I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 77 - 78 The Kiss

Chapter 77: Chapter 78 The Kiss

Ashton’s mouth crushed mine with no preamble, no warning, no hesitation.

Hot, forceful, and absolutely unrelenting—he kissed like he owned my lips, my breath, my goddamn soul.

I gasped, trying to pull back, but he was already in, already taking.

His tongue pushed past the resistance of my lips like it had every right to be there, and maybe it did, because my body sure as hell wasn’t protesting.

My hands shot up instinctively, palms flattening against his chest—but instead of pushing him away, they curled, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping me tethered.

‘Ashton—wait, just—’ I tried to speak, but all I got out was a breathless jumble against his mouth, broken by the sheer force of him.

He didn’t wait.

With a smooth, dizzying motion, he wrapped one arm around my waist and hauled me into his lap.

The seat creaked beneath us, the whole car shifting slightly with the movement.

Darkness swallowed us, the only light a faint, flickering neon glow bleeding through the tinted windows, casting him in sharp edges and shadows.

I felt his thigh under mine—hard, hot, tense—and then I stopped feeling anything else because he kissed me again, deeper this time, like he was staking a claim.

My legs straddled his lap awkwardly, knees pressing into the leather seat on either side of him.

I was on top, technically.

But somehow, that didn’t mean shit.

He was the one in control.

Every flick of his tongue, every greedy pull of his lips made it clear: I wasn’t running this show.

The air in the backseat thinned, my lungs burning, my skin prickling like someone had turned the temperature up by ten degrees.

The windows fogged.

My head swam.

Every nerve I had funnelled into where we touched—his hands spanning my waist, fingers flexing like he was holding back from just tearing my clothes off; the press of his chest against mine, so firm it felt like being pinned beneath a wall.

And still he didn’t stop.

I kissed him back because I couldn’t not.

Because my body had already made the decision for me.

My lips moved with his, pliant, eager, like they belonged to someone else entirely.

I felt weightless and drunk, high on him.

He smelled like clean skin and woodsy cologne, but there was something darker beneath it, something addictive—salt and sweat and heat.

Time got weird.

I forgot how minutes worked.

I forgot the world outside the car even existed.

There was just him, just this, just the slick, obscene sound of our mouths clashing and the low, hungry noise he made when I shifted slightly in his lap.

By the time he finally let me breathe, my legs were jelly, my lips were bruised, and my whole body felt boneless.

I slumped against his chest, panting, one hand still fisted in his shirt like I couldn’t bear to let go.

Ashton exhaled, slow, controlled, but I felt the tension in his thighs, the not-so-subtle press of something hard beneath me that made my skin flush all over again.

The driver coughed discreetly. ‘Mr Laurent, we’ve arrived.’

I shot off Ashton’s lap like I’d touched a live wire.

He gave a low grunt, adjusted his suit jacket to hide the very obvious evidence of what had just happened—or almost happened—and stepped out of the car.

Then he reached back in and scooped me up.

I flailed, limbs everywhere. ‘Put me down—I can walk—’

‘Can you?’

I tried.

I failed.

The moment my heels hit the ground, my knees buckled.

I wobbled sideways like a baby deer on ice, nearly twisting my ankle into a right-angled tragedy.

Ashton’s arm shot out, catching me before I could fully embarrass myself.

Still dizzy—high, really—from that kiss (or was it kisses? That series of escalating, breath-stealing, life-shortening assaults on my self-control), I seriously considered letting him carry me inside.

But we weren’t alone.

The driver was still there.

He was no doubt discreet—he worked for Ashton, after all—but I could practically feel the popcorn in his mental hand and the gossipy sparkle in his eyes.

I patted Ashton’s arm to tell him I was fine and that he should let go.

The moment he did, I bolted into the house.

Behind me, I heard a low chuckle.

I scrambled up the stairs, half-limping, half-flying.

Just legged it to my room and flung myself face-first into the bed, pulling the blanket over my head.

My lips still tingled, swollen and slick, haunted by the memory of his mouth—demanding, consuming, like he was trying to suck the soul out of me.

And God help me, I’d let him.

Melted into him like butter on a hot skillet.

Yvaine’s voice rang in my head: ‘Hot guy. No emotional baggage. Ride him like a stolen bike and get the glow-up your love life needs.’

Maybe she had a point.

Maybe I’d been clinging too hard to an outdated model—emotions first, sex later.

With Rhys, it had been all longing gazes and high-minded ideals, like I was in love with the concept of him more than the man himself.

But this was different.

No strings, no expectations.

Just heat. Hunger. A one-year contract and a man who kissed like he wanted to rewrite my DNA.

Maybe it was time to reframe this whole fake marriage.

Call it what it really was: a one-year stand.

I propped myself up on both elbows and stared towards the door.

I didn’t know what I was thinking.

Didn’t know what I was expecting.

The bedroom door was unlocked.

Maybe he would...

My gaze lingered on the handle, half-daring it to move.

Half-terrified it might.