The Marriage Mistake

by Natalie Knight

  But if we’re a mess together, we’re a glorious fucking mess.

  The best kind.

  We’re a mess to remember.

  And when he kisses me…

  I know that this time, I’m never going to forget it.

  Chapter 40

  Lock

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Sammi’s got her back to me, bending over slightly to reach the bar. Even after six months of staring at it in awe, I still can’t believe what a great ass my wife has.

  Or how freely I can finally stare at it now. Not that I didn’t before anyway, but now she smiles when she catches me looking. In fact, she’s smiling at me right now, glancing over her shoulder at me while she makes us drinks.

  Her lips quirk up in a knowing grin. They do that a lot now.

  She turns back to the bar, and I just keep right on staring.

  The setting sun behind her hits her exposed skin just right, making her glow. And damn if most of her isn’t exposed, her bikini barely covering anything.

  I really have the world’s sexiest wife.

  Wife.

  The word still feels odd in my mouth. Or on my mind, as it were.

  No matter how many days pass, I’m still amazed that it’s true. That she actually married me.

  Not to mention stayed married to me.

  That right there is the real shocker.

  After Bangkok, Sammi and I both needed a change. She from spending so much time working in labs, me from spending so much time on solid ground.

  The solution was obvious. We made a beeline for my boat, and we’ve been here pretty much ever since. It was obvious from that first night in the 3D aquarium that Sammi had dreams that could never be reached from a lab.

  Her safe and rational approach held her back in more ways than one. At the end of the day, no matter how well meaning, you can’t affect change without getting your hands a bit dirty.

  Still, I was nervous when Sammi told me her plan.

  Fighting shark poachers?

  I mean, I’d only just married the girl. I wasn’t exactly keen on losing her.

  When she gets an idea in her head, though, nothing can stop her.

  So here we are: sea breeze blowing, sun setting behind us like a picture. Our own little chunk of paradise.

  Sure, it’s not been all easy sailing, so to speak.

  I look at the scar running down her back—a close call, that one. Cut with a diving knife.

  Right in front of me.

  My heart about fucking stopped beating. You can imagine what happened to the guy wielding it. He’ll be lucky if he walks again.

  Even before we got married, I would’ve ruined a man for touching Sammi. Now, that bastard’s just lucky she was there to pull me off of him. That’s Sammi for you.

  Such a soft touch.

  She walks over to me now, drinks in hand. I take mine with thanks, smiling up at her as she straddles my lap. She leans in, kissing me on the cheek, home to a new scar of my own.

  “It’s not healed properly,” I say about it, “I think this is as small as it’s gonna get.”

  “Good,” she says, “I love it.”

  Oddly enough, I believe her.

  I set my drink aside, using both hands to pull her closer against me.

  “Yeah? You think you can stand to look at this face forever?”

  She laughs. “Well, not forever. Just until we die.”

  “Nope, not long enough.” I respond.

  She nods in agreement.

  It’s been a crazy few months. Almost as crazy as the time we spent in Bangkok.

  Almost.

  It feels good to have this time with her. We may have our hands full with shark poachers and near-death experiences, but in the middle of it all, we have these moments. Times when it’s just the two of us. Calm seas and stiff drinks.

  I live for these moments. I live for her.

  I pick my glass back up and take a long drink. It’s a margarita, of course. Whenever we drink together, it’s tequila.

  And whenever Sammi mixes us margaritas, it means we’re in for a hell of a night. Although really, every night with Sammi is kind of that way.

  “What is it?” she asks, looking down at me.

  “Hmmm?” I come back to reality. “Oh, nothing, just thinking…I’m just really fucking happy, Sammi.”

  She nuzzles closer to me. “I love you, Lock.”

  “I love you, too…Sammi-Poo.”

  The look of abject terror that crosses her face is worth the smack it costs me. She wriggles in my grip, and I hold her tighter.

  “Don’t you DARE!”

  “But—Sammi-Poo!”

  I can’t control my laughter. I love how much she hates the nickname almost as much as I love calling her by it. To think she almost married that fucker.

  Insanity.

  She must be thinking along the same lines because her laugh sounds more than a little like relief.

  “Fuck you, Lachlan,” she chokes out between giggles.

  “Is that an invitation?”

  I’m already getting hard between us.

  Raging boners are pretty much my natural state of being now. Difficult to be around Sammi without one. She grinds against me, feeling for herself.

  “Maybe…if you quit this Sammi-Poo bullshit.”

  “Hmm…you drive a hard bargain, darl.”

  “Sure do.”

  She leans in again, this time directing her lips to my own. Her kiss is soft. They often are now, full of meaning in a way that they never were before.

  I kiss her back, my own meaning clear as well. The sun continues to set behind us, bathing the world in gold. The ocean sloshes against the boat, its splashes soothing in the otherworldly silence of open sea.

  “Lock,” she mumbles, breaking the kiss.

  “Yes, darl?”

  “Tell me you love me. For real.”

  “I fucking love you, Sammi Williams.”

  “Better,” she says, leaning back towards me.

  Of course, it’s this moment when her phone begins to ring.

  “Ignore it.” I say, redoubling my grip on her.

  “Lock!” she laughs.

  “Oh, come on!”

  “It could be important” she says, wiggling out of my arms. “Two minutes. Tops.”

  I growl at her, sulking a bit, but make no further argument. The way we live now, it very well could be important. She crosses the deck to grab her phone, and I hear her indistinct answer.

  I reach again for my margarita, downing half of it in one long drink. If I have to sit here waiting, I might as well get a little off my head. The sunset is breathtaking, and I direct my attention to it.

  I could never feel this calm in the city. There’s always something going on there, always so much noise. I love how quiet it is here.

  “AHHHHH!” Sammi squeals, startling me out of my thoughts.

  “Oh my god, when?!” she shouts.

  What the fuck?

  “Of course we will be,” she goes on. “We wouldn’t fucking miss it.”

  Her words grow indistinct again, and I’m about to go over and find out what all the fuss is when she turns around, setting her phone back on the chair.

  She walks over to me, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Guess what?” she says

  “What?”

  “Percy’s getting married!”

  “What? When?”

  “In three months!”

  She’s practically giddy as she settles herself back on my lap.

  “Okay…” I say. “Where are we going?”

  “Amsterdam! Isn’t that wild?”

  “Oh, man.”

  Yeah, I suspect it will be.

  Sammi scoots closer to me, her mouth hovering mere centimeters from mine.

  “We’ll worry about that later, though,” she says. “So…where were we?”

  Where indeed.

  I close the gap, kissing her hard. Behind us, the sun is on
its last breath, stars already starting to cut through the sky. I wrap my arms tightly back around my wife.

  Yeah, it’s gonna be a hell of a night.

  In fact, you could say it’s going to be a night to remember.

  Baby Bargain

  A Billionaire Baby Contract Romance

  By Vivien Vale

  Copyright © 2018 by Crimson Vixens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Daniel

  If I’m not mistaken—and I rarely fucking am—I think my secretary is wearing a ball gag as a necklace today.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” she says, as that big red rubber ball jiggles against her throat.

  She’s tightened the leather straps up enough that it could reasonably be mistaken for a choker, but I’m not some uninitiated fuck—I didn’t exactly get my first erection yesterday.

  “Make it quick.” I don’t have time to question my secretary’s more-than-questionable fashion choices. If I don’t figure out why the columns on this report aren’t adding up by the end of the day, I won’t know which incompetent jackass in accounting to fire tomorrow morning.

  “It’s just, uh, your mother is here,” she informs me.

  And then, right on cue, my mother flounces in. Doesn’t even give me time to feel sorry for myself.

  “Danny, darling!” my mother coos, trotting into my office on a pair of peep-toe heels the color of cotton candy vomit. “How’s my favorite businessman? Give mommy a little smooch, that’s a good dear.”

  I roll my eyes—but I do as I’m bid. My mother is as vapid and air-headed as they come, but she’s still the woman who gave birth to me, and for that, she can have as many cheek-kisses as she wants. I just wish she’d stop fucking calling them smooches—and I wish she would have left Muffins the Purse Dog at home for once.

  “Missed you too, Mom,” I relent, keeping an eye on Muffins. His fluffy, feral little head pops up out of my mother’s Chanel purse just as I’m enveloped by the scent of No. 5—her favorite perfume.

  To his credit, Muffins doesn’t fucking growl at me on sight anymore—but he does look like he’s ready to take a jealousy shit in my mother’s handbag any minute now.

  “Maybe you should let my secretary take Muffins on a walk, Mom,” I suggest. I’d hate for Mom’s latest husband—whoever he is—to have to replace a sold-out handbag—plus, if my secretary really is wearing a ball gag, I’m sure she knows her way around a leash.

  “Nonsense, honey,” Mom says, sitting on my desk like she thinks she’s still a teenager or something.

  That’s my mother for you. Mentally, she hasn’t aged a day since 18. Physically, her plastic surgeon does what he can.

  “Muffins and I are here as a team, darling. We’re on a mission today, you see.”

  I shake my head and take the bait. “And what might that be?”

  “We have a date for you, honey.” She says it like I’m supposed to be excited—or surprised. I’m not. “Muffins picked her out special, just for you! Didn’t you, schnuckums?”

  While my mother feeds her purse dog a doggie treat, I’m just trying to suppress a groan.

  “Oh, dear, don’t look like that,” my mother reprimands. “This one, Danny—she’s a keeper. Nice, wide, childbearing hips—and, I only think she’s had three nose jobs, so you know she’s got good genes for Dr. Scalpel to work with.”

  Dr. fucking Scalpel. My mother knows that I have no intentions of settling down any time soon, and she’s already planning my children’s first elective surgeries.

  “That’s sweet of you, Mom,” I say cordially, “but I think I’ll pass.”

  “You’re not getting any younger, Danny.”

  “Not without Dr. Scalpel’s help, I’m not.”

  “And you know how I’ve always wanted grandchildren…”

  “You have grandchildren,” I remind her. “Fendi has four kids, Mom. Chanel has two. Prada just had twins last week, for fuck’s sake—and she’s barely even sixteen.”

  “Ruff!” Muffins barks aggressively. Briefly, I consider tipping over the purse—but then he might shit on my carpet, so I think better of it.

  “Yes,” my mother agrees. “And I’m sure that for as long as your half-sisters can find YouTube stars to have unprotected sex with, they’ll give me plenty more. But I haven’t done everything I’ve done for them, Danny honey. I did it for you. For us. You need to start thinking about your legacy, sweetheart.”

  I have to hand it to my mother: she knows exactly where to twist the knife.

  I never knew my father, but from my mother’s stories about him, I’m better off this way. She had me when she was the same age as Prada is now, and he left her without even bothering to stick around for my birth.

  Ever since, Mom has been enterprising in the only way I think she’s ever known how. Her next relationships were calculated affairs with rich old geezers who took us in, fed us, clothed us, and taught me everything there was to know about their business empires.

  Even once they knocked Mom up and the relationship soured, her ex-husbands always kept an interest in me. Put me through some of the top business schools in the country and—to my surprise—even named me heir to their fortunes over their own children.

  Part of me feels like Mom screwed over my half-sisters for life in that regard. Can anyone really blame them for all their accidental pregnancies and the strip clubs they’ve inadvertently burned down?

  They’re sweethearts, but she did name them after her favorite purses—one of which, from the smell of things, Muffin is shitting in literally as we speak.

  “I’m not even thirty-five yet, Mom. I’ve got the entire fortunes of three of your ex-husbands to blow before I have to start worrying about who might inherit them.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “We both know that’s not true. You’ve always been a responsible boy, Danny. You’re smarter than that. If you don’t want to go on the date with the nose-job girl, that’s fine—but it’s high time you stopped fucking sluts on your desk and started thinking about finding one to give you a baby—one who’s worthy of being your wife.”

  I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

  She’s not exactly wrong. I care more about her ex-husbands’ resort chains than I do about what bimbo I’m currently bending over my desk—which is why I had six of them in here last night, all lined up and begging for my dick.

  It’s why I keep a drawer full of condoms in my desk, too. I hardly need an army of bastards running around my city, considering that I’m a bastard myself.

  “Just think about it, darling,” my mother implores me. “A wife and a baby—it could be good for you. I only want to see you happy, you know, and—awwwwww, did Muffins do a widdle poop? Did Muffins ruin Mommy’s expensive handbag?”

  It happens that fast. Just as quickly as my mother blew into my day, she’s already gathering her things and meandering back out of it, cooing at her handbag and holding it at arm’s length as she goes.

  “Have a good day, Mom,” I call after her.

  “You too, dear,” she says. I can hear her stop at my secretary’s desk on the way out. “Oh, my! What a gorgeous necklace, sweetie! You absolutely must tell me where you got it!”

  Then the door closes behind her, and I’m alone again.

  I try working once she’s gone. It’s no fucking use. Maybe it’s the lingering scent of Muffin-shit in the air, or maybe she’s really planted the idea in my head the way she hoped.

  I don’t want my mother worrying about me.

  And I don’t want to see all my hard work go to waste.

  A wife. An heir.

&
nbsp; It sounds fucking preposterous is what it sounds like. I’m not husband material—and I’m certainly not worthy of being a fucking father.

  I’m a loose cannon—a bad boy sowing my wild oats like my father before me, only I have the decency to be fucking responsible about it. My wild oats ultimately end up safely contained inside a condom—and then immediately dumped in the trash.

  I look at the pictures on my desk of my half-sisters and myself. There’s one of Prada and me on her seventh birthday, just before she stabbed the party clown with the cake knife, and I had to talk him out of pressing charges.

  There’s another of me with Fendi and Chanel at that underwater night club I helped them open, just before they hooked the oxygen intake tubes up to bottles of vodka and all the mermaid performers nearly drowned.

  Admittedly, I don’t love the idea of those three taking over my empire if something were to happen to me.

  Maybe I do need an heir.

  But to have an heir, I need to find the right woman—and to find the right woman, I need to clear my fucking head.

  “Cancel the rest of my appointments for the day,” I tell my secretary.

  “Yes, master—I mean, uh, yes sir,” she calls after me.

  “And no more bondage porn while you’re at work!” I shout over my shoulder—because, yeah, I fucking saw what was on her computer screen before she closed the window.

  “Sorry, sir!”

  I drive through the city until I see a place where I can clear my head. It looks like some shit out of a bad Lewis Carroll novel—but on the bright side, at least no fucking women will be approaching me, trying to get me to bend them over the Mad Hatter’s tea table for a quickie.

  Inside, there’s a woman sitting at a table with her three very pregnant friends. Exactly the kind of woman I’d want to put a baby in, really—not that I’m genuinely considering that right now.

  I don’t know if it’s because I feel a sort of solidarity with her after the talk I just had with my mother—or if it’s because she’s just so fucking gorgeous that I can’t help myself—but I shoot her a sympathetic look as I walk past.