Man Candy: A Fake Marriage Romance (Fire & Ice Romance Series Book 3)

by Kylie Parker

  “Fuck!” I curse.

  “Have Daniel get the car, not the SUV. I don't want anyone putting two and two together.”

  “Already done. He's in the garage waiting for you. Security has the garage on lock down,” he says.

  I shake my head in frustration. I want to beat the shit out of that woman for posting the photo. Slow news days were not good for a celebrity or anyone who did something dumb enough to get the attention of the media. They could take the smallest tidbit of information and blow it up into a story equal to the second coming of Christ.

  “Does she know?” I ask softly, afraid to hear the answer.

  Blake was quiet for a moment, “Not the dirty details, but I gave her the cliff notes version.”

  “Fuck!” I shout into the empty room. “I'm on my way.”

  I grab my phone out of the desk drawer I had stashed it in, turn it on and wait. I don't bother listening to the voicemail. This phone is my private line. Few people have it, but the last time I went through this, it wasn't long before the media got the number.

  I grab my briefcase and head for the door, using my thumb to find her name in my directory before quickly pushing call.

  “Hello,” she answers in a defeated voice.

  “I'm sorry,” I blurt, unable to think of anything smooth or charming to say.

  She sighs, “Your guy is here. Says he is here to take me to a house? What the hell is that about?”

  I feel as if I have been punched in the gut. The woman has no idea of the hell I have unwittingly unleashed on her.

  “Alexa, please, do as he says. Go with him. I'll meet you there and explain everything,” I tell her.

  “Uh, I'm working. I have an actual job, Dylan.”

  “Alexa, trust me, you want to get out of there now, before this thing makes it impossible for you to leave,” I say, trying my best not to scream at her to get her ass in the car.

  “Hold on,” she says.

  I wait. I can hear a man's voice, her arguing and then a door slam.

  “You still there?” she asks.

  “Yes, I'm here.”

  “Uh, I was just told to go home and not come back until I fix this,” she says.

  I can hear the shock in her voice.

  “I'm sorry,” I repeat. “Go, I'll see you in a few,” I say, before disconnecting.

  I need to make some calls. There is no way I will let Alexa pay the price for my mistake. I knew better, but she is like a drug to me. The most delicious narcotic that I am fucking addicted to. She hexed me or something. I can't say her name or think about her without a visceral reaction. Even now my cock jumps at the thought of seeing her, smelling her and hopefully, tasting her.

  11

  Alexa

  I am shaking with anger. I cannot believe I got pulled in to this nonsense.

  “Are you sure I can't get you something to drink? Maybe some tea?” a middle-aged woman asks for the third time since I have arrived at this house.

  “No, really, I'm fine. I would really like to speak with Dylan. Is he going to be here soon?”

  The woman shrugs her thin shoulders, “I have no idea. I got the call to get here and I did. I will leave you alone. If you do need anything, please, help yourself. The kitchen and pantry are stocked. The bathroom is down the hall on the right.”

  I nod, but don't say anything. My mind has been spinning like a top since Jessica text me the link to the story about who I was. In a matter of seconds, pictures from my Facebook account were all over the internet. I quickly deactivated my profile, but the damage had been done. My face was out there.

  I take a moment to look around. The house isn't a mansion like I expected Dylan to live in. It is of course large and way out of my price range, but it is kind of homey. It has a rustic feel. I am in love with the high ceilings outlined with exposed beams. The kitchen and living room flow together with dark hardwood floors stretching from one wall to the other.

  Shiny stainless steel appliances glisten under the LED lights littering the ceiling in the kitchen. The light colored granite counter tops are a beautiful contrast against the dark oak cupboards that appeared to be nearly the same shade as the floor. It was definitely a luxurious home, but not over the top.

  I can't pace anymore and plop into the leather couch. Moments later I feel as if I am being cradled. The couch is amazing with its buttery smooth leather and overstuffed cushions. This is what money can buy I remind myself.

  I lean back, enjoying the way the other half lives, forgetting all about the storm brewing beyond the walls of the house. There were three gates to pass through to get here, which makes me feel protected. There will be no paparazzi peeking in the windows. No women with cell phones snapping my picture.

  The front door slams and I nearly jump out of my seat. Well, I want to jump out, but the couch seems to have swallowed me whole and I don't even care. I don't want to move. I wait, figuring if it is somebody who wants me, they'll find me.

  There is a murmur of voices, but I can't hear what's being said. I hear a door shut and then silence. Then I hear footsteps come closer, but I don't move.

  “Hey,” Dylan says, walking into view.

  I look at him, “Hey.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds before flopping down next to me. My cushion moves a little before quickly adjusting and swallowing me into its softness again.

  “Shit day, huh?” he says.

  I chuckle, “You could say that.”

  “You're not fired,” he starts. “I had a conversation with your boss, Mr. James. He agrees it would be a good idea for you to take a couple days off while this all dies down, but you will go back to your previous position.”

  I roll my eyes. Oh to be so naive.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I will never go back to my previous position. Those days are gone. The second my face was splashed all over the tabloids as the flavor of the month for the most eligible bachelor, my reputation was destroyed. I am just like every other girl in that office now. The women I work with are going to hate me. They are going to think I purposely set my sights on you. The men, well, they are going to be waiting to get their turn.”

  “No. It isn't like that. You are being far too dramatic.”

  I sit forward so I can better glare at him, the side eye isn't enough in this case, “You are clueless. Seriously, you will get a pat on the back and an atta boy and life goes back to normal for you.”

  He shrugs, as if it isn't a big deal, pissing me off so bad I swat at his chest. Yes, swat, because it wasn't a slap and it wasn't a punch, I swatted him.

  Before I know what he is going to do, he grabs my swatting hand and pulls me into his chest. The too-soft couch gives me no leverage and I fall face forward into his face.

  “I'm not clueless,” he growls a second before pushing his lips against my own. He drops my hand and places his on the back of my head, holding me in place. It is a gentle pressure, but lets me know I am not going anywhere.

  I try to struggle, to pull away, but it only results in his other arm snaking behind me and pulling my body into his. I really want to fight, but I want his kiss more. That dirty girl side of me wins again and I give in to his demands. In fact, I go willingly, pressing my breasts into his chest. I can't get close enough.

  He senses my problem. He lets go of my back and runs a hand up my thigh, pushing my skirt up. Instead of going for where I most want him, he gives a low growl and uses his other hand to pull me over the top of him. My legs spread wide and I straddle him.

  “Holy fuck, Alexa. I want you so bad,” he groans, leaning his head back into the couch.

  I don't let him escape that easy and chase his lips with my own, grinding my mouth into his. Our tongues dance, doing some kind of tango that has me writhing against him. I can feel him straining against me. I need closer. I use my hand to hike my skirt up farther. Now I can really grind against him.

  He drops a hand to my thigh before reaching around and grabbing my a
ss, that is completely exposed. Another low groan rips from his throat, nearly sending me over the edge. I can taste his passion and it is intoxicating. Every time he groans, it pushes me closer to climax. I want to feel him this time. I have to feel the whole length of him inside me.

  My hands reach for his belt, deftly unfastening it and popping the button on his pants. I slide my hand under the waistband, following that little trail of hair as if it is guiding me to a buried treasure. I hit the elastic waistband of his underwear, groan in frustration before moving my hand back up an inch and starting my slide again. This time, I hit pay dirt.

  He bucks as I run one finger over the head and then another before gently wrapping my fingers around it and rubbing my thumb over the cleft. I get what I want. A lovely drop of moisture.

  “I'm not going to be able to stop, Alexa,” he growls.

  “I have no intention of stopping,” I whisper into his mouth.

  He pushes me back and with no warning, pulls my blouse from the waistband of my skirt and rips it apart. Buttons fly everywhere. I gasp at the sudden exposure.

  “Don't move,” he breathes. “Don't fucking move.”

  I don't. I watch as he stares at my breasts, neatly tucked into my dark purple bra. He reaches one hand up, touches the top of my breast and then runs his finger across to the other. The touch sends shivers coursing through my body.

  “I said don't move,” he says in a husky voice.

  “I,” I start to deny his accusation, but stop when he looks at me, commanding my silence.

  The heat of his stare is too much. I need him. I need him inside me. I slowly move my hips forward. His eyes move down my stomach to the place where I am pressed against him.

  “Fuck,” he grunts before his hands reach for my breasts, cupping them and slowly, gently massaging. My back arches under the erotic massage. I want my bra off. I reach back to undo the clasp.

  “No, leave it.”

  “But,”

  He shakes his head, quieting my complaint. Instead, he sits forward, presses his face into my cleavage before he starts to run his tongue over the top of one breast then the other. I wrap my arms around his head, pulling him in closer.

  I slowly start rubbing against him, trying to reach my release. I have to have it with or without his help. I ache with need. He lifts his face and kisses me, slowly leaning back into the couch. I follow, moving my hands back to his zipper. I carefully unzip his pants, push down the underwear and clutch his dick in my hand. The heavy feel of him in my hand nearly has me cumming.

  I can't wait, I slide up his body, use a hand to move the tiny triangle of fabric shielding me from what I want most and move into position. I stop kissing him, pull back far enough to see his eyes and slowly start to move down. The second I feel his dick at my core, I can't breathe. Every fiber of my being focuses on that one place where we are touching.

  His eyes hold mine as I impale myself on him. I don't even get the chance to ride him before my body starts bucking with the orgasm it has been longing for. A cry slips through my lips. My head falls back as my back arches up. My body moves by instinct, stretching my orgasm out.

  “I can't,” he moans. “Stop moving!” he says louder, but I can't. I have no control over my body.

  “Fuck!” he shouts a split second before he plunges deeper into my body, driving forward over and over, pulling more from me than I knew I had to give.

  Our bodies meld and join, his pounding into mine with welcomed force. When I have given the last drop and I feel his body slacken, I lean into him. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me with him as he falls into the couch.

  Neither of us talks for several long minutes. I couldn't talk if I wanted to. Instead, I am content listening to his heart thud against me ear. As my body drifts down from that place of ecstasy, I remember we aren't alone.

  “Oh my, God,” I say, rolling off of him and pushing down my skirt. I close my blouse, but without any buttons it falls back open. I glance over and see Dylan still lying exposed.

  “Dylan,” I screech, demanding him to cover himself.

  He looks at me and gives me a lazy smile, “What?”

  “That woman,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “She left. It's just us.”

  “Oh, thank God. I don't know what you do to me that turns me into some voyeuristic nymphomaniac, but it has to stop. I can't be in the same room with you,” I say with disgust at him and myself. Never have I been such a sex-crazed woman. This man did something to my libido. I should probably go to the doctor and get some kind of pill.

  “I do, huh?” he grinned, still not making any effort to cover himself.

  I look down, he is still rock hard. I involuntarily lick my lips, thinking about the magic that wonderful rod could do. It jumps and I look up at him.

  “Don't look at me like that unless you want to go for round two,” he growls.

  “I don't. I just, well, can you please button your damn pants. Honestly,” I say with as much disdain as I can muster.

  His eyes drop to my exposed bra.

  I look at him with defiance, “You ruined my shirt. I am at least trying to cover myself.”

  “Don't. I like it,” he commanded, finally tucking himself in and pulling his pants closed.

  “Dylan, I can't go home like this,” I say gesturing to my damaged shirt.

  “I know. You're not,” he says, standing and reaching a hand out to me.

  I take it, “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “This is my hideout. When shit hits the fan, I come here and lay low for a few days.”

  I nod, “Okay, but why am I here?”

  “Because the shit has hit your fan, too. Your apartment is going to be crawling with paparazzi. They are going to hound you and I know you don't want to deal with that. For now, we hide. Soon enough, someone in Hollywood is going to get a DUI or knock someone up and we will be forgotten,” he explains as if it should be obvious.

  “Dylan, I have a job. I can't just hide out. I have to go to work.”

  “Your boss told you to take a few days off, remember?”

  “Shit,” I mutter. “Well, what are we supposed to do here?”

  He looks at me, grins and says, “I think I have a few ideas about how to pass the time.”

  I groan. I am in over my head. This man is trouble with a capital T.

  12

  Dylan

  “What?” I hiss. “She's in the shower,” I say in a rush.

  Blake is on the other end of the phone, demanding a few minutes of my time.

  “That was fast,” he says dryly.

  I am not in the mood, “What?” I ask again.

  “There is only one way to fix this and your reputation,” Blake says.

  “No.”

  “Dylan, seriously, I don't think you realize what this could mean for our future and the future of Hawke Enterprises,” he says, softening his tone a bit.

  I sigh, I know exactly what it means. The photo and the gossip being spewed wasn't doing me any favors. Sequestering Alexa here in my escape home would cool the fire somewhat, but this was blowing up bigger than any of my other scandals. The press really liked her and were already pulling up details about her, like where she worked, where she went to college and so on. I can't imagine she wants the world knowing every detail of her life.

  “Dylan?” he asks when I don't answer.

  “I know. I'm working on it. It's been less than 24 hours. It is going to blow up and then fade away. You know that. It always does,” I assure him.

  He pauses before answering, “This time it's bigger. The stories keep citing a source. Dylan,” he clears his throat, “there are some details about what happened on that couch that make it a little bigger than the last time. Our investors are convinced you are truly out of control.”

  “Bullshit. I kissed a woman on a couch. I had one drink. She wasn't drunk. Can't you do something to stop this crap?” I ask, desperate to clear the air.

&nbs
p; “You know there isn't,” he replies gently.

  I growl, “Fine, I'll figure it out. For now, tell the investors to chill out for a minute. Give me a chance to straighten this out.”

  “Woo her,” Blake says. “Be that charming guy and get her to marry you. It doesn't have to be permanent. You don't have to spend every waking minute together. We need to transform your reputation. How bad can it be? She's gorgeous and it is obvious you have a thing for her.”

  “No,” I say more firmly.

  I disconnect and sit on the sofa, staring at the wall. I'm torn. I know I am a ruthless business man who isn't afraid to hurt some feelings to get ahead or in this case, stay on top. But, I can't stand the idea I have to change who I am to please others. It pisses me off. I am too old to have to try and please others.

  “Hey,” Alexa startles me as she comes around the couch.

  Her blonde hair is wet and hanging loose, falling around her shoulders, creating dark wet spots on the dark t-shirt I gave her to wear. She has on a pair of my sweats that are way too big. To keep them up, she has folded the waist band over a few times and cinched the draw string tight. The outfit swallows her up, hiding that gorgeous body, but I know its there.

  “Hey,” I reply, steering my thoughts away from peeling off those layers of clothing to find out if she is naked underneath. The idea has made me hard already.

  She plops down on the couch, “This is seriously the most comfortable couch I have ever sat on.”

  I can't help but smile. She looks so natural, sitting on my couch, fresh out of the shower wearing my clothes. I stare at her, drinking in her beauty.

  “What?” she asks, running a hand over her wet hair. “It isn't like I have any of my clothes or makeup. I am au natural. Unless you will let me go home?” she asks, somewhat pleadingly.