a celebrity couple acts? Not those I've met."

Leo was reading, too; his nostrils flared and I felt his breaths become harsher as we skimmed the ruthless words this horrid man had written about us.

"This romance is clearly fake. They look so staged!" Below this was a snap of us between poses for cameras—my eyes were closed, and Leo's were narrowed, as if he'd been about to flinch. Two absolutely natural gestures for any regular human being; but apparently, this man didn't hold us to regular human being standards.

"What the fuck?" I twisted to Leo, expecting to see his eyes aflame, his jaw tensing, his shoulders squaring as if about to grab the phone and toss it across the room. And while he did do the latter—but only tossed it down the bed, not to shatter against a wall—his expression was calm, much calmer than I'd expected. "You're okay with this?"

"I'm not," he said, caressing my cheek, peering deep into my eyes. "And it shouldn't affect you, either. He's an asshole, like you said. Desperate for attention, for clout. There are plenty of others out there like him."

"But to say this," I pointed at my discarded phone, "about us? Even now, when we're really together? We haven't changed how we act in public. If anything, we're..." I cringed. "More lovey-dovey? Why would he say that? Criticize my dress or your suit or something; but this?"

My arms were flailing about in my irritation, and Leo grabbed them, steadied them. "Hey. Stop." His gaze was sterner now, though his voice was soft. "He's not the first to question us, and he won't be the last, hun. That's how the media is, especially the sharks like him. You can't let him get to you."

"But he—"

Leo placed a finger over my lips, silencing me. "He's doing his job, which is to chase celebrities and dismantle them, piece by piece. So are you going to let him dismantle us?" His eyes widened, his eyebrows lurching up, awaiting a reply from me. I shook my head, wincing. "Exactly. We are together now, and whether or not some dick dude believes it isn't important. If the majority of the press does, then we win. That's what matters."

I tried to protest again, but instead of his fingers, he used his mouth this time to shut me up. And the contact of our lips, cold from the frigid water we'd drank, woke a fire in me, a craving for his mouth to open further, to let me in. He did, our tongues crashed, and he stole my breaths.

He was on top of me five seconds later, pulling my nightgown off—and distracting me away from my worries by rubbing his cock against my opening.

Well done, Leo. Well done.

♪♪♪