I'm not quite sure when we got back home, or how I got into the living room, but here I am.

The TV is off, and Atlas isn't anywhere near me, so I assume he's somewhere working on whatever. Probably checking his mails. Or maybe not.

My eyes fall to the bucket filled with chicken wings on the coffee table, next to it yet another package of donuts. He bought them. Both. Maybe, deep down, Atlas Storm might actually have a heart.

"Atlas?" I say, or shout. This is a mansion after all, talking in a normal or quiet tone won't get me anywhere.

I look down at myself, discovering to be covered with a super soft and fluffy blanket. God, he does have some boyfriend potential. I hate that he does. It makes disliking him a lot harder.

Perhaps I don't exactly dislike him anymore. We're friends. I think?

What if he still dislikes me? That would be awful. I might have to ask him.

"Atlas!" I repeat, this time sounding as though I'm in pain and something has happened. I'm still just lying on the sofa, but he doesn't know that.

I hear a glass break, a short moment later, Atlas comes marching into the living room. He's out of his suit, wearing a loose t-shirt and...sweatpants.

Don't get me wrong, I know even business men wear other clothes than suits, but not Atlas. I assumed he was born in a suit and never changed out of it.

And I think seeing the few tattoos on his arms just took my breath away. How have I not seen them the morning after?

Well, I saw some, but I figured maybe he had only a few... not so many.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" he asks, sounding rushed. He doesn't stop to walk closer to me, even though he already has a clear view on me.

"Are you?" I return the question. "You dropped something that was made of glass."

Atlas clears his throat, probably to get back to his usual self. The one that can't be shaken, with the thick ice-exterior and large walls, closed-up persona.

He lifts my legs off the sofa, quickly sitting down before setting my feet down onto his lap. I kind of want to pull my legs in, but at the same time I don't. I'm not even sure why either of those cross my mind.

"I take it you're fine?" I nod. "Then how about that movie you wanted to watch?"

Excitement fills me. It was a joke. I never thought Atlas Storm would be the type to spend his Wednesday evening watching a movie with the mother of his still unborn child, the one he's fake-dating and just a couple hours ago spent quite the money on.

But then again, he seems to surprise me a lot. I barely know anything about this man. Except that his mother is still alive, maybe. And that he has a sister. And Taco. And he is a billionaire.

Yeah that's about it.

"I think we should totally watch a Christmas movie," I tell him.

"It's September."

"September 29th. That's almost December 25th," I argue.

Atlas rolls his eyes, but something tells me he's more amused than he is annoyed.

"I have two votes anyway. And we vote for a Christmas movie," I say. He's got nothing to argue that one. So Atlas accepts defeat and turns on the first Christmas movie on Netflix he comes across.

Thirty minutes into the movie, I'm starting to become aware of my aching feet. The heels I've been wearing must have killed every single inch of them.

In order to find a comfortable position in Atlas's lap for my feet to lie without hurting, I switch positions every other second.

That is until Atlas groans and wraps his hands firmly around my ankles. When I look at him, his eyes are closed and he takes a deep breath. I think I might have pissed him off with moving too much.

"I'm sorry," I apologise, "my feet are a bit sore from the heels."

Atlas doesn't look at me, or even shows me he acknowledged my words. But he removes the blanket from my feet, then gently, yet firm enough starts to massage them. One after the other.

It warms my heart...and wets my underwear. Stupid hormones.

In all seriousness, how can a guy like Atlas; sweet and kind when we're alone, be such an asshole anywhere that isn't in private areas?

I mean, he is massaging my feet, and I didn't even ask him to. He carried me inside of the house because I must have fallen asleep in the car. Atlas jumps to get me water when I don't want to get up and get it myself. And he literally buys anything I look at for longer than a second.

He is spoiling me. I'm not even sure he realises it.

"Atlas?" He turns his head to look at me, raising his brows in anticipation. "Did you ever find someone you thought you would spend the rest of your life with?"

I sure haven't. Well, there was Nico. But he quickly turned out to be... anything but husband material. And still, even before what happened, happened, I didn't think we'd ever get married.

"Why are you asking?" I think he's avoiding my question, but that isn't new to me.

It is a bad sign though. What if he had and it got ruined because I got pregnant?

"I'm just curious," I admit. "I haven't really... you know, gotten much love from anyone. Okay, I didn't exactly give anyone the chance to love me either, but I had my reasons."

"You sure did."

"I love hearing of other people's love-stories. So, do you have one?" I ask again.

Atlas shakes his head no. "It's still being written."

As I don't understand, or don't want to understand, what that's supposed to mean, I choose to ignore it. "So, is there at least one story to tell?"

"Not really. And even if, you'd be the last person I'd tell it to."

And why the hell is that? I'm specifically asking for it.

"Have you ever been in love?" I pull my feet away from Atlas, sitting up straight, but I don't stay seated. I crawl right over to his seat, turning my back to the TV as I—without asking—swing one leg over his legs, sitting down on his lap, straddling him.

Immediately, Atlas's hands lay down on my hips. I think he might want to push me away, but he doesn't. All he does is slide me a bit further away on his legs so we're not chest-to-chest.

"Getting there," he answers, slowly sliding his hands around my body to lay them on my lower back.

"Was getting there, you mean?" I correct, I think. "Otherwise you're saying that you're seeing someone you are falling in love with. Which is totally fine, just...a bit weird for them maybe. I mean, given that you're in a fake relationship and all."

He remains quiet. But as we all know, that's nothing new. Atlas just really hates being corrected.

We stare into one another's eyes, which allows me to catch it when his wander down to my mouth and back up to my eyes.

"Did you ever want kids?" I ask, feeling as though this silence needs to be filled. Not because it's awkward, but because otherwise I might do something really stupid.

Atlas shakes his head. His eyes travel down to my lips again, then back up to my eyes. "But I wouldn't want to exchange the baby in your belly for anything, Sierra."

Atlas is not supposed to say things like that. Not when my hormones are being... everywhere. I want to cry from happiness. Truthfully, hearing a man say they want this child, indirectly hinting to already loving it without being born yet... my ovaries are exploding.

"So if you could choose one woman on this planet to be the mother of it, who'd you choose?"

You think he'd decide for some actress? Or singer? Selena Gomez, perhaps? She's not only gorgeous, she has a powerful voice and a sweet personality. What's more to be wanting?

"You, sweetheart. You're the only woman I could ever think of being the mother of this child. Of our child," he answers.

Man, I never thought I'd voluntarily say this but; please, please give me cold-hearted Atlas Storm back. This one is scaring me... in a good way.

He's not supposed to be good.

Atlas is supposed to hate me. Act like I've ruined his life, not made it better somehow.

"Who was the last person you kissed?" I ask, pressing my lips together right after the question left my mouth.

I can see his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheeks—assuming—in an attempt not to clench his jaw. Atlas hates questions, but he hates answering them even more.

His eyes narrow slightly. Then I can feel his hands sliding up my body, taking my face in them. Before I even know what's happening, Atlas is pressing his mouth to mine.

It's nothing heated. Or even a generally good kiss. I believe a middle schooler could have a more intimate kiss if they tried to. Anything better than a chaste peck.

And yet it still wakes up some of those annoying butterflies inside of my stomach. Or maybe that's just slight movement from the little bean.

"You," he answers eventually, his lips still a bit too close to mine. "You were the last person I kissed."

I roll my eyes. That's one way to avoid answering my question, I guess.

My tongue moves over the spots I felt Atlas's lips on just a second ago, still being able to taste him on me.

"I meant before me," I declare. "Plus, you can't call this a kiss. From being someone who, as a person, is probably worth millions, I definitely expected better than this."

Atlas smiles, or smirks? It doesn't matter. The corner of his lips are lifted, not by a lot, but somewhat.

I gasp, staring at his mouth to take in the sight of a not so mad looking Atlas Storm. This is a once-in-a-lifetime smile. Atlas doesn't do smiles or laughs. Or anything that's close to it. I sure as hell will drink all these seconds in.

"I've never looked up how much someone would have to pay if they were to buy me," he tells me. That man is a billionaire, he must be worth a fortune. "You, however, are priceless."

"Priceless?" I repeat to him.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he says and slides his thumb along my lower lip. "No one in this universe would ever be able to pay for you. There isn't enough money in this world to get close to what you're worth."

Can he stop? My ovaries cannot fucking take this.

"Atlas?" I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. "Can you fuck me, please?"

"What?" His eyes are widened, his hands loosening, slowly moving away from my body.

"I want you to fuck me, please." I move in closer to his body, pressing my chest flush against his. "I told you yesterday, I can't satisfy myself. It's not working, and I really need this."

His hands are back on my face, cupping it as he runs his thumbs along my cheeks. "Sweetheart, no."

"Why not?" I groan. "We've done this before, and I have obvious evidence for it."

He shakes his head. "You don't really want this, Sierra. You jump at every little touch of mine, and if not, you're tense."

He's not wrong. "I do want this. And you're the only person I trust enough to do this with."

Atlas sighs deeply, letting his hands slide from my face down my body, ending rested on my waist. "Sweetheart," he says in a breath, leaning into me until his forehead meets mine. "You're only saying this because we've had sex before, not because you trust me."

I do trust Atlas, I have to. We'll forever be connected thanks to this baby, I really do have to trust him. Okay, maybe I don't necessarily have to trust him enough to sleep with him, but it's a great add-on.

"Look, if you don't want to because you're not attracted to me, then say so." I try to get off Atlas's lap, but he holds me too firmly for me to leave.

Atlas grasps my wrist in his hand, laying my hand down on to his crotch, allowing me to feel his erection. "Sweetheart, I'm not sure if you remember it, but in Vancouver... I did warn you that we'd end up sleeping together if..."

He never finishes his sentences, only trails off like he is praying I remember.

I don't, but now I wish I did. Screw alcohol for taking my memories.

My hand slightly wraps around his erection, at least as far as it gets through his sweatpants. "Refresh my memory," I whisper, "show me what happened that night."

He chuckles.

Atlas Storm just made a sort of laughing sound. Not just a faint smile!

And it's the sweetest sound I've ever heard. Even though he's laughing at me right now.

His hands trace down my waist, over my hips, sneaking underneath the skirt of my dress. "We're not going to recreate that night. When I'm going to fuck you, it's going to be without a condom, completely bare."

"I can live with that," I say, "certainly can't get pregnant anymore anyway."

Okay, it is possible. But it's a really rare case. Let's just not count with that being a possibility.

"Sweetheart, you deserve so much better than to just get fucked. You should be worshipped, loved."

"Made love to?" I say, making it sound like a question. Atlas nods. "So do it. Make love to me."

He lets out a heavy breath, needing a moment to find words to say. "I can't. You don't love me, sweetheart. That would be unnecessary feelings getting involved."

I don't exactly know a difference between fucking and making love, and I'm too embarrassed to ask about it.

"Lie down," he orders, effortlessly lifting me off his legs. And I do as he commands: lie down.

Unlike I think he would, Atlas doesn't hover over me. Instead, he grabs my knees and pushes them farther apart, causing my skirt to roll up to my hips.

"Are you sure, Sierra?" I nod, but he doesn't accept it. "I need to hear you say it."

"I want to sleep with you, Atlas."

He shakes his head as if to say that's not going to happen. And apparently it isn't.

"I'll get you off another way, without my cock being inside of you."