Girl Meets Billionaire

by Aubrey, Brenna

  I took a deep breath in, and thought about that for a moment. I was really getting married to the man whose arms were holding me. I was going to stand up in front of all our friends, family, and business associates in a white dress and walk down the aisle toward him. Toward Weston.

  And when everything was over, when the marriage had been dissolved and the final papers signed, that memory would still be real.

  I realized my heart was pounding, racing faster than it usually did.

  “You’re going to be Mrs. King,” he repeated as the car pulled over to the curb in front of Colletti’s Tuxedos. “Which means you need to start acting like a queen.”

  I shivered a little at the thought of ruling by his side.

  Married.

  I was getting married.

  We checked in at the counter for Weston’s appointment, then he perused accessories on the wall while I watched a handful of men parading around in matching tuxes nearby. A few women were with them, critiquing the fits of their suits, laughing and having a good time. One of them was obviously the bride, deciding how she wanted her party to look, giving her attention to every detail of what would be the best day of her life. Certainly the most expensive. She went up to the one that had to be the groom and brushed lint from his shoulder before kissing him on the lips. “You look so sexy, baby,” she said, flirting.

  Was that the role I was supposed to play here today?

  When her fiancé left for the fitting room with the tailor, she went back to giggling with her girlfriends and scrolling through her phone.

  Perhaps that was how a normal bride acted, but it wasn’t how this bride was going to act. It wasn’t how Mrs. King would act.

  It wasn’t how this queen would act.

  When Weston’s tailor called him forward, I stood up and followed. Weston glanced over his shoulder at me and cocked his head, slightly confused.

  “I’m just playing my part,” I said.

  That seemed to mollify him, and we walked into his assigned fitting room together.

  The tailor didn’t seem bothered at all by my presence and pointed to a chair where I could sit while Weston went into the dressing room to get into the tuxedo. It was his second appointment. The first time he’d come in on his own to be measured for the initial suit. This time, the outfit was being fitted to his body in particular. It was all about adjustments and hemming. He’d said it wouldn’t take too long, but I’d never been to a tux or suit fitting, so I didn’t know exactly what to expect.

  I had expected that Weston would be drop-dead sexy when he walked out of the dressing room—I just didn’t expect to actually drop dead from his sexiness.

  The tuxedo he’d worn the night of the engagement party had been a traditional fit, and he looked suave and hot, but this one was an ultraslim fit with a vest, and it hugged every part of his body, as though it had been molded to him.

  I trailed my teeth along my lower lip, trying to manage the breath that was desperately trying to escape my body at the sight of him.

  One thing was for sure, I couldn’t sit through this. I had to stand, stand and watch while the tailor did his work. The gentleman who was working with Weston—Colletti himself, I soon learned—frowned at the sight of Weston. I couldn’t understand that—what was there to frown at? But I stepped closer, trying to see the same flaws in the fit as he did.

  The man bent down to kneel at Weston’s feet and tugged first at the pant leg. “These are the shoes you’ll wear?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered before Weston could answer. Colletti glanced at me. I nodded. “He needs to wear suspenders to keep the pants in the right place.”

  Weston growled. “I hate suspenders. I’ll be fine without suspenders.”

  I looked from Weston to Colletti. Colletti shrugged. “If you want the classic flare to last through the whole event, you wear the suspenders.”

  I could see what Colletti was saying now, about where the pant hit on the shoes. Without a belt to keep them properly at Weston’s waist, and everyone knew you didn’t wear a belt with tuxedo pants, the pants drooped and the leg fell too far onto the shoe. “He’ll wear the suspenders.”

  Weston moved his eyes toward mine, and I could see the challenge behind them, but there was something else too. Admiration? Respect, maybe.

  He didn’t argue, which was good, since I was the one picking up the tab for this whole wedding thing. Was this what it was like to act like a queen?

  It sure did feel pretty good.

  Colletti went on to examine the jacket sleeves that were slightly too long—the shirt didn’t show a half inch beyond the cuff. He made some markings, then turned Weston around to look at his back. He pulled me over for this.

  “The shoulders fit good, see? And through here.” Colletti gestured at the middle of Weston’s torso. Then he tugged at the bottom of the jacket. “But this—this length was okay twenty years ago. Today we tend to keep it shorter, just below the behind.” He lifted the back of the jacket for a second so he could figure out where to adjust it higher, and there was Weston’s perfect ass, molded into the slim tuxedo pants.

  Damn, those pants fit well.

  “So what you want to do about the length?”

  “Shorter,” I answered, feeling like a billionaire asking for the clerk to bring the skimpiest dress out for his secretary. But, seriously. It was a shame to cover up so much of that backside.

  When I circled back around to face Weston, the gleam in his eyes said he didn’t only find this highly entertaining. He also found it kind of arousing.

  I glanced down at the front of his jacket where the break—which was perfectly split, according to Colletti—displayed a slight bulge.

  “Don’t give it any attention,” Weston said quietly while Colletti fussed at the back of his collar. “That’s certainly not going to help.”

  It didn’t help the dampness of my panties, that was for sure.

  Colletti finished up his measurements, wrote out a receipt, and handed it to me. “Okay. Final adjustments will be ready in three weeks. Make an appointment for pickup at the front desk.” He shuffled out of the room.

  “I guess you’re allowed to change now,” I said, suddenly aware that we were alone.

  “Yep.” Apparently also aware of our aloneness, Weston grabbed me at my elbow and escorted me into the dressing room with him.

  “I said you could get dressed now.” I meant to sound authoritative, but my voice came out flustered and breathy. My heart was racing, and I could hardly pretend I didn’t know what he was after.

  “But you’ve been so helpful with the rest of this fitting. Surely you’re not going to abandon me now.” He clicked the door shut behind me and began working on undoing his pants. I was already excited, already ready for whatever he wanted. Even though we were in public, even though this was inappropriate.

  Especially because we were in public. Especially because it wasn’t appropriate.

  When his cock was out—fully hard, his tip dripping—he pushed me to my knees. “How about you measure that?”

  I glanced at the dressing room door. From a standing position, the two feet that it rose off the floor didn’t seem so revealing. Down here was a whole other story.

  “If anyone walked into the fitting room and saw me on my knees, they’d know exactly what I was doing.”

  It was kind of hot.

  “Then you better hurry and get measuring,” Weston said, rubbing his crown along my mouth, painting my lips with his pre-cum.

  I hesitated only half a second before circling my fingers around the base of his cock and slipping my mouth around his hot, soft, tight skin. Because that’s what I wanted to do.

  And even queens bowed down to their kings.

  We were quiet and fast, Weston whispering instructions and praise, one hand wrapped in my hair, the other braced on the dressing room door. I sucked him all the way in until he hit the back of my throat before drawing back, bobbing at a rapid speed while I massaged his ba
lls, and when I looked up at him, he was watching us in the mirror, his expression fascinated and hypnotized, and so turned on.

  I was going to get off to that sight for years to come.

  It was only a few minutes later that I ducked out of the dressing room so that Weston could finish changing. Luckily no one else had come in and caught us.

  Well, almost no one.

  Donovan was waiting for me in the fitting area where Colletti had made the adjustments to the tuxedo.

  I had no idea how long he’d been waiting there, or if he’d paid any attention to what was going on in the dressing room though, so I acted like he knew nothing, brushing my likely messy hair behind my ear as I crossed over to him.

  “You have those papers?” I asked, loudly enough so that Weston could hear that we were no longer alone.

  “I do. Why don’t we take these outside, so we have some place to lay these all out.”

  I followed Donovan out into the main part of the store to a display counter that showcased cufflinks. He spread some papers across the glass and handed me a pen. I quickly found the places to initial and scratch my signature, then handed him the pen back after he gathered the papers together.

  “Thank you for this,” I said. “Thank you for always being on the ball. I really am sorry that this—“

  He cut me off. “How did it fit?”

  He had to mean the suit, not the cock. It wasn’t some terrible, dirty, sexual reference, but my cheeks went red anyway, and I stammered, “What?”

  “How did Weston’s tux fit?” he asked, his voice cold, his eyes hard.

  It hadn’t been what he’d said the first time, though. And it seemed that even though he’d corrected himself, there was something hidden or manipulative in the way he was looking at me. This was the Donovan Kincaid people whispered about. The ruthless emperor of the New York business world.

  I didn’t know what to do except answer. “It looks good.”

  He smiled tightly. “Weston does always wear a tuxedo well.”

  “Yes. He does.”

  He opened his jacket and put his pen in the inside pocket, then turned his gaze back to me, his expression serious. “It’s not for keeps, you know.” There was no question in his statement. It was very definitive, very final, and very confusing, because I wasn’t sure what he meant about keeping anything.

  Did he mean the tux? I’d paid for it, but of course I would give it to Weston. Why would I have any use for a tux? A tux that fit Weston so perfectly.

  And then it clicked, and I knew what he’d meant. I knew because I was so like Donovan in so many ways, and because Weston fit me in so many ways. I realized he was talking about him.

  Donovan was talking about Weston.

  Telling me that I couldn’t keep Weston.

  My chest pinched like I was wearing a corset and somebody had tightened the straps much, much too tight. Which was crazy because I hadn’t even considered keeping Weston, but for someone to say that I couldn’t, for Donovan to say that I couldn’t…

  “I don’t gather that it’s really any of your business,” I managed to say. Not at all queenly. More like a woman who had been gaslit and underestimated and harassed and was still trying to find her confidence in this man’s world.

  “Oh, my dear, but it is my business. This whole arrangement has been my business. And the arrangement we made was that you would have Weston temporarily. I’m sure you know by now that he’s expecting to end up with Sabrina. She’s rather suited to him, isn’t she?”

  My cheeks went redder, this time from rage. “That seems odd when you’re the one currently banging her.”

  He didn’t bat an eye. “I’m just doing a friend a favor, keeping her entertained until Weston’s not so tied up.”

  My backbone crumpled, the little that I had anyway. Had Weston asked Donovan to be with Sabrina? Was he planning on being with her when our divorce was final?

  It wasn’t like I could ask him. He wouldn’t even tell me about his family. Why would I expect him to tell me about his love life? The only arrangement we had was to wed and divorce. We had no arrangement that we would mean anything to each other in between.

  I felt my eyes get watery, and I blinked extra hard, trying to make the tears go away.

  Weston came out of the fitting room then, chipper and upbeat, likely from his recent orgasm. I, on the other hand, was a smashed bug on the bottom of Donovan’s shoe.

  “Did you get everything you needed, D? Damn, whatever you said has Elizabeth all worked up again.” His tone was concerned and compassionate, and I had to swallow and look at my shoes.

  “I’m okay,” I lied. “Really. Donovan was just reminding me of Reach’s commitment to our agreement, and it made me a bit emotional.” I was stupid for defending someone who’d just made me feel like shit, but it wasn’t fair to be angry at him. He’d only spoken the truth. The truth I’d reminded myself of so many times before. It just hurt to hear it spoken out loud.

  And wasn’t it the job of a good businesswoman—and a good queen—to act in the best interests of her company? Not herself.

  “Good,” Weston said, putting an arm around me and rubbing his hand up and down along my skin. “We are committed. All of us.”

  Right. Committed right up until we said I do. The marriage was real—but the feelings were not.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Did you get in okay?” I asked, stretching out on my bed, fully clothed. Elizabeth had only been gone half a day and I already missed her—missed her in my bones, and in my blood. And not even the kind of missing her that meant I wanted to jerk off, though I’d probably end up doing that too.

  “Yeah, I did.” She sounded so far away, but she was far away. Utah might as well have been a million miles from here. She’d gone early for Thanksgiving, and I was set to meet her in two days, on Wednesday night.

  Two days and it felt like a lifetime.

  But even though she was physically far away, I couldn’t help the feeling she was far away in other ways too. She had been for a couple of weeks now, or maybe it was me who was feeling closer to her than I should.

  Ever since the day at my parents’ when I’d realized that she was a form of home to me, I’d started to cling to her, started to think of her in a new light. I started to think of her as more of an anchor than an obstacle, and instead of counting the days toward our wedding with anticipation, excited for the day when I would finally be rid of her, I hated the fact that our moment at the altar was just another step toward our demise.

  Was this what love felt like?

  And if so, how could I get her to look at me, to feel for me the way I was feeling for her?

  There had been moments before when I was certain she did, but lately I wasn’t so sure.

  “Is the rest of your family there yet?” It was small talk, but I didn’t want to let her go just yet.

  “The house is too small to hold everyone. They’ll come for dinner on Thursday. Right now it’s just me and Nana and my great-grandmother.” She paused, seeming to stifle a yawn. “What did you do tonight?”

  “I worked. Then had dinner with Dylan—he’s in town from the UK visiting his son. We went to Gaston’s with Sabrina and her sister.” I’d gotten tipsy and spent half the conversation debating with Dylan about whether love was real.

  Me—arguing for the side of love.

  It was Elizabeth’s fault. And if I was under her spell, I didn’t ever want it to be broken.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said, her voice suddenly tighter. “That sounds fun. Hey, I’ve been thinking. There really isn’t any reason for you to come and join me here. It’s already awkward pretending we’re a real item to Nana, and you’re not even here yet. It’s not like there’s going to be anyone who sees us together in Utah. The whole point is to be seen, right?”

  The buzz I’d felt from the wine suddenly wore off and soberness hit me like a brick wall. I moved the phone to my other ear and ran my hand through my hair, thinking fast. I ne
eded to see her. Needed to be with her.

  “But… There are still people who could see me here. And it would look wrong if I was here for the holiday without you. No, it’s better if I’m where you are. What if Darrell tracked our flights? Hired a PI? Let’s just stick to the plan. It keeps our asses covered.” Which was true, I just didn’t mention that I wanted to spend the week with her. Wanted to sit at a table over a meal where we expressed our gratitude and, at least in my heart, know that I was grateful for meeting her.

  “I guess I’ll see you Wednesday then.” She sounded resigned. Maybe she was just tired from her flight. “Call me when—“

  “Are you done with me already?” God, I was so desperate. I’d never been desperate. This was a new one for me.

  “I was. Do you have more to discuss?”

  “Well, we’ve never had phone sex.”

  She laughed lightly, and just the sound of her giggle got me semi-hard. “Weston, I can’t. Not here. Nana’s just in the other room.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I guess I left it in New York,” she said with finality. “Good night. I’ll talk to you Wednesday.”

  She hung up, and I tossed my phone to the bed, giving up on jerking off. It wasn’t an orgasm that I wanted. It wasn’t a business arrangement I wanted. I just wanted her.

  It was early evening and the sun was just setting when I arrived in Salt Lake City. I picked up my rental car and followed the directions to Elizabeth’s grandmother’s place in Bountiful, amazed at how little traffic there was on the short drive. The airport was only twenty minutes from her house. Elizabeth and I were staying in a hotel, but we’d agreed to meet here, where she’d been staying the last couple of days, so she wouldn’t have to take a taxi.

  I pulled into the long driveway of the single-family house around six-thirty p.m. It was simple and small—white siding, no front porch, probably no more than two bedrooms if I guessed from the outside. My father would refer to it as a shack. I knew that Angela, Elizabeth’s mother, hadn’t come from money, but I still double-checked the address to be sure I was in the right place before knocking on the door.