by C L Cruz
Quinn laughs softly. “You’re right. Thank you.”
And even though I’m glad for that gentle camaraderie between them, it stings a little that it’s at my expense.
Chapter Six
Quinn
We’re on our way home that night, Wes’ fancy sports car purring through the dark streets of Oakwood City, when my phone dings with a text.
Helena: How is fake married life?
After Weston had left my apartment the night of the proposal, I’d run upstairs to Helena’s to try to process everything. While she’d been skeptical, she hadn’t been unsupportive.
“It took Jasper and me two decades to realize our feelings for each other. Maybe it will take a fake marriage to get you and Weston together.”
“The man doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body,” I’d told her. “It will take more than a fake marriage. It will take a miracle.”
Quinn: Good. I just met his mother. She’s fabulous.
Helena: …
Quinn: Just say it.
Helena: Let me get this straight. You kissed Weston. Moved in with him. Met his mother. Sounds like you’re a miracle worker.
I’m trying to fight the smile threatening to cross my face when Weston’s hand comes down on my thigh and squeezes.
“You look happy,” he says.
“I am,” I tell him. And that’s what scares me most of all.
♦ ♦ ♦
That night, I’m the first one in bed. I don’t bother with my pillow wall this time, although I do make sure that no part of me is crossing the invisible barrier I’ve drawn down the middle of the bed in my head. After the spa treatment, my body feels relaxed, buffed, and polished, exceptionally smooth beneath the cool, silky sheets.
When Weston emerges from the bathroom, he turns off all the lights, plunging the room into darkness. It’s quiet, which is strange for me. The Village hosts a younger crowd and is always bustling. But River Street—with its wealthy, older residents—is much more subdued. That’s how I can hear the soft pad of his feet as he crosses the room to the bed. The mattress shifts a little beneath him as he crawls in, and the sheets tug tight when he climbs under them. I wait, almost holding my breath, to see if he’ll cross the line to my side.
But he doesn’t.
We both lie there in silence, our breaths the only sound in the room. I don’t know what I wanted to happen, but I feel a swell of disappointment in my gut. I know this isn’t real. I know he doesn’t love me. And I know that it probably isn’t the smartest thing to have a physical relationship with my boss, even if we are married. But I didn’t hate sleeping tucked against him last night.
I’m tempted to roll over and go to sleep when he finally speaks.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
I blink into the darkness, not sure what to say.
“I know I’m not easy,” he continues, “but I meant what I said before. You’re not just an assistant. You’re important to me. Hurting you has never been my intention.”
This might be the most introspective I’ve ever heard him. Buying myself time to think, I roll over and scoot across the bed, surprising even myself when I cross that middle line. I reach out in the dark until my fingers brush his arm, and he guides my hand into his, interlacing our fingers between us. “I know you may not mean to,” I say, “but you can be a little blind sometimes.”
I feel him roll, and as my eyes adjust to the dark, I can finally make out the shape of his face just a few inches from mine. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“Did you know that I’ve had a crush on you for years?” It’s easier to be honest in the dark. I probably never would have had the courage to tell him that under normal circumstances.
“That’s not true,” he says with a chuckle. “You’ve always been so…so…professional.”
“Sure,” I say, “at work. But I’m more than my job.”
He grows solemn as he says, “I’m seeing that now.” He shifts, comes closer, presses a big hand against my cheek. “I see…you…now.”
I cover his hand with mine, torn between shoving it away and holding him there. “How do I go back to normal after this?” I whisper.
“This is normal,” he says, reminding me just how very different the two of us are.
“A fake marriage? This is just a fantasy.”
“It feels real,” Weston says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night. “More real than anything I’ve ever had.”
My mouth is suddenly very dry, and my heart is pounding as his hand tilts my face up slightly. I’m close enough that I can feel the tickle of his beard against my lips.
“Do you feel it, too?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe against his lips.
He presses his mouth to fine, soft at first, then harder as his hand trails down my side to my hip and pulls me in close to him. Almost automatically, I lift one leg and drape it over his, digging my heel into his ass bring him closer. His erection presses into me through his sweatpants, rubbing against my wet center. My mouth opens in a small moan and his tongue sweeps inside.
I tell myself that there’s nothing wrong with doing this. We both obviously want it, and what’s the harm in enjoying each other for the time we’re together? I ignore the warning bells going off in my heart as he throws the covers off and rolls on top of me. My hands slide up his naked back, appreciating the curve of muscles that flex over his shoulders and around to his chest, where his own heart beats quickly against my palm.
His mouth wanders from my lips to my neck, then traces the curve of my breasts through my thin camisole. Even through the material, I can feel the warmth of his mouth, feel the scrape of his teeth against my nipples. When he goes even lower, and his hands press my thighs apart, my head falls back and my fingers twine in his thick, brown hair.
I should stop him.
I should stop this.
But I don’t. And when he pushes aside my underwear and I feel his mouth on me, I know that I won’t.
The man goes to work with single-minded determination. My fingers wrap in his hair, holding him to me as my body melts. It can’t be more than a minute before I let out a wordless cry as I come against his mouth. Every muscle in my body contracts as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. He continues to lap at my liquid heat until my legs fall limp around him.
He makes his way back up my body, and when he kisses me, I can taste myself on him. I expect him to keep going or to ask for reciprocation, but he just collapses beside me, sighing in a way that is definitely self-satisfied.
“God, I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw that slice of heaven at Vitality.”
I giggle and cover my face with my hands, not sure if I should be flattered or embarrassed.
He just pulls my hands away and tucks me against him, burying his face in my shoulder. In seconds, his breathing has slowed and I’m sure he’s asleep. It takes me a little longer as I lie there under his arm and try to convince myself that it doesn’t matter how I feel. That what we did meant nothing.
I drift off at some point, and when I wake up the next morning, neither of us has moved all night.
Chapter Seven
Weston
I wake up Monday morning to the sound of running water and an empty bed. Quinn is in the shower, which I see as an open invitation to join her. Marriage doesn’t have many perks, but a naked woman in my bed and in my bathroom is one of them. I intend to take full advantage while I still can.
When I pull open the glass door, steam billows into the warm bathroom. Quinn turns to me. Her wet hair is slicked back and she’s using a sponge to lather soap over her curvy body. She blinks at me.
“God, woman, how can you stand the water this hot?”
She laughs at me, and I can practically see the tension melt out of her face. I spent just about the whole weekend between her legs or devouring her mouth. The idea that she would still be embarrassed of me seeing her beautiful naked body is ludicrous. She never l
et me take it any further, though. I can touch her and taste her, but she doesn’t want to let me inside of her.
“You didn’t wake me,” I say accusingly, stepping in with her and shutting the door behind me. I reach around her to grab my soap, feeling her soft, slick tits press against my chest.
“I didn’t know if I should.”
“I missed my morning run. Now I need another way to get in my morning cardio.”
She turns around, rinsing her body under the water. Then, she peeks coyly at me over her shoulder. “Whatever will you do?”
Forgetting about my soap, I press myself up against her and slide one arm around her, cupping her heavy breasts. My other hand wraps around her chin and turns her head so I can taste her delicious lips again. My cock hardens against her back and she squirms in my grip.
“We can’t,” she says against my mouth. “We have to get to work.”
It’s our first day back to the office as husband and wife. “We can be a little late. I’m the fucking boss. There are benefits to being married to me. You should seize them now.”
She turns in my arms, and I think she’s going to object, but instead, she cocks her head. “You’re right. I should.”
Then, she drops to her knees, and everything else fades away as her mouth wraps around my hard cock. By the time we emerge, we are very, very late for work.
♦ ♦ ♦
It’s strange, having my wife as my assistant. She still bustles around the office doing her regular duties—planning my day, keeping the other assistants in line, making phone calls to investors and start-ups in town. But we’re acutely aware of each other in a way we weren’t before. She keeps throwing heated glances at me, and I swear she bends over her desk on purpose, just to give me a view of her luscious ass in that pencil skirt.
But it’s not just the sexual tension, although that’s fucking amazing. I want to talk to her, eat lunch with her, be with her every waking moment and hear her opinion on everything. I want to make her happy, and I want to kill anyone who dares to make her sad. I don’t want to let her out of my sight—or out of my bed.
And that’s a recipe for disaster. The last thing I want is to end up hurting her. She deserves more. She deserves better. Like my mom said, Kingsbury men are bad for women. That’s why I’m glad when Cody calls and invites me to lunch.
“We’re making progress,” he says. “I’ve got news.”
He shows up at my office at twelve o’clock on the dot. When I reach the lobby, Quinn is talking to the receptionist and eating the salad she packed that morning for herself. She’d offered me one, but I’d declined. Time is money, and the only time I take lunch is if I’m able to do business over it.
“Cody,” I say, beckoning him over, “meet my wife, Quinn Kingsbury.”
Quinn’s cheeks flush as she shakes the lawyer’s hand. “Quinn Delaney,” she corrects me.
I frown. We’ll need to get that changed. The Kingsbury name is an important one, and I want to make sure she reaps all the benefits that come with having been married to me. There’s a reason my mom is still Regina Kingsbury all these years after her divorce.
We say goodbye to Quinn, and then Cody and I walk a few blocks to Le Clocher, a new French restaurant that just opened. While it’s normally booked a few weeks in advance, the hostess seats us almost right away. Like I said—there are benefits to the Kingsbury name.
After ordering, Cody gets down to business. “I pulled some strings and was able to get us an expedited hearing to contest the contract for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Seriously?” I lean back in my chair and grin. I knew I made the right decision hiring him.
He nods. “A private agent served the summons on your father today.”
A smug smile crosses my lips. “That means—”
My phone buzzes and my father’s number flashes across the screen. “Do you mind if I take this?”
Cody shakes his head. “Not at all.”
When I answer, I put the phone on speaker so he can hear. “This is Weston.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” My dad’s voice is loud even in the crowded restaurant. “You can contest the contract all you want, but it’s still legally binding. Unless you’re married, the company is passing to your brother.”
“Half-brother,” I correct him. “And I am married.”
“What?” he snaps. “How is that possible? Who is the unlucky lady?”
Cody chuckles and I smile at him victoriously. “Quinn. You remember her?”
“Your assistant? The redhead?”
“That’s the one,” I answer. “She’s fucking amazing.”
“You tricky bastard,” my dad says, but he sounds more impressed than angry now. “You talked your assistant into a phony marriage just to stick it to your old man.
“Hardly.”
“I’ll need to see the paperwork.”
“I’ll have my lawyer send everything to you, and I’ll see you in court tomorrow. And you’d better call off Monty. I don’t want to see his ugly face snooping around my business or my marriage.”
“Marriage,” my dad scoffs. “What do you know about marriage?”
My brow furrows as I stare at the speaker. “More than you, I think.”
“This is bullshit,” my dad mumbles, and it’s the last thing I hear before the line goes dead.
Cody leans back and claps his hands together. “That was fucking brilliant.”
I can’t help but agree. I’ve wanted to stick it to my dad my entire life, but he’s always kept me under his thumb, lording the company or my mother over me. Now, everything is mine in spite of his deceitful ways.
“I’ll make sure the paperwork gets over to him,” Cody says, standing.
I stand, too, grabbing my suit jacket. “Great. Make sure Quinn gets everything, too, so she can prepare it for the hearing. Does she need to be there?”
“It can’t hurt. I’ll send over the annulment paperwork, too. You two can probably take care of that while you’re there.”
“Sounds good,” I agree, but something tightens in my chest. I think about Quinn beneath me in our bed, about holding her hand as we walked into work today, about her hugging my mother like they were old friends. Then about her demanding a real proposal, about the way she moans when I kiss her, about the way she dropped her robe and let me see all of her that first time. Quinn is kind and patient—that I already knew—but she’s also brave and fiery and isn’t afraid to fight back.
I like that a lot—I like her a lot—maybe too much to be good for either of us. This was never supposed to be more than a business arrangement. I’ve been upfront since the beginning. She knew what she was getting into. Now we’re just following through on our agreement. I’ll make sure she comes out well financially, and I get to keep the business. Win win.
Lunch comes, and we eat and chat, but the whole time I’m thinking about how my dad sounded proud of me. And that doesn’t make me feel very good about myself.
Chapter Eight
Quinn
I’m surprised by how well Monday goes. I’d expected people to treat me differently at work, but if anything, they all seemed a little impressed that I’d managed to bag the billionaire boss. They don’t know it’s fake, but like Wes said—there are benefits to being married to him, and I should take advantage of them now.
When Wes gets back from lunch with Cody, he’s unusually subdued. The playful fire between us has been almost completely extinguished as he turns inward, ignoring me and everyone else in the office. At six o’clock, as the office is closing, I knock on his door and peek inside. He’s at his desk, but his tie has been loosened and his sleeves are rolled up, making him look unusually haggard.
“Ready to head home?” I ask.
When he looks up at me, he just looks tired. “You go ahead. I’ll be home later.”
I try to stamp down the disappointment swelling in my gut. Usually, before we were married, he would keep me here with hi
m, working late on whatever deal he was trying to close. “Do you need help with anything?”
“No, I just…I’ll be home later,” he repeats.
That night, I eat Chinese takeout by myself in front of the television. Afterward, I wander around the house. He’d given me the grand tour over the weekend. There are dozens of rooms, most of them empty. I try to imagine what we could fill them with. Books. A couple of home offices. Maybe an art studio—I’ve always wanted to take up painting.
Or, you know, have a few kids.
I stand in the doorway to one of the empty rooms and mentally scold myself. The deeper I get into it, the harder it’s going to be for me to wake up from this dream.
When he still isn’t home by ten o’clock, I give up waiting on him and lie down, the bed feeling too large without his warm body wrapped around mine. But it still does its job because I fall asleep, only to be roused in the middle of the night by a hand on my hip. I roll over to find Weston sitting on the edge of the bed. In the moonlight through the window, I can see he’s still dressed.
“Wes?” I ask, squinting up at him.
Instead of answering, he leans down and brushes his lips against mine. I meet his mouth with my own hungry kiss, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck to pull him against me. He crawls over me, his long, hard body pressing mine into the bed.
But then he stops and looks down at me. “Wait.” He sits back and wipes his mouth.
I sit, clutching the sheet to my chest. “What is it?”
“We have court tomorrow.” He looks at his watch. “Today, actually. This afternoon.”
“Court?”
“To contest the contract.”
“Oh.” I have to remind myself to breathe. “So soon?”
“Yes, well, Cody is brilliant, isn’t he? I only hire the best.”
I ignore that comment, feeling like he’s also referring to me. It makes me feel cheap, like hired help. “What happens when the clause is voided in court?” I ask.
