Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee

by Julia Kent

  “Don’t take it off for my benefit. I’m not the one who gets fake married and then comes home in real denial.”

  “Denial?”

  “All I’m saying is that the chick you almost-married must be one hell of a woman if you’re still wearing a wedding ring you don’t need to wear. Most guys would have ripped that off their finger the second they could.”

  “I’m not most guys.”

  “No, you’re not. And speaking of that special woman, how are you doing on your wasp lessons?”

  Back up. Wasp lessons? I know what you’re thinking. It’s not—well—

  “I’m doing fine,” I grind out, covering my mouth with the lip of the glass filled with caffeinated snot.

  “You’re practicing?”

  “I don’t need to practice.”

  You ever hear metal grind against an orc’s bowels? That’s the sound Vince makes.

  “Andrew.” He grabs the rest of my bulletproof coffee and drinks it, then slams the glass on the counter like he’s Thor, demanding another tankard of ale. “You came to me a few months ago to ask for help dealing with your fear.”

  “Don’t use that word,” I snap. “It wasn’t—”

  “Feeeeaaaaarrrrrr.” He draws out the word slowly, eyes glowing, boring into me like a laser. “And I came up with a plan. When I work with clients, my training programs are all-encompassing, and designed for success. Your wasp lessons were maximized for optimal outcome. Eradicating fear was the goal.”

  “Quit calling it—”

  “Feeeeeeeaarrrrrr.”

  My hands curl into fists, the wedding band digging into my palm. He looks just like Declan when he says that damn word.

  “Look.” I grab my hand towel off the bike and start to walk away. “I’ve got a call with some officials in Bhutan in ten minutes, and then I—”

  “You said Turkey a few minutes ago.”

  Shit.

  “Turkey, Bhutan,” I say, dismissive like my dad.

  “Even I know those are very, very distinct countries and cultures, Andrew.” He gives me a sour look.

  “Investors blur together. They’re all the same.” That’s a huge lie. “I don’t have time for this.”

  Not a lie.

  “You taken your fake wife out on a real date in daylight, Andrew? Outside?”

  I freeze. It’s a split second pause, but he catches it.

  The huff of dismissive reaction makes my blood boil.

  “Look, Vince, shut the hell up.”

  “I’ll shut up when you man up.”

  “I’m plenty man.”

  “Not if you expect your woman to live like a vampire. You bite her already and turn her into one of you? Humans need sunlight. Air. A man who doesn’t live in fear of an insect’s shadow.”

  I’ve never told Vince why I live a carefully-constructed life. A life designed to mitigate risk. A life that reduces down to near-zero the chance that I’ll be stung.

  A life that makes sense.

  “She’s agreed to your weird-ass lifestyle crap?”

  My head feels like a balloon within a balloon within a balloon filled with glitter and jelly beans. I can’t have this conversation.

  “She’s off limits as a topic.” I take the ring from my palm, slide it back on, and give him the bird.

  His eyes narrow, hands on hips, breath steady. “You’re hardcore, Andrew. Seriously. I don’t say that lightly. I work with guys like you. Most of you are a dime a dozen. That’s why I don’t work with most of you. But you’re not the strongest client I have.”

  “Vince, you train Olympic weightlifters. Of course I’m not.” He’s playing head games. Won’t work on me.

  “Not that kind of strength, man. I’m talking about inner strength.”

  He might as well have sucker-punched me, gloveless, while wearing brass knuckles.

  “Fuck.You.”

  Vince shrugs, shaking his head slightly, never breaking eye contact. “There you go. Baring your fangs when you should be showing me your belly.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Real strength comes from being vulnerable without flinching. Real strength comes from admitting when you feel weak—and asking for help to become strong again. You did that when you came to me and asked for help with the wasp thing.”

  I snort. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”

  “And now you’re backpedaling.”

  I roll my tongue in my cheek and say nothing, pivoting away. My hand shakes as I reach for a folder.

  “It’s Monday. We used to meet on Fridays at two out at that park in Waltham. You gonna be there?”

  “Do I pay you to bully me?” I’m not answering his question.

  I’m not answering because I don’t know the answer.

  “No. You pay me to train you.”

  I shoot him a dirty look.

  “The bullying is a bonus.”

  As he walks out, I hear him say to Gina, “Two o’clock Friday in Waltham. Add it to his calendar.”

  Balls.

  But I don’t object. I’m man enough to admit he’s right.

  Just not to his face.

  As I’m bending down to sit in my office chair, eyeballs deep in some contract made up of more legalese than a pre-nup for Rupert Murdoch, in breezes a bundle of creamy flesh, lush hair, big, round eyes and red lips that don’t even get a chance to talk before I’m across the room, kissing them. She’s soft and sweet, tasting like honey and tea, and her curves melt under my hot hands.

  My hot hands that wear our wedding ring.

  For a marriage that didn’t happen.

  But it will, I think as the kiss deepens. The shift from talking smack with Vince to having her skin pulsing into my palms is dizzying.

  Or maybe that’s just the effect of having Vince beat the shit out of every electrolyte in my body.

  As she makes a small sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, my thumb migrates, the pad resting lightly on the pulse at her collarbone, seeking to feel the sound. Our hips press into each other, my erection painful in these cramped, tight shorts, and all I want to do is free myself, then be caged within her warm, wet madness.

  Losing myself in her is the best form of escape.

  Her hands slide up and down, one north to the nape of my neck, one south to the curve of my ass, which tightens at the initiation of her touch. Her hand is insistent, demanding, righteous and full of assumptions.

  She acts like she has the right to touch me like this.

  I like that.

  I break the kiss and bend, thighs screaming, hamstrings ready to defect, put one arm under her knees and the other around her back, palm cupping her breast, and she’s in my arms, then on my desk.

  And I’m on my knees.

  Ignoring the shaking muscles in my legs, which tremble from strain and desire, I part her legs, finding black silk, lace, and nothing but barrier. It’s beautiful, but this will not do.

  “Not here!” she gasps, but her voice isn’t firm, the protest half-hearted, as if she needs to check a box on a list of How To Be Professional qualities she should have in the workplace. She’s turned on and ready, the illicit desk sex and my mouth too much to let her mount another argument, her head lolling back as I dive in, pushing aside the piece of cloth and finding my way to give.

  Sunlight glints off the wedding ring on my hand as I reach back, my hand resting on her knee.

  It’s the last thing I see until she chokes back a cry from her orgasm, her fingers pulling tightly on my hair, and begs me, “Please. In me. Now.” Normally talkative, Amanda loses access to part of the speech center of her brain as we spiral deeper into lust and passion. It’s a tell.

  I love this tell.

  Within seconds, the bike shorts are across the room, and we’re on the floor, her skirt around my hips, Amanda riding me. Not only is this one of my favorite positions, but she doesn’t know that my legs are so blown from Vince’s workout that I’m not sure I could remain standing for any testostero
ne-injected positions that require balance or strength.

  Not going to admit that, so instead, I let her take the lead, which kills two orgasms with one stone. Or something like that. My own speech center is devolving as she moves up, the friction turning me into an animal, atavistic and primal.

  Besides, this leaves both hands free, which means I can unbutton her shirt, unleash her breasts, and watch her beautiful face as she rides me, coming with a tight clench and a full-throated cry, her face flushed and lips parted, one look at her pushing me over.

  As we come together, I stare at the sight of my left hand on her breast, the ring stroking her sweet nipple, my mind processing only this as my body roars with a pulse and thrusts that move us up to a new layer of abandon.

  She leans down for an open kiss, her mouth pausing as a small pulse ripples between us, a little more that usually comes from her after the main event, as if her body isn’t quite done with her yet, like a stinger at the end of a Marvel Comics movie.

  Hair. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by long, lush hair, covering my cheeks and neck, tickling me. Her uncovered torso presses into mine, her body loose and liquid, hands curled on my sweaty shoulders, her nose in my ear.

  “God, I needed that,” she mutters.

  “You needed that? You?”

  “It’s been two days.”

  “I know it’s been two days.” I tighten, making myself twitch inside her, which unleashes a torrent of giggles from her. “But you turned me down last night.” My booty text went unanswered. Same thing as rejection.

  “Did not!”

  “Did too.”

  “Are we seriously going to fight about sex while I am still pulsing around you? Not the best management technique, Mr. McCormick!”

  “You’re not my employee. It’s not as if we’re acting out a scene from ‘Who Moved My Cheese,’ Amanda.”

  She laughs. The movement pushes me out of her.

  Bzzzzz.

  “Mr. McCormick?” It’s Gina, on the damn intercom Dad insists we use.

  Insisted. Past tense. He’s no longer CEO. Note to self: abolish the intercoms and just use texting.

  “You answering that?” Amanda rolls off me and onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes darting to catch mine as I stand, slowly, and look down on her.

  What a vision. Skirt around her hips, thigh-highs slipped to her knees, her panties hanging off the edge of my trash can in my peripheral vision, she’s all creamy skin covered at the edges by lightweight gray wool and white business cloth. Her hair slips over the carpet like an oil slick, lips red and raw from kissing, her expression telling me everything her body just said.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, eyes digging into my soul, slowly standing and beginning to re-cover that which belongs fully exposed for my eyes to feast on.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re a grateful pair.” Her left hand comes up and strokes my cheek.

  Her hand is bare.

  My solar plexus curls up into a shriveled ball, like a tiny leaf after the first fall frost. I shouldn’t be bothered by her lack of a ring, but I am.

  I am, deeply.

  All the pain Vince injected into my muscles comes roaring into my center, aimed straight for the safe confines of a compartment inside my heart. The unbearable ache of the journey is nothing compared to the agony of closing the door on that shattered piece of me.

  This should not bother me.

  It does.

  I should not let it hurt so much.

  But I do.

  I do.

  Post-sex bliss drains out of me like I’ve been slashed, mugged for the bounty of some richness inside me and left to bleed to death. Amanda’s chin is pointed down as she looks at her buttons, and my chest spasms, threatening to rip a sound from my throat that I can’t let myself make.

  I’m ice cold, then burning hot. My legs tremble and tense, my arms itching to touch her, to smack her, to make her want what I want.

  To make her want me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t pretend. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

  “We’re not married, silly!” she says with a laugh that dies as she looks at me.

  “No,” I say softly, mournfully. “We’re not.”

  She reaches for my left hand and strokes the ring. The movement of her steps, the new proximity to her, brings a whiff of our mingled scents, hers rosy and sex-laden, mine sweaty and metallic. Minutes ago, I was buried so deep inside her that I could push up and skim heaven.

  And now I feel like I’ve descended into hell.

  Her brows twitch, pulling down and in, and her wide eyes search mine. “Why are you so upset? You were really weird on the plane ride. And,” she asks, faltering, her fingers seeking my ring, “why are you still wearing yours?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to take it off.”

  She pales.

  “Why not?” Amanda’s breath quickens.

  “Maybe I’ve gotten used to wearing it.”

  “Maybe? Andrew, you don’t use the word maybe.”

  Maybe she’s right.

  Chapter Ten

  “You said the idea of being married was ‘ridiculous.’” I resort to finger quotes.

  Yes, I’m desperate.

  “I did.”

  “What if there is no conflict?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do we need to have some big dramatic moment about this? You confessed that the idea of already being married is terrifying, yet I think you also find it appealing. I didn’t take my wedding ring off until my trainer hassled me out of it—and then I put it right back on. Maybe we both want this.”

  “Want to be married after kissing in closets for two years, only dating for a few months, breaking up horribly, and reuniting when I took a dog and kitty bath and nearly drowned?”

  She’s got me there.

  Truth always wins, though.

  “Yes.” I shrug. I reach for her, my finger tracing the strong line of her jaw.

  She manages to frown and widen her eyes at the same time. “That is crazy, Andrew! People don’t magically just go and get married like this, and have it last.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says everyone.”

  “I don’t care about everyone. I care about you.”

  “But we can’t just—”

  “Says who?”

  “You truly want to just run off and marry me? After rejecting me less than two weeks ago during Shannon and Declan’s wedding rehearsal fitting? What happened to the man with the cold eyes and the closed heart who told me he wouldn’t let me love him?” Her throat makes a strangled, hitching sound that feels like a line to my heart, which twitches in response. Amanda’s palm begins to sweat.

  I hold on.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I strain to find the right tone, the right words, that match the utter fury I hold inside toward myself. That day of the wedding party fitting, when I stormed out half dressed, needing an excuse to be angry and finding it in the paper-thin argument that no one had told me the wedding was outdoors, in daylight, in July, the beast inside me was looking for a fight, and invented one.

  “When I told you I wouldn’t let you love me, it didn’t mean I didn’t love you,” I confess, trying to find a lifeline here, a rope attached to a buoy as I drown in memories of my own stupidity. “I knew that so long ago.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That I loved you.”

  “How long ago?”

  This tell-the-deep-truth part is hard, isn’t it? Few aspects of my life are truly new these days. Information, sure. Details and experiences, travel and people are new.

  Emotional realities, though—going into new territory is rare.

  With Amanda, it’s become the rule. I don’t know how to be in a relationship with her and not explore new layers of love with her. Holding back from that journey feels unfair. False. Fake.

  If I wanted fake, I’d
date Jessica Coffin again.

  I want real.

  I close my eyes, remembering the moment she walked into the boardroom as Dad, Declan and I conferred before Greg and his staff appeared for the mystery shopping account meeting. More than two years ago. A lifetime. An eternity.

  A blip.

  “The day we met, you were wearing a long, gray pencil skirt that hugged your hips like a treasure map for my palms. The slit up the back was a portal into another world. Red silk shirt under a black blazer, and your lips matched the silk. I wondered if you were wearing a red lace bra underneath.”

  She’s spellbound, eyes watching me as if my words hypnotize her. “I was,” she rasps.

  I knew it. “You were the epitome of ‘fuckable secretary’ from every fevered fantasy I’ve ever had.”

  “You really are a pervert.”

  I shrug.

  “Hey, if we’re telling the truth...” I pause. “But I don’t have those fantasies about my secretaries.”

  “Right.” She’s skeptical.

  “I haven’t. Not since the day we met.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You’ve ruined masturbation for me. I can’t even cheat in my mind.”

  “You’re such a romantic.”

  “I quoted Dickinson to you on our first date!”

  She makes a gesture of concession. “Go on.”

  “Red silk shell and black blazer. With the black hair and red lips, you had the look down. That day I looked up, expecting to just glance at the client’s staff, shake hands, and sit down for the boring but necessary details before signing the deal. That’s not what happened, though. I did a double take.”

  “My breasts made you do that,” she says with a soft laugh.

  “No.” I reach for her chin and lift it up until she can’t look away from me. “You did that. You.”

  She sighs and smiles, nice and wide.

  “Your breasts were just the closer,” I add, flinching, ready for the punch that I know follows.

  The kiss surprises me, a welcome substitute for the punch I deserve.

  “Why?” she asks, talking against my mouth. “Why did you wait so long? Why did you steal kisses and make me live with ambiguity?” I can tell she needs to know, and my own murkiness makes me feel inadequate. I owe her the truth, but what do you do when you don’t even know your own truth?