by Aubrey Irons
I grimace as I pull another swig from the bottle older than me.
No more lounging around in bathrobes and pajamas drinking wine, no more letting those eyes of hers and that smooth skin of her neck beneath the wave of her hair get to me like that. I snort and glance down at the bottle in my hand. Shit, I need to never drink around this girl, ever, because I apparently lose all fucking self control around her when I do. I should make this a dry house if I want either of us to survive the next six fucking months.
I groan, still rock hard as I think about that white robe, grazing across the smooth skin of her thighs out on the veranda just now. I think about what might be under it - what it might look like dropping to the ground at her feet.
Christ, I wish I could remember more of the brief flashes from last night in Vegas. I wish I could remember if I pulled her clothes off or if she did. Was it manic and fast, or was it a slow tease? Did I take my pants off, or did she use those delicate fingers to pull at my belt - needing it, craving it.
I know nothing happened from the lack of open condoms and the fact that, well, that fact that you can just tell when you’ve had sex the night before.
But damn I wonder how close we got.
I can feel my pulse throbbing like an engine as I picture pushing her back into that big, hotel bed. I imagine pulling her on top of me, and dragging her up until she straddled my face. My cock strains like iron against the front of my pajama pants as I let my head fall back against the door to my room and picture using my hands to center her on my tongue. I groan as I imagine tasting her - imagine sliding my tongue deep and drinking in the sweet honeyed taste of her. My hands on her ass, making her ride my mouth.
Making her come.
Before I can stop myself, my cock is out and wrapped firmly in my hand. And I’m growling as I stroke the thick length of it, imagining flipping us over, pinning her down on the bed with her legs over my shoulders, and fucking her slow and deep. I imagine sheathing every goddamn inch I have to the hilt inside her dripping wet pussy, feeling her grip at me, watching her face crumble as the pleasure rocks through her. I picture her hands on my hips, urging me on as her lips beg for more - harder, faster, deeper.
The cry comes grunting from my lips as I come in time to the Natalie in my mind going to pieces under me. And as she claws at the sheets and shatters inside my head, I groan as the cum arcs from my pulsing cock to drop hotly across the hardwood floor of my room.
Alone.
I’m still pulling, still feeling the blood roaring through me like a fire as I catch my breath and sink down against the bedroom door, shaking my head as I eye the bottle in my hand.
Fancy, classy, elegant.
She’s like this fucking bottle of wine. Sweet, silken, and wrapped in something so elegant and priceless that a guy like me has no business putting his hands on. A girl like that - like this bottle of wine - is used to crystal glasses, and soft classical music played in the background while it’s sipped slowly with painted lips from manicured fingers.
And here I am drinking it straight from the bottle.
I chuckle as I bring the wine to my mouth, take a swig, and shake my head.
What the hell have I gotten myself into.
17
Natalie
Eyes closed, I reach for a towel as water trickles down my face to drip into the marble sink beneath me. I bring it to my face, patting my skin dry before I toss it away and finally have to face myself in the bathroom mirror.
The same Creedence Clearwater record blasting from downstairs that originally woke me up is still playing - a reminder that I’m not alone in this house.
As if I could forget.
The pink blush returns to my cheeks the second I open my eyes, and I groan.
Yeah, that happened last night.
I scowl at my reflection in the mirror, silently chastising myself for my weakness and for letting Austin get to me like that. Yeah, definitely weakness. Weakness and months of nothing with Vince, since - clearly - he was a little worn out from banging his secretary all day at work.
So, yes, that’s what I’m blaming the fact that I kissed Austin - “kissed” being the understatement of the century. Almost worse though is that I came with my fingers thinking of him.
Yeah, it’s weakness, and withdrawal, and momentary insanity. All of those things.
And it might not be able to be helped that the man paying me to be his wife happens to be absurdly attractive with a body in perfect freaking condition. But what can be helped is him baiting me like that. What can be helped is him trying to get to me, and walking around without a damn shirt on, and whispering lines I’m sure he’s used on a hundred other girls like “I’m a great mistake.”
Please.
I want to roll my eyes at how ridiculous it is.
Right, says the girl who ate that line up, hook and sinker last night.
If we’re actually going to be doing this - if he’s serious about pulling off this whole fake media show with me smiling and waving to the cameras like a good little trophy wife, we’re going to have to establish some boundaries. Boundaries like shirts, and like not whispering wholly inappropriate little lines into my ear like I’m one of his vapid little football groupies.
Boundaries like the fact that I apparently can’t even have three sips of wine with him without losing my damn head.
Which means taking a deep breath, pretending last night never happened, and going down there and giving him a piece of my-
I frown and shake my head.
Right, except going down there means ideally putting clothes on, of which I still have none since going off to solve that problem last night resulted in another one entirely.
Grumbling, I pull the white terrycloth robe back on and head downstairs to face the music.
“Could we turn that down maybe?”
I blink in my pre-coffee daze as I step into the sunlit kitchen and glare at the Bluetooth speaker blaring “Proud Mary.”
The only response comes from Buckley, who raises his chin from the kitchen floor and starts to wag his tail when he sees me. I shuffle over to the speaker and turn it off.
“Hello?”
I frown at the lack of response as the house goes silent. Buckley whimpers as he trots over to nuzzle my leg.
“Yeah, I like them too, but maybe at a normal level, huh?” I murmur at the lab as I pour myself myself some coffee. In a way I’m relieved Austin isn’t here, since it lets me pretend last night never happened.
Or at least, put it off a little longer.
It’s not until I sit in one of the kitchen bar stools that I see the note taped to the kitchen counter.
The pants-optional offer is still on the table, but if you insist on bucking tradition, use this.
I roll my eyes at the note, fingering the black Amex card sitting on top of it, along with the car keys with a Porsche logo on them lying next to it. It’s not until I actually pick up the card though that I see the little addition underneath it.
P.S. I like white and lace. Crotchless preferred, but thongs will do.
I take a quick, scalding gulp of my coffee as my face goes red.
“You did what?!”
I haven’t even turned the car on in Austin’s driveway when my mother calls.
I wince as I hold the phone away from my ear before taking a deep breath and bringing it back.
“Mother, listen-”
“A football person, Natalie?!” She gasps dramatically, like she’s just been stabbed, and I can practically feel that token withering head shake of hers coming through the phone.
“Player, mother. They’re called football players.”
“Oh, what difference does it make!” She snaps, sighing heavily again. “I mean my goodness, Natalie, what were you thinking? I raised you better than this and you damn well know it!”
I bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose, shaking my head.
“I spent far too much on your schooling and your upbring
ing for you to be slumming it with an athlete like that, Natalie,” my mother moans, as if hearing about some sort of world-shaking catastrophe.
“Mother, will you let me-”
“Natalie, my God,” she cuts me off. “Someone like that is just simply beneath you, dear. I mean what in God’s name were you-”
“He makes forty million a year.”
The line goes silent, and I could almost laugh at how predictable the response is.
Almost.
“Oh, Natalie!”
Her entire tone changes like the flip of a coin, something almost like glee and coming through the phone.
“Natalie, I am so proud of you, sweetheart!”
I roll my eyes as I shake my head. Loraine Ames-Royce, ladies and gentlemen.
“Thank you, Mother,” I say dryly, flipping down the driver’s side visor in the Porsche to try and put on some eye makeup. It’s bad enough I’m going out shopping in the black cocktail dress from two nights ago, not to mention commando since I’ve got zero clean underwear. Might as well take this lovely mother-daughter bonding moment to at least look halfway presentable.
“Oh, don’t make it sound like that,” she snaps. “You know what I mean, Natalie. You’re moving up!”
I snort. “Like you?”
“You are not going to fault me for moving on from your father, Natalie.”
She’s right, I’m not. Not after the shit he pulled, even before the arrest. It still doesn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at her though.
“I have to say though,” Her voice takes on this distasteful tone, “Las Vegas, Natalie?” She spits the word out like a bad taste in her mouth.
“Yes, Mother. We were feeling impulsive.”
By which I mean, blackout drunk.
“Well, never mind that,” she says quickly. “The important thing is you’re married.”
I snort out a dry laugh. “Right, that’s the important thing.”
“Natalie,” She sighs, like I’m the one that just said something ridiculous.
“Mom, I have to go.”
Shopping goes fine, even if I do feel like the ultimate cliché driving around Rodeo Drive in a sports car with my “husband’s” credit card.
Luckily, it’s Beverly Hills, and I’m surrounded by every possible instance of this very cliché.
Welcome to your life, Natalie.
And really, in the scheme of clichés, my arrangement with Austin really isn’t that bad. Yes, this whole thing stemmed from me needing money, but it’s not like I’m destitute, or don’t have family I could crawl to if I could get over my own ego. There are probably women trying on clothes in the very stores I’m shopping in that are all but indentured servants to rich, fat, older men with money who decided to buy a trophy wife instead of cultivating a personality and social skills.
Yeah, it could be a lot worse.
Hell, I could still be with Vince.
I think about it as I drive back to the house with a backseat full of clothes. Austin might be obnoxious, and full of himself, and cocky beyond belief, but he’s not an asshole. It’s a bitter feeling realizing my fake, bought-and-paid-for relationship is already better in two days than the two years I spent in an actual relationship, but it’s the truth.
And really, this could work. I could smile for the cameras, and join him at dinners and functions for the next few months. This business arrangement could work out just fine for the both of us, as long as we remember what it is.
As long as I keep my damn head on straight, and keep my traitorous and illicit thoughts about him buried deep inside, and pretend that kissing him - twice - never happened, we’ll be just fine.
I’ll just make sure I’m never alone at all with him, in the house that we share, for the next six months.
No big deal.
I take a breath as I pull up the driveway. Yeah, this’ll be fine. As long as we can set up boundaries, and-
The car brakes to a sharp stop as I slam my foot down, my eyes locked on the girl walking out the front door of Austin’s house. She’s young, and gorgeous, and dressed like…well, like that.
She looks up and then glares at me as I step out of the car.
“Oh, so you’re Natalie.”
I suppress the frown that comes to my face, trying to make myself smile at her instead. “Can I help you?”
The blonde girl barks out a laugh, using one long pink fingernail to brush a single stray lock of hair back from her face. She purses her painted, enhanced-looking lips at me.
“Tina” she says curtly, not offering a hand. “And congratulations.” She sneers the word out sourly, curling her upper lip and arching a brow as she gives me this look.
“Uh, thanks.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Yeah, great catch you’ve got in there.” She cocks a hip and sucks on her teeth, glaring at me like she’s waiting for me to respond somehow.
“Who were you with before?”
I wrinkle my brow. “Excuse me?”
“Which player, honey,” she says pointedly.
I shake my head. “Oh, uh, none?”
She scowls and then rolls her eyes in an exaggeratedly bored way. “Well, I don’t know how you did it then, but honey, you got a good one.”
I channel my years of etiquette classes and smile pleasantly at her. “Well, thank you, he’s-”
“Oh yeah. Rich, handsome-” She snorts a bitter laugh, her eyes narrowing at me and her lips curling wickedly. “Great lay.”
My face goes bright red, and I frown as I quickly look away from her. “Oh, I-”
What am I going to say, ‘I wouldn’t know’?
I can feel the flush blooming into my face when I suddenly realize I’m not embarrassed, I’m mad. I don’t for the life of me why, but there’s this possessive thing that comes roaring up inside. Because without really knowing why on earth I should be, I’m mad that this girl apparently knows that.
And I don’t.
God, what am I, jealous? I mean this is Austin, the famous player, the infamous womanizer, the legendary man-whore. Of course there are pretty - if not trashy-looking - girls in LA he’s slept with.
I just want to be anywhere in the damn world but standing right in front of one of them right now.
“Oh, honey, the things he can do with that mouth?”
She’s grinning wickedly at me, baiting me, waiting for a reaction I can’t - and won’t - give.
“Yeah, Austin’s-”
“Oh Lord,” She steps even closer as she cuts me off, getting right in my face with that bitchy little smile on her face. “And that thing he’s got between his-”
“Oh, sweetie,” my words are dripping in honey as I smile as sweetly as I can at her. “I know.” My lips curl into a big smile as I wink and suddenly hold the giant, glittering, gaudy diamond ring on my finger up to her face.
“I married him, remember?”
Her Botoxed lips snap shut as she goes quiet, and her eyes flash jealously over the ring on my finger as I gloat and smile sweetly at her.
Take that, bitch.
Because two can play this game, and I’ve been around enough catty, biting, awful socialite-type girls in my day to know exactly how this game plays out.
So, one of Austin’s ex-skanks wants to play? Game on, honey.
“Guess a guy as great as Austin just couldn’t get pinned down until he found the best girl for the job, huh?” I smile a big toothy smile at the bitch in front of me as her face goes dark.
“Yeah, well-”
“So listen girl, I’d love to talk more and maybe hear all about the time Austin never called you back or whatever, but I really need to get inside and say hi to my husband, ‘kay?”
Tina scowls at me as her lips purse tight, before she abruptly brushes past me and clip-clops her way across the cobble-stone driveway in her heels to the Honda parked to the side.
I wave brightly as she slams the door. “So good to meet you!” I call out cattily as she starts u
p the car and starts to pull down the driveway, leaving me with the smug look on my face.
And it’s stupid, and I know it’s stupid as I turn and stomp into the house. But that doesn’t change the scowl on my face. Yes, we’re not really a couple, and he’s not “mine” or anything like that. But God, at least make an effort to hide it from me.
And all of a sudden, I’m thinking of Vince, and that stupid secretary of his - laughing at me, humiliating me.
I quickly shake my head, rolling my eyes at myself. No, this is nothing like that. However classless it is for Austin to have girls over like this when we’re supposed to be married, I’m not mad, because there’s nothing to be mad about. He and I are just-
The car comes screeching to a halt, and I turn to see Tina stepping out of it and fixing me with a wicked look.
“Oh, and hon?” She smiles sweetly at me. “So good hear that you’re married and all, but just thought you should know something else.”
I roll my eyes as I shake my head “Look, Tina, I-”
“I’m pregnant with his kid.”
The words hit like a slap to the face.
Quite suddenly, I have nothing to say.
Tina smirks and gets back in the car as I stand there like a complete ass just staring at her car as it pulls down the long winding driveway and speeds away.
I whirl towards the house, dropping the shopping bags right there in the driveway.
18
Natalie
He’s shirtless in the living room, wearing just a pair of jogging pants as he lounges on the couch with a beer in his hand. I can feel the rage spike a little higher at the thought of her, sitting there on the couch with her hands all over him, or her mouth, or-
“Have a little fucking class, Austin.”
He jerks his head up. “Excuse me?”
I glare at him, shaking my head. “You know what I’m talking about.”
He frowns. “You…want me to put a shirt on or someth-”
“I just met Tina outside.”