Shopping for a CEO's Wife (Shopping for a Billionaire Book 12)

by Julia Kent

  “If you stretch it,” I explain, reaching down for emphasis, “and do it for long enough, you can basically re-create your foreskin.”

  “If you keep doing that, you’ll re-create my lunch break.”

  I halt. “Lunch break?”

  He gives me a half-sheepish grin. “It’s been two days since we last had sex. I caught you bending over to grab some blank paper at the copier and you were off to a meeting, so...”

  “You masturbate in your office?”

  “God, no.” He’s scandalized by the suggestion.

  “Good.”

  “I would never do it in my office!”

  “Okay. I heard you.”

  “I do it in my office bathroom.”

  “Wait a minute. Hold on. I spent my day being chased by paparazzi, listening to Josh talk endlessly about his penis project, pictures of my uneven breasts and nose job made their way online, Perez Hilton thinks I want you to get Scrotox for the wedding ceremony -- ”

  His hand goes up. “Scrotox?” I look down.

  C5.

  I nod, too wound up to stop. “They’re accusing me of being scrotoxic! Can you believe that?”

  “If I knew what ‘scrotoxic’ meant, I’d -- ” He studies me carefully. “I’d fully agree with however you feel about it.”

  “And I come home to find out you whack off to thoughts of me bending over at the copy machine – and you do it in your office bathroom?”

  “Sometimes in my storage closet.”

  “I don’t even know you!”

  “Yes, you do.” He moves my hand so that I begin stroking him. “With or without a foreskin, that’s nice.” He stops. “Do you really want me to restore my foreskin?”

  “Are you willing to put a ring clamp on what’s left and stretch it over the glans?”

  “No. And in case I’m not being clear enough, hell no.”

  “Wear a g-string with an elephant trunk covering your penis, attached to a harness on your knee, so the cone that protects your glans doesn’t accidentally fall out of your pant leg?”

  Speechless. I’ve left him speechless. Andrew grabs the sheet and covers his lower half, tucking the edges under his ass.

  “On a scale of C1 to C10, how important is this to you?” That’s his negotiating voice. The one he brings out when he’s already decided the answer is no. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “I never joke about your penis.”

  “You also never lie.”

  He reaches for the top button of my pajama shirt, brushing little orange crumbs off to the side. Those strong, smooth fingers release the first button, then the second, a small smile tickling his lips.

  I look down. “What are you doing?”

  “Unbuttoning your top.”

  “I can see that. But we’re in the middle of a conversation, and this is very distracting.”

  “Good.” He continues.

  “Why?”

  “Because you have too many clothes on.”

  “I’m wearing pajamas. In bed. You know, where you’re supposed to wear pajamas?”

  “Not in my bed. You’re a C10.”

  I sputter. “I’m what?”

  “C1 to C10 is the scale, right? And C10 means full coverage. Under my interpretation of your scale, I need to get you from C10 to C1.”

  “I’m not a penis!”

  “No. You’re even better. A naked woman in my bed.” Wiggling his foot, he finds my feet. “And one who already warmed up her toes. No icicles between my thighs tonight.”

  “You told me it’s fine to put my cold feet there when I crawl into bed.”

  He continues unbuttoning my top until both sides slide open.

  “There is an enormous difference between ‘fine’ and ‘pleasurable.’”

  I look between his legs. “There most certainly is.”

  Before I can say another word, he’s on top of me, hands holding my wrists above my head, mouth kissing mine, licking a sudden trail to my breast and dipping to each nipple for a taste.

  “Tugger, huh?” he whispers, blowing lightly on my wet areola, making my nipple tighten. “Hey, if a guy wants to restore his foreskin, more power to him. No judgment from me. We all have to be happy with our bodies. But I have no interest in changing anything about my junk.”

  “Your junk is fine.”

  “Mmmm, not good enough.” He bites my nipple, just hard enough to send electricity down between my legs, making me moan.

  “It’s more than fine!” I gasp.

  “How much more? On a scale from 1 to 10.”

  “Eleven!”

  “That’s my girl.” Pulling back, he sits up, reaching for the waistband of my oversized flannel pajama pants, stripping them off me with ease. Then he stops, reaches for the lamp, and turns it on a brighter setting.

  “What are you doing?”

  He stares openly at my breasts for longer than I’m accustomed to. There’s a decidedly evaluative quality to his attentions.

  Finally, he says, “Perez and TMZ are wrong. They’re not that uneven.”

  For that, he gets a pillow in the face.

  I scramble up to the headboard, shouting, “You did see the news!”

  “Your breasts and nose are trending on Facebook. Our PR division sent me a report.”

  “My breasts and nose have their own report? That’s insane!”

  “You underestimate the importance of your breasts in the world.”

  “Did the gossip sites mention anything else?”

  “They called Marie your grandmother.”

  I groan. It’s a combination of realizing Andrew knows everything, so there’s no hope of hiding any of what happened today from him, and also that thing he’s doing to me with his thumb.

  “And the elephant trunk they photoshopped on my package was hilarious.”

  “How can you laugh about this?”

  “What else am I supposed to do? Put you under house arrest? Keep you confined to a compound?”

  “That’s starting to look increasingly appealing. Just make sure my sister wives are nice.”

  He does a double take. “Is – is that an option?”

  I shove him off the bed. Just as he pitches backward, though, he grabs me by the waist and we roll off together, landing with a soft thump, all our naked parts rubbing against each other in a maddeningly delightful way.

  “You’re such an ass,” I say, pelting him with my fists.

  He squeezes mine. “Mmmm, ass.”

  “Andrew! I’m serious!”

  “So am I. I’m always serious about admiring your ass.” His kiss stops me from yelling at him. Something has to. We’re on the floor now, half the bedspread stretched at an odd angle, our bodies pinning it to the ground while Andrew cups my face with both his hands, fingers buried in my hair, his kiss wet and wild and taking me out of my head and into my skin.

  Where I belong.

  We’re breathing hard, shifting out of the head space where we talk to communicate. More than anything else, what I need now is him – naked, open, raw, and real. My day fell apart in a seemingly endless chain of misunderstandings and mistakes that snowballed, leading to being used yet again as a tool for someone else’s gain.

  In his arms, I’m treasured. No one exploits me. I’m not critiqued and mocked, measured and judged, found wanting or made fun of.

  And I certainly am not used to make money.

  All of those accumulated ego assaults wash away like I’m being bathed in the holy water of his attentions, cleansed by kisses and touches, each one making us purer and purer. Returning to baseline with his chest against mine, his warm hands grab my hips and ass with the hands of a man who knows what he possesses. I find myself in a very rare place.

  “I don’t want to think,” I tell him. “I don’t want to worry or plan. I don’t want to track every little detail and emotion in every person I see. I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to think five steps ahead, or focus on the future and plan backwards
. I just want to let it all go and be with you. Really be with you, fully present. I just need to be here. Now. And only now. With you.”

  Handsome, listening eyes meet mine, perceptive and warm. Instead of saying whatever he thinks I want to hear, he kisses me harder.

  I’m on my back, the valley between my breasts nice and wide, chest rising and falling hard as I come down to normal after that. My heart feels like it’s drag racing in my chest and my belly curls in, pushing my ribs to full expansion as my body radiates with a singularity that has never happened before.

  He sits up on one arm, looks at my breasts, then meets my eyes.

  “They’re uneven. So is Mona Lisa’s smile. Both are beautiful works of art.”

  And then he kisses each breast lightly on the nipple before I try to smother him with my pillow.

  Chapter 15

  How’s your morning? Mine is great. Just great.

  Seventeen texts from Katie Gallagher, all asking for my rubber stamp on a variety of wedding issues that mothers of the bride normally make.

  Centerpieces with live frogs? Who knew Marie was right?

  Hygge-themed pre-ceremony resting rooms at the church? Um, okay. How the hell do you even pronounce ‘hygge’?

  Honeymoon in Dubai, at the new Anterdec property? Hijab required.

  Hold up on that last one.

  I’m squinting, reading through a mountain of texts about the wedding, when my phone goes crazy, notifications on social media exploding. The phone buzzes and burps so many times I assume it’s a malfunction and press the Power button hard, the screen going black.

  “Weird,” I mutter, grabbing my cold cup of coffee and finishing it, wondering when I can grab lunch as my stomach growls. The phone looks up at me, thumbprint-smudged and robotic, devoid of the personality it normally exhibits when turned on.

  My laptop is open, earbuds plugged in but not inserted. I stand and stretch, looking at the anachronistic analog wall clock in my office. 10:11 a.m.

  Time for a coffee break.

  Andrew is in meetings down the street at some institutional investment bank. He explained it all to me at some point this morning, while I covered my head with a pillow and screamed, “Too much sunlight isn’t good for vampires!” or something like that. After his meeting, he’s off to New York for two days, then finally back home, where I get him to myself again.

  For twelve hours.

  My body sighs, limbs dropping with the memory of our day at his parents’ house. If only every day could be like that, with time a third welcome partner in our relationship, providing endless unconditional love and plenty of room to breathe.

  The walk to the coffee machine is surprisingly quiet. I peer in open office doors and see groups of employees huddled around laptops in twos and threes, whispering among themselves.

  Nothing out of the norm.

  When you drink enough breve lattes, a plain cup of coffee with cream becomes second best. It’s funny – Andrew showers me with gifts, but never – not once – has he offered to buy me my very own latte system so I can have my breves alone in my own private office. I have a system at home, but not here at Anterdec.

  Aside from that character flaw, he’s pretty damn perfect.

  I settle into my chair, drinking a mouthful of coffee and starting to insert my earbuds, when chaos erupts.

  Bodies bump against my closed door like skiers hitting trees on their way down an icy slope, the sound making me jump in my chair, and as I right myself I pivot the wrong way, nearly toppling ass-over-tea-kettle. When the hell did I develop Shannon’s balance skills?

  Tap tap tap. “Amanda?”

  That’s Josh.

  “Come in!”

  Wide-eyed Josh, followed by a very green-looking Carol, walk into my office.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Carol crosses the room and looks at my phone, then my computer, bright eyes filled with swirling trepidation. “You online?”

  “Yeah, but I took a break. My phone just went nuts. Started buzzing like crazy, so I turned it off.”

  “Been on social media in the last fifteen minutes?”

  “What?”

  Tap tap tap.

  I look at Josh, then Carol. “Who could that be?”

  Gina pops her head in. “Andrew wants you to know he’s on the way.”

  “On the way for what?”

  All three of them are looking at me like my mom did the day she told me Daddy wasn’t coming home.

  “What’s wrong? Is it my mom? Is she okay? Why would Andrew be coming here if he has meetings in New York later?” I look at Gina, who turns pink, her mouth pinching.

  “I – he just called and told me he couldn’t reach you on your phone and he’s on his way on foot.”

  “On foot?”

  “He said he could get here faster that way than if he took the limo.”

  “What is going on?” I practically scream.

  Carol unplugs the earbuds from my laptop.

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  Notification sounds from all my social media make the room sound like a porch-chime showroom.

  “My phone just did that, too! I thought it was a malfunction.”

  “Honey? Amanda?” Josh is so serious. So caring. “I want you to sit down before we show you.”

  I groan. “Oh, God. It’s the paparazzi again, isn’t it? What are they saying now? That my labia are uneven? Did they get a crotch shot while I was swimming naked at Andrew’s parents’ house?”

  No one laughs.

  Why aren’t they laughing?

  “Look,” Carol says softly, pointing to a Boston newspaper’s website.

  I read the headlines:

  CEO’s fiancée daughter of murderer

  Anterdec CEO to marry jailbird’s daughter

  What did Andrew McCormick know about fiancée’s family secret?

  The website is covered with pictures of Leo, an old newspaper photograph of a car crash from twenty years ago, and some other cracked-up car, a minivan that looks like someone put it in a blender.

  I see isolated words, like Iowa and vehicular and missing and Fenway.

  Andrew was right.

  Ringing. All I hear is a high-pitched ringing in my ears, the sound that comes after a shotgun blast, when the weapon’s been discharged.

  When you assess the damage.

  Shame, viscous and slimy, coats my skin, invading my lungs, making them stick together. That has to be why I can’t breathe, right?

  Because the shame is coming to the surface from the inside out.

  “Is this everywhere?” I ask, the words coming from outside the window, like I’m dangling in space.

  “Yes. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, all the major news outlets. Started about fifteen minutes ago and it’s taking off.” Josh bends down, looking up at me. “We’re here. We’ll do whatever you need.”

  “My mom!” I stand up. The room spins. I sit down. “Someone needs to get to my mom, now.”

  “Mr. McCormick told me to tell you he’s sent Gerald and a team to her house already. She still works from home, right?”

  I nod. Or, I should say, my disembodied head nods.

  “Jailbird’s daughter,” I whisper. All of who I am, all my years of experience, my skin, my hair, my heart, my feelings, all distilled down into two words.

  Jailbird’s daughter.

  Murderer’s daughter.

  Defined by a man who lost me when I was a child.

  Literally.

  Heavy steps thump down the hallway, growing in intensity as the runner gets closer, the sound like a train coming at me, full speed, unstoppable and unyielding. The ringing in my ears turns into a heartbeat, fast and labored, beating hard like a fist pounding from the inside out, chiseling its way from Andrew to me.

  He holds me, wrapping his big protective arms around me until all I see is the dark cocoon of his chest, my ears still ringing, his voice ethereal and deep.

  “It’s okay. Gerald’s on his way
to your mom’s.”

  “We need to go see her. Now.”

  “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.” Josh and Carol watch us. Carol’s phone buzzes and she looks up at me.

  “Shannon’s in Vegas. She asked if you want her to fly home? She will.”

  “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” I start repeating, beginning to hyperventilate. Carol nods furiously and she and Josh leave as Andrew soothes me.

  I’m a live wire.

  “Let’s go.” I’m gulping air, like I’m drowning.

  “Slow down, sweetie. It’s a lot to -- ”

  I shove him off me, standing, ignoring how fast the world suddenly turns. “Let’s go. Now. My mom’s house.”

  He escorts me out and down the hall, pressing the elevator button impatiently. After five seconds, I can’t stand it and head for the stairs, grateful I’m wearing simple clogs. Twenty-two sets of stairs take up most of my mental energy, all my crying done while I make an endless spiral down, down, down, the words ‘murderer’s daughter’ turned into a mantra.

  mur-der-er’s daugh-ter

  mur-der-er’s daugh-ter

  We crash through the door to the Anterdec fleet, José waiting with a black SUV. Ruthless efficiency informs Andrew’s movements. In seconds, we’re in the car, tires squealing, José pulling up the stored directions to Mom’s house.

  Tense silence fills the air, my mind combing over the memory of those websites. I’ve abandoned everything at my office. No computer, no phone.

  “Let me see yours,” I insist. Andrew hands me his phone without comment. I navigate to major gossip sites.

  The story is everywhere.

  “It’ll die down by tomorrow,” Andrew assures me, as if he thinks that will help. “We’re just the story du jour.”

  “We aren’t. I am. Leo is.” I’m strangely touched to find my mother’s phone number programmed into Andrew’s phone under “Mother-in-Law.” I call her. I get her voicemail.

  I hang up.

  “The damn media,” Andrew mutters, jaw tight, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “The media? No. The media didn’t do this, Andrew. James did. James did this. He wanted allllll the publicity he could get his hands on, didn’t he? Well, he fucking got it. ”