My Playboy Fiance: A Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Katerina Cole

  “Want something to drink?” Dylan offered. “Sparkling cider?”

  “Yes. I want to keep celebrating.”

  “I’ll take one of those beers out there,” Isaac shouted.

  Dylan walked out of the room naked. He had an incredible ass.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” I turned to Isaac. “And I loved the surprise and the ring. It’s beautiful.”

  “I didn’t want you to have to keep taking the other one off. I know Dylan was starting to get pissed. He loves you. I didn’t believe it at first, but he loves you as much as I do, baby. It’s the craziest damn thing what you’ve done to us.”

  I rubbed the side of his cheek. “What you’ve done to me.” I smiled.

  “How did you manage to tie us both down?”

  I giggled. “Do you think I have that option?”

  Dylan walked back in the room with three drinks. I took my non-alcoholic sparkly cider.

  “I’d like to toast the bride.” He grinned devilishly.

  “To the bride.” Isaac raised his glass.

  I took a sip, feeling the bubbles dance on my tongue.

  “To our honeymoon.”

  “Do you think they have Sports Now here?” Dylan reached for the remote.

  Isaac glared at him.

  “What? Other teams are in the playoffs tonight and I want to know who we plan on Sunday.”

  I took the beer from his lips, and twisted myself in his lap. “As your boss, I think you can take the night off from work.” I reached between his legs, massaging him to life. “Your bride wants all your attention.” I winked.

  He threw the remote on the floor.

  Isaac laughed.

  “You win, darlin’. The bride gets what the bride wants.”

  “I win?” I teased.

  Isaac pulled me into his lap next. “You always win. We’ll make sure of that.”

  I closed my eyes and let the world slip away.

  Holding On

  Copyright © 2017 by Katerina Cole

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Crawford

  It was seventeen to thirteen and we had the ball. Bottom of the fourth quarter, with less than a minute left on the clock and zero time outs remaining.

  That was my moment. The moment I lived for. The moment I always played for.

  Coach called for a screenplay and we lined left. The fat fucker across from me lifted his head and pointed directly at me. Mistake. I knew he was coming for me.

  I glanced at Aaron on my right and then Joe on my left. They both nodded, letting me know they had my back. No one would get through them.

  “Down set. Hut one. Hut two. Hike,” I called.

  I caught the ball as the center spiked it backward between his legs. I took a step back and tapped the ball, searching the field for an open player. I scanned from one side to the other.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  No one was open.

  Some people panic in moments like that, but not me.

  The adrenaline pumped through my veins and I saw the field with perfect clarity. Every one of my teammates was covered. Two guys barreled down on me fast from the right as my head jerked the opposite way. That was when my focus was the sharpest. When I could see what no one else could. The tiniest opening just to my left ahead about three yards.

  I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t afford to second-guess my gut. Ever.

  My feet kicked into gear, racing against time, against the defense, and against the clock. I squeezed through the sliver of space and then swerved to the right, avoiding the arms of a grizzly linebacker. I could see the end zone ahead. The goal post beckoning me like a lover’s arms.

  Ten yards to go.

  Five.

  Two.

  I crossed the line of white chalk, hurling my body forward. The stadium erupted in screams and cheers. I was pretty damn sure they were chanting my name after that touchdown.

  The team rushed the field and somewhere, one of the guys poured a jug of Gatorade over the coach’s head in fun. I was clapped on the shoulder and smacked on the ass so many times I lost count as we made our way to the locker room.

  We were one game closer to playoffs.

  “Hell of a game, Crawford. Hell of a game.”

  I nodded at Coach as he veered off toward the administrative offices. I ducked into the locker room, knowing it would be a fucking circus inside.

  This was where the real party began.

  It was already out of control. Beer cans cracked open. The music blasted.

  I was in fucking heaven.

  “You going out with us?” Joe asked, slapping a towel toward me.

  “Yeah, Crawford. You going?”

  I faced my two linemen. It was a stupid question. I cracked a smile and they both laughed.

  “I’ve got press, then I’ll meet you out.” The shower was calling my name.

  “You fucking know it.” They bumped fists and I had a feeling tonight was going to be epic.

  The hot spray of the shower slid against my tired muscles. My high from the game faded and in its place was an aching and soreness that could only be replaced by the thought of the after party.

  Coming down off of a win always sucked. The thrill faded and the adrenaline subsided far too quickly, leaving me searching for other ways to fulfill my lust for the rush.

  Not many other things in this world could equal the same kind of buzz I got when scoring on the field, but one of them came pretty damn close.

  I loved chasing women.

  Actually, I loved what I got to do with the women after I caught them. The chase was just part of the game they liked to play. I called it a game because they all wanted to be caught. They just liked to play a little hard to get.

  I had yet to find a woman who could be honest and up front about what she wanted. They liked to think they were going to be the one to finally snag the infamous Crawford Hawkins. I let them believe whatever crazy fairytales they drummed up, when in reality I just wanted to fuck.

  I was a sex junkie. I never denied it.

  All of my time off the field was spent getting wasted or getting my freak on. My agent, Savannah James, hated it and advised me quite regularly that I shouldn't be so free with the dick, but it was a part of who I was. If I saw a woman in need, then I felt like it was my duty to help her out.

  Savannah said I was her biggest pain in the ass and that was saying something. She represented some pretty big douches, but their antics were preschool compared to mine.

  My reputation started in high school. I was caught under the bleachers by the school principal fucking a hot ass redhead that just so happened to also be my biology teacher.

  Twice.

  Yeah.

  That didn't end so well, but it fueled my reputation. A reputation I was proud of.

  Playboy.

  Asshole.

  I'd been called it all. There was a time I used to let it bother me, but those times had long since passed.

  There was no reason to change. Why should I?

  I intended to die in the throes of passion when I was eighty with a twenty-something little minx. A bachelor until the day I died.

  Some men liked to play the field until they found someone they thought they could settle down with and spend the rest of their lives with. Five years in, they realized it wasn’t what they wanted and then decided to bail, leaving the woman at home to raise a baby with no money and no help. I refused to be one of those men.

  Marriage is a joke.

  And I don’t get the punch line.

  At least the way I’d done things had always been upfront. Women knew what they were getting when they decided they wanted a night with me. It was never
more than sex. And it sure as hell was never less. I played football like a rock star and fucked even better.

  The DC Sharks were creatures of habit. We ate in the same restaurants. Drank in the same bars. Chased ass in the same clubs. Call us territorial bastards, but we liked to stake out our grounds.

  As I walked into Catch, I was hit with the familiarity of a place I had spent practically every night after a big win.

  The succulent smell of perfume and sex hit my nostrils. I breathed in deep, feeling my cock stir in my pants. Somewhere in a dark corner I heard the sounds of pleasure and my dick hardened. I fucking loved this place.

  I made my way to my usual table and waited for the rest of the guys. I thought I would be the last one. The press conference with Coach was short and sweet. I wasn’t much for reporter questions. We won. What was there to talk about?

  A cute little waitress saddled up to the table within moments. She looked young and innocent. Her uniform fit like a glove, tight in all the right places. Her breasts were pushed together, bobbing over the edge of her shirt. I could almost envision her on her knees with her mouth wrapped around my cock. My hands fisted tight in her pig tails while I fucked her mouth. It was as if this moment was supposed to happen—this girl was meant to help me celebrate my win.

  She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. “H-hi. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

  I leaned forward. I’d never seen her here before. She looked out of place. Almost too good for Catch. Too good to serve me. It was the lightness in her eyes and the way her blond hair fell over her shoulders in waves. She was a good girl.

  “A couple of beers,” I answered. My eyes trailed her throat. Damn, she was gorgeous.

  She scribbled down my order on her waitress pad. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “I guess you’re new here?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. Damn, her nervousness was even sexy. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Not many girls write down two beers.” I chuckled.

  Her eyes fell to the floor. Shit.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was soft and apologetic.

  “No need.” I grinned. “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

  Before I could tell her what else she could do for me, she turned and darted off toward the bar for my beers.

  “She’s hot,” Joe said, slapping my back as he walked up behind me.

  He caught me staring through her clothes as if I had X-ray vision.

  “No shit,” I snorted. I wanted him to know I had first dibs on her.

  He turned the chair next to me, straddling it. “You asshole. You always get the best ones," he said, punching my shoulder. I grinned and nodded, knowing it was true.

  Maybe the guys deferred because I was the quarterback, or maybe it was because I had established how things worked on the team. I really didn’t care as long as they understood the system. I always walked out of here with the girl I wanted.

  “Sorry, man. Did you see those fucking tits?” I shrugged my shoulders.

  “You’d have to be blind to miss them,” he replied, studying her ass while she cleaned the table next to ours. “How’d you beat me here?”

  My attention was on the girl. She was flustered. She knocked over a chair on her way back to the bar. The bartender scowled at her and said something out of the corner of his mouth. I didn’t like the fucking way he talked to the girls here. And something about this one pissed me off even more.

  “Crawford? Man, did you hear me?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I took a cab.” I didn’t look at him.

  She quickly came back with our drinks. I could tell she was concentrating on the tray so she didn’t spill them. As soon as the frosted mugs were out of her hands, I grabbed her wrist, pulling her onto my lap. It was instinct. Need. Drive to touch her that overtook me.

  Her eyes widened with alarm. “W-what are you doing?”

  I wrapped my arms around her waist. She smelled like fucking heaven. Everything about her was subtle and intoxicating.

  “Seriously, I can't afford to get fired. Please let me get back to work.” She wrestled my arm away from her hips and took a step back.

  “Just a moment, darlin’,” I replied. I wanted to pull her back into my lap. Inhale her. Kiss her.

  “If it’s about the order, then tell me.” She set her eyes on me. I saw the resolve there. The strength to stand up for herself.

  “Damn,” I muttered to myself, but I wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t hear me. Another vice of mine—I said whatever was on my mind. And right now it was this girl.

  “No, the beers are fine.” I picked mine up and took a swallow to prove a point. It wasn’t the beer I wanted. It was her.

  “Ok, then I’ll check back with you soon.” She turned to go.

  “Wait, you have a name?”

  She swiveled on her heels, then pinched her lips together as if she were deciding what name to give me. “Mia.”

  “Nice to meet you Mia.” I held out my hand to touch hers. “Crawford. And this is my buddy Joe.”

  Joe grimaced. “Don’t buy his lines, darlin’. We call him Hawk for a reason.”

  I gritted my teeth. “You call me Hawk because my last name is Hawkins.”

  “Oh, ok, so which is it? Crawford or Hawk?” she asked.

  I grinned. “I’ll let you choose.”

  Her eyes fell to the floor again. “I’ll be back to check on your beers.”

  Before I could keep her at the table for another round of sparring she wedged herself between an oncoming party and disappeared.

  “Fuck,” I whispered. There was a certain thump under my ribs. Women were my vice. And for a quick second I thought that one had the potential to kill me.

  “Looks like we’re going to be here all night ordering drinks.” Joe laughed, watching her retreat into the darkness of the bar.

  I touched the glass to my lips, seeking the poison to fill my veins with the kind of speed and power I needed.

  I placed the empty glass on the table. “I'm trying to behave for Savannah. She's always busting my balls for drinking too much and being seen with too many different women.”

  “Tonight’s not going to help your case.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not.” I searched the few tables for any signs of Mia.

  Joe kept talking. “Kenny is the same way. Always trying to be my daddy. What’s the deal with these damn agents?”

  I shrugged. My attention was somewhere else tonight.

  I spotted a familiar face coming from the bar and I smiled. I stood, meeting him at the table with a warm hug. He slapped me on the back a few times before pulling up a chair.

  “It’s good to see you, Pops.”

  “You too, son.”

  Pops was my neighbor growing up. He taught me all about women and was the epitome of what a ladies’ man should be. I probably shouldn’t have taken his lessons so literally, but as a young kid without a dad, he was like a god, especially with women.

  “How have you been, Crawford? It's been a while. How’s life at the top of the food chain?” he asked with a wink.

  “Not bad. Sharks are two weeks from the playoffs.”

  He nodded. “I know. I never miss one of your games.”

  My stomach clenched. I was so used to doing my own thing, I forgot there were people out there who remembered when I was a kid. When I didn’t have shit for parents. Pops, who watched me on television, like a dad watching his son.

  “Just a game away,” I repeated. I looked around for Mia. We needed another round.

  “I tried to get to one earlier this season, but $400 a ticket is too rich for my blood.”

  I stared at the man who had tried to replace the biggest void a boy could have in his life. He stepped in when no one else tried. “If you want tickets, you’ve got them.”

  “No. No. You don’t have to do that.”

  “Fuck if I don’t. You’re going to the next game. Family box.” I eyed him. “No argume
nts.”

  He was getting ready to say something when the hot waitress appeared.

  Pops smiled at her. He saw what I did. What every hot-blooded man in this bar saw. She was sexy as hell.

  “There you are.” I winked.

  The blush on her cheeks traveled down her throat to the tops of her breasts. Fuck.

  “Did you want another round?” she asked, clearly bothered by the attention.

  I held her eyes for a moment, nodding but not answering. I definitely had found my mark for the night. I just needed to know if she was up for it.

  “Three more.” I held up my fingers.

  “All right. Anything else?”

  I closed my eyes and imagined everything I would do to her. My hand reached out gently, caressing hers as she turned toward the bar. I heard a sharp intake of air and I had my answer.

  2

  Mia

  I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, waiting at the side of the bar for the last drink order.

  “Three beers for you, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, Hal.”

  I placed each beer on the tray and lifted it carefully from the surface. All I had to do was drop these drinks off at the table and I could walk away.

  I didn’t have to look at Mister-six-foot-five-sex-on-a-stick. I certainly didn’t have to flirt with him. And like hell if I had to let him keep touching me, no matter how much I liked it. I straightened my shoulders.

  As soon as those football players walked in tonight, the other waitresses started fighting over who got to serve them. But the bar was divided into sections, and they sat in mine. Mine. As if I had some kind of ownership over Crawford Hawkins.

  I took a big breath and walked steadily to the table.

  “Here you go.” I served each beer.

  I jumped when I felt a hand palm my ass. My instinct was to slap it away, but I froze, absorbing the way he touched me. What in the hell was I doing?

  “I’ll check on you gentlemen in a few minutes.” I tried to exit the table, but his fingers dug in a little harder. A little deeper and I almost let out a groan. Holy shit.