by Stella Gray
So no, I wasn’t really involved in the business back then, and asking a favor for Brooklyn would have opened a can of worms with my family that I didn’t want to deal with. Besides, she was a one-nighter that I never intended to see again…signing her to KZM would have meant I’d have to see her often at the agency. That just wouldn’t have worked for me.
I park my car, take a quick shower, and then sit at my desk, reviewing the photos of the other candidates I met today. But it only frustrates me more. Brooklyn’s the only one I want.
Realizing how stressed I am, I roll my shoulders to release some tension. This damn image cleanup campaign my family tossed me into has completely messed up my lifestyle. I’m out of my element. No drinking. No one-nighters. Acting like a respectable executive and ambassador for the company. I might owe it to my family, but I don’t have to like it.
Holding bogus auditions for a wife was a dick move, admittedly, but what the hell was I supposed to do? I need a decent, respectable woman to be my wife and prove that I’ve changed—but I don’t know any respectable women. Thumbing through my list of contacts—hundreds of them—only left me empty-handed. Not one of those girls was wife material. And then Brooklyn walked in and she almost had me on my knees.
How the hell am I supposed to consider any other woman for my bride after seeing her again?
I want her for this fake marriage.
I want her. Period.
She didn’t seem to remember me, though. Which is probably for the best, considering what I did to her all those years ago. But it only took a few minutes into our interview before I texted the receptionist to clear all the other candidates from the waiting room. I’d already decided that no matter what, Brooklyn Moss was going to agree to be my wife.
I stretch again, but the tightness in my shoulders only gets worse. I’m in comfy sweatpants, leaned back in my desk chair, but I still feel wound up. Shirtless and barefoot, I carry my laptop into the den, settle onto the couch, and flip it open again. I haven’t been able to get Brooklyn’s image out of my mind, and the memory of our night together three years ago plays on repeat, heating my blood.
No wonder I’m so damn tense. I haven’t fucked in days, and the one woman I’ve never forgotten is back. Those wicked dimples, those high, firm breasts. My mouth waters just remembering the taste of her sweet pussy as I spread her open on my kitchen table.
I haven’t used that damn table since.
Sinking back into the couch cushions, I open my web browser and pull up a bookmark of Brooklyn’s Insta account. Her perfect images pop up and I scroll through them absently, one by one. Her life in California looks amazing. The photos are aesthetically pleasing and perfectly arranged. They don’t seem staged or fake like so many do, though. There’s a real, visceral aspect to her photography, as if she’s purposely trying to put you right there in the photo so you can be in the moment, too.
I have to admit, it burns me that she didn’t remember me. Just how many men have come and gone in her life that I was so easily forgotten? My nostrils flare as I think of her parade of men. But I shut it down. I’ve done the same with women. It’s no secret that I fuck as often as I can. I’m suddenly aggravated and edgy and I know it’s from thinking of her with other men.
Like this guy that she’s always with. I scroll through a few more photos. I see him again and again, in pic after pic, from social events to trips to the beach. But he’s always slightly turned away, just stepping out of frame, or wearing sunglasses, so I never get a clear look at his face. I’m sure he’s tagged somewhere, but I’m not going to dig. I’ve visited her social media pages enough in the last three years to know that whoever he is, he’s important to her somehow—but if they were a couple, I’m sure she never would have talked to me about marriage.
At least, I don’t think she would have.
Fuck.
I want her and it’s driving me mad. I close her social media and pull up my cloud account, then the unlabeled file I have buried there. Brooklyn’s image from that fashion show three years ago pops up, her lithe body wrapped in that strappy black designer dress, her heels tall and making her legs look killer. I’d nearly ripped the hem of that dress when I’d yanked it over her hips to devour her willing pussy.
My cock stirs at the memory.
I’ve kept these images all this time, burying them as if I could forget her and the fuck-hot sex we’d had. There’d been so much I’d wanted to do to her that night. My hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing gently while I fucked her. Her wrists, tied to my bed, her legs spread far apart, ankles bound so she had no choice but to lay there and take my cock. But once I was inside her, all my plans went out the window. All I could focus on was how good she felt, all my energy going into holding back the orgasm that threatened from the moment I slid into her.
She’d been so willing, so ready, so visibly turned on by my every touch. I know she would have done anything I’d asked.
My hand slides over my abdomen, my fingers working below the waist of my sweatpants. I’m so hard that it’s mildly painful. I need to fuck—I’ve never gone this many days without it before. Looking at Brooklyn’s photos is sending me over the edge.
Christ.
I grip my cock with urgency and give it a few long strokes. It’s like something in me snaps, and I just need to come as hard and fast as I can. I need the pressure and the tension gone, and fuck, I need Brooklyn to do it. Quickly, I pull down my sweatpants. Precum lubes the head of my dick as I stroke, swirling the fluid around until my cock is slick and hot in my hand. Eyes riveted to her photo on the screen, the glistening sheen of her open mouth, I stroke my shaft and squeeze around the head. Her lips should be here, sucking me off and taking me deep in her throat.
God, yes. Her dark eyes looking up at me while she takes my entire cock in her mouth. She’d opened so wide to take me in, so hungry for me, scraping me lightly with her teeth.
I pump faster, working more slick precum where I need it the most. I’d push her over the kitchen table and pull that perfect ass back against me, spread her thighs to bury myself deep inside her. I imagine taking a handful of her hair and pulling her head back while I fuck her. Driving into her, over and over while she cries out, her pussy clenching tight around me.
Fuck. My balls get tight, my shaft swelling. I hold her image in my mind. I remember the sounds she made while I feasted on her, how her wetness burst into my mouth.
With a groan, I spill hot and wet over my hand. I give a few short jerks until every drop is out of me. I stay just as I am until my vision clears and my breathing slows, and I have to close the laptop to stop looking at her. This isn’t the first time I’ve jerked off to her image like some helpless, horny teenager. And now that she’s back in Chicago, probably right down the Magnificent Mile, I have the sense my need for her is only going to get worse.
I lean back and let out a long breath, letting the memories fade until I’m completely relaxed. The tension is gone, but I know it won’t last long. I need to follow up that hard orgasm with another hot shower. Reluctantly, I get up and pull on my pants, then wander slowly through the house toward my master bath.
The doorbell rings when I’ve almost reached my room, which means someone is waiting in the elevator that opens directly into my home. Normally the attendant downstairs buzzes to let me know someone is on their way up. I turn on the security camera that allows me to look into the elevator when it reaches my floor.
Speak of the devil.
I immediately tap a code into the keypad next to the elevator doors. They whoosh open and Brooklyn Moss strides out like she owns the place.
She gives me a cursory glance, her eyes stopping to linger on my bare chest before she brushes past me and spins to face me, arms crossed.
“So,” she says tightly. “How do you propose to pull off this sham of a marriage?”
Brooklyn
Chapter 8
Now that I’m standing in Luka’s penthouse, I’m not entirely sur
e how to play this. I’d been so sure of myself on the way over, but then he had to answer the door wearing nothing but a pair of clingy sweatpants, flashing that ridiculous six-pack and those broad shoulders I’ve never forgotten. It takes all my willpower to keep my eyes off the obscene bulge of his cock.
His skin is flushed and there’s a light sheen of sweat at his temples, as if he’d just been working out or something. Too bad I hadn’t gotten here earlier. I could have been his workout.
No, Brooklyn! I made a deal with myself that I wasn’t going to think about sex, or kissing, or Luka naked with me under him. None of that. This is going to be a professional meeting. I know what I want from this visit, and it’s not an orgasm.
I sweep my gaze over his chest, my hands twitchy with the need to trace the dips and lines there. Who am I kidding? An orgasm is exactly what I want.
He runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are lit up as if he’s happy to see me. “Hello to you, too. Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?”
“No.” I grip the strap of my purse with both hands and clear my throat. “I just came to talk. I’m…open to discussing your proposition some more.”
“In that case, have a seat while I get you a drink.”
I’m about to decline the drink, but I don’t. I might need something to calm my nerves.
He gestures to the end of the short hall where it opens into his living room. I swallow hard as I enter the room, remembering it from the last time I was here. I can’t indicate that I know anything about this place, though. He obviously doesn’t remember having me over, and I’m not about to burst that bubble.
I take a seat on the edge of the couch. “This is a beautiful place.”
His right brow hitches up and I feel like he’s assessing me. “Thanks.”
“Professionally designed, or is interior decorating one of your talents?”
There’s different artwork on the living room walls than when I was here last, large prints of antique architectural sketches, but they somehow lend a distinctly modern feel. I expect Luka to quip something about his talents resting solely in the bedroom.
“Designer. You would not want to see this place if I was left to my own devices.”
He puts up a finger to indicate he’ll be right back and disappears in the direction of the kitchen. I let out a deep breath and give myself a mental shake. I’m determined to stick to the script in my head. I have questions. We’ll talk about it. Make a plan, and then I’ll decide if an arranged marriage is something I really want to do.
Mateo’s words keep playing in my head. What if this is my only hope of getting a break? I hate having so few options, and like it or not, the most promising one on the horizon is becoming Luka’s wife.
He returns before I get too nervous and hands me a glass of wine. Cracking open a bottle of water for himself, he ignores the open expanse of the massive L-shaped couch and sits beside me, close enough that I get a clear whiff of his sexy male scent mixed with his high-end cologne.
“How did you know where I live?” he asks casually.
I tilt the wine glass to my lips, stalling for time. Shit. I have no idea how to answer that without giving myself away.
He shrugs as I swallow down half the glass. “You must have seen my address on my driver’s license when we were comparing mug shots.”
Relieved, I laugh, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I think I do. “Yes. I did.”
He shifts a little and my pulse starts to race. “Okay. So let’s talk.”
Well, he just opened the door and there’s no backing out now. Stick to the script. “I’d like to know what your plans are for this whole marriage thing. How would it work, exactly?”
Maybe it’s my imagination because I’m nervous, but he appears way too calm. Like this is something he’s really committed to, not just some whim.
“I hadn’t really thought out all the details to be honest—I was going to work through it on the fly. How about this? You tell me what you’d need to make it work.”
Ah, good. The door is really wide open now. I set my glass on the side table and clasp my hands together. His thigh brushes against mine. My breath hitches and I momentarily forget what I was about to say. Did he move closer to me? Why is it so hot in here?
“I want a modeling contract for the length of the marriage, with the option to renew afterward if it’s mutually agreeable.” The words tumble out and my confidence feeds off of them. “And I want an active role in choosing the assignments that come my way, so I can decide which are best for me. Also, I’d like to be kept in the loop about Danica Rose—you know, like if the company is bouncing back the way you’re all hoping. Considering it’s my future on the line, too, I feel like I should know how the general health of the business is doing.”
He eyes me thoughtfully and I hope the blip of nerves I feel doesn’t show. Yes, I do want to know how DRM is doing. Another scandal could put me out of a job and seriously affect my future. But also, the more info I have in my back pocket to use at my disposal, the better. Insider information could pay off for me in the long run—though I don’t mention that to him.
“Anything else, Brooklyn?”
My confidence comes back as he moves along.
“I want to pick out my ring.”
It’s petty, I know, but if I’m doing this, I want it to be Instagram perfect. I’ve already started thinking about how I’d stage the ring on my hand, with a background at the Navy Pier botanical gardens, catching the flash of the diamond in just the right light.
Luka chuckles a little and spreads his hands. “Is that all?”
“I might think of something else, but those are the main requirements.”
It’s not my imagination; he did move closer. Our legs press firmly from knee to hip and he’s looking at me as if waiting for more. Should I have asked for something else? I scramble to think of something I missed, when his hand slides over mine and my brain ceases to think.
“You don’t have any conditions on when we get married, or where? No conditions on where we’ll live…or where we’ll sleep?” he asks.
Our eyes lock, and my nipples pull hard inside my thin bralette. His gaze drops there, my pulse rising as he spies the visible proof of my arousal. I can’t think like this.
“Um, maybe…maybe you could put some more clothes on,” I suggest.
He lets out a low, sexy laugh. I want to touch him so badly, have him flip me onto my back on the couch and cover me with every inch of that gorgeous body. I want to feel the length of his cock through his pants, grind up against him as I—
“On second thought,” I say, “go get dressed so we can take this conversation to the coffee shop down the street.”
“What’s the problem with discussing things here?” he asks. “It’s our chemistry, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that,” I lie. “I just think professional boundaries are a good idea.”
“You know, it helps that we’re attracted to each other,” he says. He reaches up his hand, trailing it across my cheek. I feel the sparks through my entire body. “That energy between us. That heat that makes your throat dry and your pussy wet.”
Clenching my thighs together, I uselessly attempt to hold back my desire. But my core is throbbing in the way it does only for Luka.
The one man who could completely ruin me.
I can’t let him sweet talk his way into my pants again. No. Modeling contract signed and delivered, then we’ll talk sex.
Luka dips his head to my ear, his hot breath washing over my skin. It’s like our first meeting all over again. “It’s good that you want to fuck me, Brooklyn. It’ll make our relationship look real.”
He takes my chin and tilts it up, and when our eyes lock, I start subconsciously leaning toward him, my lips parting almost without me realizing it.
Fuck, what am I doing?
I jump to my feet and cross my arms. “I was under the impression you needed to clean up your rep, not dirty it. It’s ob
vious this arrangement isn’t your main focus. Give me a call if you decide you’re ready to take this seriously. Until then, I’m out.”
Turning away, I grab my purse and storm out of the apartment.
As the elevator doors close me in, I slump against the wall and try to catch my breath.
I did it. I stood up for myself. Great.
But I still fucking want him.
Brooklyn
Chapter 9
The little black dress I’m wearing drapes perfectly over my body, the deep V in the front showing off my cleavage. The hem falls to mid-thigh, and the sparkling silver heels I plan to wear will make my legs look killer.
Mateo is taking me out tonight, and even though I’m not really feeling it, trying on outfits is getting me in the mood. I’m going to sip a couple of cocktails and watch my bestie flirt his way into some unsuspecting man or woman’s pants, and likely, I’ll be taking a cab home. Alone. At least one of us will be having some fun.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror, debating how to do my makeup. My hair is still wet from the shower, and I’m not sure what to do with that, either. Up or down? Straight or curls? Rubbing some hair oil between my palms, I just start to apply it to my ends when the doorbell rings. Mateo is still in the shower, so I wipe the oil onto a towel and go to the door.
It’s Luka.
I take a step back as his tall body takes up the door frame. He’s perfectly dressed in a black suit and matching dress shirt with a subtle pattern on it, a pale green tie catching the color of his eyes. His hands are in his pockets, his stance nonchalant, as if he’s got all the time in the world and swinging by was a spur-of-the-moment decision.
