My body gives a violent shudder. This guy is way beyond the title of hot; he's a living Adonis.
The man bends down to pick up my portfolio, giving me a better view of the lean lines of muscle as they move under the luxurious fabric of his exquisitely tailored suit. He stares at it for several moments, lost in thought. His eyes flick over me in surprise, looking me up and down. He gracefully stands up, walks over to me, and offers me his hand.
“I … uh.” I try to speak, but I feel so flustered by the intensity of his narrowed eyes as they stare down at me. They're sharp as cold steel. If I get too close, they'll cut my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Let me help you up. I don't bite—in public,” he purrs, his voice pure corruption, a promise of wicked deeds in the flickering light of a warm fire. Enraptured, I can do nothing but look up at him, speechless. My blue eyes are open wide and my red painted lips hang open in shock.
I reach out slowly towards his hand, but I can't seem to pull my gaze from his.
When our flesh meets … electricity. What would it feel like to give into the whims of someone who exudes such authority? Unbidden thoughts of his strong body moving above me … inside of me, crowd my mind and make my hands shake. I imagine those gray eyes, so cold they burn, staring down as I scream my pleasure into the frigid winter air.
Cruel lust.
To be touched by him would be exquisite torture, the kind of act that changes a person, makes them crave darker desires.
The beautiful stranger’s face shifts almost imperceptibly. He feels it too, this craving. A multitude of emotions flash behind his eyes; he pushes them back.
He pulls me to my feet but otherwise neither of us moves, slave to the power of this undeniable attraction. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel short of breath.
Then I remember I have a meeting I can't be late for.
“I've … uh … gotta go,” I somehow manage to stutter, holding out my hand for my portfolio. He passes it to me, but even this simple action is rife with sexual tension. I can't be late, I repeat to myself. “Thanks for helping me up.”
I don't give him a chance to reply.
I head toward the building as fast as I can without looking back. If I look back, I might not be able to leave. I ignore the tingle on my skin from his cold gray eyes following my every step. This is for the best, I try to tell myself. He's too perfect, and perfection is just an illusion, a carefully calculated mask meant to hide the true darkness that simmers below the surface. As soon as the thought pops into my head, I know it to be true: that man is is dangerous.
As I enter the building, I hear his confident voice ring in the cool winter air.
“The event planner—she's the one.”
I sit in the fancy waiting room for god only knows how long when a stylish—and very gay—young man guides me down the hall to grand double doors. When he knocks, a voice I recognize invites us to come in.
It's an elegant, classic office; a wall of windows makes the space light and bright. There's a small seating area with a couple of white chesterfield style couches and a coffee table sitting near a lit fireplace. The receptionist quickly excuses himself without a word, leaving me in a room with two sensational examples of male perfection.
Alone.
The silky voice … it belongs to the cruel, beautiful man from outside. And right next to him is every woman's wet dream: tall and muscular with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, all of him draped in a classic blue tailored two-piece suit. He reaches out, taking my hand in his and raises it to his lips. He doesn't say a word. To be honest, he doesn't need too. His eyes, they say everything that needs to be said. They call me to the decadent warmth of his bed, beg me to climax in the heat of his passionate embrace.
“Hello.” My voice comes out a breathy whisper.
“Have a seat Ms. Winters,” the gray-eyed guy from outside says, gesturing vaguely in my direction. I sit on the far end of the couch, trying to give myself as much space as I can from these two irresistibly sexy men.
Silver Eyes is standing in front of the fireplace, facing the seating area as though he's about to give a speech. Heck, maybe he is. What do I know? The other man slides onto the couch less than a foot from me. He smells like cinnamon and scotch.
I toss a quick glance at the quiet stranger. He exudes just as much authority and confidence—maybe more—than the guy I met outside, but the cruelty just isn't there. A dark fall of hair and a dusting of stubble frame the strong features of a very masculine face. His eyes are ebon, like evening shadows tucked into the chiseled features of a man seemingly carved by angels. The look he gives me is sex and seduction incarnate, a rush of heat that flows through my body and causes my nipples to pebble beneath the fabric of my dress.
Unconsciously, I clench my thighs together.
The small motion doesn’t go unnoticed. The slightest smirk curves his lips, a look of hunger burning in his gaze, like he could just eat me up. I swallow and his eyes watch my throat like a hungry lion. I try to ignore the feeling of being looked at like a tasty treat, shifting myself away from him slightly and turning my attention back to the silver-eyed hottie standing in front of me. I hope the beautifully quiet man can read my subtle body language.
“Lets get the formalities over with so that we can move onto the main conversation.” When the cruel man speaks, it's pretty apparent that he isn't amused by my silent exchange with the slow-eyed sex god sitting next to me me.
“My name is Gabriel Northington.” He reaches up and adjusts his glasses as he speaks. Northington? As in Northington Holiday Industries? OMG. Why are the company executives giving an interview for a party planning position?! “And this is my brother, Whittaker.” Brother? I don't get much time to contemplate these revelations because he continues with, “Whit doesn't speak so occasionally we may sign to one another. Please conduct yourself with the same etiquette you would a spoken conversation.” He holds my gaze with his for a moment before continuing. “As you might expect, our three other brothers have a vested interest in this meeting as well, so they may be using the loudspeaker to listen in.”
Gabriel looks at his brother for a moment, silently asking something. Whit nods his head. That small motion is all the conformation he needs. Gabriel closes the distance between us with only a couple of graceful steps, sleek and predatory, like he's moving in for the kill. The tempest-tossed depths of his gaze stare me down.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small black box and opens it for me to see.
Inside is a diamond ring.
What the heck is happening right now? Am I dreaming? Cause this doesn't make any sense.
“Natalie Winters, we would like you to become our fake fiancée.” There's not an iota of hesitation apparent in the silky smooth tones of his seductively decadent voice. This has got to be some sort of a joke.
“Wait what?!” Frantically, I look between Gabriel and Whittaker and the beautiful white gold band innocently resting on a bed of blue velvet. Whit reaches out, taking the precious little box from Gabriel's hand. He slides off the couch, dropping to one knee with feline grace. The faint smoke and earth scent of Scotch lingers on his skin. Pulling the precious band from the navy blue lining, he takes my hand in his. Confidence practically oozes from every pore on his muscular frame. Before I can say another word, he slips the ring on my finger.
The way Whit smiles at me, I can practically hear him whispering dirty somethings in my ear. And his dark eyes shadowed with lust dare me to resist. But it's obvious he doesn't actually believe I could or would deny him his every whim. The deep rich umber tones of his eyes are rife with the self-assured victory. It's this presumptive, almost bossy, attitude that I don't really care for.
“No,” I say, proud my voice comes out sharp and clear and confident. His eyebrows raise in surprise. I doubt anyone has ever told this man … either of these men … no. Ever.
Whittaker looks back toward his brother, a silent command to speak for the
both of them.
“I do not believe we have even discussed the terms of the arrangement. Don't you think it only polite to at least hear us out,” Gabriel asks.
But it isn't a question—it's a command and I don't like that at all.
“Fine. I'll hear you out, but don't hold your breath,” I snap. He has me so irritated by his pompous condescension I'm not really thinking about the real reason I came here. Gabriel narrows his eyes at me, so I narrow mine right back. Attractive or not, this guy is a huge freaking jerk.
Whit stands up, walking over to the liquor cabinet next to the fireplace and pours himself a glass of Scotch out of a simple crystal decanter. He looks at both Gabriel and me, lifting the amber liquid in a silent offering. Before I can answer, Gabriel answers for the both of us.
“None for us, thank you,” he says without even asking me.
“Actually, Mr. Northington I would love a glass.” It's my turn to smile. I know it's a really bad idea to antagonize billionaires, and any hope I had of landing the Christmas party is shot, but I can't seem to help myself. Gabriel purses his lips in irritation, but otherwise doesn't react. Whittaker slides in next to me, placing both glasses of Scotch on the coffee table in front of us.
“We would like you to plan and attend an elegant, tasteful event at our winter home in Vail. At the party, in front of our father and a small guest list, my brothers and I would like to announce our joint engagement to you.”
“I—” I start, but Gabriel cuts me off.
“I'm not finished.” I'm livid by now, but I grit my teeth and let him continue. I figure I'm about to leave and I'll never have to see him again anyway, so why argue? “The notoriety of planning such an exclusive party alone should help a business still in its infancy grow to something of actual importance.” Wow. I can't believe the nerve of this guy, simultaneously asking for my services and insulting me and my small business. I hate that he's right though.
“We are aware of how unconventional this may seem and are willing to compensate you with a generous sum of five hundred thousand dollars and the opportunity to be the exclusive event planner for all Northington Holiday Industry events.”
“Why?” I ask, because let's be honest here, this doesn't make any sense.
“That information is irrelevant to this negotiation.” The shock of the situation must finally be wearing off because I grow a backbone for the first time since I saw Gabriel outside the building.
I make my demands.
“The hell it is. Firstly, I want a million, not five hundred thousand. Secondly, I want to know why you or you even need a fake fiancée.” I point first at Gabriel then at Whittaker. “There have got to be a million girls out there that would jump at the opportunity to be the real thing. Thirdly, if I do this, absolutely no physical contact; I'm not a whore.” I feel pretty good about my requests, but Gabriel laughs at me like I'm a fool. There is no humor in the sound.
“No physical contact? That's preposterous. Not a single person at that party will believe you are in love if you refuse to kiss us. I don't understand what the big deal is anyway … when you so clearly want to fuck me.”
The look on his face is a challenge.
I stand up to storm out, but I don't want to give the silver-eyed prick the satisfaction. I grab the glass of Scotch off the coffee table in front of me and tilt it back. I down the entire cup in one gulp. Oh my god, that's strong. I glance back at Whit, watching our exchange with amusement. God, he's gorgeous. Whittaker Northington truly is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
Before I can reconsider, I straddle his lap and press my lips to his.
His reaction is instantaneous. Whit kisses me back … and it is phenomenal. He takes control with a single masterful caress of his tongue on mine. One arm slides around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest; my back arches in response. The tender flesh of my breasts press against the firmness of his muscular chest. Only a thin layer of fabric separates the sculpted perfection of his body from mine. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel the scorching heat of his skin on my own. His other hand slides sensually along my exposed thigh, under my dress to the soft flesh of my ass. Thank god I'm wearing one of my nice pairs of lace panties. I let out an involuntary groan deep in my throat. The sound seems to spur him on. He deepens the kiss; the restraint he has seems to be slipping, becoming more frenzied. When he does, I go completely pliant, wrapped in the muscular impeccability of his arms. And I can feel the proof of his arousal, hard beneath the expensive fabric of his tailored slacks.
Whit kisses with a level of expertise few men could ever hope to achieve. When it finally ends, I'm left wanting more—needing more. The look Whit gives me through half-lidded eyes is possessive and male. He doesn't seem bothered in the least by the faint smear of my red lipstick on his mouth. I can't believe I just did that. Suddenly I feel self-conscious of my swollen lips, the thin sheen of perspiration on my skin, the wetness between my thighs.
I quickly stand up, removing myself from his lap.
I've got to get out of here. But then, that kiss was out of this world. Maybe I should at least consider …
“Well, that was quite the demonstration. I guess all that resistance was just for show. Not that I'm surprised. It was pretty obvious that you had every intention of falling into bed with either of us, given we showed you even the slightest interest.” Gabriel's silken voice and hurtful words startle me from my thoughts. I had been so focused on Whit and that sensational kiss I'd forgotten the reason I had done it in the first place. I'd wanted to piss him off. Looks like I succeeded. The cruel prince is dripping with jealousy, but I'm too upset and offended to enjoy my small victory.
“Fuck you,” I say, walking to the door. Tears threaten to come out, but I hold them back. I won't give that jerk the satisfaction.
“Looking forward to it,” he replies, just as I reach the door. I see Whit is no longer sitting down and the look he's throwing at Gabriel is cold hell. I sure as fuck hope he gets chewed out after I leave.
“I'm going to say this to you Whittaker since you are so clearly his boss. The answer is no. There is no amount of money that can make me pretend to be engaged to a smug, patronizing narcissist like him.” My words are addressed to Whit, but my eyes, they never leave Gabriel's face. I open the door to go, but before I do, I leave them with one last thought. “Your kiss though … it took my breath away.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Fake fiancée? Seems like a pretty sweet gig to me,” my sister, Lucia, says.
We're sitting in my our cozy little kitchen, icing freshly baked sugar cookies. Just smelling them puts me in the Christmas spirit. It's A Wonderful Life can be faintly heard playing on the TV in the next room. I'm feeling better already; I'm sure the champagne and moral support are partially responsible.
After I walked out of that office, I stopped at the store to pick up a few bottles of cheap champagne and baking supplies and headed straight home. About halfway through telling my story to Lucia, I realized I was still wearing the ring. I thought about taking it off, but it's probably worth a million dollars and I don't want it to get lost.
“How much did you say they offered to pay you again?” she asks, but I know she heard me.
“Half of a million dollars,” I say with a sigh. “And Whittaker, the silent one with the dark eyes and the perfect dusting of stubble, was the best kisser ever.” Just thinking about it makes my heart race. “Ugh, I can't believe I practically dry humped a stranger … sober.” I run my left hand over my face.
“Maybe you should consider taking the job? You could really use the money.” Her voice is sympathetic.
“No. I know I need the money, but you don't understand. Gabriel, the one with the silver eyes and glasses, was literally the biggest asshole I have ever met in my entire life.” I know she's only trying to help, but I really don't want to talk about money or him right now.
“They said they had three more brothers, right? I'm sure they're all
fat and old. I bet those two were sent to trick you into a contract,” she says, changing the subject slightly, as if she can sense the intensity of my feelings toward the two Northington assholes.
“Ugly or not, I have no idea why they'd even bother? There are thousands of much prettier girls out there who would love to date a billionaire or two … or five. Even ones that are as gross and old as Donald Trump,” I say.
“And they're all adopted, right?” Lucia adds, washing the icing from her hands and laying out raw gingerbread men on a cookie sheet. “Like Bishop Northington, the CEO, never had any biological children, right?”
I shrug; I feel like I've read something like that before, but it doesn't matter. Adopted or not, they were still both one hundred percent jerks.
The doorbell rings, putting a momentary pause on our conversation; my sister starts to get up.
“I've got it; you paid last time.” In fact, she paid for the pizza the last four times in a row. My bank account is almost empty, but I can't let her pay again. Besides, I'm living in her condo because I can't afford rent. Maybe she's right? I should swallow my pride and take the money, if only to help her out. She's the only family I have left, after all …
I shake my head to clear it—those are tomorrow-me problems. Tonight, I splurge, and in the morning I'll figure it out.
I grab my wallet from my purse and open the door.
“How much do—” I just stop talking.
Fervent desire rushes through my body. The man in front of me might be wearing an impeccably tailored suit, but he is all bad boy. I bet there're tattoos hidden under that crisp white button up. He puts his forearm up and leans against the doorjamb, giving me a big cocky grin. Warm caramel-brown eyes, half-lidded and sultry, just ooze flirtation. He smells sweet, like vanilla and brown sugar, but with an undertone of something undeniably male.
Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas Page 20
