by Emerson Rose
“Wait,” I say, sitting up and placing a kiss on his chiseled abs.
“Wait? What do you have in mind here, baby?”
“Nothing, just wanted to see if you could do it.” I smile up at him, and he tackles me, dragging me up the bed to punish me for teasing him.
“That’s the last time that trick’s going to work, you know? You’re gonna get it now, baby,” he says, stripping my clothes off.
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
Epilogue
“Hey, gorgeous, wanna go to the beach today, or maybe you’d rather go to the beach?” King whispers in my ear from behind me, where he is spooning against me.
“I think you just said the same place twice,” I murmur against his arm with my eyes still closed.
“That’s because we’re in Aruba, on the beach, where I can watch my sexy wife in her tiny white bikini all day. Unless you’d rather stay in bed naked all day. That’s even better. I’m totally down for that.”
King slides his chiseled, lean body against my backside, kissing and nipping a trail to my waist and ending at the small of my back. He has one hand full of ass cheek as he bites down a little harder than usual on the other, but I still giggle until he turns me over and tears off the sheet to start our daily honeymoon ecstasy festival.
I hold my hands over my eyes and smile as he kisses every ticklish spot on my naked body.
“Close your eyes.”
“I’ve already got them covered,” I say between fits of giggles.
“Just make sure they’re closed, Mrs. Ortega, got it?”
“Yes, got it.”
I love it when he calls me by my married name, and I love even more that it’s not a name synonymous with the drug world. King took Sebastián’s name so we could start fresh, and fresh is what he’s been for the past ten days of our honeymoon. But I’m not complaining.
With my eyes closed, I feel the warmth of his body disappear and I hear something being stirred in a glass. The bed dips when he returns and straddles me between his legs. The heavy weight of my favorite part of his anatomy rests on my belly.
I stick out my lip and pout. “I wanna look.”
“Nope, not yet,” he says, removing my hands from my eyes.
“Keep em closed.”
The sun pours in through the windows of our bungalow so brightly that even with my eyes closed, I can see his form moving above me through my thin lids.
“What are we doing?”
“Cross your wrists.”
I do as I’m told, and he raises my wrists and ties them with a soft piece of material to the headboard.
“Trust me?”
“If I could open my eyes, I’d roll them so you would know how silly that question is.”
“Okay, open them.”
I swear, it doesn’t matter how many times I look at this man—he still takes my breath away. Every tattoo, every scar, every chiseled muscle makes my mouth water and my heart flutter.
Every day that he is alive I thank my lucky stars for crappy cell phone service in Puerto Rico. He had to walk miles to find help when his SUV broke down on the way to the airport that night. The time he spent arranging for it to be repaired saved his life.
After my moment of shock and awe, I watch as he reaches to the bedside table for a glass of water with a spoon in it.
“What’s that?”
“Water.” He shrugs matter-of-factly.
“You thirsty?” I ask, smiling. I know he’s up to something.
“Nope.”
“Okay, I give, what’s up with the water?”
He begins to stir, and I see it begin to cloud from something that’s settled on the bottom.
“You gonna drug me?”
“Nope.” He stops stirring and looks at me seriously.
“This is three months’ worth of birth control pills.”
“What?” I try to sit up, forgetting my hands are tied.
“Why would you ruin all those . . .”
He’s smiling now as he stirs. He sees that I’m beginning to understand.
“You want another baby?” My words are so soft, they’re barely audible.
“Yes. Do you?”
We haven’t talked about expanding our family. It’s only been a year since I was reunited with King and Juliette, but we’re married now, and all of the hurt and pain is behind us, so what better time?
“Yes.” My eyes mist with tears of joy.
His smile widens and he sets the glass down.
“Well, we could get started trying right now if you want.”
“I need something first.”
“Anything, baby, it’s yours.”
“Pinky swear that you’ll never, ever leave me again.”
He looks at me long and hard, deep into my eyes, past my common sense and around the corner to my insecurities, where he stops.
“I, King Tomas Ortega, pinky swear to love and honor, respect and be true to you, Holland Blue Bennett-Ortega, until my dying breath.” He reaches up to where my hands are bound and tugs on my pinky with his.
“Those are your wedding vows.”
“Those are my pinky swear vows now too.”
He drags his finger from the hollow of my neck to my navel and wraps his hands around my hips.
“Okay, and one more thing.”
He winks. “Anything.”
“I just want to be Holland Blue Ortega, no more Bennett.”
He leans down and feathers his lips against mine.
“You’ve got it, Mrs. Ortega, now close your eyes again.”
“Again?” He nods, and I close my eyes and feel another silky piece of material cover my eyes. He ties it loosely behind my head, and when I open my eyes, it’s completely dark. His lips are on mine again, more urgently this time. He takes his time, kissing me dizzy and tasting every inch of me, from my shoulders to my belly. When I’m panting and desperate, he leans back and bends my knees to grace me with the pleasure of his mouth between my legs. I arch my back off the bed, coming apart at the seams when he takes me to heaven, not once or twice, but three times before sliding his thick cock into my soaking wet folds.
“I love you . . . God, King, I love you.” I gasp and dig my nails into his arms.
“I love you too. Now hold on.” His words send a shiver down my spine, and I grab the headboard tighter. He glides out, and I hear him whisper something before he buries himself deep inside of me, moaning against my skin. The headboard jerks when he reaches over me to hold onto it for leverage. When he pulls away and begins thrusting in and out of me, I can taste the desire in the room. I’m no longer in Aruba in a bed with my new husband. I’m being tossed around in a tidal wave, sucked down deep until I don’t know which way is up. I’m at his mercy, and his current pulls me to the edge of pure pleasure until I burst through the surface and melt around this man who loves me so completely.
My hands are released and the blindfold is shoved down almost frantically.
“Holland, are you okay?” Some things never change.
When I open my eyes, King looks down at me with concern, still panting. I watch a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his face and drip onto my bare chest. He gathers my sated body into his lap and cradles me in his arms, stroking my hair and rocking us back and forth.
“I’ve never heard you cry out like that.”
“You’ve never made me come like that.”
He stops rocking and looks down at me.
“Never?”
“Uh uh, not like that.” I shake my head back and forth. He looks around thoughtfully before meeting my eyes again.
“Must have been the restraints or the blindfold.”
“Nope, pretty sure it was this,” I say, wiggling in his lap. He chuckles and lifts one corner of his mouth in a smirk.
“Well, whatever it was, I think I’ll do it again and again, and then we can eat, and I’ll give it another shot—how’s that sound?”
“Like a perfect day in pa
radise.”
“Every day is a perfect day in paradise with you, baby. Every single day.”
The End.
Playboy’s Baby
EMERSON ROSE
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2016 PRISM HEART PRESS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Description
I needed to pay for law school.
They needed a baby.
We all got more than we bargained for.
When I offered to become a surrogate for a Nigerian princess and her American husband, I never expected to find my own fairytale ending in the process.
His name is Liam Wild, and these things I know: he’s an international DJ. His playboy reputation precedes him. His marriage is a sham. And I’m the only one who can help.
But it’s not that simple. It never is.
I am in love and out of it I will not go.
C.S. Lewis
Prologue
Liam
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that marrying Amira was a major fuck up.
I’m not even sure how it happened, to be honest. I’m not the marrying type or the long-term relationship type. I’m the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em type. I don’t drink or do drugs because I want to make sure the women I take to my bed get the full Wild effect. I worship a woman’s body for one night, leave her in a sated pleasure coma, and hop on a jet to the next country scheduled on my tour. My unparalleled lifestyle was obliterated in Germany six months ago after playing a bone-rattling, twelve-hour show in front of hundreds of thousands of people. I woke up the next day married to a Nigerian princess. I figured, Eh, things could be worse.
I was wrong.
Amira Oni is smoking fucking hot, talented, and a temptress . . . but she’s also a rebellious, snotty brat who’s used to getting what she wants at any expense—and on that night, she wanted me.
Being an international electronic music DJ, I’m exposed to a lot of illegal activity—drugs, alcohol and black market shit. I try to stay away from most of it. That’s how I’ve made it so far in this business, and it’s how I stay professional among some of the hardest partying people in the world.
So when I woke up naked in a strange hotel suite with Amira straddling me in bed and a ring on my finger, I knew something was seriously fucked up. My head felt like a boiling chunk of volcanic crust sliding off the edge of the coast and into the ocean after an eruption. I didn’t remember a thing before ending my show the night before . . . well, almost nothing.
It was hot that night. I was exhausted, and somehow, someone slipped by security onto the sound stage. I thought it was a confused raver or an overzealous fan, but when I felt a sting in my arm, I knew something was very wrong.
Amira injected me with a drug that stole twelve important hours of my life—hours in which I am told I partied hard, fell in love at first sight, and married the daughter of the richest oil tycoon in the world, Fechi Oni.
Amira would never admit to drugging me. She swears that we fell madly in love and I asked her to marry me on the spot. No fucking way would that have ever happened. I was on tour, though; there was no time to see a doctor or investigate. I had to be on a plane to the U.S. an hour after I woke up in her bed.
I was pissed off, but I didn’t take it too seriously. My head was in a fog, so I dressed and left the ring on her bathroom vanity with a chuckle, thinking, crazy fucking bitch.
I blew her off, but when I got home to LA, I was bombarded by the press about my recent marriage and questions about my possible inheritance. There were photographs on the cover of every tabloid of Amira and me making out, drinking, dancing, and finally, standing before a German minister and getting married. Social media exploded, the story was everywhere, and I was confused and raging mad at the bitch for messing with my mind . . . and my body. Amira murdered my playboy reputation. She saw something she wanted and took it without asking. She just fucking took it.
Chapter 1
Liam
The ground under my feet of the outdoor venue vibrates with the beat while I manipulate the breakdown and bring in the latest European hook for the hundred thousand people who’ve paid to rave with me tonight. I fucking love my job. There aren’t many professions where people worldwide adore you. Women throw themselves at your feet, and the people you party with make Jordan Belfort’s lifestyle from The Wolf of Wall Street look like child’s play.
Somebody in the crowd screams, “I love you, Freedom!” during a break in the music, and camera flashes go off in every direction when I smile and pull my shirt off. I ball it up and hold it over my head before tossing it into the crowd that’s rushing the stage. They love my smile, but they love my abs more. I flip my headphone back off one ear and give them what they want. I smile so wide that I can feel my dimples piercing my cheeks. I pump my fist in the air along with the heavy pounding beat while the lucky people who are close enough to the booth snap pictures. Did I mention that I love my fucking job?
Tonight is bittersweet though. I’m going to wring every single second of happiness out of the time I’m here, because tomorrow, I go home to Los Angeles and my pretend but not-so-pretend wife, Amira.
“Hey!” My stage manager yells, and I feel the presence of someone directly behind me. Nobody is ever supposed to get in the booth, ever.
I turn to see who’s broken the security barrier, and standing behind me is a tiny woman in a bikini covered in glow in the dark body paint, glow bracelets, candy necklaces, purple-streaked hair, and ski goggles. Yeah, she’s one of mine.
I wink at her and motion to my stage manager, Steve, to let her stay. She’s a fan, and I love my fans—just not when they inject me with illegal drugs and marry me, which is what my wife did six months ago. I’ve never been able to prove it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
“She wants to come closer—that ok with you?” Steve signs to me. I made my entire crew learn basic sign language so we can communicate easier during the long shows when the music is too loud to even yell over. Ever since my incident with Amira, I don’t let people get close in the booth. But this chick worked really hard to get in here, and despite all the paint and glowing clothes, she’s hot. I allow it just this once. I nod my head and motion for the petite raver to come closer, and she jumps to my side, clasping her hands together over her chest.
It’s become well-known that I don’t like people getting too close to me, although they don’t know why. This particular fan is schooled on my quirks. She’s keeping her hands to herself while we bob our heads to the music together. I look over, and she smiles a perfect set of white teeth. They glow in the dark under the black lights, reminding me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. She asks with her eyes if she can touch me, and I give her a quick nod up and down.
The crowd goes insane when the moment is flashed on every big screen in the stadium. The light show pulses with the music, and I hear them chanting, “Free-dom, Free-dom, Free-dom!”
My little glow worm wraps her hand around my thick bicep and pulls herself into my side. I keep my other hand moving over the massive control panel to keep the music pumping and let her enjoy her moment in the spotlight.
Steve hovers behind us, waiting for me to dismiss the girl, but I’m enjoying the human contact for a change. Maybe because I know that this tour is almost over, and I�
��ll be going back to LA and my psycho, pretend wife. I’d love nothing more than to take this little thing back to my hotel and spend the night making her sweat that paint off her body. I’d turn my cock into a light saber, sliding in and out of her and claiming those curves all night long, but I can’t risk getting caught. I don’t cheat on my so-called wife. I’m not about to let her claim adultery and take half of my fortune.
As much as I can’t stand her, I have never so much as touched another woman intimately since Amira brought my playboy life to a screeching halt. When I divorce her ass, I’m not losing the career I’ve been building since I was fifteen. Her father swore he would destroy me if I aided in disgracing his Nigerian royal family by divorcing Amira. He was embarrassed enough that she married a lowly Caucasian American DJ, but to have this lowly DJ dump her would be reprehensible.
With that thought, I wrap my arm around my sweet, glowing fan girl and give her one last hug. I look at Steve and sign, ‘take her away’. She hugs me and happily bounces off with Steve, bobbing her head of wild purple hair to the beat . . . to my beat . . . to DJ Freedom’s beat.
Chapter 2
Liam
Amira didn’t pick me up at the airport. I wasn’t surprised. I arrive home an hour later than planned, drop my bag on the floor by the door, and head to the bedroom to change and shower. The bright California mansion is quiet other than the thump, thump, thump of Amira’s feet slamming onto the treadmill in the home gym upstairs. Nice . . . she forgot to pick me up at the airport because she’s working out. Typical fucking Amira. She could at least pretend to be a good wife if she’s going to live in my house.
I pull my t-shirt from the back of my neck over my head with one hand and toss it on the bed, toe off my shoes, and make my way into the en suite bathroom. Amira’s thumping has stopped. I’m sure she’s coming to hit me with some heavy manipulation tactics. And if today is anything like the night three months ago when I passed through town on tour, she’s probably about to spread on a thick layer of seduction. That’s how Amira plays her derelict game.