by Imani King
The Convenient Wife
Imani King
Copyright 2015, All Rights Reserved
The Convenient Wife
By Imani King
Dorian Lambert has a problem. His grandfather is dying, and the vast fortune he stands to inherit has been compromised by one little detail: Dorian must marry and produce an heir in order to receive it.
Dorian isn't the type to play by the rules. And when he sees Georgia Devereaux, he knows exactly how to get what he wants—and how to piss off his rich, conservative family in the process.
Georgia Deveraux—Gigi, to her friends—has her own problems to worry about. Graduating from Harvard law school left her deep in debt, but when she lands a spot at a prestigious law firm handling the Lambert estate, Dorian makes her an offer she can’t refuse.
Love wasn’t supposed to be part of the bargain. Now Dorian and Gigi must decide if their unconventional marriage can ever amount to something more.
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“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.”
What I really should’ve said was, “Good God, woman. Have mercy on my soul,” because this Brazilian goddess—Natalie, Natalia, whatever her name was—was tempting me to sin.
She laughed and flipped her long, raven hair, and I watched the sound bubble in her throat. She had a beautiful neck. A beautiful everything. But that neck made her look like a bronze swan who’d come to roost in my lap, sleek and elegant and damn near naked. And she’d brought champagne, too. This was my kind of woman.
“In Brasília,” she said, her voice thick and throaty like a siren’s call, “we speak Portuguese, not French.”
“But is Portuguese the language of love?” I asked her, trailing my hands over the rounded globes of her ass. I brushed my lips along her neck, inhaling the orchid scent of her hair. “Because that’s the only language that should grace your ears.” And besides, it was the only one I’d taken in college.
She batted her lashes at me, her eyes shimmering like pools of hot whiskey. “So you love me, Dorian Lambert? Is this your confession?”
I smiled and turned her so she was straddling me. “I love all beautiful women, ma chère. And every one is special in their own way. I could show you…”
Her breasts, only barely contained by a crochet bikini top, hitched as I grazed my thumb between them. I was keenly aware that the only thing that kept them secured were two strings tied at the nape of her neck. One little pull, and she’d come undone.
But I couldn’t release them just yet. That’s what she’d be expecting. So instead I peeled away one cup of her top to reveal her tiny brown nipple, and after dipping my finger into my champagne flute, swirled a droplet of nectar around it until it pebbled.
I watched a bead of sweet champagne hover on the tip. I looked up at my goddess. Her face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, teeth embedded into her plump lower lip. She was practically soaking my swim trunks through her bikini bottom and gauzy sarong. Without looking away from her, I stretched out my tongue to her tender bud and licked, then suckled from her breast, letting the flavor of her flesh enhance the absurdly expensive vintage I’d coated her with.
She tilted her head back, shivered, and cooed. But before she could get too comfortable I pulled away, savoring the traces of her that lingered on my lips.
“I’d bet that champagne would taste even sweeter as I licked it off your clit.”
Her sultry eyes flashed. “I’m willing to let you find out.”
I grinned and began to work at the knot in her sarong just as a flurry of fireworks exploded across the sky. I could hear a chorus of approval from my friends by the pool, the ones responsible for the colors raining down like shooting stars. They were women, mostly, because those were the kinds of friends I liked to keep—the ones whose only expectations of me were the things I was willing to provide.
They wanted expensive gifts. They wanted a good time. Parties and pools and maybe something a little naughtier, less legal, here and there. They were always down to fuck, and whenever I lost one to a jealous boyfriend, there were two more ready and raring to take her place. It was a good gig, and they knew it. And they knew better than to ask for more.
Because more was only something I could give in the context of fucking and fancy soirées. You want more, honey? Here’s a credit card. Go nuts. Or how about I pound that pussy until your fever breaks? Stretch you to your limits? Open you up like no other man has before, or ever will?
That was something I could do. Something I was good at. And everybody here knew it.
I was like Gatsby, but with more game. Better than Gatsby.
Until my mother showed up unannounced...
My Brazilian beauty had just gotten my dick out, her fingers wrapping around my shaft and beginning to slowly work her hand up and down when I heard the old bat’s grating roar over the sound system.
“Dorian Eugene Lambert, you get your privates away from that young woman’s hands and come here this instant!”
With a sigh of resignation I gently guided my buxom young lady friend off of my lap and slid my more erotic appendages back into the confines of my trunks. My mother always had the worst habit of spoiling the best moments of my life—something I hadn’t missed in the years since I’d moved out on my own.
“Je serai de retour, ma chère,” I whispered in my South American beauty’s ear before gently cupping her backside. She seemed more than a little disappointed, her plump lower lip extended in the most beautiful pout I’d ever seen as she went back to mingle among my other guests. I had to make it a point to find her again before the night was over.
I wove through the crowd of faces and half-naked bodies, most of whom I could never have called by name if I tried. But the whole point of these parties wasn’t that I knew everyone—it was that everyone was enjoying themselves. If they were having fun, they damn well couldn’t forget me, and it was good to have friends. Even distant ones.
I glanced to my left in just enough time to see the last seconds of an impromptu mud-wrestling match between two gorgeous women—both of whom had apparently lost their tops in all their tussling. I couldn’t help but smile. Who would ever want more from life than this?
I finally wound my way around the room toward the stage where my mother had commandeered the microphone from the DJ. She stood just offstage, her arms crossed and her face a deep-set scowl of the utmost contempt. It almost made me grin knowing I’d gotten her so riled up.
“Mother!” I called with a mock tone of cheer. “How are you? It really has been too long…”
“Come with me, Eugene,” she snarled, loud enough for me to hear above the pulse of the speakers. Something in her face seemed to trigger a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, a look that belied more than her usual hatred for my extracurricular activities.
I followed her through the crowd, which seemed to part like the Red Sea as she liberally applied her horrific death stare she only reserved for her most pungent of rages. After we’d made our way up a few winding staircases and down a hallway, the sounds of the party down below seemed like a distant memory. She pushed open the door to one of the house’s multitude of bedrooms, signaling wordlessly for me to enter.
“You’re beginning to frighten me, Mother,” I said as she closed the door in my wake. “What’s the meaning of all of this?”
“Your grandfather is dying.”
“He’s been dying for years,” I reminded her.
She pursed her lips. “No, you don’t unders
tand. Your grandfather is dying soon. Within the next few weeks.”
Much like my mother, my grandfather and I did not at all get along—he’d written me off years ago, citing my lifestyle of hedonism, debauchery, and sin. Ever since he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer, he’d become insanely religious—none more zealous than a convert, as they say.
“We are having a preemptive reading of his will tomorrow—something I’ve been attempting to call you about for the past two days,” she said, though instead of her usual angry fire that lined her voice, my mother seemed tired. “You need to be prepared, Dorian.”
“I—yes. Of course.”
“I’ll have the car come for you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And remember to wear something decent.”
Without another word my mother exited the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor until the sound faded into oblivion. I was left there alone, with only the crushing weight of the bombshell my mother had dropped upon my shoulders.
The world seemed to slow down, and the finiteness of my existence felt as though it were creeping closer to me like some looming predator. Despite all my negative feelings toward my family, despite my mock wishes for them to pass away and leave me alone, I never actually wanted any of them to die.
I forgot all about the party that still raged on below—for all I cared, it could have been happening on the other side of the world. All I could do was think of all the times I’d spoken to my grandfather, all the silent judgment—and even the not-so-silent—wishing that maybe it could have been different somehow, if I could have been a better son, or even a better person.
I’d never handled death well. Ever since my father died when I was a teenager, death only seemed to bring out the worst in me. I got into drinking, smoking, indulging in all the things that bored rich kids are expected to indulge in—especially sex. It was after that I had started my journey to becoming the Gatsby-esque playboy that everyone wanted to be, to know, and to fuck.
My thoughts wandered down to the pretty little Brazilian that I’d left downstairs, expecting to spend her night with my cock buried inside her, enjoying all the comforts that having sex with a billionaire could provide.
I’m going to have to disappoint you, ma chère, I thought, running a hand through my thick thatch of hair. It was a shame; she was probably the most gorgeous girl who’d walked through my door today, and I always made it a point of enjoying all the pretty things in my house.
I did my best to keep out of sight as I headed toward my own personal bedroom. Every now and then I’d pass an open doorway, the sounds of carnal pleasures wafting on the air and to my ears. I envied them the desire to even entertain such things, even as an escape from my own melancholy—but something in me didn’t feel up to it. I couldn’t even entertain the idea of sex while I still felt my grandfather’s impending doom hanging over my head.
“Dorian!”
I turned to find my best friend, Ollie, jogging after me, nearly out of breath. He leaned against the wall, panting heavily and clutching a stitch in his side.
“Jesus, dude,” he gasped. “Why is this house so big? I almost had a heart attack trying to find you.”
“Sorry about that, Ollie.”
“Was that seriously your mom up on the stage earlier? I thought she was going to shut the whole party down or something with that look she was—” Ollie stopped short, his eyes locked onto mine as his expression changed. “Are you all right? You look like someone just killed your hamster.”
“Not far off,” I said, sighing. “My grandfather is dying.”
“Well, yeah, we knew that but—oh, shit. You mean like, now.”
“Maybe in the next couple of weeks, yeah. She needs me to attend an early reading of the will.”
“Do you want to sit and talk, dude? I can go get us some booze if…”
“I think I just need to be alone for a little while, Ollie. Everyone can stay and keep partying. I dropped sixty grand on tonight and I don’t want to spoil the fun. Just… have a good time without me, okay?”
“Sure, Dorian. I mean, of course. You just let me know if you need anything, and I’m there for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, flashing him a forced smile before I pushed open the door that led to my bedroom. The door close with the soft click and I let silence overwhelm me once again.
I’d never thought about how empty my bedroom felt before. Usually I’d have it filled with women and the music thumping so loud that the walls would shake—but not today. Today I began to realize just how empty everything seemed. There was so much room for something I just couldn’t put my finger on. I’d never felt so alone before.
And for the first time in as long as I could remember, there wasn’t a woman waiting underneath the sheets for me.
I couldn’t believe I had to spend all day with such a cranky old coot. I had been sitting at Mr. Lambert’s bedside for over three hours, and he’d barely been lucid enough to speak to me concerning his final wishes.
Handling matters of estate had been my forte since I’d graduated law school. In fact, it was a recommendation from one of my professors that had landed me a cushy position with one of the biggest firms in the tristate area. I’d thought that everything would start going my way once I’d proven myself to the partners.
Until I got saddled with the Lambert account.
I’d only been with my firm for a few months when one of the oldest associates had decided that moment was the best time possible to hang up his lawyering hat and start his retirement. While only an associate, Scott Hagman had handled some of the firm’s most prestigious accounts—including the Lamberts, who’d apparently made the bulk of their money back in the days of John D. Rockefeller.
With Scott gone, the firm had to scramble to cover his surprisingly large workload, leaving me to handle the final preparations for the most senior Mr. Lambert before his somewhat overdue demise.
“Now, I won’t say any of this again, Miss…”
“Deveraux, Mr. Lambert. My name is Georgia Deveraux, your lawyer.” It was the fourth time we’d had this conversation that morning, it was had gotten no less annoying as the day had gone on.
“What happened to Hagman? Why’m I talking to some uppity little—”
“That’s quite enough, Ulysses,” came the sharp, icy tones of Mr. Lambert’s daughter-in-law, Melissa. “We’ll go over the terms of the inheritance once again, please, Ms. Deveraux.”
My cheeks enflamed as I realized the old man had almost spat some awful slur in my direction, and though I appreciated his daughter’s timely arrival, I got the impression she didn’t stray too far from her father-in-law’s thoughts on a girl like me “rising above my station in life.”
Looks like they’re going to have to get used to respecting a black woman, I thought, taking a deep, calming breath before once again reciting the terms.
“I, Ulysses Jeremiah Lambert, IV,” I read aloud, “being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath a sum totaling five million dollars to be donated on my behalf following my death to the American Cancer Institute so that they may—” I stopped, shaking my head to overcome the sheer ridiculousness of what Mr. Lambert had written. “—so that they may save whatever poor bastard is in my shoes tomorrow.”
Mr. Lambert smiled a self-satisfied smile before encouraging me to read on. He was a smug bastard, and even worse, he honestly thought he was funny.
“In regards to my only living male heir, Dorian Eugene Lambert, I hereby bequeath my remaining fortune and all my property to him on the condition that he marry and propagate the Lambert line. Until such a time, he will have no access to any of his planned inheritance. Should his betrothal and siring of an heir take such a time longer than a year, he will forfeit his entire inheritance—all of which will be donated to various charities and non-profits.”
“And it has to be a male heir!” Lambert crowed indignantly. “I can’t have him leaving the fortune to a daughter! What kind of world would this be if
women ran it?”
I felt the vein in my temple throb. “Mr. Lambert, with all due respect, I don’t think—”
“No one asked you what you thought. You’re a lawyer. You’re here to make sure that what I want done with my business and my fortune gets done. Where the hell is Hagman?” Mr. Lambert craned his neck to see if my predecessor might be hiding somewhere just beyond the doorway. “There was a man who knew his place in the world—who knew to respect his betters!”
It took every drop of self-restraint I had not to stoop down to that horrible old vulture’s level and sully my spotless disciplinary record by giving him a piece of my mind.
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Lambert. I’ll make sure that everything is done according to your wishes, down to the letter.”