by Zoe Chant
It helped that Bruce—billionaire, inventor, genius Bruce, Wanda's boss Bruce, whom she'd met in a business suit—had wholeheartedly embraced the fun alongside Violet. He took to the Elvis wig like a fish to water. In fact, he was still wearing it.
"Are you going to be Elvis all night?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow and suppressing another giggle.
"If the little lady wants …" He modulated his voice and accent to sound like Elvis. Well, kind of like Elvis. If Elvis were drunk, maybe.
"I've figured it out!" she crowed giddily. "Your deep, dark secret!"
"I have a deep, dark secret now?"
"You have to." Violet poked him in the arm. "You're a billionaire, and you're actually nice and funny"—and sweet, and stunningly good-looking, and no, she wasn't going to say that to his face.
He was so tall, even sitting down—he leaned over her. Warmth spread through Violet. "So what's my secret?"
"It's a tragic story," she began. "When you were young, you desperately wanted to be an Elvis impersonator. You worked so hard on your craft. Day and night, you sang 'Heartbreak Hotel' to yourself into the end of a hairbrush. But it was not to be. You just weren't good enough. You had to leave the city."
She could feel the laughter shake all through his body where it was pressed against hers. "So I decided to become an inventor instead," he finished.
"Sometimes you still think about it wistfully, though."
"It's true. There's a white jacket in the back of my closet, covered in rhinestones. Once in a while I take it out, try it on …"
The limo came to a stop, so slowly and smoothly she almost didn't notice until Bruce stepped out, holding the door open, and extended a hand to her.
Violet took it, holding tight, and stepped out into the warm evening air. She didn't recognize their surroundings; this wasn't their hotel. She shot an inquiring look at Bruce. "Where are—?"
He grinned. "I thought we could celebrate by getting some dinner."
The city stretched tall above them, sparkling with lights and possibility. She spied dozens of places within walking distance where they could get a bite, from the classiest joints to food trucks. "Where are we eating?"
Bruce winked at her. "You'll see."
He didn't take her to any of the places lit by neon signs, nor to any of the obvious restaurants. Not even to one of the food trucks—even though she could smell the delicious, probably unsafe fried food from where she was standing. Instead, he led her down a dim alley with a reassuring smile—"Don't worry, they just like to be discreet"—and to a completely unassuming back door. It looked like the kind of door people sold drugs out of, if she was being honest.
When Bruce knocked, a strip came away and a pair of suspicious eyes peered out. "Davis reservation for two," Bruce said easily, like he'd done this a thousand times.
They were admitted—so secretive!—and it turned out the restaurant was one of those places where the inside was completely different from the outside. Outside was a ragged, industrial alley in a big city—fluorescent, neon, and steel everywhere. Inside was a luxurious ranch-style steakhouse with wood and warm lights. Despite the air of luxury, it had a homey feeling to it.
Violet curled her hand around Bruce's arm as they went up a set of narrow stairs. "Have you been here before?" she whispered. It was the kind of place that made you want to whisper.
His smile flashed down at her—but there was a slightly anxious edge to it. "Yes, it's one of my favorites. What do you think of it? So far, I mean."
Violet bit her lip to stop from grinning. That warm feeling was coming back again, pooling low in her gut and making her skin tingle with the nearness of him. He had shared something with her, something he liked, and he wanted her to like it, too.
He’s just being a gentleman, she reminded herself. No sex, no feelings, no complications, remember?
"If the food holds up to the atmosphere, I'll be impressed."
"It's the best," he murmured, a low intensity to his voice that made her shiver and press herself harder against his arm. Against her husband's arm. She could call him that.
They were seated at a booth that was spacious, yet cozy: they could hardly see or hear other diners. The menu was the type where there were no prices listed next to the items; it was that expensive, she guessed.
He ordered some kind of steak with an odd name, and she went for a salad. Even though the booth was big, she sat close to him; he didn't seem to mind. T hey shared a bottle of wine—something vintage and red she didn't recognize from the grocery store shelves, of course, and it was delicious—and she offered up a toast.
"To fake relationships," she said, holding her glass up.
His smile dimmed slightly, but he clinked his glass against hers. "And to real ones."
He was looking at her seriously, somehow meaningfully, even though she wasn't sure what exactly the point was. Blood rushed to her face.
"Well, now you know my deepest secret," he continued, as if there hadn't just been a moment between them. "You have to tell me yours."
It was all in her head, she told herself, but the words seemed weak. Violet wagged a finger. "Nuh-uh. That wasn't a trade."
"Maybe not your deepest, darkest secret," he allowed generously. "We can save that for day two of our marriage. But you can tell me something."
She took a sip of her wine. "What would you like to know?"
He studied her for a minute. "What do you want, more than anything in the world?" he asked.
What a question! She didn't even know where to start answering it, and gave a nervous laugh. "Well, I think I kind of already have it. Jana's health taken care of," she explained.
"Not what you need," clarified Bruce. "What you want, that you don't have."
Violet thought of her fantasy—the handsome man riding in to save her. She couldn't say that. What else did she want? An image of the sad sage plant in her apartment came to mind.
"A garden," she said definitively. "I've always wanted to live somewhere I could have my own garden." He hummed thoughtfully. "I've lived in apartments my whole life," she added. "A little bit of land to all my own—I'd like that."
It sounded silly when she said it like that, but he nodded understandingly. "I know what you mean. There's nothing like having a little breathing room. That's why I like this place. The city can be so …"
"I know exactly what you mean," she said when he trailed off in search of the right word. Like they had a mind of her own, her fingers brushed the back of his hand. Their gazes locked.
They were interrupted by the arrival of their food. Startled by her own forwardness, Violet jerked her hand away and slipped it back into her lap.
"You have to try this," he said, cutting off the first piece of his steak when the server had left. Then he paused, eyeing her salad. "Unless you're a vegetarian?"
Violet laughed. "No, I eat meat."
"This is wagyu steak," he said. He held up his fork; he intended her to take a bite from it. Leaning toward him, she closed her lips around the single bite, aware of his eyes on her the whole time. She was aware of how intimate a gesture it was—weird to say when you'd just married someone, but maybe that just made it more so.
The meat was decadently rich and silky, like nothing she'd ever tasted.
"I’ve never had a steak like that. What was that … wagyu?" She didn't think she was pronouncing it right.
"Cattle from up in the mountains of Japan," he explained. "They have a lot more fat than our American cows marbled through the meat, which makes it more tender and juicy. This is true wagyu, not that hybrid stuff. There's nothing like it. Doesn't need a sauce or anything."
"I have limited culinary experience, but I have to agree." But one thing niggled at her. In a hushed voice, she asked, "How much did that cost?"
Bruce winked at her and cut a bite off for himself. "I never buy wagyu and tell."
"I'm going to assume I just ate a fifty-dollar slice of steak," she decided.
"Car
e to make it a hundred?" He held out another bite for her, cupping his hand under the fork. It brushed her chin when she took another bite. She giggled at the slight awkwardness and closeness of the gesture.
Of course, she had to share, too, although she doubted her salad was made of hundred-dollar lettuce. His eyes darkened when she leaned over to feed him—she ducked her head under the intensity of his gaze. Even though she'd only had one glass, the wine must have gone to her head.
Bruce was a perfect gentleman for the rest of the evening, and she floated back to the hotel room—back to the honeymoon suite—as if she were on a cloud.
Bruce unlocked the door to their suite and propped it open, blocking Violet's way in.
"I think we should do this the traditional way," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
Violet stared at the doorway, then back at Bruce, biting her lip. "You sure that's a good idea?" She hoped she sounded discouraging.
Not enough, apparently. "A little lady like you?" he said, and there was that Elvis voice again. "Light as a feather, I bet."
He was a big guy: well over six feet, broad shoulders, muscles all over. And he wasn't an idiot. Violet looped her arms around his neck and said quietly, "If this goes wrong, big guy, it's all on you."
He didn't dignify that with a response: instead, he swooped Violet up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. She couldn't quite hold in the shriek that came out, or the laughter that followed (part relief, but mostly joy).
He carried her over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind them. She expected him to put her down right away, but instead he took her all the way into the bedroom and sat her gently on the edge of the bed.
She was reluctant to let go of him; instead, she twined her fingers together around the back of his neck, feeling the short bristles of hair there. The suite had seemed a bit silly and over-the-top yesterday, but tonight it seemed romantic, as if it reflected Violet's own mood. The rose petals were charming rather than cheesy, and the dim lights made any fantasy, no matter how silly, seem possible.
Bruce didn't pull away; he seemed perfectly content to be held there by her hands. His own hands came up to frame her face between them, stroking her with his calloused thumbs and sending tingles across her cheeks.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured.
Her heart did a pitter-patter beneath her ribcage, so quick and frantic she was surprised he couldn't hear it.
Maybe he did. Maybe that was what prompted him to kiss her.
His lips were warm and soft on hers. His five-o’-clock shadow scratched at her: rough, but it set her nerves aflame. Leaning into him, Violet deepened the kiss. In the back of his throat, he made a little rumble of satisfaction.
He took the invitation to heart; his tongue delved into her mouth, exploring her depths. His fingers tightened, gentle but needful on her skin. It was as if he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
In the thrall of his hot, intense kiss, her worries seemed distant. A business arrangement. No feelings, no sex, no complications. The words echoed, but didn't take hold in her mind. She spent her life looking after others—first Jana as a kid after their parents died, and now as an adult. Couldn't she have something she wanted, just this one time?
He pulled back. There was a concerned crease between his eyebrows. “I know what we said,” he murmured, looking at her with what could only be described as longing. “Are you okay with this? Do you want this?”
Violet’s heart flipped over in her chest. The tiny part of her brain that was still rational said stop now, this is a bad idea. But her heart won out over her brain.
“Yes,” she breathed and kissed him again.
He can’t mean he really wants to marry me. It’ll just be a little fun. Just this once. After all, what happens in Vegas …
His hands stroked down her sides and cupped her breasts through the thin material of her dress, and she lost all capability for rational thought. He was gentle, kneading her over the fabric and making warm desire pool between her legs.
Under his touch, her nipples stiffened, visible even through her dress. Bruce ran his thumbs over the stiff nubs, sending sparks through her skin and down her spine. She bit her lip and struggled to hold in a moan.
He noticed. "Don't hold back with me," he breathed, his eyes dark and locked on her. "I want to hear you."
His voice was low and intense; she almost moaned at the sound of that. Tugging aside the strap of her dress, he exposed her skin to the cool air, making her nipple even harder. When he took it into his mouth and sucked, she couldn't hold back anymore: she cried out.
Violet ran her fingers through his hair, holding him there as he laved her tender skin with his rough-pebbled tongue, then transferred his attention to the other breast, which was aching for him. His touch had wiped all the thoughts from her brain, leaving her dazed.
Her moans were breathy, needy, and coming faster. As his teeth rasped over one nipple, she gave a shocked gasp, and he did it again.
"Sadist," she whispered shakily, and felt him smile. His lips soothed her skin.
Overwhelmed, she rolled her head back, closing her eyes. Her pussy was aching for him, clenching on air, waiting for him to fill her.
Her dress was still in the way. Bruce reached behind her, tugging down the zipper as he found a sensitive spot on her neck and sucked enthusiastically—oh, oh—she'd never been with someone who paid so much attention to her, wanted to know what she liked and listened for it the way Bruce was doing.
The white silk pooled at her feet, around her shoes, and her bra went, too. She found herself glad she'd worn the fancy stuff on a hopeful whim. Bruce knelt in front of her. In his eyes, there was no judgment or disgust at the curves her body; there was only desire, the strong, steady pull between them that Violet had felt since the day they had met. His gaze roamed appreciatively over her.
"Beautiful," he repeated again, and Violet's heart clenched. His hands stroked over her calves and lifted up one foot so he could ease it out of its fancy shoe, setting it aside gently. He brushed the inside of her ankle with a kiss, and the feeling of his lips lingered long afterward. After giving her foot a gentle squeeze, he repeated the process with the other.
The gentleness of the gesture stole Violet's breath away. By the time he was done with her shoes, she was ready for him to take her.
But apparently he wasn't there yet—he was going to draw it out. He placed light, teasing kisses on the insides of her knees, trailing up her thighs, until she was shaking for him.
She found herself whispering his name. "Bruce, Bruce—"
In answer, he growled, the sound rumbling out of his chest—almost animal-like. The sound vibrated into her skin, dazed her, swallowed her up with its obvious need.
He pulled her lace panties down over her hips, which she lifted for him. Then she was bare before him.
The tips of his fingers traced her outer lips, which were already slippery with her arousal. Wanton, she spread her knees wider. His eyes drank in the sight of her, full of desire. No, need. She knew: in his eyes, she was beautiful.
They both gasped when he sank his fingers into her. Crying out, Violet arched off the bed, consumed by him. His fingers roamed inside her, pressed in all the right places, as she struggled to keep it together. He set a rhythm, stroking with his fingers and circling her tender bud—just where she needed him, as if he could read her mind.
She couldn't hold it together, hold in her cry. "Bruce!"
Her whole body was shivering with pleasure, reacting to every touch. Violet was nearly there, almost at the edge—just one more stroke and she would—
Then he pulled back.
She gasped, looking down at him with a confused expression. He licked his fingers clean—she had never thought that was hot before, but there was a first time for everything—and gave her an apologetic kiss.
"I was right about the sadist thing," Violet whispered when they pulled apart. Her voice was shaky and shallow.
> Bruce trailed kisses along her jaw. "Not a sadist," he murmured, and then in a sinful tone: "Just want to see you come on my cock."
Oh. Well, then.
"Your turn," she said, reaching for his shirt.
He let her unbutton him, her fingers trailing down his chest as it became exposed inch by inch. His breathing became shallow as she ran her fingers over his collarbone.
Just as she'd expected, he was well muscled: his arm flexed under her touch, and he glistened in the dim light. Like an Adonis. And he was hers. At least for tonight.
Violet pushed all other thoughts away. If this was going to be their one night together, she had better make the most of it.
He was already hard by the time she pushed his shirt over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Biting her lip, she reached for his belt. She unthreaded it slowly, taking her time. Savoring it. Peeling his zipper down tooth by tooth, she let him have a little taste of his own medicine. He was flushed, his eyes dark with arousal, and nearly panting by the time she wrapped her hand around his hard shaft.
It was huge; her hand seemed tiny in comparison. He groaned her name—"Violet," and she'd never heard anything so amazing in her life, she was already on the edge again just from that—and pushed himself into her tight grip. He would feel so good inside her.
"I need you," he said, and there was a gasp behind his words. Rising, he kicked off his shoes and pants, and leaned down to kiss her again.
This kiss was less gentle—it was forceful, full of need. His tongue probed her mouth, as if looking for her innermost secrets, and she opened up to him fully like a flower blooming.
They fell back on the bed together, their bodies entwined. His cock was hard, jutting against her inner thigh, and she was so ready she could hardly stand it.
"Bruce—" she gasped out.
He braced himself above her; his imposing figure making her feel dwarfed—and making her shiver in anticipation. Hearing her need, he took her in one powerful thrust.