The Doctor's Fake Marriage: A Single Dad & Virgin Romance

by Amy Brent

I was standing with my knees bent.

  The fingers of my right hand were buried inside my cunt.

  My hand was drenched to the wrist from the orgasm I’d given myself.

  I let my fingers slide out of me and braced my palms on the counter.

  I took in a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly.

  It all seemed so real that I turned to look around the bathroom, as if I’d find Tanner standing there.

  Sadly, I was alone.

  I turned off the water and lowered myself into the steaming tub.

  I closed my eyes and smiled as the hot water engulfed me.

  I picked up the bar of soap from the edge of the tub and rubbed it between my legs as the fantasy began to replay in my mind.

  This time I was a spectator rather than a participant.

  You know how they say that if you lose the use of one of your senses, it makes the other senses heighten?

  Like, if you lose your sense of sight, your senses of smell and hearing and taste and touch grow stronger?

  The same was true when you were a virgin.

  When you’d never had a real man inside you, your imagination intensified until it became as vivid as the real thing.

  Thank God.

  Sigh…

  CHAPTER SIX: Tanner

  Monday morning, 7:45 AM.

  I noted the time because Henry was supposed to pick me up for our trip to Tucson with the Goldman team around eight-thirty. I had my assistant pack a bag over the weekend and it was sitting next to the front door, ready to go.

  That was my motto: always be prepared.

  Or have an assistant prepare it for you.

  I had time to kill, so I fixed a cup of coffee using the twenty-thousand-dollar brewing machine Henry had convinced me to buy during a business trip to Italy a few years back.

  It was supposedly the best coffee brewing system on the planet. The coffee beans the system also supposedly brewed the best cup of coffee on the planet. I think the beans were imported from the deepest jungles of Columbia and had been shit through a tiger’s ass or some such nonsense.

  I didn’t get the big deal. The coffee it brewed was mediocre at best. It had the consistency and the smell of burnt ink. It certainly was not a twenty-thousand-dollar cup of coffee. The hundred dollar Keurig in my office made better coffee.

  Henry said I had the palette of a caveman.

  What-the-fuck-ever, dude.

  I knew a shitty cup of coffee when I tasted it.

  I kept meaning to buy a Starbucks franchise and install it downstairs off the lobby (I own this building and live in the penthouse), but I kept forgetting to call Starbucks CEO Howard Schulz to make the deal.

  I picked up my iPhone and spoke into it.

  “Siri, remind me to put a Starbucks in the lobby downstairs.”

  Siri confirmed my brilliance and I set the phone aside.

  I set the mug of steaming coffee on the kitchen table and fired up my laptop. I logged into Facebook and tapped my fingers on the keys.

  I ignored the 1,835 notifications and 2,018 messages that flashed at the top of the screen.

  The truth is, I hate fucking Facebook and only use it to dig up dirt about people I might be doing business with.

  Or people that simply fascinated me.

  People like Candice Carlson.

  I was constantly amazed at some of the things people posted on Facebook. They just put it out there for all the world to see, without any concern of consequences.

  Hey look, here’s a shot of you getting shit-faced drunk at a bachelor party.

  Hey look, here’s a shot of you in the bathroom with a naked hooker from the party.

  Hey look, here’s you getting a lap dance from said hooker.

  Oh look, look, look! Here’s a picture of you doing a line of some white powder that looks an awful lot like coke off the hooker’s tit!

  Ah, finally, the coup de grace… here’s a picture of you passed out drunk in the hotel room naked and covered in magic marker.

  Oh look, someone drew a happy face on the head of your dick.

  I had found all those wonderful images when digging into the background of a guy who wanted to be my Chief Financial Officer at a salary of four-hundred-grand a year.

  I just went to his Facebook page, hit Photos, and bam!

  I took great joy in showing him what I had found, then asking, “So, you want me to let you manage my company’s financials? Seriously? Uh, I don’t think so. Thank you, drive through.”

  Okay, granted, I put the poor guy through hours and hours of grueling interviews before I sprang the Facebook pics and told him to fuck off. But hey, a guy’s gotta have a little fun. Right?

  I typed in Candice Carlson’s name into the search bar and sipped the shitty coffee as I waited for her profile to pop up. I wondered what embarrassing moments or tantalizing tidbits I would find on her page.

  And like magic, there was Candice Carlson’s life in full living color for all the world to see.

  “Okay, Candice Carlson,” I said with a grin. “Let’s see what deep dark secrets I can surmise from your lovely profile.”

  I clicked to enlarge her profile picture and was disappointed to find that it was a standard bullshit company portrait, probably the pulled from her bio on the Goldman website.

  “Shit,” I said as I clicked to close the enlarged image. “Come on, Candice. Don’t let me down.”

  I went back to her profile page and clicked on the “About Candice” link. Standard stuff: twenty-five, Harvard MBA grad, hometown Ottumwa, Nebraska, population who gives a shit.

  “Single is good,” I said, noting her relationship status.

  I clicked on her Photos, hoping to find a drunk party pic or two or three. Or Candice at the beach in a string bikini with her tits hanging out.

  Woo-hoo! Wouldn’t that be a fucking awesome way to start the day! A hot bikini shot of Candice that I could rub one out to before leaving the penthouse.

  “Shit,” I said again as her photos loaded on the screen. “So much for whacking off to Candice’s tits.”

  There’s Candice at a business event.

  There’s Candice at a fundraiser.

  There’s Candice at a formal dinner.

  There’s Candice with a group of sorority sisters.

  There’s Candice in her cap and gown.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said with a sigh. I pushed the computer away in disgust and picked up the coffee cup. “Are you really that fucking boring, Candice Carlson? You couldn’t give me one decent tit pick to start my day?”

  My iPhone buzzed with a text message from Henry. He was downstairs with the car. Crap. My quest to learn more about Candice Carlson would have to wait.

  I stared at her utterly boring profile picture for a moment.

  I closed the laptop and shook my head.

  Candice Carlson needed a little excitement in her life.

  And fortunately for her, I was just the guy to give it to her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Tanner

  I handed the driver my suitcase so he could stow it in the trunk, then climbed into the back of the limo to sit next to Henry, who grunted at me and continued fiddling with his phone.

  “Bad manners to use your phone at the table, my son,” I said, shaking my head at him.

  “Sorry, just shooting an email off to Stan Roberts at Goldman confirming our flight time for today.” He tucked the phone inside his Armani jacket and directed his full attention to me.

  “So, how was your weekend?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said with a shrug. “I didn’t do much. Just flew out to Vegas to look at the Ferrari I bought.”

  “Did you drive it back?”

  I snorted at him. “You don’t actually drive a car like that Henry. I had them load it onto a climate-controlled car hauler I borrowed from Earnhardt for transport back to Chicago. It should arrive in a day or two.”

  A look of judgment came to his eye. “How much did you end up spending? On a c
ar?”

  I waved a hand at him, as if the question smelled bad, but not as bad as my answer. “I spent more than I should have, but not as much as I would have.”

  “Tanner, how much?”

  I blew out a long sigh. “Twenty-eight-point-seven mill for the car and another ten-percent in auction fees,” I said, shrugging off the number like it was pocket change, because that’s what it was to me. He scowled at me. “Okay, so it went a little over estimate. It’s not a big deal. In five years, it will double in value.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’m always right.”

  “Are you?”

  I glanced over to see him scowling at me. I held out my hands and asked, “What’s up your ass this morning?”

  “Your little show on Friday with the Goldman people is what’s up my ass,” Henry said. He gave me the look my dad used to give me whenever I disappointed him, which was most of the time. He shook his head slowly and clicked his tongue. “I’m not going to let you blow this deal, Tanner. It’s too important.”

  “I’m not going to blow the deal, Henry,” I said, giving him a dismissive wave. “I really don’t understand why you’re so upset. I thought I was quite the gentleman in that meeting.”

  “Of course, you were.”

  He blew out a long breath and shook his head again. Some days Henry shook his head so much that I expected it to come loose from his neck.

  He said, “Do you have any idea the position you have put me in with the Goldman people? And with Anderson, asking them to completely rework their executive team’s schedule for the week?”

  I huffed. “I don’t give a shit about the Goldman people. They work for us, remember? And the Anderson executive team will be out on their ears the moment the final documents are signed if they’re not careful.”

  “Well, I do give a shit about them,” Henry said seriously. “Unlike you, I don’t have billions of dollars that lead me to think that I can be a total ass in front of people. Honestly, Tanner, sometimes you act like a spoiled teenager rather than a successful business man. What is your deal?”

  “I don’t have a deal,” I said with a sigh. “I just get bored and I like fucking with people. I keep telling you to stop making me attend meetings, but you keep insisting on bringing me along.”

  “Because, like it or not, you are the face of Wright Enterprises. You’re the bad boy that gets all the press. You’re the guy that does the Ted Talks that make millennials hang on your every word and spend millions on your products.”

  “Do they really?” I asked, pretending to be serious. “Hang on my every word?”

  Henry threw up his hands. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  I patted his knee. “Henry, you have my word that I will not do anything to mess up this deal. Scouts honor. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “You were never a scout,” Henry said, glancing out the window as if he could no longer stand to look at me. “And honor is something you know nothing about.”

  “Ouch,” I said with a smile.

  Still facing the window, he said, “I emailed Stan Roberts and told him to leave Candice Carlson in Chicago.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

  He turned to stare me down. I had never seen Henry look more serious. “I told Stan that Candice can remain on the team, but it would be best if she operates from their office in Chicago. So, she will not be coming to Tucson with us.”

  Now it was my turn to be sanctimonious.

  I asked, “Do you think that’s really fair to Miss Carlson? The poor girl did nothing but show up to a meeting. If anyone should be knocked out of going to Tucson, it’s me, not her.”

  “Fairness has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And you have to go. There is no getting out of it.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that she was a distraction to you in the meeting. Therefore, I expect that she would be a distraction to you in Tucson. And we can’t have you distracted.”

  I shook my head and gave him the disappointed look he so often gave me. “Henry, I thought you were smarter than that.”

  He frowned. “What does that mean?”

  I tapped a finger to my chin and made a thoughtful face.

  “Would you rather have me distracted and out of the way in Tucson? Or would you rather have me attend all the big meetings and do everything I could to kill the deal?”

  Henry’s mouth dropped open as the little lights came on inside his perfectly-coiffed head. He tugged his iPhone from his jacket and found Stan Roberts direct cell number.

  “Stan, Henry Costas,” he said, smiling at me. “Please disregard the email I sent you earlier about leaving Candice Carlson in Chicago. After further consideration, I think she will play a vital role in the success of the Anderson acquisition. Yes, that’s correct. Fine. We’ll see you at the airport in an hour.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Candice

  The moment I arrived at Goldman on Monday morning, I received a text from Stan to come to his office. I just blew out a long breath and reconciled myself to the fact that I was being booted off the team.

  I had cried myself dry over the weekend, so this morning there were no more tears to give. I put on my armor and emerged from my apartment ready to do battle and take whatever hits the day might bring.

  Candice Carlson, the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at the drop of a dime, was left at the apartment.

  Candice Carlson, corporate cunt and hard-assed bitch emerged.

  In a moment of pure optimism, I had packed a suitcase for the trip and brought it to the office. I dropped it off in my office on the way to see Stan. There was no way I was going to show up at his door with a suitcase and the assumption that everything was just peachy. Everything wasn’t peachy. I could feel it in my bones.

  Stan was standing behind his desk neatly stacking papers into his briefcase when I tapped on his door. Juliette, Bob, and Irving were sitting on the couch in Stan’s office like the three monkeys that see, hear, and speak no evil. Bob and Irving stared into their coffee cups. Juliette had her eyes glued on Bob. There was a slight smirk of satisfaction on her face.

  “Morning, Stan,” I said, forcing a smile to keep the tears at bay.

  “Morning,” Stan said curtly, glancing up at me. He stared into my eyes for a moment, no doubt choosing the words that would let me down the quickest and easiest. I was dumbfounded when the corners of his lips curled into a smile.

  “Just wanted to get everyone together to let you know what the itinerary is for the week,” he said. He came around the desk with four pieces of paper and handed them out to the group.

  “Henry Costas emailed that to me earlier. I forwarded a copy of the email to each of you, but I wanted to give you a hard copy we can review in the car on the way to the airport.”

  “That’s it?” Juliette asked. She cut her eyes at me. They all did. They all seemed a little surprised that I was still on the team. I certainly was.

  “That’s it,” Stan said, moving back around the desk to finish packing his briefcase. He held up his wristwatch when nobody moved. “That’s it. Let’s go, people. The car leaves for the airport in twenty minutes. I’ll meet you all downstairs.”

  * * *

  The Wright Enterprises corporate jet was fueled and ready for takeoff when we arrived at the private hangar. We were met by Henry Costas on the tarmac, but I didn’t see Tanner anywhere.

  That was probably a good thing. After the hot imaginary sex we’d had, I wasn’t sure if I could keep from blushing when we came face to face.

  The Wright corporate jet was as over the top and impressive as its owner. Pristine white on the outside with the bright red Wright Enterprises logo on the tail; expensive leathers and exotic woods on the inside.

  There were eight passenger seats, four on each side of the plane. The seats were configured in sets of two that faced inward to a small table between them.
<
br />   I buckled in across from Bob for the three-hour trip to Tucson. Henry Costas sat across from Stan. Juliette took the seat directly behind Stan and spent most of the trip hovering over them like an over-eager stewardess. Irving put on a pair of dark sunglasses and would probably sleep the entire way.

  After the fastest and smoothest take-off I’ve ever experienced (it was literally like being inside a bullet fired into the air), I opened my laptop to review the itinerary for the week. I looked around the cabin. Still no sign of Tanner. I wondered if he’d changed his mind about joining us in Tucson.

  A few minutes into the flight, a man’s deep voice crackled over the speakers mounted in the ceiling above our heads. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Wright Enterprises flight number 69 with nonstop service from Chicago, Illinois to Tucson, Arizona.”

  I smiled. There was something vaguely familiar about the pilot’s voice.

  “There are blue skies ahead and we should arrive in Tucson in approximately three hours, twelve minutes, and sixty-nine seconds.”

  Bob frowned at me and pointed at the speaker above his head. “Is that Tanner Wright’s voice?”

  “The aircraft we are flying today is a brand-spanking new Gulfstream G650 with a price tag of seventy-two-million dollars and sixty-nine cents. The Gulfstream G650 will comfortably accommodate eight passengers and four crew members, can travel up to 7,000 nautical miles nonstop at a max speed of 0.925 Mach, making it the fastest private jet money can buy. I mean, that’s really fucking fast, people.”

  I rolled my eyes at Bob. “Yep. The great one himself.”

  “So, ladies and gents, on behalf of the real captain and your flight crew, I hope you enjoy your flight and if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The speaker was silent for a moment, then he added, “Oh, over and under, I mean over and over, I mean, ah fuck it, you know what I mean.”

  I did my best to appear unimpressed, but I was grinning like the Cheshire Cat on the inside. Tanner may have been an obnoxious douchebag billionaire, but he was growing on me. Just a little.

  A moment later, the cockpit door sprang open and Tanner appeared with a satisfied grin on his face. He was wearing his usual jeans and a t-shirt, but had added a black sports jacket and a pilot’s cap. He was still wearing the ratty tennis shoes and no socks.