The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  “What’s quality?” he asks, softly. “Who gets to make that decision? Are you saying that the only acceptable way to enjoy yourself is classical music and heavy Russian literature?”

  I don’t giggle, but I’m giggling now. “No. You’re not listening.”

  “I think I am. If fucking me makes you feel guilty, then what kind of sex partner wouldn’t? Somebody respectful, kind, well-educated, not too pushy? Polite? Thoughtful? Knows how to pick out just the right Hallmark card for your three-month anniversary? Sounds like a fantastic lay.”

  He’s joking, but there’s just a hint of real bitterness underlying his tone.

  “Don’t delude yourself,” I reply. “Being a jackass isn’t a necessary first step to being good in bed.”

  “Oh really?” He tugs my hair slightly, just enough to make my scalp tingle. “Then why does every good girl want a bad boy?”

  “I’d give you an answer, but I have a feeling you’re about to explain it to me.”

  He smiles.

  “Confidence,” he says. “That’s all.”

  It’s way too simple of an answer, but I’m afraid he’s not wrong.

  Then he leans in to kiss me, and I forget everything.

  "Cassie," he whispers.

  It feels so good, hearing my name tumble off of his lips like that. God, how I wish it didn't. But that's not even true anymore - I don't care. I don't care. I don't care about anything except the way his smile lights up whenever he sees me.

  Fuck.

  I could've forgiven myself if it was just about the sex. I mean, I've done stupider things before, in the name of good sex. We all have. A man who really knows how to push your buttons, so to speak...that's worth being a little stupid for. Even I'll admit to that.

  But this isn't just about the sex.

  I have feelings for Devon Wakefield.

  Actual, honest-to-God feelings. Like a schoolgirl. Like a silly, infatuated little...

  "Hey," says the man himself, softly. "Cassie - what's wrong?"

  How does he know? Something in my body language, obviously, I'm betraying something I don't intend to. Son of a bitch.

  I sigh, burrowing my face under the covers like I can somehow escape from this insanity. "Everything," I mutter, knowing he can't really hear me.

  "This isn't a bad thing, you know," he replies, rather than asking me to repeat myself. I'm not really sure if this infuriates, or impresses me. "This is good. This is what I wanted."

  In spite of myself, my heart starts pounding against my ribs. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  I poke my head out from the sheets just enough to make sure I'm enunciating clearly. "What?"

  He hesitates for just long enough, I realize the sharpness of my tone has disrupted something fragile. Something important. Well, leave it to me to ruin everything.

  Stop it. There's nothing to ruin.

  "Nothing," he says, quietly. Flatly. "Never mind. Nothing."

  I can't let this go. Gripping a handful of comforter, I force myself to speak. "Do you mean you came to my agency just to get me in bed?"

  "Cassie, no." He sighs. "I didn't even know what you looked like. I came to you because you were the best, and I wanted..."

  My throat feels incredibly dry. "You wanted?" I repeat.

  "This," he says, finally. His arm tightens around me. I can feel him, still half-hard, pressing against my ass. "Something after the sex. Somebody who'd stay. Somebody who'd actually want to. Somebody I could talk to, somebody smart..."

  I want him to stop taking right now.

  If he does, I might actually die.

  "Somebody I could..."

  The only sound I can hear is my own pulse pounding in my ears.

  "Cassie," he says again, his voice just a low, throaty rumble. "You might be the Head Bitch in Charge, but I know you're not capable of being cruel. If you're not ready to hear this, stop me. Do me that fucking courtesy, at least."

  "I don't know what you're going to say," I lie.

  Because the truth terrifies me.

  "I realize I should take that as a sign to shut up," he says. "But I'm done playing games. Why do you keep coming back, Cassie? Because you love the way my cock feels? Because I know how to lick you just right? That's not hard to find, baby girl, even for an exacting woman like yourself. So maybe you've never been fucked quite like this before, but if you didn't like me, if you didn't care, you'd just ride my face and get the fuck out before I had a chance to talk. But you're still here. Why?"

  He's not just half-hard anymore. His dirty talk has enflamed me too, and I want him all over again - I want to lose myself in him, and lose this terrifying conversation along with it. We communicate better in moans and sighs and filthy promises.

  I flip over, hooking my leg over his thigh. With my rising heat pressed against the root of his cock, it's amazing he can still think straight. God knows I can't. But even as he grabs the back of my neck, he finds the presence of mind to whisper:

  "No." He exhales, a gust of hot breath sending shivers down my bare skin. "Not until you answer me."

  "I want you," I whisper, in the sort of tone no man can resist. Especially not with a naked woman pressed up against him. "Devon, please. I need you to fuck me."

  He tilts his hips just enough to rub me a little bit, but not enough. If it's frustrating for me, it must be pure torture for him.

  "Not until you answer me," he whispers back. "Never again, until you answer me."

  My head is swimming.

  "That's blackmail," I protest.

  "Extortion," he corrects me, pulling back and readjusting himself so that his throbbing tip is just barely breaching my entrance. For good measure, he rubs against my aching clit just a little in the process. "You feel that slickness inside you? Remember who put that there? Oh, right...that was me, wasn't it?" He chuckles, soft and low. "I just came so hard inside your tight little pussy, I don't need anything else from you for a while. I can do this all night. I could be your own personal fucktoy, or...or I could just drive you fucking crazy. It's up to you, really."

  I can't do this anymore.

  "No," I tell him.

  He cocks his head slightly. "No?"

  "No." I force myself to keep staring into his eyes, as tempting as it is to look away. "It's not just about your cock."

  He grins.

  And then he slides inside me, agonizingly slow. I claw at him, not letting myself hold back anymore, because there's just no point. I must be leaving deep gouges in his skin but he only winces a little.

  "You know I was bluffing," he confesses, when he's filled me up completely and our foreheads touch and we breathe the same oxygen. "I need you so fucking badly. Again. Already. But I was pretty convincing, right?"

  A throaty laugh escapes me as he somehow pushes in deeper.

  "Mine," he growls, his face buried in the crook between my neck and shoulder. Nuzzling upwards, he pauses by my ear, his tongue flicking out to caress the lobe, and then nibbling softly.

  "Yeah," I sigh, because there's no point in arguing with him. Maybe it's just part of the sex game and maybe it's not, but either way, I like how he says it. Either way, his voice, his touch, his scent, everything about him turns me molten. I can feel myself clench deep inside, totally involuntary, and he groans.

  "Why is it so hard to get you to admit it?" he whispers.

  I don't want to answer him. I can't. Telling the story about my parents betrays my weakness, my vulnerability, and I don't afford that with him. Despite the fact that I've all but admitted my feelings for him - whatever they are - something tells me he knows even better than I do now, somehow. Despite the fact that we're in bed together. Despite the fact that he's fucking me. Despite the fact that nobody's ever fucked me the way he fucks me. Nobody's ever made my heartbeat quicken the way he can, just by walking into a room.

  Despite all that, I can't tell.

  Not that I want to, now. All I want is to feel.

  He sets an agoniz
ingly slow pace, making every part of my body ache and quiver with the desires I have to hold back. His eyes lock with mine, and I’m lost. So lost. I never want to be found again.

  ***

  We part ways with unanswered questions still hanging in the air.

  There’s a wild part of my brain that wants to cling to him, tell him I love him, throw all caution to the winds and forget every boundary I’ve ever set. But I don’t.

  We just kiss goodbye, and he walks out the door.

  For the first time since we fell into bed, I think about Pizelle again. The memory is dulled, the sharp edges rubbed down to where I can tuck it away and breathe freely, at least for now.

  After a while, I pull out my laptop and start idly scrolling through the news. Wakefield’s been dominating so much of my time that I feel a bit shiftless now, unsure where we are, or where we’re headed. It’s probably time to check in on the waiting list and see who else out there is in need of a little help.

  I’m three pages deep into celebrity gossip when a news alert pops up.

  …SOURCE CLOSE TO CEO DEVON WAKEFIELD SAYS BANKRUPTCY WAS KEPT…

  My heart squeezes in my chest. Instantly, I remember what the stranger in the bar said. All of the accusations come flooding back into my brain as I click on the headline and start to read, with a pit of dread in my stomach.

  …Our source tells us that he kept Fine People solvent for as long as he could, even if it meant liquidating pensions and letting freelancers go unpaid…

  …We spoke to a shareholder who confirmed they had not been warned, and spoke on conditions of anonymity saying they felt Wakefield had lied to them…

  I can’t take it all in. I’m letting my eyes glance over it in bits and pieces, trying to process it, and not wanting to.

  Finally, I close my laptop. My stomach twists and roils.

  It was true. It was all fucking true.

  The source is a gossip site that I absolutely hate, but mostly I hate them because they’re always at least partially right. They have absolutely no ethics, no standards, but damn if they don’t have the sources nobody else does.

  I pick up my phone and sit there with it clutched in my hand. There’s about a dozen things I could text him.

  What the hell?

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  Is this why you were so anxious to get married, all of a sudden? Just wanted to lock down a wife before everyone found out you were a failure?

  Who did you rip off to make sure I got paid?

  Did you think I wouldn’t find out?

  Instead, I just sit there. I mean, what do I want? An apology?

  I’ve never been a big fan of apologies.

  No one’s ever really sorry for what they did. They’re only sorry they got caught. And even if they really, truly feel bad, even if the remorse is genuine, it’s no guarantee they won’t do it again.

  I know who he is now. And nothing is going to change that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Snow is a goddamn liar.

  It comes down all light and gentle, in pretty little flurries, and before you know it, everything is smothered and freezing. It happens so quickly, you never know what hit you.

  And that’s just the way snow likes it.

  Without snow, winter is cold and hard and unforgiving. But at least you know. At least it doesn’t lie to you.

  Three weeks until Valentine’s day. I’ve got my docket full, and new clients have popped out of the woodwork, wanting me to set up a date for them so they don’t feel so alone. I tell them it doesn’t work that way, that’s not the kind of agency this is, try one of the high-class places across town with the secret door you have to buzz into from the alley behind the parking lot. They insist they’re not looking for sex, they’re looking for a real connection. I tell them that kind of thing doesn’t happen overnight, and they snarl at me and hang up.

  I’ve gone through this script a thousand times before, but never with so little conviction. I’m sick of this. Sick of these people, and their persistent belief that there’s Someone Out There For Them (TM). If I see the word “soulmate” one more time, I’m going to punch a hole through my desk.

  I need a fucking vacation.

  It’s about half-past eleven when I throw my door open, storm out into the hallway, and drop a huge binder on Becca’s desk.

  “I’m going to Hawaii,” I tell her. “You’ve got this, right?”

  Her eyes are like saucers. “Uh…of course. Like…right now?”

  “As soon as I can get a flight,” I tell her, hearing my own voice like it’s in a dream. My mouth is currently moving without any engagement from my brain, and maybe that’s for the best.

  “Are you…feeling okay?” she asks, gently. She’s probably pinching herself under the desk.

  “Never better,” I tell her. I’m not even sure if it’s a lie. “I just can’t handle another conversation about how we’re not an escort agency, you know? All these people with their fucking Valentine’s dates. Like this random day in February about a martyred saint is somehow more romantic than any other day of the year. Think of this like a trial run. I won’t be gone long. You can play around with the books like you always wanted to. Without Mommy hovering over your shoulder.”

  Becca clears her throat, glancing around the room, like she thinks the potted plants might be listening. “You seem…” She hesitates. “Manic.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, with what I hope is a convincing smile. “You’re going to do great, Becca. Just text me if you need anything.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” she replies, lowering her voice slightly. “I know we haven’t really talked about it, but you’ve been different since…”

  I swallow hard. There’s no point in denying it. “And?”

  Apparently, that was supposed to be self-explanatory. Becca nibbles on her lower lip. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, firmly. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. “It’s time for me to reset and move on, and a vacation is the best place to do that.”

  ***

  The minute the plane touches down, I switch on my phone, panic rising in my throat. My heart pounds as it searches for a signal. I just know there’s going to be fifty missed calls from Becca, panicked voicemails, a dozen pending lawsuits. When no notifications show up after a full minute, I fire off a text.

  Just landed, everything okay?

  She answers quickly.

  Yay! All good here :)

  I stare the message, trying to figure out if there’s some coded cry for help embedded in it.

  If you’re lying to me, I’ll find out. I’ve got spies following your every move.

  She replies:

  Calm down, stalker. I’m serious. Everything is fine. Just like I told you it would be.

  Of course it is. Because the world doesn’t stop turning just because I switch off. No matter how many times I tell myself that, it’s still going to be a surprise.

  As I step into the airport, I feel strangely giddy. I’m stiff and exhausted, but I still grin like an idiot when my town car driver slips a lei over my head. I haven’t even set foot on Hawaiian soil yet, but I already feel the magic.

  No wonder people fall in love with this place.

  ***

  Let’s be clear, I’m not a “laying out on the beach with a Mai Tai” kind of girl. I never have been. In fact, until now, it sounded like a special kind of hell.

  But I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.

  This place, this feeling, it’s pure bliss. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize what was missing in my life. At home, I simply can’t unplug. The itch to check my phone every ten seconds, just in case, is too powerful. There’s no way to overcome it. But here? It’s so easy to ignore. I want to keep chasing the beautiful sense of calm that comes from just staring at the horizon and letting my eyes gently close, knowing that the world’s not go
ing to end while I daydream.

  Man. I’m kind of an egomaniac, aren’t I?

  I guess on some level I’ve always known it, but the calm detachment really helps put it all in focus. Being a control freak is just another symptom of feeling superior. I really need to work on that. Becca’s not a little kid anymore. She doesn’t need babysitting. Even though it’s hard for me to forget that time she almost set the kitchen on fire by microwaving dry Rice-a-Roni, she’s not that little girl anymore.

  And the rest of the world can get by without me, too.

  After I’ve baked in the sun for most of the day, I take a quick shower and head out in search of some dinner. There’s plenty of acclaimed restaurants attached to my resort, and many more just a stone’s throw away. But I’m not in the mood for fine dining. One of the beach bartenders told me there’s a bunch of food trucks that congregate down the street, and that’s more my speed tonight.

  ***

  At first, I think I'm lost. I've wandered out of the tourist area and I'm in some kind of industrial district now, trying to follow the bartender's directions and failing miserably. He was just so nice, I found myself nodding and smiling in response to all of his explanations even if they didn't make a lot of sense.

  Then, suddenly, I round a corner and I see it. There's a little courtyard, set back from the road, covered in AstroTurf and surrounded by fairy lights strung on every available surface. Tourists and locals alike are sitting at worn picnic tables, slurping down noodles and barbecue from overloaded paper plates.

  God, I love it. This is exactly the kind of place I never get to see when I'm working with billionaires and celebrities. This is the kind of place my mom would immediately veto on family vacations, convinced we'd all get food poisoning if we ventured off the beaten path. I didn't exactly grow up in a gilded cage, but...