Practice Makes Perfect: A Fake Fiancée Romance

by Morgan Rae

  “When I want to be.” I wet my lips and close my mouth over his cock. He sucks in a breath as I take him in completely. I have half a mind to tease him the same way he tormented me on the beach, but once I have him between my lips, all I can think about is taking more. I suck him deeper into my mouth and run my tongue over his veins and ridges.

  His fingers curl in my hair and he moans loudly. “Fuck, Tomlin.” His voice is deep and his accent kicks in when he loses control.

  Yes, just like riding a bike.

  I bob my head up and down on his cock. He’s hot and hard in my mouth and I brace a hand on his side. My eyes drift close as I fall into a rhythm of pleasuring this delicious man. He moans and his abdomen clenches under my fingers. At the tip of my tongue, I taste a hint of salty pre-cum that nearly makes me swoon with lust. I lap him up eagerly and swallow him down as deep as I can get him, hungry for his moans. I draw my hand up and wrap my fingers around the base of his cock instead. There’s so much of it, I can’t fit it all in my mouth, so I stroke him rapidly from his abdomen to my lips.

  I reach down with my other hand down and gently cup his balls. I rub my thumb over the sensitive skin there, encouraging. I’m rewarded with a sharp gasp of pleasure from him. His thigh muscles flex, his organ throbs in my mouth, and I feel his balls draw tight for ejaculation.

  I whimper around his cock and trace my tongue at his tip eagerly. I want to taste him. I want to feel his release fill my mouth. Instead, his fingers tighten in my hair and he pries my head up, firmly.

  “Slow down there, darling,” he murmurs.

  I look up at him. “Why?”

  He cups my face, draws me away from his cock, and pulls me up to my feet instead. His eyes are burning with intensity and his voice is low and gravelly when he speaks. “You may climax on my tongue or around my cock,” he tells me. “But either way, you’re cumming first. No exceptions.”

  I can understand now why women don’t hesitate to drop their panties for this man.

  He pins me against the wall and kisses me hard. I melt in his mouth and under his strong touch. “We should…go to the bedroom…” I murmur when he draws ravenous kisses along my throat.

  “Couldn’t agree with you more,” he states. He reaches behind me to flick the water off.

  Damien yanks a bath towel off the rung and wraps it around me to dry me off. I let him, for the most part, but I also can’t keep my lips off his. My body is buzzing with the need to be touched. He hooks the towel around me and consumes me in a kiss. I’m rabid. I press my body flush against his and climb him like a tree. He responds with equal desperation, moaning in my mouth as he grips my bare skin.

  He guides me out of the bathroom and down the hall towards the bed. I stumble and he catches me. I grip the back of his neck and whimper in his ear, “I need you.”

  The bed is all of ten feet away but we don’t make it. Damien drops the towel and I spread out on it as I pull him down to the floor with me. I need him. He needs me. This need goes beyond words or teasing or feathery touches. This is a deep, aching longing. I need more than sex, I need Damien to conquer me completely.

  Our limbs tangle together and his tongue claims mine. Our bodies are still damp and bare skin sticks to bare skin as he reaches between us to guide his cock inside of me. I’m slippery wet and I need him so badly that I barely feel the sting as his thick organ stretches me. Instead, I feel a deep feeling of completion, as though he was made to fit inside of me.

  I grip him too tightly and my nails dig into his back. I know I’m going to leave marks, but I can’t get enough of him. He pants heavily against my shoulder as he thrusts deeply inside of me. One of his palms splays out beside my head to prop himself up, the other cups the back of my head. I’m cradled against his body and I hold onto him tightly and, at this angle, his pelvis rubs against my clitoris with every roll of his hips. Pleasure courses through me in waves. My legs quiver as they lock around his waist and I taste the sweat on his skin. Passion burns deep in my core and my breath hitches as I feel my own release building.

  “Damien!” I cry out. My orgasm is like one long, drawn out note, and the musician keeps it going until I’m thoroughly spent. My body clenches around his like a vice, pulsing with orgasmic bliss.

  “That’s it, Tomlin,” he encourages, “give it all to me!”

  He pumps his hard cock inside of me until I have nothing to offer but small, almost painful throbs. Only then, once my orgasm has subsided, does he says, “I’m going to cum.”

  “Please,” I beg and curl my nails around his neck. “I want it inside of me.”

  He grips my hair tight as he growls and shoots inside of me. I feel his hot seed and I gasp and moan. He thrusts against me until he’s satisfied. I whimper and squeeze my thighs tightly around his hips to still him, too sore to take any more.

  We pant in rhythm. I’m completely and utterly satisfied.

  “Oh my god,” I say once I find my voice again. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard.”

  “Me neither,” he grins.

  I laugh. “You know you don’t have to flatter me. You’ve already gotten what you want. It’s all down-hill from here.”

  “I don’t believe that.” He cups my face and his thumb traces my lips once. There’s something incredibly tender about Damien Blaze. “You’re something special, Tomlin Murray,” he whispers.

  Tomlin. The fake name is like a splash of cold water in my face.

  Nancy, I almost tell him. Call me Nancy.

  He is looking at me with nothing but adoration. If ever there is a time to tell him, now is the time to do it. The moment hangs between us, pregnant, and then, like a cloud drifting over the skyline, it passes.

  “You’re special to me, too,” I tell him. I surprise myself with how genuine I sound. My heart aches. I do mean it. I’m falling head over heels for him.

  He leans in close and I feel his warm breath on my lips. I meet his kiss and drink him in hungrily. My racing heartbeat dwindles down as my body returns to normal.

  Just a moment longer, I beg to myself. Just let me stay in this moment a little longer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: NANCY

  There’s a dark cloud hanging over me. I wake to the bright sun reflecting off white beach sand. Gulls call back and forth as they bob up and down on the swell of the sea. Even from this far up the beach, when everything is still like this, I can hear the ebb and flow of the tide and the hiss of seawater dragging across the shore.

  Damien is perfect. He’s fast asleep beside me with his arm across my middle, holding me to him. I can’t remember if we fell asleep like that or if he did it in his sleep. He has a wide chest, shoulders like a quarterback, and I’m completely engulfed in him. His naked skin is hot against mine. He smells like warm blankets.

  I should be in heaven. I’m sex sore. Muscles that I haven’t used in a long time ache as though I had the workout of my life last night.

  But what should be and what is are two vastly different things. More than ever, in what should be an idyllic moment, I’m keenly aware that this is nothing but smoke and mirrors.

  I’m spread out in sweat-drenched sheets, a handsome hunk to my right and a beautiful seaside view to my left, and I can’t breathe. My secret drips like water torture, drilling a hole through my heart and my heart. None of this is real. We’re trapped on a reality show like a pair of unfortunate rats in a science experiment. More than that, I’m a spy, a reporter digging for secrets to exploit and further her career.

  It sounded so simple when it started. But now that I’m lying in here wrapped in Damien’s arms, I know I’ve taken this too far.

  I fucked up. I fell in love.

  Pull it together, Nan.

  I pry Damien’s arm off me. I draw my legs out from the bed and quietly slip away into the bathroom. Here, I lock the door behind me and allow myself a bare second of privacy. No cameras. No Damien. I’m alone with myself.

  I lift my e
yes to the mirror. My makeup from last night has smudged all over my face so I dampen a washcloth to rub off the remaining black streaks. Between the shower and the wild night, my hair has lost its perfect, straightened texture. I’m starting to get back some of my familiar frizz.

  I thought this would be easy. I’ve never had trouble sinking careers before. Smear campaigns are second nature to me.

  Celebrities rise, celebrities fall, it’s the circle of Hollywood. But Damien Blaze is more than some celebrity. He’s a man with a beating heart. Behind that bad boy persona, he’s impossibly sweet, a voracious lover, and a man who doesn’t hesitate to dive head first into everything. He’s equal parts brave and fragile.

  And so am I. How long as it been since I admitted to myself that, maybe, I’m more than a cold, calculated, shell of a woman? Maybe there’s a part of me that wants, deserves, love? The kind of hard, stubborn love that can break my hardened heart open like the swing of a hammer. And Damien is just strong enough to take me on.

  I catch the sight of our bathing suits crumpled up on the floor. I crouch down and pick up my bikini top. There it is. The small, discreet recording device somehow survived the night and sits in the breast cup of my bikini top.

  I reach my memory back to last night, before everything heated up. Holy hell. I have Damien’s Blaze’s full sordid backstory recorded in here. Everything, from how his playboy act bores him, how he once fell in love and how his career killed her. I have all of it, my story sits in this little device. The recorder tingles in my palm. I could leave the show now and have everything I came here for. This is the story that will grab America by the balls. After all, who doesn’t love to see a bad boy grow a heart of gold?

  Only one problem. This is Damien I’m taking apart. He trusted me with his secret, if I betray him like that and share his story with the world…

  Well, then I can forget about ever seeing those sparkling, blue eyes again.

  I have a choice to make. On one hand, I have the story of a lifetime. On the other hand, I have the chance to be a good person for once. I don’t have to be the wicked witch in this fairytale. Maybe, just once, I can have my Prince and eat him too.

  I bit my lip hard as I stand and twist the voice recorder between my fingers. “Here goes nothing,” I murmur under my breath. With that, I tilt my hand over the sink. The recorder falls from my palm, swirls once around the ceramic bowl, and then clanks into the sink. I turn the water on for good measure, just to make sure it’s really gone.

  That’s it. I’ve literally thrown my story down the drain. I feel bizarrely light. It’s as though a heavy weight has been lifted completely from my chest and I can finally breath again. For the first time in years, I put myself before my career. My mouth goes dry at the thought and, admittedly, there’s a part of me that wants to get on my knees and claw open the pipe underneath the sink to try to retrieve it.

  Breathe, Nan.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and steady my nerves. Slowly, I feel the corner of my mouth tug upward. Before I know it, my mouth has stretched into a huge smile. I don’t remember the last time I smiled like this. Maybe a Christmas morning when I was a kid.

  Yes, that’s exactly what this feels like. I’m a kid on Christmas day and I’ve got a big, enticing package sleeping soundly in my bed, waiting to be unwrapped.

  Which brings me to my next problem. Step one is complete. Now, the second and final step. Confession. I can’t live with myself if I have to look in those sincere eyes again and lie to his face. He deserves more. I have to tell Damien everything.

  If I lose him, so be it. If they kick me off the island, fine. It’s worth it. I’m so damn tired of lying to myself and pretending like I don’t want this.

  I push away from the sink and exit the bathroom. When I go into the bedroom, however, there’s nothing left but a Damien-shaped impression in the sheets.

  My heart skips straight into my throat. What if I’m too late? What if he already found out that I’m nothing but a fraud and up and left?

  A clattering sound in the kitchen startles me and makes me jump. I tug my robe off the back of the bathroom door and pull on a pair of panties. Then I walk towards the kitchen as though I’m stepping on glass, each step hesitant and careful. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I hear Damien swear and my heartbeat pounds in my chest.

  When I turn the corner, I see him crouched on the ground. The kitchen smells delicious, like freshly cooked breakfast, and he’s picking up shards of glass from a broken plate with his bare hands.

  “Bull in a damn china shop,” he’s muttering to himself. I stay quietly still for a second. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always composed, always the most confident man in the room. Now, he looks flustered., as though he’s trying his hardest to impress me. My heart melts and my resolve locks into place. I’m making the right choice with this one.

  “Morning,” I say, loud and clear so he knows I’m there.

  His head jerks up to the noise and a smile spreads across his face. “Good morning to you. I hope you like your eggs floor-side-down.”

  “You made breakfast?” As I look through the tiny kitchen, I realized he’s covered every surface with pots and pans. Damien is a tornado of a man and, it seems, he can’t help but stir up trouble everywhere he goes.

  His smile is a little lopsided now, a little less sure of himself. “I attempted breakfast, I usually have a chef to do it for me.” I try to hide my look of surprise when he adds, “That sounds terribly snobbish, doesn’t it? Let’s try again. Hi. Good morning. Toast?”

  He shoves a plate of half-burnt bread in my face. I don’t think I could be more in love with this man if I tried. I take the plate and sit at the kitchen bar top. “This is exactly what I need,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Butter,” he says the word as though he’s chastising himself and quickly takes a plate of butter out of the fridge and sets it down in front of me, as well as a jar of blueberry jam. “Jam. Knife.” He places each item down in front of me meticulously, and stares at it, sizing up his placement of everything. “What am I forgetting? Ah, kiss—” he leans in and presses his lips to mine once. Even his kiss is frenetic, as I melt into it.

  “Calm down,” I grip his arms. “You’re like a Jack Russell Terrier on speed. This is perfect.”

  “It would have been better with eggs. And a centerpiece. I can go steal some flowers from the pot outside.”

  “It’s perfect,” I repeat, emphasizing the word this time. I rub my hands over his biceps in attempt to chill him out. “Are you okay?”

  “You make me nervous,” he admits.

  That surprises me. “You? Nervous?”

  “Yes, I know,” he sighs. “The great, impervious Damien Blaze, felled by a pretty photographer. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like.” His fingers curl on my robe and his thumb traces a circle over my heart, above my breast. His touch sends electric shudders through me. His eyes are soft and intense as he drinks me in. “But then again, you make me feel a lot of things I never thought I’d feel again.”

  I swallow hard. “Listen,” I say, trying to recover the business-like authority in my voice, “we need to talk.”

  “Yes,” he says, “we do. You were stunning last night.”

  There he goes, making my heart skip beats again. “So were you,” I say. “Last night was amazing. Surprising.”

  “A good surprise, I hope.”

  His fingers tease the edges of my robe. He dips down and I feel his kisses trail a line up my throat. Dear god, how does he manage to make me melt under his lips in seconds flat? He hits pleasure points in my body I didn’t realize I had. When his warm mouth connects with that bare place right underneath my ear, I gasp and snap my thighs together as a jolt of pleasure shoots straight between my legs.

  “Yes,” I whimper, “very…uh…it was…very good…” What was I doing here? My thoughts flee and my good sense leaves when Damien’s tongue tastes my s
kin.

  “Wait,” I say quickly and push myself up quickly, too quickly. My hand slips across the kitchen bar and smacks a bottle off the table. I gasp and brace myself for the crash, wincing, but I hear nothing but silence.

  Damien lifts the bottle back onto the table, without a crack.

  “Good catch,” I tell him.

  “Second time’s the charm.”

  It’s then I realize that it’s not any bottle. It’s the same emerald green bottle we received before with a parchment note stuck in the neck. A message in a bottle from our producers.

  “This morning,” he says. “I was going to wait for you to open it.”

  “How romantic,” I tell him.

  “Shall we?” He tugs the note out and starts to unravel it.

  I concede that now is not the right time to tell him. I’m suddenly incredibly aware of the cameras pointed at us. If I confess now that I’m nothing but an undercover reporter, I’ll be confessing to more than Damien. I’ll be making the confession to the world. The idea of that kind of exposure has my heart in my throat again. I shrug and motion to him. “Now’s as good of a time as any.”

  Damien tugs the note out of the bottle and unravels it. Credit where credit is due, they do a good job at making the paper look weathered, like an old pirate’s treasure map. Damien’s eyebrows knit as his eyes scan over the paper.

  “Well?”

  “Ah,” he says. “It’s a poem.”

  “Serenade me, then.” I distract myself with a slice of toast and spread jam over it before taking a bite.

  Damien clears his throat for a dramatic reading:

  “You’ve survived love’s watery battlefield

  Now all of your secrets will be revealed.

  And challenge your views of right and wrong.

  May your mind be open—“

  “And your heart be true.” I finish the sentence for him, speaking through a mouthful of bread and jam.

  “A slant rhyme at best,” Damien critiques. “What do you think they’re talking about? Can’t imagine I’ve got many skeletons in the closet that you don’t know about.”