Single Dad's Virgin: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  He finds my bra, putting it on for me and then sliding my dress back over my head and zipping it up. It’s incredibly intimate, and I love the two sides of him. He can be a dark, punishing dominant one minute and then a meticulous caretaker the next. It’s the perfect juxtaposition of hot and cold.

  He kisses me tenderly on the neck and then the lips. “I have to go, Kitten. I’ll be in touch.”

  He kisses me again and then leaves without so much as a look over his shoulder.

  31

  Logan

  It has been three days since I had Emmaline at Club Crave. I sent the non-disclosure agreement over to her address the following morning, and she sent it back today. Signed. Every time I close my eyes I see her and her perfect curves. I’ve wanted nothing more than to call her and have her again, but I’ve had too much work to do. My international partners are trying to quietly maneuver to take control of my company. It shouldn’t be possible because the company is no longer publicly traded, but they are using thuggish techniques and targeting my investors directly.

  I can’t catch a fucking break lately. First my investors threaten to pull out because of my character issues, now this. But I’m not losing sleep over it. It’s just work. That’s the business, and I’ve done my own share of cutthroat practices to get where I am as quickly as I did. They are fucking with the wrong man, and it’s only a matter of time and work to make them realize that.

  “How long will that take?” I ask. I’m sitting in a conference room with my top executives from every branch of my company.

  Jason taps his pen against the legal pad in front of him, mentally calculating something. He’s a fit guy in his forties, and I’ve always appreciated his attitude. He works hard and doesn’t give me bullshit excuses. That’s all I really need.

  “Two weeks,” he says. “Three if India doesn’t play ball.”

  “Fine. Make it happen,” I say.

  I’m about to give the marketing team their assignment when my phone buzzes. I quickly check to see who’s texting and do a double take when I see it’s Patrick, my personal investigator. I tasked him with keeping an eye on Emmaline for me. Maybe it was crossing the line, but I can’t take any chances. She’s already too important to me, and getting involved with me could cause her unforeseen problems. I wasn’t about to take chances.

  Patrick (4:52 P.M.): 5121 Appleblossom Cir, East End. You should see her. Domestic trouble.

  I clutch the phone hard, looking around the table at the expectant faces. They all know how important the next few days are to the company and to their jobs. They expect me to fix it like I always do. I bark out a few quick orders, assigning jobs and initiatives to my top executives as fast as I can.

  Less than two minutes later, I’m grabbing my coat and rushing from the building without further explanation.

  Patrick knows not to bother me unless it’s something important. He wouldn’t have texted me, especially not during the work day, if it wasn’t a matter that needed my immediate attention.

  I’m parked outside her place twenty minutes later. It’s a small house just outside the city in a neighborhood full of chain link fences and “beware of dog” signs. Seeing her living in a place like this turns my stomach. My Kitten deserves way better than this. Way fucking better. I don’t even need to offer her money though to know she wouldn’t take it.

  The house is covered in cheap vinyl siding painted a sky blue color. It’s peeling at the corners and is molding toward the ground. Despite the general disrepair of the house, there’s a beautiful garden in the front yard that’s protected from weeds by stone pavers. Every plant seems to be flourishing, and a pair of gardening shears still lays out on the pavers beside a pair of dirt-covered gloves. Thinking of her bending over while she gardens makes me smirk. For some reason the idea of her liking to garden endears her to me even more.

  There’s a brightly colored wind-catcher planted beside the path leading to her front door and it spins when a slight breeze rustles the oaks overhead. I take back my initial assessment of her place. I’m so used to being surrounded by wealth and excess that my default is to look at how a place can be improved. The pursuit of perfection could never create a place like this. The way dappled shade falls over the house and the way the bright garden adds a kind of charm to the small building could happen only organically, by accident.

  I realize to an extent that she and I are different after all. We both attack our problems with the same energy and drive, but maybe we’re seeking different ends. I don’t know why, but that thought unsettles me. It makes me wonder if I know her as well as I thought. I shouldn’t be surprised I don’t. After all, I’ve been with her a total of four times now. A few minutes at my party, a few minutes at the club, a few minutes for dinner, and then one exceptional hour at the club last weekend. All totaled, I’ve probably spent two hours with Emmaline, and yet I’m surprised that I don’t have her completely figured out.

  I blow out a humorless laugh.

  I step up to the front door and knock. My heart is pounding in my chest. Domestic abuse? I never even thought she might not be single, but how surprised can I really be. After all, I met her at a BDSM club. It’s not exactly the kind of place a sexually deprived woman is likely to end up. If she has some deadbeat boyfriend slapping her around, he had better hope he’s gone when I step inside. I think back to the thick makeup on her face and the implications of what it could have been hiding has my blood boiling. Fucking bruises on my Kitten. Whoever is responsible is going to regret waking up. They will regret even being born. I clench my fists, feeling all the muscles in my body tighten.

  The door opens and my wandering thoughts are silenced in an instant. My eyes go immediately to the bright red mark beneath her eye. I raise a hand to touch just below the mark, narrowing my eyes at her. My insides feel like ice. There’s a darker, older bruise beneath it, right where I saw the thick makeup at the club.

  “Where is he? Who fucking put his hands on you?” I ask.

  She hesitates, eyes wide and searching my face. “It’s complicated. I don’t want you to hurt him.”

  I grip the doorframe so tight I can feel the wood threaten to buckle. As her dom, I should chastise her for refusing to answer me, but this isn’t the time for that. She’s hurting, both physically and emotionally. She doesn’t need a dom right now. She needs the lowlife who touched her out of this plane of fucking existence.

  I shake my head. “Whoever did this to you is going to pay. You can tell me who it is, or I can find out.”

  The distress on her face makes my chest hurt. I can see how much the thought of me hurting whoever did this is scaring her, but I can’t let this happen. I don’t care what she thinks about our relationship outside the club, she is mine, and I need to send a very clear message about what happens to people who touch what’s mine.

  Her shoulders slump a little and she looks down. “My mom’s boyfriend. His name’s Ronnie. He’s been drinking more lately. I shouldn’t have even gone back after last week, but I went there today.”

  I feel a guilty surge of relief to hear it wasn’t her boyfriend. Maybe she isn’t seeing anyone after all, but now isn’t the time to press the issue. I stay quiet while she explains how her mom has been trying to get money for a vacation out of her for weeks now. And how she tried to give them as much as she could afford last week, but it ended with Ronnie knocking her to the ground. Apparently, when she went back to try to talk her mom into leaving Ronnie this morning, he came home, overheard, and hit her.

  I listen to her whole story with my hands clenched, jaw tight, and my eyes hard. “Where is he now?” I ask. My voice is quiet, controlled, and deadly.

  She looks at me warily. “He’s with my mom still, but please, don’t hurt him. He may deserve it, but it’s not going to solve anything. Whatever you do to him is just going to trickle down to my mom. If you kick his ass, he’ll kick hers.”

  She’s right, of course, but it doesn’t mean I can’t make him pay.
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  “Fine. You’ll come with me. You can supervise.”

  “What?”

  “Come on. We’re going now.”

  32

  Emmaline

  Logan parks his ridiculously out of place Aston Martin in front of my mom and Ronnie’s trailer. I follow him to the front door. As much as it feels good to finally have someone in my corner who wants to protect me, I’m just as scared about how fast this could all get out of control. Ronnie isn’t used to being stood up to. In fact, he has made a point of building a life where he only has to deal with people who are too afraid to talk back to him.

  And Logan… well, Logan definitely doesn’t tolerate being talked back to. My still sore ass can attest to that. I haven’t seen him interact with others much, but I have a feeling he doesn’t just get what he wants when it comes to me.

  I steal a look at him. He looks gorgeous in the navy blue suit he wears. He’s wearing a white dress shirt unbuttoned to show a bit of his tanned chest beneath. His dark hair is pushed to the side and his features are sharp and beautiful.

  Ronnie opens the door and takes us both in with a sweep of his bloodshot eyes. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Logan doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, having to slam his shoulder into Ronnie’s as he passes, but not seeming to mind. Ronnie reaches to grab Logan’s shoulder, but Logan turns, knocking Ronnie’s hand away with his forearm. I think things are about to escalate, however after a quick staring match, Ronnie spits on the ground and brushes some imaginary dust from where Logan touched him. “Carla, Emmaline is here.”

  My mom emerges from the tiny bedroom of the trailer, eyes tired and sleepy, even though it’s almost six in the afternoon. She looks sad to see me. Ronnie has been crossing new lines, and I think even my mom is starting to realize it’s too much. She may want to milk me for every penny she can get, but she still loves me and tries to protect me in her own way. I don’t forgive her selfishness, but I recognize there is a sort of love between us, and I don’t have enough of that in my life to throw it away so easily.

  “This is Logan Steel,” I say a little awkwardly, looking between my sleepy mom and the clearly pissed-off face of Ronnie.

  Logan stands almost an inch above Ronnie, and it looks painfully clear that he would wipe the floor with Ronnie in a fist fight. I’m still wishing with all I have that it doesn’t come to that. I know for a fact Ronnie will just take it out on my mom when we’re gone. I already see the hint of a bruise on her arm and the way her upper lip is a little swollen at one corner. I’ve tried calling the cops on him before, but my mom always claims the injuries were from accidents, so nothing ever happens. Ronnie just gives it to her that much harder the next time.

  “You did this?” asks Logan as he points to my swollen cheek.

  Ronnie sniffs dismissively. “No. Emmaline did that when she ran her fucking mouth.”

  I’m still a little shocked to see Ronnie so openly hostile toward me. For the two years my mom has known him, he has always at least made an effort to ingratiate himself with me. Even though I knew it was always just in preparation for when I was allowed to collect my trust fund, it masked the real man beneath. The petty, angry, and abusive man standing before me.

  Logan taps his chin thoughtfully. “Right. Well, here’s what is going to happen. First, I’m going to give your girlfriend my card. I’m also going to give my personal investigator this address. If I hear from either Carla or my PI that you’ve laid a hand on Emmaline, or Carla, I’ll be here within the hour. If you try to run, I’ll find you. And just so you understand what will happen when I find you--”

  Logan takes a fistful of Ronnie’s wife beater at the chest and grips him. Ronnie raises both hands to try to pry himself free, but Logan is too strong. He pulls his right arm back and then seems to think for a second. “I almost forgot. Women beaters usually try not to leave visible bruises. Maybe I should show you how that feels.”

  I hear the meaty impact before I even register Logan’s movement. He’s so fast. His arm blurs into Ronnie three times. Four times. Stomach, Ribs, Kidney, Stomach. Each punch is like a small explosion of force, and when Logan lets Ronnie go, he slumps to the floor, curled in on himself like a wounded animal, eyes wide with surprise.

  My fists are balled at my side and I’m sucking in heavy breaths through my nose. The anger and rage toward Ronnie I’ve had to push down for what he’s done to my mom and now to me bursts out. I stomp toward him and kneel enough to punch him in the face, right below his eye. “And that’s what it feels like to get hit in the face,” I spit, standing and storming from the trailer.

  A few seconds later, I feel Logan’s strong hands on my shoulders, rubbing and kneading. “You okay?’ He asks softly.

  “Let’s just go,” I say.

  It’s only when I’m in his car and driving away that I realize he’s not driving toward my place. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He’s staring at the road ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I need to blow off some steam. I figured you could too.”

  My throat goes dry. Blow off steam? What’s he planning?

  We pull up to a place called Topspin Tennis Academy ten minutes later. I turn to him, frowning in confusion. “Tennis?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Do you know how to play?”

  I shake my head in disbelief. I’m still replaying the way I actually punched Ronnie in the face. I didn’t know how much I needed that. I realize Logan is still waiting for me to respond. “Yeah, actually. I was the number one on my team in high school and I used to play with a rec team in college.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Good.”

  “It looks like they’re closed,” I say as we step out of the car. It’s a large, square building with an even larger building behind it. Indoor courts, I assume. Places like this are incredibly expensive to play at, let alone to enroll. But I’m guessing the price doesn’t even register on Logan’s radar.

  “Good thing I have a key,” he says, dangling a set of keys in front of me. “My sister owns the place,” he says, unlocking the door and flicking the lights on.

  We’re standing in the lobby. An empty reception desk and computer are to one side, and the far wall is lined with unstrung racquets, fitness clothing, shoes, racquet bags, and tennis balls.

  I look down at the frumpy outfit I was wearing to wallow on the couch in when Logan came knocking at my door. If I had even the vaguest suspicion that I might see him, I probably would have spent all morning getting my makeup perfect and picking out the best outfit. It’s a testament to how preoccupied I was by Ronnie’s bullshit that I’m only now realizing how terrible I must look.

  “Grab whatever you want and get changed,” he says, moving to a rack of clothes and grabbing himself a black dry-fit shirt and a pair of gray shorts.

  “You’re not going to play in your suit?” I ask with a smirk.

  He laughs. “I wasn’t planning on it. But if that would turn you on…”

  I bite my lip, smiling as I run my finger along the expensive clothes. I can’t remember the last time I paid more than five dollars for a blouse, and even that is splurging for me. I’ve been putting everything into bills for so long that I’ve never really had a chance to treat myself to anything. Some of these tops are seventy dollars, and one of the tennis dresses is even marked at a hundred and twenty.

  Logan notices the look on my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay my sister for whatever we take. I’m serious, treat yourself. Take as much as you like for later. We can drop it by your place tonight.”

  I finally decide on an outfit that costs just over a hundred and fifty dollars including the shoes. Whether he said not to worry, I couldn’t bring myself to get anything too expensive. “Is there a changing room?” I ask.

  He steps toward me, stripping his suit jacket without breaking eye contact. I take an involuntary step back, a blush rising to my cheeks instantly. “What?” he asks, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “You won’t
change in front of me?”

  I try to calm my breathing. I feel silly trying to explain it. Even in my head, it sounds dumb. All I can do is shake my head and look down, searching for the right words.

  “Hey,” he says, moving in close. He hooks his index finger under my chin and forces my face up so I’m looking at him. “What’s going on in here?” he taps the side of my head softly, letting his finger linger and push a lock of hair behind my ear.

  I flinch away from his touch, hating the hurt look that springs up on his face. “It’s just.” I groan in frustration, searching the ceiling for the words I’m trying to find. “I’m still getting used to the thing we have going on at Club Crave. I never knew how much I wanted or needed something like what we’ve… started. At the club,” I add meaningfully.

  He frowns. “I see. And you may not need something like that outside the club?”

  I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t. I shake my head, looking down again. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll just leave these things and call for an Uber or something.”

  He steps close again and I’m painfully aware that his dress shirt is completely open, revealing smooth slabs of muscle. “Whatever you want,” he says softly. “If you want to keep it in the club, we can do that. I need it, too. What we have there. And if it has to stay there, then so be it.”

  His eyes search mine. I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to organize my thoughts, but failing. “Thank you. I think… I still want to kick your ass on the court though. Maybe after tonight we can try to simplify things. Keep it at the club.”

  He bites his lip. “My sister owns a tennis academy and you think you’ll beat me?”

  I test the strings on the racquet he let me pick out from the store demos. They are a little tighter than I prefer, but a stiffer string bed is always helpful when hitting against men. It makes blocking heavy serves easier, but somehow I can’t picture a man like Logan actually being a challenging match. Tennis is a game of finesse that takes years and years of practice. Athleticism can only take you so far. He will probably hit every other ball as hard as he can and send it sailing.