by Kati Wilde
Especially since I never expect to marry for love. I wish for love, of course, yet I know the bulk of my appeal lies in my bank account. No one has loved me before and I don’t expect anyone to start now. So I always assumed that when I married, it would be a partnership rather than a love match—and the most I hoped for was liking the person I partnered with. A relationship of mutual respect and friendship, perhaps, while understanding that someone would only settle for such a tepid marriage because I’m rich.
Yet nothing about Caleb Moore is tepid. And although he needs my money to defeat the Wyndhams, he doesn’t seem to want a fortune for himself. Which means the entire arrangement is far more exciting and fascinating than anything I ever imagined for myself.
So is my body’s response to him. Because I don’t show affection physically, but sexual attraction is much different. And I cannot stop thinking of what he said. Just say that I fucked your pussy raw every night.
I know he didn’t mean it literally. That would be painful and not very sexy. He meant that I should say he fucked my pussy long and hard and repeatedly—and it made me yearn for something I never have before. A man who takes a woman long and hard and repeatedly must want her desperately. The thought of ever being wanted like that hadn’t ever occurred to me, yet the possibility must have occurred to Caleb for him to say such a thing.
Perhaps he will never want me that badly. He might find my manner as cold as every other man does, and turn away from me. Yet he kissed my hand…so maybe he’ll want to kiss me again, in many other places.
I would like that very much.
And after the wedding, we’ll be living together. If he’s attracted to my appearance, perhaps he’ll want to consummate the marriage, too. Perhaps he’ll want to fuck my pussy raw.
I think I would like that very, very much. So if I can tempt him with my looks as well as my money…I will.
After a final check of my lipstick, I collect my coat from my office and head downstairs, where Jeremy and Jessica are both at the reception desk. Working late, and they probably won’t go home anytime soon. Not after what I just dropped on them.
Jeremy holds up a small black box. “Pierre came through with an engagement ring for you to wear tonight—and it’s as ostentatious as you requested. No one at that party will miss seeing a rock this big. He’ll return tomorrow with a selection so you can pick out a design you like.”
“Thank you.” I don’t like wearing rings because I can always feel them. As if the band around my finger constantly calls attention to itself. But I’ll ignore the discomfort as best I can.
As I slip the diamond on, Jessica asks, “Do you want one of us to come and help you deal with the crowd?”
“No. I’ll ask Caleb to stay at my side. So I should be okay.” And I couldn’t ask for better assistants. But since my gratitude might not be as obvious to them as it feels to me, I say it aloud. “I realize that giving you less than two weeks to plan a large wedding creates a substantial amount of extra work for you both. Please know that I deeply appreciate your efforts.”
Jessica grins. “We’ll earn our Christmas bonuses this year simply by getting these invitations out on time.”
“You earn your bonuses every year, or I wouldn’t give them.” I glance at her tablet. “Did Caleb send you the names of his guests or should I remind him?”
She shakes her head. “He said he doesn’t have any family. So I asked if he wanted to invite his friends and he said not to bother.”
“Ah.” I pull on my coat, considering that. “He was surprised that I accepted his proposal and hadn’t thought beyond that. So perhaps he also isn’t prepared to think about inviting anyone yet. Ask again in a few days. We can send those invitations later this week. It’s only the Wyndhams’ invitations that I want to rush.”
“About that...” Jeremy starts off hesitantly before plowing ahead. “When the city council looks at the rezoning request for your camp project, Christopher Wyndham is likely going to be the deciding vote. At least, that’s what you said before.”
“Yes. I said that.” Because it’s true. A few of the city council members are making noises about my project potentially increasing noise and crime in the area, along with a bundle of other ridiculous complaints that I’ve already countered with studies and data from similar projects. I suspect they fear losing donations from wealthy constituents who are concerned about property values on that side of the lake. A worry that I’ve also countered with data, but it’s an unfortunate truth that many people believe what they want to believe, regardless of statistics and logic.
“If you go in with Moore against the Wyndhams,” Jeremy continues, “that might piss off the councilman.”
“I’m sure it will.”
He looks at me in confusion. “This project is your baby. Yet you’re going to risk him voting against you?”
“Yes.” And do everything I can to make sure he doesn’t.
Jeremy and Jessica share a stunned glance, then she laughs and says, “You must really want that property.”
I’m not good at lying. So I say nothing and let them believe what they like. But it’s not the Wyndham estate that I want.
I want Caleb Moore.
4
Caleb
What the hell have I done?
Between the time I leave the Clarke building to the time I arrive at the town square, that question pops into my brain a thousand fucking times. The answer’s easy enough—I’m marrying Audrey Clarke to make certain the Wyndhams get what they deserve—but I can’t wrap my head around it. But by the time seven o’clock rolls around, it finally starts sinking in.
I’m marrying Audrey Clarke.
Which might be the biggest goddamn mistake I’ll ever make. But if the Wyndhams lose their shit, even a nightmare of a marriage will be worth it.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, though. She wants me to move into her place, wherever that is. Probably some giant house on the lake. I’m not the kind of shithead who’s going to complain about living in a mansion. She probably has an army of cooks and housekeepers, so it’ll be like staying in a fancy hotel. And she’ll likely stick me into a room as far from hers as she can. Chances are that our paths won’t even cross on a daily basis.
But whether the marriage is a mistake or not, how much time are we talking about—a year? Maybe two? It’s not like I’m doing anything else important in that time.
I won’t be doing anyone else in that time, either. Maybe that won’t be so easy, especially since Audrey will be so damn close. But I’ve got a hand. So I’ll invest in some lotion.
Lotion that smells like she does. Not that she’ll ever let me get close enough to smell her. Don’t touch me. That message was clear after I kissed her hand.
And I’ve got to keep reminding myself of that, because the second my gaze lands on her pale blonde head, I’m acutely aware of the hot weight of my cock. As if it’s a dog ready to sit up and beg for her attention. Christ. It’s one mutt that better behave. And hopefully it’ll learn real damn quick not to react to her presence, because she’s sure as hell not going to offer us any treats.
She’s tall enough that she can see over most of the crowd—and I’m tall enough that it isn’t hard to spot me as I make my way toward her. She stays where she is, not a part of the crush of people but standing at the edge of the square, a slender figure wrapped in a cream trench coat, her hands tucked in the pockets. It’s not snowing anymore, but the wind off the lake is bitterly cold, brightening her pale cheeks and nose.
She’s wearing lipstick now, a velvety red that makes it impossible not to notice how lush and soft her mouth is. Especially when a smile lights up her face as I draw close.
And there goes my fucking dick. Not hard yet, but feeling real damn thick and heavy.
A high school band is playing some shitty-ass Christmas music as loud as they can, so I don’t try to speak until I’m only a few feet away. Then I greet her with a “So I guess you didn’t change your mind, then.
”
“Change my mind?” She frowns slightly. “Of course I didn’t.”
As if she didn’t even consider changing her mind in the past few hours. But I did. A hundred million fucking times. And each time I reminded myself why I brought that ridiculous proposal to her in the first place.
And because backing out on the deal now might ruin the whole damn thing. Rescinding an offer of marriage might sting her pride and fuck everything up. Probably not, because she obviously wants that estate. So she’d likely agree to a different deal and offer to just pay the lawyer fees in exchange for a reduced sale price.
But I still want that whole pie and the certainty that the Wyndhams won’t squeeze their way out of this. No matter what happens.
She continues frowning at me, and the wind picks up a strand of her blonde hair from her ponytail and blows it against her cheek. She brushes it away. “Have you changed your mind, Caleb?”
“No.” And I see she came prepared to announce our engagement to everyone. “Nice rock.”
She glances at the giant diamond before shoving her hand back into her pocket. “It annoys me. And I couldn’t put my gloves on over it. But if we are to be…”
Whatever we’re to be, she doesn’t finish. Instead her pale blue gaze settles on something behind me. I glance back, see a teenage couple exploring each other’s tonsils with their tongues, and look away again because no one wants to see that shit out in public.
But Audrey is still watching them, and she says, “I should have done that. Right?”
“Done what?”
“Kissed you as a greeting.” Now her gaze returns to me—and settles on my mouth. “That is what engaged couples do. Kiss each other hello.”
Shit. All at once, tonsil hockey in a public place isn’t such a turnoff. Because the crowd seems to disappear as she takes a hesitant step forward, her attention focused on my mouth.
Moving in to kiss me. But not because she wants to. Because she should. Like wearing that ring, even though it’s annoying her. And no matter how badly I’m aching to taste her, I’m not interested in a kiss from a woman who doesn’t even want to touch me. Who’s just doing it for show.
“No,” I tell her abruptly and she immediately freezes. “You don’t need to.”
“Oh?” Her gaze searches my face for a brief moment, then she turns to face the tall pine tree set up in the middle of the square. “Okay.”
I expected relief, but that sounds like disappointment in her voice. Is it? I study her profile but she’s hard to read. I decide the disappointment was just my imagination when she starts talking again, because she’s obviously not thinking about my mouth the way I’m still thinking of hers. Of tasting all that sweet heat, then watching those lush red lips suck their way down my cock.
Christ. I’m hard as hell now, but it’s not my dick that needs to heel. It’s my brain. I need to stop thinking about fucking her.
I force myself to focus on what she’s saying. About our wedding. And a date. Followed up by a “Will you have any scheduling conflicts?”
“On Christmas Eve?” I shake my head. “I’ve got the day off. Christmas, too.”
“And what of the following week? A honeymoon will help sell the appearance of consummation and a legitimate marriage. We could stay that week at my lodge—unless you would rather travel? We can stay anywhere in the world you wish to go. Perhaps you prefer the tropics over the snow.”
“A lodge is fine.” A snowy lodge where we’ll be bundled up in heavy clothes and I won’t have to watch her prance around a beach in a bikini. But I let myself imagine that bikini for a second—then reality slips in and I shake my head. “Hold up. I work that week. So I’ll have to ask for the time off first.”
“Or you could quit your job,” she suggests. “You’ll be a wealthy man soon.”
“I would be if I was keeping the Wyndham money. But I’m not. So I better keep my job, instead, because I sure as hell like to eat.”
“As do I.” Amusement lightens her voice and a slight smile curves her mouth. “You’ll always have plenty to eat if Wyndham Trash becomes profitable.”
She seems to enjoy saying ‘Wyndham Trash’ almost as much as I do. “You don’t like the family, either?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Why? What’d they do to you?”
She shrugs. “Nothing to me. But if you need a complete accounting of reasons to dislike them, my lawyers will soon compile a list to help bolster your case.”
An entire list? “You don’t fuck around, do you?”
“No. I don’t.” Eyebrows furrowing, Audrey casts me a glance that seems a little confused—or a little hurt. “And I won’t after our marriage, either. Will you?”
Did she think I meant fucking around as in literally fucking around…? “I— No,” I answer, but cheating wasn’t even what I was talking about. Shit. But the mayor gets up on the platform and starts speaking into the mic, and I can’t figure out how to tell her she misunderstood me. Not that it matters. Because we’ve just established that we won’t be fucking other people and we won’t be fucking each other while we’re married.
Only the Wyndhams are getting fucked. And that’s just fine by me.
Except I’m a damn liar. It’s not fine by me. I can pretend that it is for all of ten minutes, as we watch the tree light up and then head to the fancy hotel that overlooks the town square, where the cocktail party is being held in a huge ballroom with a glass roof. Then Audrey hands off her coat to an attendant and I see what she’s wearing beneath it.
And Christ help me. Her long-sleeved red dress is sexy enough from the front, softly clinging to her breasts and her hips before hugging everything down to her knees, where her boots finish the job of making her legs look a mile-fucking-long. Then she turns, and I realize the dress doesn’t have a back. The material drapes from her shoulders and gathers at the base of her spine, and in between there’s just skin and more skin.
No bra strap. Which doesn’t mean no bra, not with all the shit women have available to boost and cover their tits, but hers are small enough that maybe she didn’t bother. And I can’t stop myself from glancing down when she faces me again. The red material of her dress is soft and thick and mostly conceals everything, unless you’re really looking. And fuck knows, I am looking. Hard enough to notice the subtle protrusion of her nipples, to see that they’d be like fat berries against my tongue.
“That looks soft and comfortable,” she says, and it takes me five full seconds to realize she’s talking about the flannel shirt I’ve got on, because nothing else about me is soft or comfortable. And I’m real fucking glad that I changed out of that damn suit, because my heavy twill pants do a better job of concealing what she does to me.
She told me to dress for a date, so I settled for what was clean and might stand up to the cold outside. And I suppose I look like some giant lumberjack escorting a sexy fairy princess into this damn party, but I can’t bring myself to give a shit if we don’t match. She takes my left arm as if declaring that I belong to her, sliding her fingers into the crook of my elbow and pressing up against my side until I can feel the curve of her hip against mine and the softness of her breast against my arm.
Putting on another show, like the diamond she’s wearing—and the kiss she intended to give. But I can’t say no to the way she’s clinging to me now.
“I need you to stay with me until we leave the party,” she says as we enter the ballroom.
“Afraid I’ll start trouble if I’m on my own?”
Or maybe thinking that I’ll get tossed out of here, since I clearly don’t belong. Everyone else is wearing business suits or what I assume is the golf club version of casual, with sweaters over white collared shirts and charcoal slacks. And there’s no high school band here. Instead an ensemble of string musicians are making Christmas carols sound like Mozart.
“I’m not afraid that you’ll misbehave.” She glances over at me, her brows arched and her gaze sparkling wit
h curiosity. “Should I be?”
“Nah. I’ll be good.” I’ll try to, at least.
That incredible smile curves her red lips again, and I am so fucking screwed. A year or more of being anywhere near this woman—and not touching her the way I want to? It’ll be torture. I should call off this wedding now.
But I won’t. I know damn well I won’t. So maybe I’ll have blue balls for a year. Wah wah. A man who can’t control himself around a woman isn’t much of a man. So I’ll deal with it. Her effect on me will probably fade, anyway. My dick’s been hard before. But that’s just lust or whatever. Arousal. That shit always goes away. Eventually.
My hatred toward the Wyndhams isn’t going away. Not in a year, not in thirty years.
Audrey steers me toward the bar, where she orders sparkling water in a champagne flute. Pale eyes glittering with humor, she raises her drink. “To spite.”
“To spite,” I echo with a short laugh and clink the neck of my beer bottle against her glass.
She takes a sip, her icy gaze scanning the room. Searching for any Wyndhams or their acquaintances, most likely. Judging by the crowd that’s already gathered, most of the people here didn’t bother to attend the tree lighting ceremony, or they watched it from the balcony overlooking the town square. I don’t recognize anyone but that’s hardly a surprise.
And we’re already snagging attention. I can’t miss the glances being thrown our way. Because of my size, I’m used to those quick looks being followed by hesitation before someone approaches me. Sometimes there’s even a little fear. But the incredible thing is…in this ballroom, it’s not me who’s making them hesitate. I’m not scaring anyone.
Audrey is.
Their eyes follow her as if she’s a dangerous animal—though a beautiful one. Like a snow leopard that they want to get close to, maybe close enough to touch. But they don’t, as if worried she might rip them to shreds.