Bound to her Fake Fiancé Boss: A Fun Sexy Feel Good Billionaire Office Romance

by Hayson Manning

  Brunette: “Did you see Jason Johnson? Man, he is hot. I would bend over the table and let him do me.”

  Wow, classy. I mentally name the blond Candy and the brunette Brandy.

  Candy: “I have my sights set on him. The money, those looks, that broody scowl. I’ll have his ring on my finger.”

  Brandy: “I hear he’s engaged.”

  Candy: “It’s fake, I heard. Apparently she bats for the same team. Have you seen her? She’s not in his league, and she’s really plain. Don’t worry, he’ll dump her like he always does.”

  There’s a little nick to my heart that she’s right. I’d never fit into Jason’s life. We are not in the same league. Even if there was anything between us, which there is not and will never be, Jason’s a ten to my three, maybe three and a half. We don’t breathe the same oxygen in the dating scene.

  Candy and Brandy finally make it to the stalls. Not once do they turn around. I’m heading to a free stall and smile at the woman vacating it. It’s our server, who breezes past me like I don’t exist.

  Have I accidentally put on Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility? I pat myself down. Nope, I’m here, but it’s pretty much the story of my life. I redo my lip-gloss, pat down my clothes, and head back to the table to find Jason with Brandy and Candy fawning over him like he’s a cute puppy and they are going to scoop him up and take him home. He’s not exactly dissuading them. He’s laughing at something Candy said while Brandy pushes out her considerable assets.

  My nerves are fraying, and I’m not sure why. I dig my nails into my palms and narrow my gaze. We’ve got to be convincing as an engaged couple, and as a loving fiancée, I will not let other women fawn over my man.

  I reach the table and squeeze past the girls and plop myself on Jason’s lap. He grunts in surprise, then I wiggle. I tangle my hand in his hair and make a mental note to ask what product he uses. No hair should be this silky.

  Jason grips my waist when I squeeze his thigh. Wow. His really hard, muscly thigh. I do it again, and Jason hisses.

  “Come on, soon-to-be hubs, we are supposed to be engaged. Convince the town and all.”

  His eyes narrow when I zoom in on his lips, and I’m in for the kill. My mouth brushes his. I grip his shoulder, liking the flex of his muscles as he growls when I brush my mouth against his again. His breath hitches when I fit my mouth against his and our tongues tangle. He tastes of whiskey and sin, and it’s delicious. I want more and wiggle on his lap. His grip on my waist intensifies. I gasp when he brushes the side of my breast, and his hand settles on my shoulder. I’m lost in the kiss and so hot I may spontaneously combust. My body is heating from the inside out, and I’m breaking out in a sweat. I’m flushed, flustered, and distressed in a horny way. Apparently, so is he, judging by the growing evidence I’m sitting on.

  I break the kiss, panting, and plant my forehead against his, not daring to meet his eyes, afraid of what he’ll see in mine.

  “So, not a lesbian then,” Brandy says from the other side of the universe.

  “Still not his type. I give it a week,” Candy says from the back of Pluto.

  Jason carefully dislodges me to the seat beside him and pulls a hand across his lips, then his face. Either he wants to lock in the kiss, or is scrubbing it away. The latter, I think.

  “Yeah, I know, I’m not feeling it either.” I fiddle with my napkin, then chance a look around the room to find heads swiveled in our direction. Some smiling, some perplexed, some flat-out frowning.

  “Didn’t take you for the jealous type,” his gravelly, soaked-in-sin voice says as he adjusts his jeans.

  “We’re on date night. And I have it firsthand that I’m a lesbian and this is a sham arrangement to appease your grandmother, according to Candy and Brandy.” I nod in the direction of the two women whose scowls match Jason’s.

  My boss. Ugh. I just laid one on my boss like I’m jealous, which I’m not.

  “Well, the last part is definitely true.” He picks up his drink and takes another sip. I, on the other hand, desperately need multiple lemon drops to be lined up in front of me. I signal my friendly bartender, who smiles at me and frowns at Jason, who glares back at him.

  Men are essentially cave dwellers, I’ve concluded, and we’re supposed to be fire hydrants standing idly by while they piss on us.

  “You get all of that on a trip to the bathroom?” He quirks a brow. “And it’s not Candy and Brandy. It’s Yvette and Georgia.”

  “Yes, I did. Remember we’re on date night; you can’t be chatting up the ladies.” The lemon drop arrives, and I make short work of it. I’m irritated and flustered, and I don’t exactly know why. My heart is just beginning to make it back to attack levels. My pulse is fizzing, and I’m still far too warm.

  The band is playing a retro Eagles song, and it’s really cool.

  “Dance?” I hold out my hand to my boss, who smirks.

  “No. I don’t dance. Never have, never will.”

  I shrug, take a sip of my drink, and make my way onto the dance floor.

  Dancing is a drug to me. I love to dance, to get really lost in the lyrics and the beat. I groove alone in my apartment for hours to any song. A groover does not discriminate. Well, not this groover. Country, jazz, rock, soft rock. You name it, I’m there. My sister and I used to sing with our hairbrushes when we were kids when the family beside us, the Sotto’s, would be having an all-out yelling match. It was a nice way to escape.

  I’m lost in ‘Rocky Mountain Way’. My arms are above my head, and my body is swaying. My eyes are closed as I absorb the beat.

  The band then rocks out a Prince classic. I whoop my approval, then get lost again in the song. I startle when I look into searing eyes that root me to the spot. One hand on my shoulder, the other pulls me close and anchors me to his chest.

  Color me surprised. “I didn’t think you danced.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jason

  I can take no more of Asia writhing around the dance floor with every hot-blooded male in the area with their tongues and dicks hanging out. Even in jeans and sweater, her curves are melting my mind, but it’s the look of sheer joy on her face, her head thrown back, her mouth in a perfect O. Every man, and some women, have seen what my assistant would look like when she comes.

  I’ve given enough ‘fuck off’ glares to get me beaten up sixteen times over. There’s nothing else for it. I stalk to the dance floor as the lead singer oozes out ‘One of These Nights’ by The Eagles.

  “To answer your question, I don’t dance. But, because I’m your fiancé, and since every man and a couple of women want to take you home and fuck you, I believe it is my duty to protect your honor and my investment in you as a personal assistant.” I pull her closer and growl in the direction of the bartender who has had his eye on her all night.

  Asia stiffens in my arms. “Good to know I’m on the asset register. And I’m dancing on my own, not performing naked on an oiled pole in red strappy sandals.”

  I squint to stop the image forming. “Stop talking, Asia. I’m about to have an aneurysm.”

  We sway along to the music, and she hums, which goes straight to my balls. The poor bastards. I make a note to take care of them in the shower later. At this rate, I’m going to have to set up a plumber to visit my grandmother’s house, considering how much I’m hitting the spank tank. I imagine my grandmother having her drains snaked and being told why.

  Now that image should have worked.

  “One of these dreams, one of these lost and lonely dreams,” Asia murmurs, grinding against me. Not in a sexual way, it’s the way she dances. Wild, free, and fuckable.

  Indeed.

  Her vanilla and coconut scent is doing appalling things to my insides. My assistant snuggles and rests her head on my pecs. I look down in surprise. Sometimes I forget how tiny she is. She’s so tenacious, outspoken, driven, and smart all rolled into one small package.

  And gorgeous, my subconscious reminds me.

  Ye
ah, I remind him back. My assistant. Ergo no. And the girl is looking for the white picket fence.

  My arms, the traitors, flex around her.

  My assistant, I remind myself, is here for the money only.

  Good point.

  At some point, I’m aware the song has changed to a slow tempo. The guy’s voice is smoky, and he is rocking, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’.

  Right on cue, my snarky assistant whispers through a haze of lemon drops, “You get what you need, oh baby.”

  The last two words are my undoing. The image of Asia moaning them while I enter her from behind. Her hair is down, and she’s looking back at me and growling, ‘oh baby’.

  That’s it. I’m out of here. There’s only so much a man can take. I unwrap her from me, tag her hand, and head to the table.

  “Hey, I’m not done here. I’m enjoying a night out. I don’t get them very often working for you.” She pulls on my hand and growls.

  “Please don’t make a scene. We are supposed to be a happy couple, about to be married, no less.” When she resists again, I push her hair behind her ears, ignoring the hammering of my heart and the line of goosebumps on her neck. “Think of the money,” I say, and she jolts. She stares at me for a second, then gives a brief nod.

  “That’s all you ever think about,” she murmurs.

  Not true. I think of Asia in tight jeans that would show off her kicker curves. I think of the mighty Patriots occasionally. I always think of my brother and mom, and the less I think about my father the better.

  We walk to the table where I wrap her scarf around her neck, grab our coats, her bag, and head out the door to catcalls and wolf whistles. A man pats me on the shoulder. “Lucky bastard,” he says.

  Asia is buckled in the Range Rover. The seats are heating my ass, but from the frosty silence from the passenger side, Asia is not all toasty. She shoots an icy glare my way.

  “I was having fun tonight. It was nice dancing and being…free.” Her voice is tight, but I hear the thread of despair and loneliness there.

  “Free from what?”

  The SUV is handling the icy streets beautifully.

  “Working for you. Being on call when you want something on a whim. Obligations. Worrying about not being able to find things that don’t want to be found. More obligations and all.”

  “That’s quite the list.” I glance at her sideways. She’s staring out the window.

  “Let’s start with not being able to find things that don’t want to be found.” I take another curve. “I’m good at finding things. Excellent, in fact.” I know just the team for the job. Harlan Franco and Franco Security are legendary in the USA and the world, and I couldn’t be prouder of my brothers. We shared a lot of shit in boarding school. The man has had my back since I turned up at Stamford Brook lost, numb and terrified. As the newest and smallest boarder I was about to become the kid who got beat on, before Harlan and I nearly beat the shit out of each other, ending up in a laughing heap of bloodied lips, bruised eyes and respect. We had each other’s backs from that day.

  My mind is pulled back to the now silent woman beside me. “What were you saying?”

  “Nothing.” She waves a hand. “It’s the lemon drops talking. They are truth serum and evil.” She’s had three. I stopped at half a Scotch and water so I could get her home safely.

  “Asia,” I growl.

  “What, Jason?” she growls back. “You were the one who insisted there be nothing personal between us.”

  Damn it. She has me there. But if I can help her on a professional level, it won’t count.

  “I have the resources,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Think of it as unpaid overtime I owe you.”

  Guilt swamps me. I do phone her at all hours, and she picks up every time. I don’t think of my calls intruding in her life, which makes me one selfish prick. If my boarding school buddies were here, there’d be hollers and cheers of agreement.

  I scrub a hand across my face, making a mental note to not call her when she finishes work unless it’s an emergency. Sometimes I phone after a terrible nightmare to hear her voice. It soothes me in a way I can’t explain.

  “I’m looking for my sister,” she says in a small voice.

  I mentally open Notepad and start writing. “Go on.”

  “I need the money to pay the private investigator I’ve hired so he can take an out-of-state trip and follow up on a lead.”

  I wait for more, but there’s nothing. “Name, birthdate. Why’d she leave?” I gesture with a hand, impatient we’re not at the meat of the story. “What else do you want the money for?” I hit a button, and the garage door rolls up.

  A thought takes shape.

  “I’ve said enough already. Evil lemon drops,” she mutters, not bothering to put on her jacket for the hundred-yard walk to the main house.

  “You will not get pneumonia on my watch,” I say through gritted teeth, throwing my jacket on her shoulders. She stares at me briefly before walking to the door, ice crackling underfoot. I grab her hand to stop her from falling. She looks down, startled.

  “I don’t want you falling over after your lemon drops, and you know I need this house. Besides, I don’t want to train another assistant.”

  She huffs out a laugh. “There’s the man I work for. Good to see he’s back in charge and not the nice guy tonight who danced for five songs. The guy who doesn’t dance.”

  I rack a hand through my hair. Five songs?

  “Two songs. It was definitely two songs,” I insist as we stumble through the front door.

  Asia trips. I lunge and pull her into my side.

  In front of us is my grandmother with one brow arched.

  “Good date night?” she asks.

  “It was great. Lemon drops, burgers and dancing,” Asia replies. I look down into my assistant’s twinkling eyes. “Your grandson is quite the wooer.” She hiccups, then blushes.

  Grandmother’s other brow arches up, and she gives me a look I can’t figure out. Part speculation, part curious.

  “Your purchases have arrived and are in your room.” She nods and makes her way back to her lounge, where she’s playing cards with a group of women who stare at us with curious faces.

  Time to get a tipsy Asia upstairs and to make a phone call.

  “You can’t be serious?” I say twenty minutes later when Asia emerges from the bathroom in the tiniest set of pajamas in the history of pajamas, again. They should not be sexy with ducks and fucking goats on them, but they are. I can see every distracting curve. Her nipples are beacons, and I’m the homing signal. I can’t take another second of it. I throw her a flannel shirt of mine. “For God’s sake, your teeth are chattering. Please, for the love of Florence Nightingale, wear this. I told you I cannot afford to train another assistant.”

  She glares at me and pops a generous hip. “Stop throwing your clothes at me. What I’m wearing is perfectly fine.”

  The chattering is louder, and her entire body is shaking. I pull my hand through my hair. “Please, Asia. Would you do it for me?” She opens her mouth to protest. “For one night.”

  She considers me in her infuriating way, like she can read my mind, which she can’t because then my lusty thoughts would be on display, which wouldn’t do at all.

  “Okay, for one night, and I’m only doing it for Florence Nightingale.” She’s back in the bathroom which is weird. I thought she’d throw the shirt on, but no, my assistant arrives back in the room with the neatly folded tank top and shorts.

  Fucking great.

  She looks lickable in my shirt, and now I know her soft skin has been in contact with my shirt. Now I’ve got to lie beside her all night, knowing she’s basically naked beside me. I’ll have to burn the material to keep the memory forming of her in the shirt which is comically big on her. The shoulder slips right on cue, and I’m staring at creamy skin that needs to be marked.

  By me.

  Urgently.

  Nothing is going to happ
en between Asia and me. This is a contract which expires in ten days. I have to keep reminding myself, and I shouldn’t.

  “I’m going to have a shower.”

  I promised the boys relief, and I must deliver otherwise they’ll either explode—not an option—or I’ll lie awake with a throbbing stiff cock, again not a scenario I want. The bastard would fall off by morning, and I’m quite fond of him since he kicked into action in my teens.

  With business taken care of, I’ve cleaned my teeth and walk back into the room with a towel wrapped around my hips to find my assistant holding a pink bra and a tiny slip of lace. Thank God I’m wearing a towel because the image of me removing the said items with my teeth is making me hard in record speed.

  Again.

  “They’re not for you,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  “Oh.” She gathers up the bundles of purple, black, white, green, and turquoise then places them back in the bag. “I thought you buying me underwear would be weird.”

  I’d pay her, beg her, cut off a limb to see her wearing the slip of pink.

  “Of course, it would be weird. If I see something I like I stock up for the swipers.” Another lie. If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be out the door and wrapped around the house. Speaking of wood, I adjust the towel, hoping to hide the evidence.

  Her eyes shoot to the towel, get hazy, and her cheeks pink.

  Christ.

  She clears her throat.

  “It’s interesting they’re my size.”

  “Are they?” I feign surprise. “I have no idea what your size is, so…” I shrug a shoulder.

  Size 10 and a 32B.

  I extract a pair of underwear from the clean, scattered stack, drop my towel without thinking, and climb into the briefs.

  Shit, I didn’t mean to do that.

  I glance in the mirror and see Asia’s wide eyes, flushed face, and her bottom lip snagged. She closes her eyes. “Good night, Jason,” she says in a husky voice, which shoots straight to my balls. Again. The bastards cannot cut a break.

  That’s it. Tomorrow I’m going to make a secret door into the next room.