Fake Fiancée

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “Yes . . .” She grasped my cock and stroked with the heel of her hand, rubbing over the head.

  I kissed her harder, my hand on her ass, pushing her into me. She spread her legs just enough for me to glide across her velvet center.

  “Fuck . . . Sunny . . .” I teased her with pulses of my hips, my cock weeping at the thought of riding her raw. But I didn’t do that. Condoms were a must.

  I scrambled over to my jeans, pilfered through my wallet until I found one. I kissed it and sent her a grin. “Last one.” I walked back to her and came to a complete stop, noticing what was in the back corner past the shelving. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What?”

  I bent down and swept her up in my arms. “There’s a chaise lounge back there.”

  A wide smile broke out when she followed my gaze. “Lead on, Quarterback.”

  My lids went low. Because my mind was dirty as hell. “You’re gonna ride me.”

  She shuddered, her eyelids squeezing together.

  We made it to the pillowy chair, just barely, because my hands were too busy cupping her creamy breasts. I fell down on my ass and brought her with me.

  “It’s probably been here a hundred years,” she said, a flush on her cheeks.

  “Do you care?” My hand roamed the curve of her hip. I squeezed.

  She shook her head, a curtain of hair hiding her face. That shyness again. I loved it.

  After sliding on the condom, I gripped my cock and slid inside her. She moved over me and I played with her piercing, sucking. My touch was tender as I cupped her face and watched her move.

  Everything but us faded away.

  Crazy. Intense. And so damn good. It scared me a little—but I pushed it away.

  Tingles of pleasure washed over me, and I grunted, my pumps faster. “I want behind you,” I whispered. She nodded, and I flipped her over, held her waist, and glided inside. She was dripping wet, and I groaned as I took her, her feet planted on the floor to keep us steady. My fingers went to her clit and stroked in little circles. I bent over her and whispered how hot she was and how much I wanted her.

  Tossing her head back, she met my eyes, the heat I saw sending me higher. Something else passed between us—a breathless moment wrapped in such need and intensity that I couldn’t fathom it. I didn’t understand it, and it was forgotten as she came apart in front of me.

  “Max!” she called.

  My hand dug into her hips. It felt like we’d done this a million times. I could do it a million more. “So fucking good with you . . .” I breathed as I pounded into her and came hard. My back arched, basking in the sharp pleasure, and I continued to pump, my cock barely softening, still aching to feel encased inside her.

  A few more spine-tingling strokes, and I pulled out, my breathing out of control. My hand caressed down the base of her spine. The moon had risen higher, the light showing tiny scars on her back around her shoulder blades and the center of her back. I counted ten or so. I inhaled sharply, battling, aching to ask her, but she turned over to face me, her face soft. She was beautiful . . . the moment was beautiful. I didn’t want to ruin it with a bad memory. Those marks would be a conversation for another time. I kissed her and eased down next to her, our limbs entangling as she snuggled into my side. Time passed but we hardly noticed, our hands clinging to each other.

  I held her tight and thanked the stars I’d found her.

  An hour passed. Maybe another one. Honestly, I lost track while holding her. With as much care as I could, I eased out of her arms and padded over to my jeans where I pulled out my phone. Two in the morning. I rubbed my head.

  I headed back over to her and kissed her awake. She blinked up at me and I grinned. “Morning, Cookie. We gotta get out of here.”

  She nodded and dressed. We pushed the shelves to the window, bracing them with other shelves. It was sturdy enough that I had no qualms about climbing it. Sure, I could have tried to just get service to call the campus police to come unlock the door, but this was easy stuff.

  I got to the top of the shelving, put my hand down for her to grasp, and heaved her up step-by-step. Once she made it to the top, I shimmied through the window and then helped her come through with as much care as I could.

  Watching her get to her feet, I saw the ugly bruise on the side of her head again. My mouth tightened.

  I put an arm around her, and we walked toward my car in the parking lot.

  “You’re angry,” she said as she rubbed her arms in the October air.

  I nodded. “I just keep wondering who would do this to you. What if they’d tried to hurt you or even set the place on fire? It’s fucking insane.” I pulled out my phone. “I’m going to call campus police. You okay with talking to them?”

  She nodded.

  The police dispatcher answered, and I gave them the rundown of what had happened. I told them we didn’t need an ambulance but would need to file a report. They told me a unit was en route to take our statements.

  Her eyebrows knitted as we waited for them to arrive. “Do you think it was Bianca?”

  I thought about it. “She’s got a mouth on her, but to actually do something so full of malice? I can’t see it.”

  Her lips tightened. “She’ll do whatever she has to get you back.”

  I didn’t buy it. Unless Felix had been behind it. “Maybe it was Bart and he got some girl to do it.”

  She shook her head. “He might be a liar, but he’d never do this. I always felt safe with Bart—even when he was angry in class that first day. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Because he still fucking loved her, I thought. I pushed away how insecure that made me feel.

  I sighed. “Then we’re back to square one. Maybe the police can check the cameras and figure it out.”

  She nodded, and I tried to play it cool, but worry pricked at me. First the daisy thing and now this—what was next? The thought of anyone trying to mess with her drove me nuts. “Maybe you should resign from your library job.” I tapped my hand against my thigh, thinking. “Once football is over, I can keep my eye on you more, but right now . . .” I stopped. Feeling frustrated. Shit. I was hardly ever home. How was I going to watch over her?

  “I appreciate you being worried for me, but I can’t quit my job. I can take care of myself . . . alone. I’ve been doing it for a long time.”

  We stared at each other in the cool parking lot as a range of emotions flitted across her face. I couldn’t read them.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked, grasping her hands in mine. Since the moment we’d come out of the basement, I sensed that somehow I’d disappointed her.

  Sadness flickered in her eyes. “The past.”

  “Don’t judge me by Bart, Sunny. It isn’t fair.”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I’m not judging you by him anymore. It’s not that. It’s just you have this big future. You’re you and—” she cut her words off and swallowed, shaking her head. “I’m scared. I can’t handle my heart being broken again, Max. I just can’t.”

  “You’re the only girl on my mind right now. You.” I eased over to her, tilted her face up, and pressed my lips to her still swollen ones.

  She nodded still looking uncertain, but I let it go. I had other things I wanted to talk about. I leaned against my SUV and laced our fingers together. “Will you tell me about the scars on your back? Was it your dad? It’s just . . . Isabella said something once, and last night . . . they didn’t bother me,” I assured her softly. “They’re beautiful. They’re you.”

  She bit her lip and nodded, staring at the ground. “My father . . . he changed after my mom died. He . . . he wanted to control me and make sure I didn’t turn out like her. He lashed me with a belt and the buckle left scars. It only happened a few times—but the last time, I knew I couldn’t stay anymore. I came to live with Mimi.” She paused, her hands twisting. “He didn’t ruin me—I want you to know that. I don’t even hate him . . . I think. He was so in love with my mom, and wh
en she left us and then died—it ripped his whole world apart.”

  I couldn’t relate to the abuse, but I got that love could be a powerful thing and that it could change people.

  “Anyway, there’s a core of strength inside me . . . this need to just live and be happy. And I know that fate has a big life ahead of me, and whatever happened to me back then isn’t going to screw it up. And maybe . . . just maybe, awful things had to happen to me before I ended up in the right place.”

  Her gray gaze connected with mine, and I read hope there.

  I held my rage for her father in and focused on her. I’m sorry might come across as pity, so I didn’t say it. Instead, I kissed her lightly and hugged her, wrapping my forearms around her small waist and pulling her tight against me. “I’ve got you,” I whispered. “And you are in the right place.”

  Sunny

  ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON NEARLY two weeks after the library incident I stood outside one of the premier wedding shops in the Atlanta area, a chic little place called Boutique Celeste. I was fake dress shopping.

  It was rather cold for the first week of November. I shifted closer to the store, anxious to get inside and get this task over with.

  Isabella and Mimi flanked me on either side, my bodyguards. I say that because they’d both been sending me concerned looks for the past week. Just this morning Mimi had commented on the hollows in my cheeks. Isabella had chimed in about the shadows under my eyes.

  I just missed Max.

  Since the library, I’d seen less of him. We’d had lunch together several times, but for the most part we hadn’t been alone. I had my car back, so we weren’t driving to class together. Of course, he’d check in with me, texting late at night after practice. He always sounded exhausted. Most times he wanted to come over, often insisting, but I brushed him off with excuses that I was in bed or studying. He was in the thick of football season, or he probably would have pressed me more.

  We’d had our magical night in the basement, and it had been everything, but since then I’d decided to give him some space until he figured out exactly what we were. Shit. I didn’t know what we were. Perhaps sex only complicated us. I didn’t know. What I did know was that he had a ton of pressure on him, and I didn’t want to mess with his head like Bianca had.

  Thankfully there hadn’t been any more crazy incidents or flowers left on my stoop. We still didn’t know who the culprit was though. There was no video footage from the stairwell, just views of the library entrances and exits. Campus police had pored through them, along with my manager Pam, but there was nothing suspicious. It was frustrating—and scary. If the culprit had planned it, it meant they’d been waiting for me to finally make a trip down to the basement. My hope was that it was a harmless prank decided on a whim by someone who didn’t even know me.

  A pretty young girl in her mid-twenties with long brown hair rushed toward us from across the street. “So sorry I’m late,” she gushed with a sheepish grin. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Carrie Longmire with WBBG Channel 7, and I also freelance with the Atlanta Gazette for their Lifestyle section. Millicent asked me to write the article about your engagement.”

  “Of course.” I shook her hand and introduced Mimi and Isabella. Max had informed me of this a week ago, and I’d agreed. I was seeing this darn thing through to the end for him.

  We went inside the mirrored double doors and one of the shopkeepers met us immediately, a huge smile on her face. Of course, Millicent had prepped the owner of the boutique of our arrival.

  After air kisses and introductions, we made our way through the store to a small posh sitting area surrounded by a wall of mirrors. Mimi and Isabella both took a glass of champagne that was offered by the sales girl. Carrie declined.

  “Miss Blaine, would you like a drink?”

  I shook my head, my gaze bouncing off the heavy crown molding of the ceiling, the beautiful gold filigree wallpaper, and the wraparound leather seating. This place was insanely beautiful. And the dresses were a sea of billowy soft whites and creams that glittered under the sparkly lights of the diamond-drop chandeliers.

  It wasn’t real, I reminded myself. I gnawed on my lower lip, fighting back tears—God, it was so entirely stupid to get emotional, but since the night we’d been together, I was walking a tightrope with emotions, and at any moment I was going to fall and break into a million pieces.

  The saleslady brought me back with a clearing of her throat, making me start. “If you don’t want champagne, I’d be happy to run to the back and grab you a water or a soda?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you.”

  She nodded and ushered for us to sit down.

  “Based on the phone interview we had, Miss Blaine, we’ve put together a few styles we thought you might enjoy.” With a clap of her hands, a myriad of tall and stately models emerged from doors inset inside the mirrored walls.

  I sucked in a sharp breath at the visions in white. Elegant dresses with sweetheart necklines, strapless ones with pearls and beads, and a couple of quirky styles with lace and chiffon bell sleeves. One of them, a timeless body-hugging fishtail design, caught most of my attention. Sparkling crystals had been sewn into the material, dripping in a V design to the floor. I imagined pairing it with a purple and pink bouquet and bridesmaids dressed in slinky silver dresses. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered.

  Each model did a pirouette in front of us and then walked back to stand in a line.

  “Gorgeous,” Mimi gushed. “I always wanted a big wedding for your mom but she eloped.”

  “Is there a particular one you like?” the saleslady asked me.

  “No, Bette, but thank you.” I softened the next part with a smile. “Do you mind if we go ahead with the interview now? The girls can change if they want, and we can browse your store afterwards.” I hated the thought of them just standing there while we talked.

  Bette looked horrified at my words. Ugh. I was failing at this horribly. I wasn’t acting like a typical bride.

  “Yes, that’s fine, but the girls will remain,” she said. “They are here for you. Please let me know if you’d like to see any of the girls in another design.” She marched off, her back straight.

  “Damn,” Isabella whispered to me under her breath as she peered at me over the rim of her champagne glass. “Rich people really know how to shop, snooty saleslady and all.”

  Carrie, who’d been quiet during the entire viewing of the dresses, beamed when I turned my attention to her.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  She nodded and pulled out a voice recorder and a pad and pen. She started in with her questions, first beginning with how Max and I met. We’d worked on our “meet-cute” story since that first day in A&P and had decided to stick as close to it as we could. In other words, we’d met at a frat party briefly and had reconnected over the summer when we bumped into each other at the coffee shop.

  “What’s Max Kent really like?” Carrie asked, twirling her pen. “We’re all dying to know.” Her face flushed. “I’m a big fan of his too.”

  “Oh, you like football?” Mimi asked eagerly. She’d talk to a fencepost about sports.

  Carrie shrugged. “No. He’s just hot.”

  “Oh.” Mimi settled back down.

  So much for that.

  I rambled off some answer about how smart Max was. Other answers came to mind—soulmate, incredible lover, brave, tender—but I pushed those aside.

  “So is the date set yet?” Carrie asked.

  A snort came from Isabella, and I sent her a glare. Don’t mess this up for him, I conveyed. She stuck her tongue out at me, and Mimi popped her on the leg. Isabella flinched and ended up spilling a bit of champagne on the front of her shirt. I giggled. I’d woken up in a bad mood, knowing I was coming here, but I loved my little family.

  I focused back on Carrie and smiled as I lied through my teeth. “We’re planning on late next year, but no venue has been chosen. The draft is in January, so as soon as we know what team
he’ll play for, we’ll be moving . . .” my voice trailed off.

  Max would be leaving Atlanta—and me—soon.

  “I’m the maid of honor,” Isabella told her with a smug smile, reaching over to the tray on the ottoman style coffee table. She grabbed the champagne bottle and poured herself another glass.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Be sure you spell my name right too, Isabella Monroe. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A and M-O-N-R-O-E.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t exactly warmed up to Max since he’d sprung the proposal, but she was trying because I asked her to. I was committed to the fake fiancée stuff because I wanted Max to have everything he wanted. Mimi, on the other hand, continued to sing his praises.

  Carrie made a note and moved on with her pre-approved questions, and I answered as best I could. My traitorous eyes kept drifting over to the fishtail dress. The model was a statuesque blonde and her hair had been swept up in a disheveled but utterly appealing style. A simple chiffon veil was attached somewhere in her hair. It trailed to the floor in a pool of white.

  “You like that one?” Carrie asked softly, and I blinked, realizing that she’d put most of her stuff away and we were just having a regular conversation.

  “I do.”

  Mimi reached over and squeezed my hand. “Try it on, hon. It won’t hurt.”

  “Oh, you’ve found one you like?” Bette exclaimed coming up behind us. She clapped her hands excitedly making me jump. I imagined she’d been hovering somewhere watching us the entire time. “Which one?”

  I nudged my head at the blond model.

  She sighed, her hand over her heart. She really was the perfect shop lady. “Ah, yes, Blythe Couture. Very elegant—and not everyone can wear that style, but you certainly could, Miss Blaine.”

  “Oh, please try it on,” Carrie said in awe. “Just to say that I saw Max Kent’s fiancée try on a dress . . . it would make for a great line in my article . . . even if it’s not the one you end up wearing.” She blushed.

  I twisted at the ring on my finger, thinking. Reaching over to the ottoman, I poured myself a full glass of champagne and gulped it down.