Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance

by Christie Tegan

  These people knew how to party. I was exhausted by the time people started to leave or retire to their rooms, and I was more than ready to join them.

  “There you are,” Cilla said and strode over to us. “Adela is here to show us to our rooms. She asked if we would mind staying together in one suite since they have a full house.”

  “The three of us?”

  Cilla nodded. “Just for tonight.” She leaned in and whispered, “I probably will not be using the room tonight anyway.” She winked.

  I looked at Tara. “Are you planning to have a rendezvous tonight?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m not hopeful.”

  “They have a lot of guests. We’ll share a room, and if Tara needs privacy, I’ll come out here for a swim in that gorgeous pool.”

  “Okay, let’s go, bellas.”

  The day was long, and I was so ready to go to bed. The room had a huge king-sized bed and a chaise, an en suite bathroom with a huge whirlpool tub and a small sauna, and a terrace with a killer view. The bed linens alone could put me to sleep—no one makes finer bedding than the Italians. I was unconscious the moment I got flat on my back.

  The next morning, I woke up to the table set for breakfast on the terrace. Espresso, juice, a platter of rolls and croissants, butter, jams, cheeses, olives, and ripe garden tomatoes. Tara started a torrid affair with a French man that Amadeo introduced her to. Fortunately for me, he has his own room in the villa, so I don’t have to make myself scarce in the dead of night. Cilla is stuck like Crazy Glue to Amadeo. I’m basically on my own. There’s a fantastically hot guy named Gianni who has been trying like mad to get to know me better, but I keep explaining to him about my situation. His English, though, is not so good. Or maybe Italian men do not care about pesky little things like marriages.

  We thought the party that was going when we arrived was the party Amadeo invited us to, but we couldn’t be more wrong. The next night was the real party and it was insane. Famous international actors, singers, models, artists—you name it—were all in attendance. Paparazzi were trying like crazy to get photos using drones, but they were getting thwarted by drunken guests. Amadeo couldn’t keep guests from snapping shots and posting them online, but everyone expects that anyway. Which is why I have to be careful.

  About ten o’clock when the party is in full swing, Tara rushes over and grabs my arm.

  “Oh. My. God. Marley, you have got to see this.” She’s holding up her phone.

  “What?”

  She pulls the phone to her chest. “Maybe I shouldn’t show you.”

  “Well, now you kinda have to. What is it?”

  Her arm shoots out and hands me her phone. When I see the image, I can actually feel the blood drain from my face because it goes numb and cold. And then burning hot.

  “That bastard. He told me we had to use discretion at all times, and here he is being photographed with another woman. I don’t think so.”

  The photo is from a British news site and shows him on a yacht with a gorgeous woman with dark skin and golden hair. She has her arm on his shoulder and her body draped against him—like Kelly is fond of doing. What is it with these super-thin tall women? Can’t they hold up their own weight? They can’t weigh much more than a French fry.

  After the initial shock wears off, I feel fire race through my veins. Okay. Two can play at the same game, Creed. There are some very handsome men hereabouts, men who I’ve been keeping at a distance as a good wife should. But maybe not anymore.

  All it takes is this one good party and a tiny bit of friendliness, and my photo is plastered on multiple IG accounts. Since Fletcher’s publicist has my name tracked, it won’t take long to get back to him. My husband will be informed of my activities within a few hours—maybe less—of them being posted to various social media accounts and websites.

  The party has spilled over into the next morning when his first text comes through

  Fletcher: Call me as soon as you get this message. Very important!

  I don’t respond and about an hour later he sends another:

  Fletcher: What the hell do you think you’re doing?

  This time I do reply:

  Marley: Same as…

  And I attach the photo that I had Tara send to my phone.

  Marley: Any problem?

  No text comes back, but half a second later my phone rings.

  “Yes?”

  “Marley, we had an agreement. You’re breaking it.”

  “You broke it first.”

  “I didn’t. That woman in the photo with me is my cousin Ramona.”

  “Your cousin?” I squeak.

  “My cousin, yes.”

  “But to anyone seeing that photo, she sure doesn’t look like your cousin. The optics say otherwise.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyone looking into it would immediately learn she’s my aunt’s daughter. Her surname is Creed-Martell.”

  Shit.

  “Well, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’d been super careful about not being seen in the company of any men until I saw that photo.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still in Lake Como. Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way to Zurich. Meet me there?”

  I wanted him to be jealous of the man I was photographed with, but there’s no emotion in his voice. All he cares about are appearances. Why should I bother meeting him in Zurich? A real honeymoon, he said?

  I seriously doubt it.

  “If you want me to, I will.”

  Silence. Did I say something wrong? Is he upset that I’m not more excited?

  “I suppose I’ll just meet you back at home since you don’t sound very enthusiastic about having a trip with me. I should be heading home midweek.”

  I want to say, No, I want to have a trip with you. I want more than a trip—I want you to notice me as a woman, damn it.

  But I say none of that. “All right, I’ll be home then too.”

  “You can take your time… visit your friends.”

  “It will look better if we’re home together. Won’t it?”

  “I suppose. So then I’ll see you next week.”

  When the line goes dead I sit there, holding the phone, and wonder if I just threw away my one chance to get closer to him.

  I think it’s a possibility, and it makes me so sad.

  We stay in Lake Como till the early afternoon. From there we go to Venice to attend an art festival and then back to Paris. Cilla wants us to go to her family’s villa, but I tell them I need to go back to Chicago. It’s Monday, and Fletcher is due to return to the States on Thursday. I figure I’ll go for a couple of days.

  I end up spending almost an entire week with Cilla’s family, lounging by the pool, sipping cocktails, eating amazing food, talking shit, and listening to music. I feel incredibly relaxed by the time I’m heading home. I text Blair to schedule our return flights from Nice to Paris and Paris to Chicago.

  It’s as I’m getting out of the car that picks me up from the airport that I realize something: I went almost two weeks without a bodyguard. That’s how long I’ve been away, and I spot my guy the moment I get back. I enter the townhouse and am totally surprised to see Fletcher in the kitchen yelling at someone on the phone. When he sees me, he beckons me in and ends the call.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say back, my heart fluttering in my chest at the sight of him. It makes me realize how much I’ve missed him.

  “Good trip?”

  “The best. And no bodyguard.”

  Tilting his head, he looks at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “Saylor told me that I have a 24/7 bodyguard, and she even pointed him out. But it occurred to me as I was just getting out of the limo that he wasn’t with me when I was traveling.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  My brows knit together, and I look at him, confused. “No.”

  And he starts laughing, that sexy, deep laugh that does such wonderfully naughty th
ings to me. “He very much was. Actually, there were two, and they enjoyed their trip, so I’m told.”

  “But I was in a private villa in Lake Como…”

  “They were too. They get into every function with no problem at all. No one would dare deny them entry.”

  “Oh. And at Cilla’s?”

  “They were with you, Marley. They’re trained to be invisible. Listen, I’m working from home today, so I thought we’d have an early dinner if that’s all right with you. I have a meeting this evening at seven.”

  “Yes.” I shrug my shoulders. “That’s fine. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Wow,” I shake my head, “penguins are amazing.”

  I’m sitting in the library later that night, finishing the book about penguins and talking to myself when Fletcher enters the room, his shoes shuffling on the floor, which is unlike him. He staggers too, getting my attention as I sit up straight. “Are you okay?”

  He frowns, shaking his head, his expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  I peer at him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, taking him in. Although he looks damn fine in his blue jeans and gray shirt, his eyes are glassy and his hair is askew. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” I could hear the surprise in my own voice—he’s, like, never out of control.

  He sidles closer, his legs swaying in front of me. “I had a few drinks. Not drunk though.”

  “Mm-hmm. Why don’t you sit down?” I pat the couch seat next to me, and he does an about-face and plops onto the couch, sending the whole thing skittering back a few inches or so. “Can I get you something? Maybe some coffee… or a glass of water?”

  He turns his head, angling himself toward me, and sticks his face uncomfortably close to mine. “You’re very pretty, you know.”

  I can’t help myself—I smile. “Why did it take your being tanked to notice, I wonder?”

  “Oh, I noticed,” he counters in a loud voice. “I noticed a looong time ago. And I’m not that drunk, by the way.”

  Pressing my lips together to squash my smile, I pat his hand. “Use your inside voice, Fletcher.”

  When I say that he holds a finger up to his lips. “Shhhh. We don’t want to wake our security.”

  I giggle. When he hears me laugh, he joins in, and we’re sitting here, both of us laughing at nothing.

  Until he kisses me.

  27

  Marley Jacobs

  I wasn’t expecting that at all, and my heartbeat rockets into warp speed. Being completely caught off guard, I let him kiss me for a moment before retreating, but when I do, his hand slides around my head and pulls it back to his face. His tongue tries to gain entrance, and I want to open up to him so badly. But should I? I’ve been pining for him for months now, imagining us together… but he’s drunk. I’m not. He may resent me for it when he sobers up—for my giving in to him. I gently push him back.

  “Fletcher, you’re tanked. You’ll regret this tomorrow.”

  He comes right back at me, keeps kissing me—sweetly, gently, and then with ever-increasing fervor. He barely pulls away to whisper, his words vibrating on my lips. “I’ll never regret it.”

  What? Am I dreaming?

  If I am, then it’s a fantastic dream. Honestly, I don’t need much convincing. I part my lips, and his warm tongue slips between them, begins a seductive tango with mine. As soon as I taste him, everything inside me turns hot and liquid. It’s a feeling like no other, and I want this man so much I’m practically drooling over him.

  I’ve never been kissed like this before. Rough, intense, at moments gentle too. Curious. Wild. Hungry. His hands are everywhere on my body. An octopus. I can’t keep track of all the different sensations.

  And then there are my hands.

  I can’t believe I’m touching him. Since I met him, he’s not been totally real to me—just this incredibly important man who hired me to play a role. Forced me into it, really. A man who I had no right to whatsoever, and the contract made sure my lack of rights was recorded on a legal document.

  If just ogling his body could make me lose my cool, having it under my hands is an erotic adventure that I never thought possible. My fingers roam the muscled planes of his chest and arms, the taut belly. I rake my nails through his thick hair, and he shudders, giving me a thrill. They continue over his chiseled jaw and throat where I could feel his pulse throbbing. He’s so strong, so alive, so pulsing with life. He smells good too. Faint cologne—sandalwood maybe?—mixed with soap and his own special scent, the combination more intoxicating than the whiskey in his veins. I’m drunk from inhaling him, and I don’t even mean the fumes of the liquor he consumed. That I can taste on his lips.

  No, I’m drunk on his maleness. His primal masculinity. His deliciousness. His utter fucking beauty.

  But back to his lips… they’re migrating now from my mouth down to my throat. His hand drops to my breast and he cups it, his thumb caressing my nipple back and forth through fabric. The sensation streaks right down to between my legs, and a gush of wetness floods my panties. I’ve fantasized about being with him for so long now, and it’s coming true. As I feel my nipples electrify under his persistent fingers, I wonder how far I should let this go. I want to let it go all the way to its natural end. I’m afraid, though.

  Suddenly he sits up and lifts me onto his lap, pushing his knees between mine so I’m straddling him, my back leaning on his chest. Holding my hair with his left hand so that I’m angled toward him, he pulls the neckline of my shirt down with his right, exposing my breasts still encased in a black lace bra. I’m wearing thin yoga pants and they make it easy for me to feel his erection hardening into steel right under me, right in the place where it most counts, and it sets my blood on fire.

  He may be drunk, but he seems to know exactly what he’s doing, a man on a mission to ravish me. His hair is softer than I imagined it would feel, his skin is much hotter than I’d expect. He smells so freaking good. Tastes so freaking good.

  “Fletcher…” I begin and then stop.

  Oh God. I want to make love with him more than anything else I can think of. He licks my throat, sending icy-hot chills up and down my spine, and then he bends his head and lifts me to lick and bite my nipples through the lace, shuttling back and forth between them until they’re stiff and swollen and standing at attention. When I moan, he glances up at me.

  His hand cradles my face as he looks intently, lustfully, perhaps drunkenly into my eyes, his own hooded with desire. “Do you want me to stop, or do we keep going?”

  The sound of his voice roughened by lust triggers a sharp, pinching contraction deep inside of me as his hand glides down my body to cup me between my legs. I almost scream at the wonderfulness of the intimate contact. “We keep going,” I answer in a voice equally hoarse.

  “Let’s take it into the bedroom then.”

  Strong hands grasp my waist, and he lifts me off his lap as if I weigh nothing.

  Holding my hand in his warm one, he leads me into his bedroom—I’ve never been inside it before. It’s large and peaceful, spare in its furnishings. Spartan but not sparse, just elegantly minimal. The few pieces he has in here are tasteful and surely worth a fortune. The carpet alone is probably more valuable than everything in my loft combined.

  “This is beautiful,” I murmur as I cast my gaze around the room.

  He grasps my throat and using his finger, swivels my face back to his. “You’re beautiful, Marley.” His silvery irises flare like fireworks. “Truth.”

  I’m so not used to seeing this side of him. With me he’s usually arrogant and just on the cusp of rude. The way he’s behaving, drunk or not, is putting me at a disadvantage. But… it’s a good disadvantage.

  Indulging myself, I reach up and once again run my fingers through his lush, dark hair. It’s dense and silky. Is there nothing remotely flawed on this man—at least physically? “Fletcher, please tell me this isn’t a mistake that you’ll regret in the mo
rning. I mean, you probably have a lover. I wouldn’t want to ruin anything for you.” It’s a shot in the dark for me, but I need to know he’s not with any other woman.

  His hand holding my throat slides around to grasp the back of my head as his fingers on his free hand brush my hair back and tuck a few wayward strands behind my ear. “Do you? Have a lover?”

  “No.” That’s one question I can answer honestly and with no hesitation though in truth, I have other secrets to guard.

  He licks his lips—I want to do that. I want to lick his lips, his muscled chest, his fucking sexy, taut belly, and finally his cement-hard cock that I could feel through our clothes. I’ve never done that ever, but I know I would love doing it for him.

  “I’m unattached,” he answers. Breathing deeply, he gazes at me, one corner of his mouth hiking up into a crooked grin. “As I told you long ago. Unattached and uncommitted to anyone… other than you.”

  What? He’s committed to me? Oh, how I wish. My fingers reach down to flirt with the hem of his T-shirt, and I lean in to suck his lower lip into my mouth.

  Emboldened by raw lust, I whisper to him, “I want to suck your cock.”

  His eyes ignite like a match held to an open flame. “No objection.”

  I drop to my knees and open the button on his trousers. Unzip them. Spread the fly open. Out springs an engorged cock, enormous like I’ve never seen before. Not in person. I lean in and open my mouth, taking in as much of him as I could and suck hard. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve seen it done in dirty movies. I think I can wing it. I grab the base of it with my hand and squeeze, not too hard but not too gently either, eliciting a growl from him that encourages me to take even more of him into my mouth until I feel him hitting the back of my throat. I fight my gag reflex, but I get too enthusiastic and I do gag. Quickly, I pull back and slide my wet lips down his shaft again.