Buying the Bride

by Penny Wylder

  Now I’m picturing us together, sweat, lube, cum, messy. I let out a shaky breath. Messy is definitely good.

  The sun starts to go down. I change the subject because talking about sex with Heath is dangerous. We stop next at the wharf and look out at the dock. Sea lions pile on top of each other and make a sound similar to barking dogs. Seagulls are perched on posts, making equally obnoxious noises, but I love the sound of it. All of it. The ocean is my favorite place to be. It really is romantic out here and it’s hard not to get swept up in this moment with Heath, even if it isn’t real.

  “So, how was this for a first meeting?” I ask.

  The last of the sun lights up his dark hair, and his gaze finds mine. It’s impossible not to feel special when those vibrant blue eyes are focused only on me. I melt beneath their heat and fear the dreamy look I feel on my face is giving away all my secrets.

  “Surprisingly perfect,” he says

  “Now we won’t have to lie about how we met.”

  He nods. “So now we’re in love.”

  “Not yet.”

  His eyebrows push together. “If I remember your version of our story right, I thought we fell in love on this date.”

  “We do, but it’s not finished.”

  I reach up and cup his face in my hands, bringing him down to my level. I’m insane. I’ve completely lost my mind. I shouldn’t be doing this. But the more I think about it, the more I want it, and I know if I don’t kiss him right now, I’ll regret it.

  His hands grip my waist, pulling me against him. The anticipation makes me light headed as his eyes flicker toward my lips. I lift my chin. The tip of his tongue brushes against his bottom lip, wetting it. The thought of tasting those perfect lips makes my stomach flutter.

  Our lips gently come together, soft and slow, tasting, testing each other out. He opens his mouth slightly and I open mine. Just the tips of our tongues touch in a shy greeting, but it doesn’t take long for the heat between us to catch fire and suddenly we’re engulfed.

  I breathe him in, that expensive scent I will always associate with him from now on. I remember the softness of his tongue, the taste of his lips. I try to memorize every little thing about this perfect moment to keep with me forever. Put it in my pocket and pull it out whenever I need to feel beautiful and wanted. That’s how I feel when he kisses me. I know this whole marriage is a sham, but this kiss isn’t. No one can fake a kiss like this.

  Heath’s fingers dig into the skin of my lower back, our hips pressed so tightly together that one of us is either going to turn into a diamond or our bodies are going to merge into one.

  His tongue is soft, but eager. I pull my hands through his hair, and there’s something entirely fulfilling about messing it up. He doesn’t seem to mind getting messy with me. Like he said, messy is good. He’s hard for me. I can feel him pressed against my stomach, and it’s delightfully painful. I’m wet for him, but he can’t feel that. By the way I devour his mouth, I’m sure he knows.

  We finally pull away when we hear voices nearby. A couple of older women walk past us, giggling to each other. Heath doesn’t seem bothered by getting caught. His eyes still have that hungry look in them, but it’s obvious that he’s restraining himself. He reaches up to tame his hair. Even after he manages to press it back into a similar shape that it was before I destroyed it, there’s still something tousled about it. That perfect coif won’t stand a chance when all of our clothes are off.

  The thought startles me a moment, and I have to remember this isn’t an actual date. I’m not here to sleep with him. This is a job I’m being paid to do, and I am NOT a prostitute.

  Heath lets out a slow, shaky breath and smooths down his wrinkled suit jacket. “Now we’re love?”

  I nod. “Yep, that’s when we fell in love.”

  His smile cuts me off at the knees. I want nothing more than to fly back into his arms and kiss him again. “Good. Now I have the details straight. This was an acceptable first meeting,” he says.

  “Perfectly acceptable,” I say, that feeling in my core still raging. By the large mound tenting his suit pants, I’d say he’s still feeling it too.

  I’m definitely going to need a cold shower and dry panties after this encounter.

  4

  Heath

  The part of me that planned to keep Sylph at a distance has started to crumble. I wasn’t supposed to like her, let alone want to kiss her, and especially nothing more than that. She wasn’t at all what I was expecting.

  When I think of a fake bride putting themselves out there for sale, I think of someone more expensive-looking—not more beautiful, of course. I don’t think there is anyone on this earth who is more naturally beautiful than Sylph. The type of expensive I’m talking about involves a lot of faux parts: sexy designer clothes, someone who indulges in surgery and too much makeup to keep themselves looking high-end, someone who flaunts her body and gives a man hungry eyes to get what she wants. Those sorts of tactics may work on some rich men, but not me. Most of those men don’t care. They know that if they didn’t have the appeal of money on their side, a woman who looked like that wouldn’t give them the time of day. And yet they don’t care. I’ve had women like that approach me many times in restaurants and bars. I know the type—that kind of girl just doesn’t happen to be my type.

  I guess that’s why I wasn’t prepared for Sylph. She’s everything I could want in a girl. Nothing about her screams gold-digger to me. Though her clothes were clean and nice, and looked incredible on her, they were cheap and meant to look casual. Instead of an even spray tan, her skin had just a hint of color left over from summer on the high points of her forehead and nose, the way it occurs naturally. Also natural, were the streaks in her blonde hair, not something even the best beautician can reproduce in a salon. Her nails were short and painted a pastel green color, barely any makeup, but what she did have on was flattering. Jeans and a t-shirt are hardly the outfit a woman would wear if she were trying to get her hooks into a man for his money.

  It’s almost as if she’d shown up on a whim. My friend who’d recommended her didn’t describe her this way. He said she could be Snow White: pale skin, black hair, big red lips, and giant breasts. He’d said this with a wolfish grin, but all I was concerned about was my family believing this could be a girl I would marry. Sylph is definitely not the girl my friend described to me. So who is she?

  As I walk up the stairs and back to my office to finish my work, I’m having trouble focusing. My thoughts keep drifting back to Sylph. Her eyes were the softest pale blue, the color of shadow on snow. They were quite startling, actually. I’m not used to being taken off my guard simply from a glance. Not only that, but she was charming and real. Had I not known her services were being paid for, I truly would have believed she was falling for me. I guess that’s a good thing, because my family will need to believe it as well, and they aren’t nearly as easy to convince as I am. If anyone can get the job done, it’s Sylph.

  5

  Sylph

  I know the date that happened between me and Heath yesterday was just part of the act, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there was something there. He was so gorgeous, nothing at all like I had imagined. He could have any woman in the world, so why would he possibly need to pay someone to pretend to be his bride? I’m glad he did, though. This is going to be the easiest job I’ve ever had, wrapped around the arm of a man who is handsome and surprisingly fun to talk to once you get past his rough, suspicious façade.

  I find myself eager to see him again. I’ll have to tamp down those feelings, though; this is a job, not a real marriage. A real marriage will never happen, not after the horrible experience I had with my ex.

  To get thoughts of Heath and our kiss out of my head for the moment, I decide to make myself a bowl of cereal and study the folder Heath gave me. I need to learn everything I can about his family and friends, the things I’ll need to know if this engagement is going to be believable. His family lives overse
as in Europe where his father runs the headquarters of their family business. Says here his mother is kind, but naïve, his father is rougher around the edges. It says he’s severe and quiet. Heath also has younger twin siblings who can be somewhat suspicious and intrusive. That doesn’t help my nerves at all.

  I sit back and rub my eyes. There’s so much to memorize. It feels like my brain has locked up. I need coffee.

  There’s a knock at the door. I figure it’s probably a delivery man since Mandi has something sent to the apartment daily. I get up to open the door, but it’s not a delivery man. It’s Heath.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. This is not how I wanted him to see me. I’m wearing cut-off sweats and a tank top I slept in with no bra. The messy knot of hair piled on top of my head hasn’t been washed in two days. Thank God I shaved my legs and gave myself a pedicure, or this encounter would be a lot more embarrassing. Still, he’s so crisply dressed, his perfectly coifed hair looking as if it came out of a mold. I feel even more disheveled than I would if he were in casual clothes.

  “Did we have a meeting?” I ask. He doesn’t seem like the type to just show up unannounced.

  He has that same stern look he wore when we first met, as if he’s already shed away the thought of our wonderful first date. I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but it does. Part of me feels kind of hurt by the brushoff.

  His eyes flicker to my breasts, then, reluctantly, back up to my eyes. I feel the slight twinge of pleasure as they harden from the attention. Normally, if someone came over, I would try to hide it. But I like the idea of torturing him a bit.

  “No, I’m just stopping by to bring your transportation,” he says.

  I’m confused and, for a moment, flirting with him takes a back seat. When he told me I wouldn’t be able to take public transportation during this job, I’d assumed he would send a company car for me like he did yesterday when he sent me home after our meeting/date.

  His big body blocks the doorway, so I can’t see what he’s talking about at first until he steps to the side. Sitting in front of my dingy apartment is a sleek black something or other—I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m pretty sure it’s a car—or maybe a spaceship. I’m certain it’s not something you can pick up off the lot at the auto mall.

  “Is that …” My words trail off when he hands me a key fob that has the word Maybach on it. Is he for real? “There’s no way I’m driving that,” I tell him.

  His eyebrows come together and his head tilts. “Why not, is there something better you’d rather drive?”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. He puts his hands on his hips, not looking amused.

  “Better?” I say. “Is there such thing as a better car?”

  “I’m sure there is,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t think there is. It’s just … I don’t know … a bit excessive, don’t you think? That’s a half-million-dollar car.”

  The only reason why I know that is because Mandi is addicted to reality TV and the mother of the Kardashian girls drives something similar.

  “You’re my betrothed,” Heath says. “I can’t have you driving around in a Toyota Corolla covered in rust spots. There’s a certain image we have to uphold.”

  “How do you know what kind of car I drive?” I ask, taken aback by his knowledge of me.

  “I did some research after we met.”

  “I like my Toyota,” I say, a little offended by his remark, and a lot offended that he’s been spying on me.

  I don’t actually like my Toyota. The thing is a money pit and makes this god-awful squeal as I drive down the road. It’s embarrassing, really. But so is driving around in a Maybach. I don’t want people staring at me. I’ll get self-conscious and end up rear-ending someone, or doing something embarrassing.

  “What about a compromise then?” he says.

  “A compromise is good. That’s what marriage is all about,” I say.

  He gives me a surprised look.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing … I guess I’m just surprised how seriously you’re taking this whole marriage thing.”

  “I have excellent work ethic. You’re paying me to be your bride and I plan to be the best damn wife a man has ever had.”

  He still looks bewildered, but he shows me a slight smile and continues. “What kind of car would you prefer to have?”

  “What about a newer Toyota. They’re reliable, efficient, get great gas mileage. There’s a little used car lot down the road—”

  “No,” he says bluntly.

  This time I’m the one with my hands on my hips. “This doesn’t sound like compromise to me.”

  “You do realize that any other woman in your position would be jumping at the chance to drive a Maybach?”

  “I’m not any other woman. I’m me.”

  “I’ve noticed. You’re not like the women I’m used to.”

  Is that an insult or a compliment? It’s hard to tell with his expressionless demeanor.

  “Maybe you should find yourself a different caliber of woman then, because anyone who would ask you for a Maybach cares only about your money,” I say.

  He looks at me like a puzzle he can’t quite piece together. “Isn’t that what you care about as well?”

  “No, of course not. I mean, well …” I’m getting flustered. “Yes, I care about your money, because I’m doing a job and you’re paying me for my services. But if we were actually dating, your money would have nothing to do with it. My last—” I almost said husband—not that it’s a secret (he probably already knows after spying on me), I just don’t like telling people the reason I’m no longer married. “—boyfriend, worked as a short hall truck driver. Not exactly the kind of job that makes millions. When I’m with someone it’s because they make me happy.”

  “Good to know,” he says and manages to swing the subject back around to the car issue. “A Mercedes then.”

  “No way. That’s like putting a target on my back and being like, ‘Hey, look at all this money I have, come car-jack me.’”

  “Maybe in this neighborhood, but not in mine.”

  “Definitely in this neighborhood. That’s why I need something a little more inconspicuous.”

  “That’s why you’re moving in with me,” he says.

  I freeze. Did I just hear him right?

  “You want me to move in with you?”

  “Yes. I need you to stay with me while my family is in town. You’ll have your own wing if you need your privacy.”

  His place is big enough for me to have my own wing? I don’t even know if I’ve ever been in a place with a wing.

  “Keep the car for now,” he says, “and I’ll work on getting you something different. In the meantime, I want to show you your new living arrangements.”

  I can’t help but get a little excited. Mandi is my best friend, but she makes a terrible roommate. The thought of having a wing to myself, even if it is temporary, is a wonderful thought. I can finally get to that stack of books I’ve been meaning to read but never had the chance because Mandi comes home at weird hours and always has the TV on at full volume. The possibilities are endless.

  Heath makes me drive the Maybach because he doesn’t like driving. Apparently he’s used to being driven around in his company car everywhere he goes. That’s fine by me. I’m less nervous about driving the car after he tells me he has amazing insurance. I believe him since I doubt a dealership would let him drive this thing off the lot without it. I finally settle down and just enjoy the ride. It looks like a cockpit inside with all the different lights. The supple leather seats are like butter and fit my ass just right. No wonder this car is so expensive. Worth every penny.

  We pull up to a tower of luxury condos. There’s a circular covered drive and a row of valets waiting out front. The only thing close to a valet at my apartment complex is the thug on the corner waiting to jack it.

  One of the men wearing a suit and tie comes up to us. “
Good morning, Mr. Starre,” he says.

  Heath hands him a one-hundred-dollar bill. “This is Sylph, my fiancée. I want you to make sure her car is well taken care of.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man says and jogs over to where I’m getting out of the driver’s seat.

  If that’s how much valets make in tips, I see a career change in my future once this deal with Heath is over.

  Heath leads me into the building. The foyer opens up into a hall with a grand staircase, and pillars all around. There’s a fountain in the middle and a lounge area with a coffee bar. Everyone who works in the complex seems to know Heath’s name and has a smile waiting for him. It’s like I’m in that scene in Pretty Woman where everyone is staring at Julia Roberts because it’s so obvious she’s a prostitute by the way she’s dressed. Except I’m not dressed like a prostitute. My ensemble leans more toward homelessness. Before Heath had shown up, I was doing my laundry and all I had left to wear were a tank top, sweats, and ballet flats. Heath has to be embarrassed to be seen with me looking like this, especially since he seems to be so into his image and status. But if he is embarrassed, he isn’t showing it.

  Everything in the lobby, from the wallpaper, to the furniture, is accented in gold. The art on the walls look suspiciously like the real thing. I want to take it all in, examine the different brush strokes, the soft carpet, everything, but Heath seems to be in a hurry. This is by far the fanciest building I’ve ever been inside aside from a museum.

  We get into an elevator. It’s super fancy inside with ornate detailed wood carvings and gold leafing. It’s a cramped space. Heath’s arm touches my breast. He looks down at it. Every time he gives me any kind of attention, my nipples stand at attention. I know he sees where his arm is touching me, but he doesn’t move it. I don’t move either. How does this man manage to turn me on with just a single touch?