Don't Walk Away: A Second Chance Fake Fiance Romance

by Eva Luxe

  I lean back and enjoy the way his huge cock thrusts into me over and over. He plays with my nipple with one hand while he holds on tight to my waist with his other hand, moving my body back and forth while his cock has its way with my pussy.

  "I'm coming," I tell him, steadying myself against the wall as a current of passion seizes through me.

  "Come for me, baby," Asher says, his cock filling up my entire pussy as it swells even bigger and harder. "And come on me too."

  "Yes, Boss," I say, as I lean back into his strong arms and give into my feelings of complete surrender and abandon. "Yes, Husband."

  Asher

  I pick my bride up again and carry her over to my desk. I turn her around and bend her over it. She's still wearing the ruby red heels she got married to me in. I love that that's the only thing she's wearing.

  She had been wearing red panties but they're now in the pocket of my tuxedo suit. Of course she got married to me wearing the same red panties that had started us off, back when I had first proposed my bet and guessed the correct color. But today she wasn’t wearing them for long because I took them off her when I was only supposed to be removing her garter belt.

  And I had a little fun while I was under her wedding dress, teasing her by sticking my finger in her pussy and even licking her clit a little bit, until people started asking if I was okay down there and saying we should save something for the honeymoon. As if.

  Now, I squeeze her ass and look at its perfectly round curves. Then I look down at my cock, which is sticky with her juices.

  "I can see that you still get dripping wet for me."

  "You make me come so much," she says, turning around to look at me.

  "I want to take you in your ass," I tell her, as I put my hand on her head and turn it back around.

  "Yes, Boss."

  She's still so supplicant and permissive. I love it. I love her.

  "I love you," I tell her, as I reach for some lube I've learned to keep in my desk drawer for precisely this purpose.

  "I love you too," she says, as I slide my cock into her ass and bite her gently on the neck

  "Woah," she whimpers, but it's more like a love bite I've just given her.

  And my wife is used to my cock in her ass by now. Soon she leans back a bit and enjoys the ride. Just like she did when I was fucking her pussy up against the wall.

  "You take your Boss's cock like a champ now, don't you?" I ask her, as I cram my shaft into her ass hole.

  "I do," she says. "I'm so glad you showed me how amazing this can be."

  "I'm so glad we got married," I tell her.

  I hold her hands back and pull her into me as I push my cock further into her. It feels so good that I allow myself to give into the overwhelming need for release, even though I wish I could fuck her all night. I know that soon we'll go again though.

  "I'm coming in your ass," I tell her, feeling my cock get even harder and bigger.

  "Do what you want with me, Boss," so says, so I let myself come a bit inside her and then I take out my cock and let my cum shoot all over her ass and back.

  I rub my cum around her ass, using my cock, for good measure.

  "There," I tell her. "Now you're marked. Claimed as mine."

  "I think I already was," she says, as I sit down on the couch in my office and then pull her into my lap.

  "That's true," I tell her.

  I look around, noticing that the expensive paintings hanging on my office wall are returning to their normal colors and shape.

  "I had quite a few drinks," I tell her. "I think they're just now starting to wear off."

  "Well, a few drinks is exactly what you should have on your wedding night, Hubby. And rough sex too, of course."

  She laughs and leans her head against my chest. I pet her hair, thinking.

  "You didn't have anything to drink tonight," I tell her. "Why is that?"

  She pauses.

  I had been so busy taking shots with Ron and downing beers with my buddies that I hadn't really thought about it until now. Whenever I had noticed she didn’t have a drink in her hand, I figured she was just busy playing host and would have one later, once most of the guests left and she could relax. But now I realize I hadn’t actually seen her have a drink all night.

  "Madilyn?" I ask her.

  I'm too afraid to ask the question. Because I’m afraid of the answer.

  Just tell me, I silently will her. Because if it's true then I'll be so fucking happy and if it's not true then I don't want to think about it tonight of all nights.

  "Well," she says, turning her head up to look at me, her beautiful eyes glistening in the moonlight shining through my office window. "I was actually wanting to tell you that I'm sorry for being late to our wedding. But something came up."

  "What came up?" I ask her.

  She reaches over to get the red clutch she was carrying around tonight. It matches her red high heels that she's still wearing and the red panties that are long gone.

  She takes something out and hands it to me with a happy grin spreading its way across her face.

  "This little plus sign came up."

  "What?"

  I look down at a pregnancy stick with a pink plus sign.

  "The plus sign means you’re pregnant right?" I ask her, unable to fucking believe it.

  "Yes, silly," she says, laughing. “It’s a positive pregnancy test. It means I’m pregnant.”

  I pick her up and swing her around.

  “You’re pregnant!” I exclaim. “With my baby. You’re pregnant!”

  "I felt really sick this morning," she says. "I thought it was just pre-wedding nerves but it got really bad, to the point where I couldn't keep anything down. This is embarrassing to admit but I was in the bathroom throwing up right before I walked down the aisle.”

  I just stare at her, not thinking it’s embarrassing at all. Instead, I’m thinking that it’s fucking amazing.

  “But don't worry,” she continues, assuming I’m staring at her because I’m grossed out rather than amazed. “A kind secretary from the wills and trusts department happened to have some toothpaste I used my finger to apply, and some mouthwash too. She tried to tell me she was spending the night somewhere after this but the story didn’t make a lot of sense and I've always suspected that she's a day drinker and that just confirmed it for me."

  "Who is she?" I demand, wanting to know who is fucking drinking on the job at my firm.

  Not that half the senior partners aren’t, I chide myself once I realize how hypocritical I’m being.

  "I couldn't snitch on the person who helped me pull myself together just before my wedding," she says. "And she's a good secretary although you might want to have someone proofread her documents."

  She laughs.

  "Whatever," I tell her. "I don't even care. Law firm drama can figure itself out later. It's our wedding night and you're pregnant. You're really pregnant!"

  I had really started to think it would never happen.

  "Well shit," she says. "There go the daiquiris I planned our honeymoon around."

  Of course, I'd wanted to take Madilyn on a mountain- climbing expedition for our honeymoon but she'd told me she just wants to relax on a beach with a frozen Daiquiri— not try to literally conquer the world.

  I've been teaching her to climb at the climbing gym in town as well as in the Sandia Mountains. But she said she didn't think she'd be ready for a real expedition for at least another six months to a year.

  "So, I guess you won't be able to…"

  I begin, realizing that those plans involving dangerous terrain and a tight rope around her waist are now dashed.

  "Yeah," she says, with a shrug. "But we'll go eventually."

  "I would much rather have a baby," I tell her. "I just didn't think it would happen. Mountain climbing trips can wait!"

  Suddenly my phone buzzes with a text.

  "Fuck," I tell her. "It's the limo driver. He's saying that the cops are giving h
im a problem about waiting in the no parking lane out front even though it's late at night and no one is around. They gave him a five minute warning or else they’ll cite him."

  "That's okay," she says. "We should head to the hotel anyway and enjoy our honeymoon suite.”

  "True. Maybe without being given a time limit we’d just stay here and fuck all night."

  "Fine with me. Although I’d prefer a hotel, then our honeymoon, then back home before we return to work as Mr. and Mrs. Boss,” she says. “Now you're going to be my boss and my husband and my baby daddy.”

  "I sure am," I tell her, as I stand up and hand her her wedding dress, struggling with the weight of it and surprised by how heavy it is. "So why didn't you tell me until now?"

  "I didn't want you to get scared of hurting me during sex," she says, with a giggle, as she shimmies into the dress.

  I smile as I myself get dressed again.

  "I guess I would have felt a little worried about tearing you up the way I do, knowing our tiny fragile little guy is living in there now."

  "Or little girl," she says, with a grin.

  "Or that."

  I smile.

  “I'd be happy with either one. He or she will definitely make a great lawyer in either case.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on our poor child,” she says.

  “Yeah, maybe they’ll be the creative type and smarter than us. They’ll avoid the rat race and build art installations at Burning Man all summer or something, and somehow figure out how to make that profitable.”

  "You have high expectations for our offspring already, I see,” she says. “And by the way, I'm going to have to hold this dress in place because you tore it.”

  "I'm sorry. I was a little bit too eager."

  "That's fine, because no one is here anyway," she laughs, as we leave the office. "Just like back in the day when you would make me walk through the hallway half naked to see you."

  "You always did anything I wanted," I tell her. "And you still do."

  "That's why you married me," she says.

  “Sure is,” I agree. “But not just because of that. For a lot of other reasons too. Your smile, your big brain and your amazing ass, to name just a few.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t get those last two mixed up?” she jokes.

  Suddenly, in the middle of laughing, we hear a noise that makes both of us jump. The old days of sneaking around and being afraid of getting caught are still ingrained in us— both the thrill of it and the fear of it. But then I realize we aren't the ones who have anything to worry about.

  "That noise is coming from Ron’s office," I tell Madilyn, pointing at the corner office just down the hall. It's the only one that’s almost as big as mine.

  "Oh my God."

  Not able to stop ourselves, we tiptoe over towards the closed door and listen. As we stand under the name card that says “Cameron Sanchez, Esq.,” there’s no doubt what’s going on inside.

  "Are those the same sounds we just made?" Madilyn whispers, suppressing a laugh. “And for the same reason?”

  "They sure are."

  "He and his secretary Ruby have been getting close," Madilyn says, as we stop spying on the love birds and head towards the elevators. "She's probably one of the most down to earth people I’ve ever met, so I approve of him for her. But I still can’t believe it. She’s his not- so- secret office fling and his wedding date, and then they come back here to fuck?"

  "What can I say?" I ask her, with a mischievous grin, thinking, Atta boy, Ron.

  Maybe if he's lucky she'll be a keeper and they'll get married and have a kid. And live happily fucking ever after, just like me and the new associate I knowingly hand picked to be my pet and also ended up choosing to be my wife and mother of my child.

  "He learned from the very best."

  Thank you for reading and for your support of this indie author.

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  Bound by the Billionaire

  Copyright © 2017 Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.

  Chapter One – Paige Matthews

  The holiday windows at Saks Fifth Avenue usually filled me with Christmas cheer, but tonight the twirling sugar plum fairies did nothing to calm the category-five hurricane twisting its way around my stomach. I should have known better than to take a cab through Midtown the week before Christmas. The invitation to the masquerade party said eight o’clock sharp, but thanks to the sloth-slow traffic, I would be late. That was the last thing I needed or wanted because I was about to go undercover for a story I knew would kickstart my journalism career, something I desperately needed.

  On the third floor of Expose Club, a few blocks from Fifth Avenue, was a sex club. The sort of place celebrities, politicians, millionaires, and billionaires frequented when they wanted to get their rocks off, and I planned to reveal to the world exactly what happened there.

  Over the past month, I’d spent countless evenings at the club staking it out both inside and out. I knew that the first two floors were regular clubs where people went to get drunk, dance, and pick up people to have regrettable sex with. But I’d also witnessed politicians, movie stars, rappers, and pop singers walk through the first-floor club to the secret elevator by the kitchen that would take them to the third floor.

  Last Saturday night, I’d slipped a couple hundred bucks into a bartender’s pocket for the chance to wash glasses and watch the elevator. But I hadn’t been able to discover what was behind the proverbial curtain, or, in Expose’s case, see what was on the other side of the elevator door. I wanted more than to watch people get into an elevator; I wanted proof.

  My plan was to do an exposé on Expose Club because the world deserved to know about the double lives the men and women they worshiped and voted for lived. It didn’t hurt that by shining the light on their dirty little secrets, I’d also make a name for myself.

  Uncovering the kinks of the rich and famous wasn’t how I’d expected or imagined I’d begin my investigative journalism career, but my editor-in-chief, ironically named Henry Miller, left me no other choice. I had to prove my worth to him, and going undercover at a sex club was how I planned to do just that.

  Ever since I’d gotten a job at The New York Reporter, Henry insisted I write the agony aunt column because, in his words, a pretty young thing like me didn’t belong on the streets investigating anyone. His overprotectiveness was because back in the day he had been my dad’s senior editor and since my dad was killed by a hit-and-run driver while working on a story, Henry felt he had to look out for me.

  He didn’t. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.

  For crying out loud, I was a journalism graduate from Emerson. During my last two years there, I was the news editor for The Berkeley Beacon where my responsibilities included finding stories and managing reporters. I didn’t bust my ass or live on caffeine and no sleep for four years so I could advise desperate housewives on how to bring the sexy back into their dead marriages.

  Plus, after my dad’s death, I’d vowed to follow in his footsteps and become an investigative journalist at The NY Reporter. Being an agony aunt was not how I intended to honor him or spend my days.

  I didn’t care if getting my story meant I had to pretend I was a submissive in a sex club. I’d researched the lifestyle enough to know I could act the part. Sure, some of the naughty books I’d read turned me on, and some of the video clips had left me more than a little wet, but it wasn’t like I’d actually have to participate in anything tonight. I was attending the party as an observer only.

  The thought of being cuffed, chained, or tethered didn’t do a thing for me, but I’d be lying if I said the thought of being spanked didn’t send tingles to my clit. I’d never had sex at all before but maybe one day, if I ever found a man I wanted to sleep with, I’d ask him to spank me. I had zero interest in any other
type of punishment or control, though. No thank you!

  The lack of romance in my life wasn’t because I wasn’t pretty or because men found me unattractive. I was what most people described as the girl next door. With my long blonde hair, green eyes and curvy body I got my fair share of appreciative glances and invitations to dinner, but so far, none of those dinner dates turned into anything more. I guess most men didn’t like my ambition or my competitive nature. Their loss.

  Getting an invitation to the party wasn’t easy or cheap. I went to Mike Russo, one of my dad’s old contacts and asked him to help. Mike was the kind of guy who could get anything for anyone… at a hefty price tag.

  I’d used the inheritance money left to me by my grandmother to pay for the invitation. I could see her spinning in her grave because her only granddaughter was going to a sex club, and not only that but she’d also paid five-thousand dollars for the pleasure. I made a sign of the cross and for the millionth time prayed for her forgiveness.

  Going undercover with no one knowing was risky, but it was a risk I wanted to take. Not even my best friend Jessica, who was now on her way to Jamaica for the holidays with her family and who usually knew everything about me including what color underwear I wore, had any knowledge about my plans. If she did, she would have ripped me a new one. She thought I was going to the newsroom’s holiday party.

  Since I’m a jeans, beat-up Converse, and oversized sweater girl, Jessica jumped at the chance to help me get ready for tonight. As if she needed any excuse to play with hair and makeup. Much to her parents’ chagrin, she dropped out of Fordham’s business program last year to become a makeup artist—something she kicked ass at.

  I was in the chair for two hours while Jessica contoured and highlighted my face. For the first time in my life, I had cheekbones. She also tortured my follicles by straightening and then loosely curling my hair before spraying it into submission. Maybe all the primping and preening was worth it, because I actually felt a little bit sexy.