Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 91: On My Knees, For You

Her lips were soft.

Warm.

She tasted faintly like strawberry and something sweeter—something dangerous. The kind of sweetness that made you forget logic and consequence.

The moment my mouth claimed hers, it wasn’t gentle, neither was It careful. It was real.

And it burned.

For one insane second, she didn’t move. She just froze—like the world stopped spinning.

And then—

She shoved me. Hard.

"What the hell are you thinking, Adrien?"

Her voice cracked against me like a whip.

I took a breath. My pulse was a war drum in my ears.

"Isabella—"

"No."

She stepped back like I’d physically burned her. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to kiss me like that. This—this isn’t even part of the contract."

Contract.

Of course. That’s all we were supposed to be.

But I’d broken that. Crossed the line twice.

And worse—I wanted to stay on the other side.

My jaw clenched. I couldn’t blame her for the fury in her voice, the betrayal in her eyes. I deserved it.

"One day you’re cold and unreadable, like I’m just another item on your schedule, and the next—" she flung her hand between us, "you kiss me like you mean it."

Her words struck harder than they should’ve. Because I had meant the kiss this time. Every second of it.

"You called me a gold-digger," she threw at me. "Yet here you are, kissing me."

"Aren’t you afraid you’re just giving me the opening to steal your gold?" she continued.

My gut twisted. That word—gold-digger—echoed back at me like a bullet ricochet.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the remote. I hit the button to slid all the curtains shut which will also signal the camera people to leave.

If I was going to destroy myself, I was going to do it without an audience.

"Are you still on that?" I asked quietly.

"Yes," she said, her voice fierce and shaking. "More than ever."

And in that moment, I couldn’t stand.

Not above her.

Not when I’d already torn everything apart.

So I knelt.

In front of her.

Like a man about to surrender his final defense.

Not because I wanted pity.

But because she deserved more than words. She deserved the truth with nothing between us.

Her anger stopped—for just a second.

And for the first time in my entire life—not during deals or boardrooms or press conferences—I felt... terrified.

Terrified of loosing... her.

"I’m sorry," I said. My voice came out quiet.

"For everything. The words, the coldness, the confusion. I didn’t mean it—none of it. You’re not a gold-digger, Isabella. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hold onto."

She stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

Maybe I had.

"You... you can’t say that."

"I know," I said, and my voice cracked and I didn’t even try to hide the wreckage.

"I was scared, alright? You got under my skin, and I didn’t know what to do with that. And so I did something stupid. From the very first moment I saw you — you weren’t what I’d expected. You were sharp, and you didn’t back down, and you looked at me like I was just... Adrien. Not Adrien Walton."

My heart throbbed in my ears.

I am still kneeling and still looking up at her.

Her breath shaky, eyes glassy with something I couldn’t name. "You... you were scared?"

She asked it like she couldn’t fathom it. as if she couldn’t believe it belonged to me.

I nodded. "Terrified. If I could somehow speak every word I kept buried, your name would be the last thing ever whispered. My soul longs for you, even when I try to deny it."

I don’t know what I was saying or how I’m saying it but the words kept releasing themselves.

I hit my chest once, hard. "My heart... beats for you, even when I try to stop it..."

My voice dropped. "And I hate that I made you feel small. That I put a number to your worth when the truth is... I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you."

Her voice cracked. "You called me a gold-digger."

"I know," I said again, voice hoarse. "It was easier that way. Easier to keep you at arm’s length, to pretend you were just like everyone else who wanted something from me. It was a lie I told myself to justify pushing you away because I didn’t know how else to handle feeling... this."

I rose to my feet—slowly, carefully, like I might break her by standing too close.

We were a breath apart.

So I reached out—not to take, just to offer.

"But with you... I don’t want to push anymore."

She didn’t take my hand.

But she didn’t walk away, either.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t dare breathe.

And then—she reached for my collar and kissed me.

She pulled me down, and I let her. No — I surrendered.

She kissed me like I was her oxygen—like she’d been suffocating and only I could fill her lungs. And God, if she needed breath, I would’ve given her mine. Again. And again until there was nothing left for me.

But it was killing me.

The taste of her. The fire in her hands. The way her breath shook against my cheek.

God, I wanted to fall to my knees again.

Not to beg — I’d done that.

No, this time... I wanted to worship.

My hands hovered at her waist — not gripping, not pulling — just... trembling there. I didn’t touch unless she gave me permission. And she hadn’t.

Not really.

Because if I touched her, I’d ruin it.

If I touched her, I wouldn’t stop.

The restraint was eating me alive. Every cell in my body begged to close the gap. To press her against the counter. To claim her until her knees gave out.

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

I kissed her back — slowly now — letting her lead.

Letting her have me.

And yet underneath it all, I was trembling with restraint.

Because my mind was screaming: Touch her. Lift her. Take her to the damn table and lose yourself.

But my heart whispered, Wait. She deserves more than that. She deserves worship.

So I waited.

I was a man on fire — and she was the spark and the salvation all in one.

The need in my body was primal, searing, dangerous — but my love for her was fragile.

If she had told me to drop to the floor and kiss the hem of her pajamas, I would’ve done it.

Because in this moment, nothing — nothing — mattered more than making her feel wanted.

Not just wanted.

Adored.

I cupped her face trying to savor her, worship her—but my hands couldn’t stay gentle.

They slid down her sides and settled on her waist, gripping like she was the only thing keeping me tethered.

And then I lifted her.

She gasped into my mouth as I sat her on the island, mugs crashing off the edge, but I didn’t care. I stepped between her legs, pressing every inch of me against her. I needed to feel her—to make sure she was real.

She pulled me in harder. Her shirt twisted in my fists. My name escaped her lips like a curse I never wanted lifted.

She wanted me.

And I— I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more.

when I slid my palm up under her shirt, my fingers meeting the bare skin of her waist, I whispered against her lips, "Please tell me to stop." because if she didn’t, I wouldn’t stop.

And she didn’t tell me to stop.

Instead, she challenged me—tempted me. "You really want me to say it?"

No. God, no─ I shook my head. "Not unless you mean it."

And then she kissed me again—hard, unrelenting—and the last shred of restraint inside me burned to ash.

She stripped me bare—physically, emotionally—with a look. With her hands. With every trembling breath she took. I pulled off her top, my fingers respecting her body, my mouth trailing behind my hands like a man praying with his lips.

When I kissed her shoulder... her collarbone... when I slid down one bra strap and whispered "beautiful" like it was a confession—I meant it more than I’d meant anything in my life.

She was beautiful. Devastatingly so. Not just in her body—but in every way.

And when my mouth closed around her nipple, the sound she made nearly undid me.

I kissed lower, slower. My tongue traced a line down her stomach, worshiping and aching.

"Lay down," I told her, my voice so hoarse I barely recognized it.

She did. Trusting me, Just laying back like she knew I’d catch her if the world cracked in two.

Her bare thighs trembled slightly. Her chest heaving. Her eyes wide and glassy and locked on mine like I was already inside her soul.

I removed the last piece of fabric.

So I dropped to my knees—again—but this time not in apology.

This time, in worship.

The first taste of her hit me like a bullet to the heart.

God. She was perfection. Pure heat. And she moaned when I groaned into her, as if she felt how much I needed this—needed her.

I kissed her there like a man possessed, tongue firm and slow, savoring every reaction, every tiny gasp she gave me.

She bit her lip.

"Don’t hold back," I whispered. "I want to hear you."

And she let go.

When that moan broke from her lips, it unleashed something tight in me. Her pleasure—her sounds—were everything. I chased them. Worked her with my tongue, my mouth, like a man discovering religion for the first time.

She lifted her hips. Begged with her body.

And I responded.

I looked up once—just once—and what I saw made my pulse stutter:

She was gone for me. Surrendered. And still gorgeous.

I bent deeper, devouring her like I had no pride left.

When she shattered—screamed my name like it was the only one she knew—I held her through it. Slowed. Eased her down. Let her ride it until the aftershocks left her limp, dazed, trembling beneath me.

I kissed my way back up her body, mapping her like a sacred ground.

Her chest was rising fast. Her eyes locked onto mine with something that scared me more than anything else—

Real emotion.

I cupped her face again, brushing a kiss over her collarbone, her shoulder, her jaw.

"You are..." I whispered, my voice ragged. "God, Isa. You undo me."

And she had.

Piece by piece, she undid every carefully built wall I’d ever had.

And I didn’t want a single one of them back.

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