Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

I go back to pacing.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

  My feet almost skid to a stop. The question is unexpected and unnecessary, and in my annoyance, I take a few meaningful steps towards him.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant. If I agree to go ahead with this charade, and it’s still a big if, my current relationship status is irrelevant.”

  “You know what, fair enough. We’re both here on our own, obviously, and I’m sure you’re a heartbreaking vixen back at home.”

  Un-fucking-believable.

  First of all, I don’t even know where the fuck to begin with what’s wrong with him bringing up and joking about this shit—especially when he barely knows me.

  Second of all, I’m still a virgin.

  But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him in on that little secret.

  Asshole.

  Arrogant prick. Who the fuck is he to judge me?

  “Let’s stick to the point, shall we?” My voice is laced with ice.

  “I thought it might be helpful to try and lighten the mood. We’re here to enjoy a kick-ass vacation, after all...”

  “I don’t find any of what you’re doing helpful,” I snap at him. “In fact, your entire presence is unhelpful and annoying.”

  There, I’ve said it.

  It’s strange how this man brings out the worst in me. I’m not known to be rude and condescending. But I don’t seem to be able to help myself.

  And yet, and there’s no other way to put this, my body is screaming for his touch.

  Before, as I paced past him, our arms brushed past one another. It was the slightest of touches, but my skin felt like it was shooting off sparks as the rest of me ached for more.

  If this is going to work, I better have a lot of self-control.

  “I guess the first thing we need to do is not snap at each other every time one of us says something.” Once again, Aaron’s voice shatters my reverie. “Both of us, I mean.”

  I look up at him.

  This is the first time he’s said something I can’t argue against.

  “Well, you better make sure not to provoke me, for starters,” I retort.

  We’re quite a way from the dynamic of a newly married couple. Are we actually going to have to act on some level like we’re in love?

  I sigh.

  This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

  “That’s kind of what I’m saying, Macy.” Aaron’s not giving up. “Look, why don’t we start over, and you know, give this a try? I mean, what’s the worst that could possible happen?”

  And here he finally has a valid point.

  What’s the worst that could possibly happen?

  We fight and break up. Happens to actual newlywed couples all the time, so I’ve heard.

  Slowly, I let my gaze travel over him.

  The words are now on repeat.

  What’s the worst that could possibly happen?

  I try and stop them. But they won’t. I’m sure if I thought about this question a bit longer, a million things would come to me.

  “Okay,” I mumble and fold my arms in front of my body. “But just remember the rules: we’re a married couple, for pretend, outside this suite. But inside this suite that’s not even close to reality, so don’t expect the charade to carry over to this suite in any way—and I know you know what I mean.”

  Aaron’s grin now goes from ear to ear. He’s about to hug me.

  “Don’t even think about it. If you don’t want to feel my knee where it really hurts, stay right where you are.”

  To his credit, he keeps grinning at me, but he stays where he is.

  10

  Aaron

  Nothing’s going to be that fucking easy, I guess.

  To be fair, Macy went for the deal as I explained it, so she came around in that sense. But for whatever fucking reason, at least for the time being, that world-famous Michaelson charm is failing me.

  Why her?

  Why now?

  There’ve been plenty of times when this wouldn’t be quite the same challenge to overcome

  Fuck. Being stressed about this isn’t going to help. It’s probably what’s been holding me back from my A-game so far.

  And I’ve got time to show her what I really have to offer.

  I know she’s had some fun just talking to me. She isn’t that great of an actress.

  I take another small sip of wildly effervescent champagne. I find myself sighing, lightly, for the second fucking time today.

  No, I don’t know what that’s all about.

  There are a few things most of my colleagues don’t seem to understand about staying cool in stressful and pressure-packed circumstances. It’s a strange balance of staying right in the moment but also rising above it, and not fucking sweating what you don’t have to.

  The only constant in this vacation until now is that I can’t predict what’s going to happen next, so I won’t sweat it.

  All I can do is be myself.

  You know, charming.

  Flirty.

  Fun.

  And on top of those appealing qualities is the ability to present a compelling little taste of an artistic vision—a pitch, if you will—just so all parties know the scope of what you’re willing to offer.

  Despite these imposed restrictions, I believe I could be my fun self now by presenting a taste of my own artistic vision.

  As far as I see it now, we’ve reached a creative impasse. It’s just like any other film deal. The way the project ends up going is rarely the exact way anyone pictured it, but that’s no reason to not demonstrate.

  With my glass mostly still full of champagne, I smile. This should be fun.

  “Sit with me,” I say, walking toward the large leather couch in the living area. I sit in the middle of it, facing out toward the glass wall.

  I pick up one of the rose petals from the tray and gently feel its texture while looking out the window. I see nothing but blue skies and palm trees. The sound of waves mingles with the muffled voices of the other vacationers and the Latin music off in the distance.

  It’s breathtaking. And disregarding those first few hours, it’s peaceful here in a way I’ve never known.

  We should go the beach and enjoy what’s left of the day.

  I’d love to see her body wet.

  Again.

  I watch her reluctantly make her way to the couch and sit a few cushions down from me.

  She reaches for a chocolate, and I’m shown an even better view of her lively, well-formed, ample...

  Okay, time to bare a bit of my soul before my fucking brain melts.

  I clear my throat to get her attention.

  She turns to face me, curls her legs up on the couch, and burrows her brows, ready for the meeting.

  “What do you want?”

  Yeah, this is a pitch meeting, alright.

  Here goes nothing. I focus my eyes on hers, creating a sense of drama—a silent hook that’s nothing but body language.

  I can see that she’s intrigued, quietly awaiting what happens next.

  This is why I get paid the big bucks.

  Time to start presenting my vision in earnest.

  “So, this arrangement of yours, I’m willing to comply, but I feel that you, or we, need to be completely informed on what you, well we, can and cannot do,” I say matter-of-factly, taking a sip of champagne to punctuate the sentence with subtle drama.

  “What do you mean?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.

  “The first rule of signing, or agreeing, to any arrangement is that you have to read the fine print. You don’t want to get stuck in a deal without knowing everything, do you?”

  “Seeing as I drafted the arrangement, I’m probably keen on all that it stipulates. However, I see you’re eager to enlighten me on something I probably didn’t miss.” She takes a gulp of her champagne, rolling her eyes. “Proceed, if you must.”

  She’s in for a treat. “Given the rules you’v
e laid out, I can’t touch you. My hands, my mouth, my tongue, and my dick are to remain to myself.”

  “Correct.” She shuffles her legs slightly.

  I place my glass on the table and inch toward her.

  “Then per stipulation, I won’t be able to kiss you—your neck, your lips, your tits.”

  Respectively, I hungrily stare at each part of her body as I say the words, letting them linger a little too long.

  I slide closer by an almost imperceptible amount.

  “I won’t be able to touch, or caress, your perfectly hard nipples. My tongue won’t lick, suck, or tease them. And my hands won’t massage them, grabbing and kneading them in between my fingers.”

  She takes another large swallow of her champagne—almost half the glass—and shakes her head yes, then no.

  As I paint these fantasies, I can feel my dick start to come to life.

  As I said, this is why I get paid the big bucks.

  “No. No, you can’t,” she says sternly.

  Her face is stone-cold, leaving nothing open to interpretation.

  I pick my glass up, taking a modest taste, staring at her as I do.

  My fingers play with the crystal edges of the glass, tracing the curve of the etching, circling the pointed edges.

  She notices my fingers, and I see a moment of shock in her expression as she watches them expertly explore the design.

  I lick my lips and continue my description.

  “My hands won’t explore every inch of your body. I can’t slide them and my wandering fingers up your thighs, touching your heated skin. I can’t spread your thighs, just enough, exposing you to me.”

  She clears her throat. Her eyes growing hungry.

  She bites her bottom lip, hard.

  I scoot closer, my knee almost grazing hers. Electricity pulsates from her skin. I force myself to refrain from reaching out and touching her right then.

  “I can’t bite that lip of yours, tracing your lips with my tongue…tasting you.”

  “No, definitely not,” she says through sharp breaths.

  She lets go of her lip—now aware that she was biting it—and moves her legs off the couch, crossing one over the other.

  She’s retreating, forcing distance between us, and stifling her growing need. Fuck.

  Sipping on my champagne, I swallow and stare at her tits, eyeing the shallow movement of her chest. I feel immediately reassured.

  Something must be working, even if only a little bit.

  I continue...reading more of the fine print.

  “I won’t kiss every inch of your skin, teasing, biting, and licking my way to your cunt, stopping right before I reach your clit.”

  I pause abruptly, almost not finishing the last word, staying as still as if someone had hit the pause button, leaving Macy guessing when, if ever, I’ll restart.

  As her own breathing increases, I begin again in a lower, sultry tone.

  “You won’t be begging me to touch you, to start laying the groundwork for a massive, soul-shattering release. My tongue won’t tease your clit, circling it gently at first then with dedication and purpose, driving you out of your mind with ecstatic bliss like you’ve never felt. My fingers won’t slide into you, stroking your soaked cunt, sliding in and out slowly yet surely, a little more each time as your bliss keeps building and building.”

  My gaze stays on her own piercing azure eyes and her plump lips as they quiver delicately.

  My fingers reenact each description on the crystal, showing her exactly what my fingers and tongue can’t do.

  She’s glued to the action, watching me with a heated expression. Her eyes darken with desire.

  I now find myself inches away from her. I can hear the tempo of her breathing increasing still. I can see her skin flush, and I can actually feel waves of heat coming from her.

  I smile lazily. “My tongue won’t devour every inch of your cunt, drinking you in.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, taking another sip of her quickly diminishing champagne with a shaky hand.

  “Your legs won’t tighten around my head, rocking against my mouth, my tongue. I won’t grab your ass, coaxing you, at long last, through an earth-shattering orgasm.”

  She runs a hand through her hair, twisting it and placing it on one side of her neck. Her skin is turning a shade of deep crimson.

  “Then, when you’re not naked, and perspiration isn’t building between us as we try to catch our breath, I won’t fill you with me. My dick won’t ease into your wet, hungry cunt, grinding slowly, gently, making you meet me at every thrust. I won’t refrain myself from fucking you hard. You won’t scream my name over and over as your cunt begins to clench around my cock, milking me as I hit your most sensitive spot again and again. I won’t be giving you a second, even stronger orgasm—this one with the power to rip the universe apart for a few moments of timeless ecstasy.”

  She shakes her head and squeezes her champagne glass. Thank God it’s crystal—glass would not withstand such a forceful grip.

  I’m a hair’s breadth away from her now, our lips painfully close to touching. I can almost taste her.

  I maintain my stare, intently, as her eyes flutter uncontrollably, and she lets out a tiny, quiet sigh. And as she forces herself to regain some composure, she slides a few inches away to recover.

  Perfect.

  Another job well done, Michaelson.

  Using every ounce of my strength to hide how viciously the fires of desire just flashed through me, I lift my champagne glass into the air, smiling warmly.

  “I solemnly swear I will do none of these things. Cheers to our pretend marriage.”

  She smiles tightly, visibly shaking and breathing heavily. She lifts her glass affably and clears her throat. “Um, cheers.”

  Not a bad little pitch, if I say so myself, especially considering I’m on vacation.

  Now I guess we’ll just see what happens next.

  11

  Macy

  I need another fucking drink.

  Clutching my glass, I force my wobbly, useless legs up to get the bottle of champagne on the other side of the couch.

  As I walk away from Aaron, I try to figure out what the fuck just happened.

  How does he do this?

  I’m hot, I’m extremely fucking bothered, and on top of that, I’m coursing with neediness.

  I’ve never felt like this before.

  Especially in response to an arrogant ass who’s describing exactly what he won’t do to me.

  Who does that?

  Pouring most of the remaining liquid into my glass, I replay the whole exchange in my head.

  Fuck, now I’m aching with desire. I force my legs together tightly, trying to get any type of relief.

  Focus.

  I need to analyze this situation, but none of it makes sense.

  There’s no analytical reason my libido’s suddenly so uncontrollable and why he’s able to induce such a reaction with ease.

  In a matter of minutes, I became fucking weak.

  A puddle.

  Without him even touching me.

  What the fuck?

  Usually, I can control myself. I restrain my feelings and contain my reactions. I’m logical, rational, and I always think before I do.

  That’s all served me well as a grad student.

  That type of approach lends itself to film analysis, dissecting an old Godard film frame by frame, spending hours in a stuffy classroom, breaking down the use of mise-en-scène and its cultural significance in the French New Wave.

  A lot of it is detaching from whatever feelings are prevalent that day, that moment—whether it’s boredom or stress or thinking about the latest guy who’s finally worked up the courage to approach me, stammering some naive, misguided confession ingrained and prompted by some Hollywood bullshit.

  I can usually detach from all of it, even on those increasingly frequent days and moments when I just feel sad for no reason.

  I’ve alway
s been able to detach.

  But not now.

  Not with him.

  It’s impossible, because I find myself enamored.

  Charmed.

  I’m utterly, frustratingly fucking charmed by Aaron Michaelson. And fucking logic’s taken its own vacation.

  It’s aggravating.

  But it doesn’t fucking have to be. Because I won’t be giving him that satisfaction of succumbing to his enchanting powers.

  Fuck. That.

  My body’s starting to recover from that spell, and coolness overtakes me like I’m stepping out of a sauna, my breathing becoming lighter and easier.

  No, I won’t be another woman who falls under the Michaelson charm.

  Even with the alcohol and chocolate starting to catch up with me, replacing that desirous bonfire with a childlike giddiness.

  Admittedly, I might want him to do what he said he won’t, but I can’t give in to him. I won’t let him get what he really wants from this pretend marriage situation.

  He won’t win.

  I carry the champagne over to Aaron and clumsily dump more of it into his glass, making it fizz and foam like crazy.

  I might not want to have sex with him. Technically. But I won’t be rude.

  I also can’t—well, shouldn’t—finish this bottle by myself.

  My head feels even woozier now. I drank more than I thought—there’s only enough champagne left to fill Aaron’s glass partway. Oops.

  Fucking Aaron. It’s his fault, really.

  “Thanks. Oh, by the way, we can have dinner on beach tonight,” he says as I place the empty bottle on the table.

  “We can?” The champagne has carbonated my voice with confusion, and I barely stop myself from laughing at the sound of it.

  “Yeah, at the private cabana on the beach. Newlywed special.” He smiles and takes a swill of his champagne. “To the happy couple.”

  I chuckle involuntarily at his one-man, post-drink toast, I and walk toward the picture window, looking out at the view.

  I can’t sit next to that man again. I’m afraid that with my newly lowered inhibitions and his damn charm working overtime, I’d lose my wits.

  I need to keep my distance, as much as this pretend marriage will allow.