Pretend To Be Mine (Ramsey Billionaire Brothers Series Book 1)

by Suzie Nelson

  It’s been almost ten years since then, but I’ve never forgotten James. Nor, after I got over the initial shock, have I ever forgiven myself for being so horrible to him that last day in the forest. Once I’d calmed down a bit I realized that of course none of it had been his fault and, of course, he hadn’t wanted to hurt me. But by then it was too late. He was gone and I was too ashamed of my behavior to write him.

  So the years went by and, slowly but surely, I moved on. I went to New York for college and met other guys and generally lived my life. But I still feel horrible for how things ended between us and, to be honest, I still carry a torch for him. I know it’s silly. Who ends up with their high school sweetheart these days? But I can’t help it. He was the biggest love of my life, and I don’t think what I felt for him was just down to crazy teenage hormones. I think it was the real deal. It still hurts when I think about him.

  And now, seeing him again out of the blue, all those feelings have come rushing back. I feel like my head, or my heart, or both, are going to explode. I can’t believe it was really him. And God, I just had to go and dump my coffee all over him like a total spaz, didn’t I? I couldn’t have met him like a normal person: calm, collected, maybe even not wearing the neon pink t-shirt that I only wear when I have absolutely no other clean clothes left. Would that be really too much to ask for? Apparently, yes.

  Thanks a lot, life.

  The worst part is that he looks even more handsome than before, if that’s possible. When we were in high school he was a man among boys, but as an adult, he’s god among men, I swear.

  He was always handsome. With his blonde hair, strong jaw, and straight nose, it would be impossible not to be. But his eyes were always my favorite of his features (except maybe his dick because, let’s be honest here, that man is hung). But I mean it, his eyes are seriously magical. Not only are his eyelashes thicker than my hair, but his irises have these crazy flecks of gold in them, at the center, all around his pupils. Back in high school, all it took was one smoldering look from them across the classroom and my underwear was soaked straight through.

  As a teen, he stood a good few inches taller than everyone else and, by senior year, he had already filled out. No gawky nothing-but-elbows-and-knees phase for him, the lucky bastard. But he did track and field, not football, so he was muscular but lean, just how I’ve always liked my men. I’ve never been interested in dating the Hulk. To me, he’s always been the epitome of male beauty, and that was before I’d ever even seen him in a suit! Let me tell you, it is a beautiful thing to behold - even when he’s covered in a latte.

  I take his business card out of my pocket and examine it as if it might give me some clue to how he lives his life these days. It tells me nothing except that he splashed out for the expensive paper. I look at the card and sigh. I’d love to see him again. To talk to him, to apologize for what I said all those years ago, to patch things up. But let’s be honest: he was just being polite. Who actually wants their clumsy, mouthy, basically-a-stranger ex-girlfriend to come to their Christmas party? No one, that’s who.

  My phone buzzes again and I open my bag to check it. Would you believe it? There it is, just sitting there at the top as obvious as can be. Why couldn’t it have been that easy to find when I was getting off the elevator with a latte in one hand? Sometimes I seriously think my phone does it on purpose.

  The message is from my sister. “Call me back???” is all it says. Well, at least now I know where I can shift the blame for my disastrous re-entry into James’s world. Poor guy. I came crashing back into his life with about as much grace as I left it. God, I think with a mental groan, he must hate me.

  On the other hand, he did invite me to his party. I honestly don’t know what to think. So, instead of thinking, I stand up, dial my sister’s number, and head off in search of Christmas gifts.

  Chapter 2

  I moan long and loud as James runs his tongue up my stomach, between my breasts, and across my collar bone. He smiles down at me and lowers his head for a kiss as I frantically undo his belt. Desire is coursing through me, making me even clumsier than usual. But I get his pants off eventually and hum appreciatively as his hard-on bobs free of his underwear. God, I’d forgotten how massive his cock was.

  But James laughs and slides down, taking his beautiful penis with him. I want to stop him, but suddenly his lips are on my pussy and I forget about everything else. His mouth is impossibly soft and warm, and his tongue glides over my skin like a dream, exploring every inch of my body’s most secret places, discovering parts no one else has ever noticed, and setting every nerve I have on fire. My fingers tighten in the silky sheets and I moan, raising my pelvis towards him in a clear invitation.

  Laughing, he takes my hips in his strong hands and brings my pussy to his lips, licking me from taint to clit with his magical tongue. “Fuck,” I gasp as he swirls his tongue around my clit. My swearing gets louder as, slowly, he enters me with one, then two fingers, his pinkie toying with the tight entrance of my often ignored ass. He pumps his fingers back and forth and then gently slides the tip of pinkie up my ass. The feeling is so strong that I feel like my body is melting.

  “Harder,” I whimper. “James, please.”

  Chuckling into my skin, he plays with my clit, sucking rapidly as his fingers thrust in time, their insistent stroking making me want to scream his name with pleasure. So I do.

  I can feel his smile around my clit.

  As much as I like what he’s doing – and, trust me, I really do – I want in on the action. Drawing away from him, I roll onto my hands and knees, turning around so that my pussy is still within reach of his talented tongue, but now I can get my mouth on his cock as well. God bless whoever invented the sixty-nine. They were a genius.

  James groans appreciatively and brings my pussy back down onto his mouth. Trying hard not to let his tongue distract me, I wrap one hand around the base of his shaft and wet my lips, slowly lowering my mouth onto his head. He moans into my pussy in response. Taking this as a good sign, I bring my tongue into play, swirling it around his ridge then back and forth over his tip as my mouth takes ever more of him in. His fingers dig into my ass.

  Finally, when I can’t fit any more of him in, I let my tongue tease his shaft as I suck him hard, my hand and mouth moving in tandem to pleasure his entire length. Behind me, he’s going wild on my pussy, his lips and tongue working my clit desperately as his fingers pump me harder and harder. I can feel an orgasm building and I fight to stay focused on what I’m doing. But then he slaps my ass, once, twice, God, three times and I’m done. My orgasm explodes through me like a metric ton of TNT. With a muffled scream, I sink his cock deep into my mouth as I shudder, cum dripping down my thighs.

  Without missing a beat, James flips us over, drawing his cock out of my mouth and sheathing it directly into my still-spasming pussy. Like a madman, he grabs my hips, bringing me down hard on his cock as he sits on his heels, looking down at me with a wild look in his eyes. I grab at the sheets again as my whole body bucks with the force of his thrusts. In this position, I can see his hard, glistening cock disappearing into my wet pussy, and the slick sound of our bodies coming together makes me wild. God, I want him to come in me so bad.

  James is gasping with exertion, his muscular chest and stomach dripping with sweat as he drills me. The muscles in his powerful arms shift every time he brings me down onto his cock, manhandling me as if I weighed nothing. I jackknife against him, wanting him to come deeper in me than anyone ever has. Every frantic stroke of his dick sends a wave of pleasure rushing through me and I know I’m going to come again, harder than ever before.

  “Fuck me,” I scream. “James, fuck me harder!”

  With a grunt, he does what I ask and I feel my whole body tighten. I’m on the brink, I’m gasping for breath, oh fuck, I’m going to—

  My eyes fly open and I sit up abruptly, disturbing Rufus and sending him flying to the floor, meowing indignantly. For a moment I don’t know where
I am. My heart is racing and I gasp for breath as, slowly, I realize that no, I’m not having the best sex of my life, I’m sitting on my couch in my apartment with no one but Rufus for company and I just had the cruelest dream of my entire life. Including the time I dreamt I met Keith Richards in a GAP store.

  It’s Christmas Eve and I’d fallen asleep on my couch. Extreme and prolonged boredom will do that to a girl.

  With a groan, I stand up, rubbing the small of my back. “Sorry, Rufus,” I say, my voice raspy. He glares back at me in response.

  I sigh, reaching for my phone on the coffee table. No new messages. Putting it down, I realize that it had been lying on top of James’s business card. I groan. James is that last person I wanted to think about right now.

  But try as I might to distract myself with my phone, the card keeps demanding my attention. It’s so crisp and white and accusatory. It knows I have nothing to do tonight. It knows I want to go to James’s party. It knows I want to bone him harder than—

  “Okay! Okay! Fine! I’m going!” I tell it, throwing up my hands. The card says nothing, obviously, but I swear to God it somehow looks smugger than before. It and my phone are probably in cahoots.

  Still slightly tingly from my wet dream, I head for my closet. I don’t need to open it to know that this would be one of those days when nothing fits well or looks good. And I’m right. By the time I settle on an outfit the entire contents of my closet, and half of my drawers, is lying in piles around my room.

  Adjusting the straps, I twist left and right to make sure my dress isn’t hanging funny or making my ass look flat or something. But it’s fine. With a sigh, I look myself head on in the mirror. A slender woman in her mid-twenties and a form-fitting wine red velvet dress looks back at me. Her chestnut hair is a mess, her full red lips are pulled down in a grumpy pout, and her chocolate brown eyes are in dire need of some winged eyeliner. At least the dress pushes up my breasts a bit and makes them look bigger than they are. The woman in the mirror makes a face and heads to the bathroom for hair and makeup.

  But I cleaned up pretty well, despite just having woken up from a nap. And, by the time I slide on my favorite black heels, I’m feeling pretty damn good. I put on a pair of diamond studs and head for the door. Outside, even with my wool coat cinched tight, it’s freezing. Luckily, I’m a pretty woman in a short skirt and the first taxi I hail pulls over for me.

  The address on the card is up near Central Park, but James’s family has always had money, so it doesn’t surprise me. They can afford to rent out a club in downtown Manhattan. But the ride seems to take forever and my stomach twists itself into more and more knots with each passing block. Can we just be there already???

  And then, way too soon, we’re there.

  “Are you sure this is it?” I ask the driver stupidly.

  “Uh, yeah,” he replies, handing me back the business card. “This is the address on the card, ma’am.”

  I blow my cheeks out. “Wish me luck,” I say, handing him my credit card.

  “Big night?” he asks as he waits for the transaction to go through.

  “You have no idea,” I reply, craning my neck to look up at the imposing, 1920s apartment block we’re parked in front of.

  “Well, you look like a million bucks,” he says, handing back my card and the receipt for me to sign.

  “Thanks,” I tell him and leave him a generous tip. “Merry Christmas.”

  And, just like that, I’m back out in the cold, minutes away from seeing James again. At least this time there’s no coffee for me to spill.

  The uniformed concierge takes my coat and purse and directs me to the lounge out back, which is full of people in beautiful dresses and crazy expensive jewelry. Hoo boy, good thing I went for the diamond earrings, I think as I try not to gape.

  The place is enormous and possibly the most elegant room I’ve ever been in. The floors are covered by beautiful wooden parquet, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the walls are covered in rich, garnet-coloured wallpaper and have been hung with ropes of holly, ivy, and pine. The whole place looks like something out of a BBC costume drama. And then there’s the food. Long tables run the length of the enormous room, covered in everything from decadent-looking chocolate tortes to skewers of grilled prawns in coconut. I’m already regretting wearing a tight dress. Man, I will be bloated by the end of the night.

  But at least, even if everything else about this night is awkward and horrible, I’ll have eaten well.

  I can’t see James anywhere and I don’t know anyone else (this is definitely not the kind of crowd where I’ll accidently bump into a friend) so, like all uncomfortable women, I head for the nearest booze.

  “What can I get you?” a very handsome bartender asks me as I sidle up to the bar.

  “Umm,” I glance around for a drinks list but see nothing but bowl of self-serve punch and cinnamon-topped eggnog. “I don’t know. Punch reminds me of my aunts and I like the idea of eggnog but it’s always so heavy. Surprise me?”

  He smiles. “Do you like spiced rum?”

  “Yes. And ‘tis the season, after all,” I reply.

  He nods, pouring shots into a martini shaker. “You can say that again. We’re rolling in the stuff.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re trying to offload unwanted goods on me!” I joke.

  “Drat,” he replies with a very charming smile, “you’ve seen right through me.” He slides a glass of something milky onto the bar. “Try this.”

  “It’s not just eggnog?” I frown.

  He shakes his head. “It’s similar, but a little lighter.”

  I take a sip and smile. “This is delicious! What is it?”

  “A white Cuban,” he replied. “Like the Russian, but with spiced rum instead of vodka. But if you’re planning on getting hammered tonight switch to gin and juice after this. This baby’ll give you one hell of a hangover.”

  I take another sip and grin. “Duly noted. Thanks.”

  Taking my drink, I reluctantly relinquish my beautiful bartender to a pair of old men who are arguing over the best way to drink Scotch – as if there was any other way than with a single drop of water. Amateurs.

  Adrift in the crowd, I take another sip of my drink, look at all the dressed up strangers and wonder: Now what?

  “Amber!”

  I turn at the sound of James’s voice. Relief at not having to wander around alone and absolute panic at seeing James battle for supremacy in my gut.

  “You came!”

  And there he is, appearing out of the crowd as if he’d read my mind. Tall, handsome, and grinning at the sight of me. Call me crazy but the man gets more beautiful every time I see him. That bartender has nothing on him.

  “Hi, yeah,” I stutter, smiling weakly. “I…well, um, Merry Christmas,” I finish lamely.

  “And to you,” he replies, his fingers brushing my upper arm. But even that cursory touch is enough to send shivers through my body.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” I blurt out suddenly. “I…I’ve…”

  His smile softens. “You too,” he says, kindly interrupting my mangled attempt at a sentence. “It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah,” I reply and sip my drink to make the pause feel less awkward.

  “You’re ahead of me,” James says. “Why don’t I grab a drink too and we can find somewhere quiet to catch up properly?”

  “I’d like that,” I reply, and I mean it.

  He beams at me as if I’d just said something amazingly intelligent. “I’ll be right back. Don’t disappear on me.”

  “Same to you,” I reply, silently wondering where the hell I’d go if I did. A very tiny part of me watches him disappear towards the bar and wonders if this is all just an excuse to escape my company.

  But a few minutes later he reappears, cradling a glass of what looks like mojito.

  “That’s not a very festive drink,” I say, nodding at his mint-filled glass.

  James laughs. “I know, but I’m l
actose intolerant and they didn’t have any almond milk.”

  Taking me by the arm, he leads me through the crowd. He seems to have somewhere in mind.

  “Lactose intolerant?” I ask. “I clearly remember you eating grilled cheese sandwiches with me during our Harry Potter movie marathon.”

  James laughs at the memory. “I developed it after we moved. The doctor says that sensitivities like that can be trigged by stress or shock to the system.”

  “Oh,” I say, thinking about how my angry tirade in the woods probably hadn’t helped him ease into the transition. “I had no idea,” I say, trying to keep my guilt at bay. “That sucks.”

  He shrugs. “Ah, well, you get used to it. But I will admit that there are days that I would kill for another grilled cheese sandwich or a slice of real cheesecake. The ones made of tofu just aren’t the same.”