The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: An Older Man, Younger Woman Romance

by Arlo Arrow

  I stiffen, starting to stand up straight—then I think better of it and slouch back down against the wall. She's talking about me, isn't she?

  "And the way she kissed the old man's ass," a man's low voice replies. I glance back at the crowd. Grant's father is gone, but so are Roger and his cousins. In fact, there are only a few men in suits left, and Grant is chatting with them and shaking hands. I don't know Grant's family well enough to be able to recognize who's speaking.

  "Well, she was an expert at that," Cara drawls. "I bet Grant hired her to kiss his ass, as well. Or kiss anything he wants."

  "Well, she's not hard on the eyes." The man says. Cara immediately scoffs, and I begin to feel ill. "I'd like to bend her over a couch and flip up her skirt—"

  "I'm not here to hear about your disgusting fantasies," Cara snaps. "I'm here to—" Her voice fades out as she moves away.

  Shit. I consider following them down the hall, but Grant suddenly appears, taking my hand. "Are you ready to go to bed?" He raises eyebrow and looks so smoking hot that I wish, for the thousandth time, he really meant go to bed…and fuck my brains out.

  It hits me for the first time since this stressful day began: we're going to be sleeping in the same room. In the same bed.

  "You okay?" Grant pushes some errant curls behind my ear, and I struggle to not lean into his touch.

  "Yes," I whisper. "It's just—"

  Roger suddenly appears out of nowhere, and waves drunkenly at us as he ambles down the hall.

  "Come on," Grant says. "You can tell me in our room."

  I ignore the shiver of sensation that runs down my spine when he says those words in his low, husky voice. I just nod and we walk down the dim hall, holding hands. Every five feet or so there is an ornate oil painting of wealthy looking people, dating back hundreds of years. There are also murky alcoves and a hundred places to hide.

  I'm sure it's just my imagination—and the overheard conversation—but I'm on high-alert. And that's why I see it: a flash of midnight blue.

  Cara. I'm sure she's there, just ahead of us, hiding in an alcove at the base of the stairs.

  Grant passes by her, unaware, and guides me up the stone stairwell. And that's when I decide—hell—I'm here to convince people we're really engaged, right?

  "Grant," I whisper, tugging on his arm.

  He stops and looks down at me. "Are you alright, Sophia?"

  I smile. He always asks me that. He may not want me, or love me, but he really cares about me. I ignore the beautiful pain in my heart.

  I glance behind us. Yes. She's hiding—I can see her fancy heels beneath a long, velvet curtain!

  Oh, the drama.

  And I'm about to add to it…

  "Kiss me," I whisper. I take one step up, and then another. With me two steps above Grant, I'm almost tall enough for us to be face-to-face. I turn on the stairs, one hand on the wide, stone railing. I put my other hand on his chest, then fist his dress shirt and pull him closer. "Please?"

  Eleven

  Grant

  Am I drunk? Am I dreaming?

  Sophia is standing here, looking beautiful and fragile and strong, all at once. And asking me to kiss her.

  "What?" I say, leaning in. I can't help but inhale, smelling the sweet, floral notes in her hair, and the sweet, womanly musk of her skin.

  She moves closer, too. She's leaning against me, soft and warm and utterly, utterly…kissable.

  Her lips touch mine, just barely. And then she whispers, "Cara is hiding behind us. Watching."

  I freeze. Mother. Fucker.

  Then I nod, staring down at Sophia's wide, brown eyes. Her hair is a riot of curls. I glance down at her chest and the faint hint of cleavage I can see, her curves beneath her dress.

  I want to kiss her. I want to pick up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her to bed.

  I want to fuck her all night long, like I would do if she really was my fiancée.

  But I can't.

  I can, however, fucking pretend to. And if I enjoy that? Fucking sue me.

  "Directly behind us?" I whisper against her lips.

  She nods, just barely.

  She leans forward, and her sweet, soft scent envelopes me. I can feel her cheek press against mine, her breath against me as she whispers into my ear, "Did you love her? Because if you did, we shouldn't mess with her."

  Sophia pulls back and she's close enough that I can see the striations of amber that light up her brown eyes. Typical, beautiful Sophia: always caring about others, always trying to do the right thing.

  "Not even close," I whisper back. "And she didn't love me, either. She loved my family's money."

  And because I'm not like Sophia, at this point I don't give a shit. I wouldn't care if there were eight hundred former girlfriends standing behind us; I have the chance to kiss Sophia, and I'm going to fucking take it. Even if she doesn't know that I mean it. That I want to kiss her…everywhere.

  "Then kiss me—"

  I cut her words off with my lips. She doesn't have to ask me twice. If I had my way, she'd never have to ask again. I cradle her gorgeous face in my hands, press my lips against hers. God, that fucking lower lip. It's the definition of pouty. So full, so soft. I nip it, just slightly, and she gasps.

  I take advantage of that. I slide my tongue inside her mouth, opening her to me. She tastes like the chocolate ice cream she had for dessert, but I have a feeling she'd taste sweet to me, all the damn time.

  She's so soft I can’t stop touching her curves. I try to be chaste. I try to be gentle.

  I fucking fail.

  "Grant," she whispers as I pull back and stare into her eyes. Mine, I want to say. I want to name her, claim her. Then I realize: I can. It may not be real, but that's what she signed up for, right?

  That's what we said we'd do: pretend to be…in love.

  "You're mine, Sophia," I say. Her eyes widen, then she glances behind us and relaxes slightly.

  It's not fair, but that enrages me. That she tenses when I say it. I know I can't be upset that my words shocked or scared her. I can't be mad at Sophia just because she was reassured when she looked behind us and presumably saw Cara. I can't be mad that Sophia is acting, just because I'm not.

  But I am angry. At fate, at myself. I had her, living in my house, for years. Why didn't I claim her then? Why did I fucking wait, like I was doing her—or me—a favor? The animal, the cave man in me, is enraged. Mine, mine, mine he wants to roar.

  But he's wrong. There's a reason cavemen went extinct. I can't steal her away and force her to love me.

  Plus, she's only twenty-five. I'm too old for her, my family's too fucked-up. And even if that weren't the case, what would I do? Admit I'm obsessed with her? Admit that I want to make her come twenty-five times tonight, and that's just with my mouth and hands?

  And then—expose her to the cruelty, the cold indifference and calculating mind games of this fucking family?

  I can't do any of that, so I just kiss her even harder. I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to question any of this shit. I just want to lose myself in her, for one fucking moment.

  I run my hands down her back, lightly, and she shivers. A full-body shiver that presses her closer to me and makes my dick even harder. I grab her ass with both hands, finally—finally—feeling all those luscious curves that drive me crazy. She's thick and sweet and warm and when I kiss my way down her neck and suck lightly, she lets out a moan that almost has me coming in my damn pants.

  "Let's go back to the room," I growl.

  "Okay," she pants.

  And then I grab her waist, hoist her up and over my shoulder, and slap her ass as I climb the stairs.

  Fuck it. Maybe tonight, the caveman wins.

  Twelve

  Sophia

  I should have told him.

  I should have told him that as soon as he kissed me, Cara slid out from her hiding space and disappeared down the long hallway, leaving us alone. My eyes were half-shut, so I don’
t think she knew that I was watching her.

  She paused for one breath, to stare up at us, and her face wasn’t stricken like a person in love’s would have been. No, her face was cold and calculating. And then she was gone.

  I should have stopped Grant then. He thought she was still behind us. He told me you're mine and put on this whole show—for nothing.

  But I didn't want to stop him.

  It was like all of my forbidden fantasies were coming true. And his kiss, holy shit, his kiss. And then he'd picked me up like I weighed nothing. I'd struggled, telling him I was too heavy. His only response? He’d slapped my ass—hard—and then rubbed the sting away.

  We reach our bedroom and Grant stalks toward the bed and tosses me onto the enormous mattress. I barely have the chance to catch my breath before he crawls up my body, caging me in with his massive chest and amazing arms. He stares down at me and smiles.

  “You’re good." His voice is so husky I can barely hear him. He clears his throat. “Did you see her? Think she was convinced?”

  As if he can't help himself, he runs one finger down my cheek, my neck, straight to between my breasts. Then he leans down and kisses me.

  Softly. Gently. So sweetly I could cry.

  And then he's gone.

  “Good job, kiddo,” he says, turning away. “I’m gonna take a shower and do a little work on my laptop.”

  “Um, okay.” I scramble to sit up, completely confused. But, duh, Sophia. He was just pretending. He wasn't really going to come back here and take your virginity.

  Unfortunately.

  Grant crosses the room to the large desk in the corner, takes out a TV remote, and hits a few buttons. What I thought was a painting slowly transforms to reveal a large, flat-screen TV hanging on the wall, in an ornate gold frame.

  “You can watch TV,” he offers, tossing the remote onto the bed. “Or use my ipad, or check out the library downstairs.”

  “Okay,” I say. He’s not looking at me, and I can’t quite catch my breath. Why do I feel like I’m suffocating?

  What the hell just happened between us?

  “I might just shower after you,” I say. “And go to bed early.”

  Grant nods, kicking his dress shoes off. It’s the first time I look around and realize: all my clothes have disappeared. Then Grant opens the door to what I see is a walk-in closet, and I spot my suitcase inside.

  Someone has been here. Gone through my things. Carefully arranged them, hung them up, folded them. This world is so strange. I don’t belong here. I don’t understand it, and I don’t understand Grant.

  I thought I did, but now—he walks past me, wearing workout shorts and a faded gray T-shirt that stretches across his massive chest.

  “On second thought,” he says, looking at his watch and not me. “I think I’ll go for a run.”

  “Okay.” Why won't he meet my eyes?

  Why am I sitting here, frozen and unhappy?

  Finally, just before he leaves our room, he gives me what I want: eye contact. And it’s then that I realize his eyes are cold, just like his father’s. What the hell just happened? Is he making sure I know that kiss wasn’t real? That it meant nothing? That I mean nothing to him?

  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Do you want me to request a second room?” he says.

  It takes me a moment to realize that he’s offering to move to another bedroom.

  I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. Jesus, my lips are still swollen from his kiss and he’s being a total…jerk.

  “Well, you can do what you want,” I say, trying for cold. I think it just comes off as hurt. “But I’m fine if you sleep here. The bed is bigger than my bathroom back home. I probably won’t even realize you’re here.”

  After a moment, he nods. “That would keep up appearances.”

  “Yep,” I say, wiggling my hand. I can’t believe I forgot I’m wearing his mother’s engagement ring. “Do you want to put this in the safe or something?”

  “No,” he says, giving me one last look. “You wear it.”

  And on that inscrutable note, he leaves the room.

  I hope he didn’t hear the pillow I threw after him as it hit the door.

  Or maybe I do.

  Thirteen

  Sophia

  One thing people don’t realize about Northern California is how absolutely freezing it gets at night. Mark Twain wasn’t kidding when he said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”

  Back home, the fog rolls in from the ocean each evening and by midnight—even on the Peninsula, where Grant’s mansion is—it’s so cold you could wear a winter coat in August.

  It’s nothing like Upstate New York.

  I went to bed with the windows open and the warm July air pouring into the room. I wake up and it’s hot. Burning hot.

  I shift, thinking, Damn, these sheets must be really expensive to keep you so warm, and that’s when I realize…

  It’s not the sheets.

  And it’s not the warm morning air.

  It’s Grant. In bed with me.

  On me.

  I’m laying on my left side, and Grant is spooning me. He’s huge. Everywhere. I feel completely cocooned in his strength, in the heat radiating from his…

  Holy shit. His naked body.

  I wiggle my butt and realize two things: he is wearing underwear.

  And he’s also hard.

  Really hard.

  Forget morning wood. It’s like…a morning smokestack. A morning skyscraper? Whatever it is, it’s big and rock-hard and pressed right up against my ass.

  I wiggle again, then close my eyes in shame.

  It feels good there.

  I bet it feels good…everywhere.

  I’m wet between my legs. Shit. I’m getting turned on by a sleeping man.

  He’s hard, but I’m hard-up.

  After his hot-and-cold behavior last night, I should be cured of my ridiculous crush. Instead, I'm wiggling my ass against his morning wood.

  I've got to get out of here.

  I begin to slide, oh-so-carefully, to my left. If I can just get out from under his massive arm, which is thrown over me, I’ll be free—

  “Where are you going?”

  Grant has one eye open. Gorgeous bedhead. The perfect chest. And his tattoos…

  Don't let it be obvious that your mouth is watering, Soph. Have some damn pride.

  “Good morning.” I don’t know why, but my words come out all breathless and soft.

  “Hi.” He smiles, as bright as the rising sun.

  “You’re in a good mood this morning,” I say. I’m flat on my back, and his arm is still on me, his hand splayed across my stomach.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he says. “I woke up next to the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “What?” he says, all innocence.

  “You don’t have to act in here,” I say. “No one’s watching. Wait. Are they?”

  He laughs. “There had better not be hidden cameras in here. But if there are…” He rolls and suddenly he’s right next to me, his body half-covering mine, his hard cock pressed against my thigh.

  Then he leans down to kiss me.

  “Stop.” I slam my hand against his chest and push him back.

  His eyebrows rise comically. “Morning breath?” he asks.

  “Morning dick,” I snap. “And I’m not talking about your…morning wood.”

  His eyebrows raise even higher, and the infuriating man wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me tightly against him.

  “You’re not a morning person,” he says with a smile.

  “I am…not a morning person,” I admit. “But you were a total jerk last night! What the hell happened? We kissed and then you…disappeared.”

  He’d been gone for hours. I know he’s in shape, but nobody can run that far—it suddenly hits me and I stare into his sleepy, gorgeous, sexy face. “Are you running from something? Are
you running from…me?”

  Grant lifts himself up on one massive arm and stares down at me. We’re practically chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh. One of his massive legs covers my knees.

  “Sophia,” he says softly, the morning light turning his skin golden and his eyes a brilliant blue. “How can you be so young but so wise? You want the truth?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I don’t think you can handle the truth,” he says. And even though he’s quoting a corny movie line, he’s not smiling.

  “Try me.”

  And then runs his free hand down the side of my face, pulls a long strand of my hair straight until the curl snaps free. He meets my eyes again and says, “I wasn’t running from you. I was running from my obsession with you.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  His eyes hold me captive, while his free hand runs down my arm until he finds my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “I’ve tried to push you away for years. I wanted to protect you—from the world, from anything bad—but also from myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This,” Grant says. And then he leans forward and kisses me. His eyes are open, and so are mine. Then he pulls back. “I think you’re perfect. I think you truly are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I can’t get you out of my mind. I’ve tried dating other women. I’ve tried traveling the world. I’ve spent countless hours working out and then jacking myself off, thinking of your face, your body—” He traces my lower lip with his thumb. “These lips.”

  I’m in shock. Am I still dreaming? “What are you saying?”

  I stare into his burning blue eyes, his tense jaw. “I’m saying I want you. That when I kissed you last night, it wasn’t an act. That when I said you're mine, I wasn’t pretending. And if you don’t tell me to stop right now, I’m going to start doing all of those things I’ve fantasized about.”

  I open my mouth and try to think of something—anything—coherent to say. But all that comes out is, “Don’t stop. Go.”