Dirty Sexy Player

by Laurelin Paige

  I rubbed two fingers along my forehead. A bachelor party from Donovan actually might be fun. It would be all cigars and Scotch, but I would probably regret everything that happened afterwards. And weren’t those the best kinds of nights? But any speech he wrote on true love would be so depressing half the audience would grow suicidal.

  “Brett Larrabee,” Donovan and I said in unison. Brett was a roommate from college, a guy I still kept up with pretty well. He was extroverted, charismatic, a good speaker, the life of most parties, and a decent friend. Most of all, he wouldn’t mind being the best man for a night, even if he found out later on that the whole thing was a farce.

  “I’ll give him a call,” I said.

  “Great,” LeeAnn said, relieved that at least one item had been ticked off without a fight. She had to be wondering why on Earth we were marrying at all. “We have that settled.”

  We managed to continue without any brawling through the next few items, but then we got to the details of the actual ceremony and hit a doozy of a bump.

  “I hate traditional vows,” Elizabeth said, her jaw tight. “I do not want to read traditional vows at our wedding.”

  “LeeAnn just gave us seventeen different options. We don’t have to use any of the ones that say ‘obey and honor.’ We can use one of the more modern ones. But we definitely don’t need to write our own!”

  Because of course she wanted us to write our own vows. For our not-real wedding. For our not-real relationship. Was the girl insane?

  “It’s not just that they are old-fashioned and outdated. Yes, some of them are more modern,” Elizabeth flipped through the booklet of vows LeeAnn had given us to look through, “but they’re just so standard. So conformist. So trite and overdone.”

  Fake wedding. I said it really loudly in my head, zooming it toward her, hoping that she would hear me. Fake wedding, Elizabeth. Overdone is okay for a fake wedding.

  But apparently she didn’t hear my thoughts, because she continued to speak her side. “I really think we should write our own.”

  I was going to murder her. I’d actually tried to get along with her for the most part. It had been hard, especially with how close she was sitting next to me. Every time she moved, her scent would drift toward me—a combination of tropical body wash and expensive perfume, a smell so purely her that it made me want to bury my head in her neck and breathe her in until I was high. And every time her skin brushed against mine, my dick perked up. And every time she argued, I wanted to choke her or fuck her or both.

  God, I was so fucking horny and blue balled.

  And I was not going to sit there and listen to her try to twist me around her pretty little finger one more goddamned minute.

  “Excuse me, LeeAnn. Donovan, may I please speak to my lovely fiancée alone for just a moment?” So that I can wring her lovely neck.

  “Of course. Donovan, why don’t you come in the other room. I can show you those examples I have of invitation vellum.” She stood and he followed, giving us a warning glance before he disappeared behind the closed doors.

  As soon as we were alone, Elizabeth turned to me. “It’s my wedding.”

  “It’s a fake wedding.”

  “Nobody else knows that. I’m going to be judged on this. Everyone will look at me and say, ‘Elizabeth Dyson, boring, unoriginal.’ I need to have original vows.”

  “Then we will pick the most original pre-written vows there are. But we are not writing our own. I refuse.”

  She drew her lips into a tight line and folded her arms across her chest, the action showcasing her tits, not that I noticed. “Why don’t you want your parents involved?”

  “Maybe I don’t think it’s fair to bring them out just so you can play fantasy wedding.” Ouch. I went there.

  But she didn’t flinch. “That’s not why. You have another reason.”

  “And I’m not telling you what it is.”

  She took a deep breath in, her breasts heaving and expanding. “Fine. I’ll drop it.”

  “We’re still not writing our own vows.”

  I swear she growled. My dick jumped at the sound. “This is stupid. You can’t write your own vows because you can’t think of something nice and genuine to say about me?”

  Honestly, I could think of a lot of nice and genuine things to say about her. Things a man who had no real interest in a woman probably shouldn’t say to that woman. Things that a woman like her might be scandalized by hearing. “No. I can’t.”

  “You’re an asshole.” But she’d taken a step closer to me.

  “You’re a bitch.” I noticed our bodies were only inches apart now, her mouth was tilted up towards mine, her eyes pinned on my lips.

  And suddenly all I could think about was kissing her. I couldn’t give a fuck about vows or parents or secrets or anything but finding out what her lips tasted like, what they felt like against mine. If they stayed pressed shut until I worked them open or if they eagerly parted for my tongue.

  I bent closer, leaned toward her—

  And suddenly the doors burst open again.

  “We found your invitation material,” LeeAnn said with a boastful grin. “You’ll be quite pleased, it matches everything else you selected. Have you sorted out the vows?”

  Elizabeth jumped back the minute we were interrupted, putting as much space between me and her as she could in as little time as she had.

  “It’s settled,” she said, before I could even remember what the disagreement had been. “We’ll do pre-written vows. A version of the traditional. Minus the honor and obey.”

  LeeAnn raised a brow. “Oh. So the groom won this round.”

  “Yeah.” I glanced over at Elizabeth but she wasn’t looking at me. “I guess I did.”

  Why then, did it feel like I’d lost?

  Eight

  “Oh no, oh no! What did you do?” Weston’s anguished voice came from behind me.

  It was the night of our engagement party, and we’d been bickering for weeks. Since the meeting with our wedding planner, to be precise, and bickering was maybe too light a word. Outright arguing might have been more like it. The only time we hadn’t been arguing was that strange moment when I thought he was going to kiss me, when everything calmed down except the beat of my pulse and the flutter in my tummy, and the noise between us finally hushed.

  But the moment had passed, our lips never met, and the calm turned out to be only the eye in a hurricane of constant tension.

  I expected tonight to be more of the same. Luckily, I’d arrived at The Sky Launch first, having only managed to do that by telling him our meeting time was a full hour later than it was. I turned from the florist, prepared for another battle but when I caught sight of him, I nearly lost all the air in my lungs.

  I’d seen pictures of him in a tux before. My Internet search had turned up quite a few of him in various versions of Armani and Tom Ford. I couldn’t say that I hadn’t lingered over one or two of them. The man did photograph so well.

  Turned out pictures didn’t tell half the story.

  His jacket was custom-fit, tightening in at his hips, making the broad stretch of his shoulders accentuate his muscles. He spun, surveying the nightclub, and I caught sight of his backside, which was equally stunning. His jacket was tailored in just the right spots and hit perfectly below his ass, hinting at the treasure underneath. He was breathtaking. When most men wore tuxedos, they blended in. Weston King wore one, and all heads turned.

  Fortunately he didn’t see me gawking, because he was too busy gaping at the dance floor.

  I strode over to him. “Exactly what is it that I did?” Because there was no doubt in my mind it was me he was yelling at.

  “The music. The jazz? The flowers. This isn’t a nightclub anymore. It’s like a banquet before a symphony.” He turned to face me at the end of his sentence, and I didn’t miss the slight look of shock when he saw me.

  I stood up taller. I’d chosen a rather conservative gown for the evening—a white halte
r top dress that went all the way to my feet. But it was a mermaid shape that hugged every curve of my breasts and my hips. I’d watched every last gram of carbohydrates I’d put in my mouth for a week to make sure it fit me like a glove.

  I knew I looked good, with my hair off my neck and my shoulders bare, but I hadn’t gone extravagant. I’d left that for my mother, who would most likely be wearing glitter, decked out from head to toe. LeeAnn Gregori would be her only competition for bling queen.

  But Weston looked at me like I was wearing the most beautiful gown at Bergman’s—or like I was wearing nothing at all—and it made my stomach do a slow roll.

  Then he shook it off. “What did you do to my Sky Launch?” he demanded again, even more enraged than he was a second before.

  “It’s an engagement party! We’re not here for dancing. We’re here for mingling and meeting our guests. And you said I could be in charge of the music.”

  “I wasn’t expecting it to sound like Muzak. Plus I see we’re only serving champagne? At this rate, everybody’s going to be asleep.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, shifting my weight to one hip. “Well then, good. Then maybe they won’t realize the set for all those video files of you fucking random girls was up in those bubble rooms.”

  “Darlings, darlings,” LeeAnn said, showing up out of what felt like nowhere. “I know that all this wedding stuff can be so tense, but you lovebirds really should kiss and make up before your guests get here, which will be any moment now. Smile. Enjoy yourselves! This is your night!”

  Before either of us could react to her, she was off to attend to some other aspect of the party.

  Weston opened his mouth, probably to say something else smart, when Gwen strolled up to us.

  “Hello, you two,” she said, a gift bag tucked under her arm. She hugged first Weston, then me, then stepped back to admire us both. “You look beautiful tonight, Elizabeth. That dress is absolutely gorgeous! You’ve really found yourself quite a catch, Weston.”

  His cheek muscle twitched, but then he gave his dazzling dimpled grin. “Didn’t I?” He said it so smoothly that even I almost believed him. “I already know she’s going to be the most beautiful woman in the room, and I haven’t even seen any of the other guests yet.”

  Goddamn, he was a charmer. And if he kept looking at me the way he was now? At least people would believe he was smitten with me. I’d just have to ignore the dampness in my panties.

  “He’s good,” Gwen said to me.

  I bit back a laugh. “You have no idea.”

  “I hope you aren’t nervous about anything,” Gwen said, now in business mode. “We have everything under control. The food, of course the alcohol, the music. And I have a gift here. It’s from all of us. Our manager, Alayna, wanted to wish you well in person, but she’s still at home on maternity leave with the twins. I’ll just set this on the gift table. Have a great night!”

  She took off in the direction of the bar, which was where the gifts were being collected, and I swiveled to thank Weston for his believable performance, but when I met his gaze again his smile had disappeared, and he was back to the frown that I’d seen going on four weeks straight.

  “Congratulations on one person fooled,” he said, beating me to the punch. “Now, just four hundred more to go.”

  Yes. Four hundred more to go.

  I took a deep breath, rubbed my lips together to make sure that I still had gloss on them, and turned in time to see that our first guests had been led into the club.

  Fortunately it was just my mother, dressed in a bright purple gown with a slit up to her thigh and rhinestones embroidered over the net mesh that—barely—covered the skin between her breasts.

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “Where’s Marie?” I asked, searching over her shoulder as I hugged her.

  “Parking the car. You look beautiful, baby. Everything going okay?”

  Thank God. Someone I could bitch to.

  I started to answer her, but just as I opened my mouth she noticed my groom-to-be.

  “Weston! You’re adorable.” Her voice was sticky sweet, her pose suggestive with her hips sticking out.

  I recognized that tone of voice. I recognized that pose.

  “Mother! You’re hitting on him?”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t tell me how good-looking he was. I’m Angela.” Weston took her hand but somehow she turned the handshake into a hug—classic move of my mother’s.

  “He’s my fiancé,” I snarled.

  She looked back at me, her eyes fluttering. “Fake fiancé.”

  “The fiancé part is very real. I am marrying him.” I stuck my hand out with the engagement ring and wiggled it. “We are getting married, and this is my engagement party to prove it.” I didn’t know why it bothered me so much to see her flirting with him. It wasn’t the first time my mother had flirted with a man in front of me, nor the first time my mother had flirted with one of my boyfriends. Not that Weston was my boyfriend or that our relationship was even real, but still.

  My mother stepped away from the hug, but her arm remained around Weston. Her eyes grazed his backside. “The marriage will end soon enough,” she said with a smile.

  Weston latched his arm through hers. “It’s nice to meet you, Mom.”

  My mother faked a shiver. “Ooo, I love the way that sounds when you say it.”

  “You two are the worst.” I slapped Weston’s arm with the back of my hand. “Keep it in your pants—both of you—during this party. And Mom, I know you can’t help yourself, but please try not to be such a MILF for the next few hours, okay?”

  Then with the brightest smile I’d ever put on my lips, I swiveled toward the door, ready for yet another performance at The Sky Launch. Hopefully this one would fall under the genre of art film rather than porno.

  For the next while, I discovered it wasn’t too hard to feign enthusiasm for my betrothed. Most of the initial guests were people that I knew quite well—my friends, my bridesmaid, people I’d gone to high school with. Even though I had to pretend that I was madly in love with Weston, their energy and excitement was easy to act off of, and both of us could make it a game. There were too many people to spend much quality time with any one person, but good conversations were had and it was entertaining to try to embarrass Weston in front of his work associates. Of course the payback was him trying to embarrass me in front of my friends.

  Despite the underlying current of friction between me and my betrothed, the party was going quite well.

  Until his parents arrived.

  I’d wanted to meet them, especially since finding out Weston wasn’t letting them in on the truth behind our relationship. I’d tried more than once to ask why he wouldn’t be honest with them, but each time he’d been just as elusive as he’d been in front of our wedding planner. His secrecy only made me more intrigued.

  “Weston!” his mother exclaimed. “And you must be Elizabeth!”

  I put my hand out to shake hers.

  She frowned and pulled me into a hug. “We’re going to be family. No handshakes for us.”

  Her voice was sweet, her perfume light and lavender. She was pretty, but her makeup was age-appropriate—mother appropriate—her clothes as well—a long mauve gown with a beaded jacket. Her hair was coiffed perfectly, and her French manicured nails were filed to a reasonable length. Her blond hair and blue eyes matched her son’s, and even though I was sure she had a dye job—it was unlikely she’d reached her age without any gray hairs—it still looked natural. Unlike my mother, whose platinum locks definitely came from a bottle.

  She seemed warm, put together, and genuine. For some reason, maybe because of Weston’s insistence to not include her in the wedding, I’d expected she’d be terrible.

  It was nice to be surprised. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. King.”

  “It’s Maggie, please.” She even had a nice laugh. A polite one that didn’t sound gregarious or overbearing.

  Maggie tu
rned to hug her son, who let her begrudgingly, so I swiveled toward Nash King. While I could see that Weston took mostly after his mother, there were some characteristics that he shared with his father. The dimple, for instance. Both of them had that crazy dimple. He also wore a tuxedo well. Not Weston King-well, but better than most.

  “Dad, this is Elizabeth, obviously,” Weston said without a lot of emotion, and it was Nash’s turn to pull me into his arms and embrace me in a welcome hug.

  “I’m delighted to meet you. Weston hasn’t told us much about you, but from what we’ve heard, you seem like the right person for him. We’ve always wanted more children. And I look forward to having another daughter. I hope you’ll call me Dad.”

  My gut dropped. I hadn’t considered what it would mean to play this charade for Weston’s parents. What fooling them would feel like. It was one thing to fool acquaintances and associates. Quite another to be welcomed into his family. To be invited to call his father my own.

  I hadn’t been prepared for that.

  My throat was suddenly tight, and I was grateful that Weston was there to interrupt so I didn’t have to say anything.

  He slipped his hand around my waist, his touch sending an unexpected shock through my body, and pulled me to him. Putting on the act. “Don’t get all clingy on day one, Dad. She’s mine, not yours.”

  Somehow, despite the dizzying effect of his proximity, his words didn’t make me feel any better. Because I wasn’t his. And that was sort of the whole problem.

  Nash put his hands in his tux pockets, looking so much like his son in the manner if not in his physical characteristics. “We’d just be happy if you shared her a little, son. Bring her by for dinner sometime.”

  “We’d love to!” I answered, caught up in the need to feel at ease about the situation with them in whatever way possible.

  However, my fiancé responded at the same time. “We’ll pass.”

  “Weston,” I chided, sure that he was kidding. But one look at his tense jaw and stiff shoulders said that he was absolutely serious. “Surely we can make time for one meal…”