by Jamie Knight
“Any big plans for tonight, Mr. Stanford?” Ashlyn asked.
“Why yes, Ms. Tate, I do.”
“May I ask?” Ashlyn inquired.
“You may ask, but I will never say,” I teased.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“It would be telling.”
Getting ourselves into our best clothes, we loaded Katie into her car seat and drove into the glimmering night. The excitement was palpable. I was bursting to tell Ashlyn something, anything, about what I had planned but resisted mightily, not wanting to spoil the surprise, refusing to directly answer any questions.
I could hardly believe this was really happening. Everything I never thought I would want was happening. Not one kid but two and a woman I loved with all my heart. There was just one thing I had to do to make things official.
I got as close to the restaurant as I could without Ashlyn seeing it. I didn't want her to have to walk too far, but the jig would be up too quickly if I parked right out front — the name famous throughout L.A. and possibly the country.
“No way,” Ashlyn said, figuring out where we were going.
“Yes way,” I said.
“You got a reservation?” she asked.
“Of course I did, do you know who I am?”
Ashlyn laughed, leaning against me. I put an arm around her, holding Katie with the other and kissed Ashlyn on the forehead.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Blue Room,” the host said from behind his podium. “Reservation for Stanford,” I said.
“Chase Stanford?” the host asked, faltering slightly.
“That's right,” I said, smiling.
“Looks like word already got out,” Ashlyn said as we were briskly led to the best table in the restaurant.
“Curse the twenty-four-hour news cycle,” I replied.
The waiter pulled out a chair for Ashlyn pushing it gently back in before dashing off to get a highchair for Katie.
“I never knew they had highchairs,” Ashlyn said when we were seated, and the waiter had gone to get our drinks.
“They don't usually. I asked for it specifically when I called to make the reservation,” I explained.
“Clever,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said with a humble bow.
As though we had practiced it, because we had, the string quartet took their cue and came over to the table to play
“Oh my gosh!” Ashlyn exclaimed.
“I have something to ask you,” I said.
“You do?” Ashlyn asked, her eyes wide.
I got down on one knee and reached into my pocket, pulling out a small, black velvet box. Holding it up, I opened it, revealing a brilliant blue diamond in a pure white gold setting.
“Ashlyn Tate, will you make me the happiest man in the world by consenting to be my wife and allowing me to be Katie’s adoptive father?”
“Yes!” Katie shouted as though she understood the question.
Ashlyn didn't answer at first. She was too busy battling the tears that started rolling down her cheeks. Before she was able to actually say yes, she started to nod with some enthusiasm.
“Yes,” she said, “oh God, yes!”
I took the ring from the box and gently slid it onto her finger, raising slightly, so I was at the proper height to kiss her. Reluctantly breaking away, I resumed my seat, still holding her hand as the waiter returned with our drinks. A raspberry spritzer for Ashlyn and a virgin pina colada for me. The mini bar was still in my apartment, but it was only stocked with mixers. I donated the remained of my Glenfiddich bottles to Jim Howell at work.
Ashlyn had never had lobster before, so we ordered two of the best and I showed her how to use the tools to crack them. Katie watched with stunned fascination as we worked the lobster, completely forgetting about the plate of pasta in front of her.
When we had eaten and drunk our fill, we took the comparatively leisurely drive back to the apartment, the traffic much lighter than it had been earlier in the day. Katie was already snoozing away in her car seat.
“I'll go put the little one to bed,” I told my fiancée as we got in the door.
“I'll be waiting,” Ashlyn said.
We kissed and went our separate ways, Ashlyn to the master bedroom, which we now shared and me down to what had been the guest bedroom but had been turned into a nursery. Laying Katie down in her crib, I turned out the light and headed for the bedroom, taking off my suit jacket.
Ashlyn had her dress down to her waist as I entreated. Going up behind her, I put my arms around, her stroking her round belly with both hands, kissing her neck as I did so. Ashlyn hummed and relented, letting me have my way with her.
Putting a hand back around her back, I undid her bra one handed, letting it fall away. With gentle hands, I tenderly massaged her sensitive breasts, which had somehow gotten even bigger than they had been before.
Moving my hands gently away, I hooked my thumbs into the sides of her dress, pulling down and way. Ashlyn stepped gingerly out of it. Running my hands back up her bare legs, I clutched her panties, pulling them slowly down, leaving her standing naked in the middle of the room.
I stood behind her once more, taking off my shirt and pants. After a moment's pause, I took off my tank top as well. If we were going to be married, I didn't want there to be any secrets between us.
Taking her by the shoulders, I guided her around, so she was facing me. Focused first on my eyes, her gaze soon enough went down, widening considerably when they landed on the cluster of scars covering my upper body.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“I thought you should know,” I said.
“Afghanistan?” she asked, running her fingertips over one of them.
“Yes,” I said.
“I can handle that,” she said, looking me in the eye.
We kissed again, and I lifted her up gently into my arms, carrying her to the bed, kissing as we went.
Laying her gently down, I moved from her mouth, over her chin, and down her neck. Stopping for a moment to give her breasts some gentle love, I continued down over her belly to her sweet little pussy, giving it several long, lingering licks. Ashlyn squirmed and moaned her delight, reaching down to stroke my hair as I licked.
When she was ready, I slowly stood up between her legs, keeping two fingers inside her pussy to maintain contact, and lightly pressed the head of my cock into her tight little pussy. Getting it is as far as I could without hurting her, I started to pump at a steady regular rhythm, building her up to a massive orgasm.
She flung her head back onto the bed, moaning my name as her tight pussy quivered around my cock. The intense feeling brought me to my own orgasm. My seed burst forth, covering her womb, warming both of us, and increasing the silky pleasure.
Sliding in and out of my fiancée and the mother of my child felt so good, I couldn’t hold back. I pumped her over and over until we both came again together. Kissing her lips, I connected us as much as I could as we felt the bliss between us.
Having Ashlyn all around me, I was reminded of how lucky I was. My past loves might have been a joke, but the universe was watching out for me. Ashlyn, Katie, and our baby on the way were more than I deserved. I would hold onto them and treasure them with everything I had.
THE END
Bad Company
A Fake Fiancé Romance
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Jacob
I had heard stories about L.A. traffic, mainly how terrifying and demoralizing it could be. Though after five years of dodging car bombs in Kabul, I really couldn't complain. The heat was terrible in California, but at least I was allowed to dress for it. Buying and choosing my own clothes was something I had lost for a while after returning from service. PTSD left me in a haze. Thank mercy for Hayley, my sweet twin sister, and not ju
st for the clothing consultation. Without Hayley, I would be in even worse condition than I was. Something I tried to remember whenever things started to get worse. It didn't always work, of course, but it was still better than giving into the void.
This wasn't my first attempt at post-army employment. I had tried several jobs, though, for one reason or another, they hadn't worked out.
My first thought had been protection work. I was still a crack shot despite only having full movement in my right arm—the left being somewhat hampered by a piece of shrapnel. It seemed like a good idea at the time, though, in retrospect was more of a dream than an option. I wasn't as strong as I used to be and had a registered disability.
Security seemed a more likely fit, but again, there was a problem. The insurance company got a bit skittish about the PTSD issue. Adjusting my ambitions, I applied for a position at a gun store, one of the reputable places that catered to hunters and sport shooters. Considering I could field strip a Glock in ten seconds, I figured my chances were good. I actually made it to the shortlist, but the owners thought that my apparent disability might damage their optics.
I couldn't really blame any of them. It didn't seem entirely fair. I had been in therapy for almost a year and was doing a lot better. Though, to be honest, I couldn't argue with their logic and couldn't say I would act any other way in their position. I still had the notion that if I could just get another job and place to live, it would all work out. Neither of these seemed to be on the horizon, though, and it wasn't doing much for my mood.
It was only by the grace of Hayley that I was even considered for the position of a paralegal at Howell and Howell. Apparently, this was a position a million people more qualified than me would kill to get. Though, as it would turn out, one of the partners, Ann Howell, was a vet herself and had a soft spot for the decommissioned — at least two of the lawyers working there were in a similar situation to myself.
Still, I wasn't exactly sold on the idea of working in the legal firm. Tiny, niggling bits of doubt and paranoia kept pricking at the back of my mind as I piloted my 2002 Saturn toward the downtown core of LA. The car had belonged to Hayley. Our parents had gotten it for her when she graduated as a joke — or so we suspected, in any case.
On the upside, it had a CD player built into the radio. A fancy feature at the time, and I was still old enough to have a few of the shiny plastic discs kicking around. Most of them were hand-me-downs from my dad, who had been way into Goth back in the day. I slid Life Is Killing Me into the slot, setting it so that the opening riffs to “I Don't Wanna Be Me” filled the rolling, steel cube.
The Howell and Howell offices were not what I expected. To the point that I actually drove past it twice while looking for the address. I had expected a mammoth tower of doom. Not a classy, retro, red brick building. But the latter was indeed what I found when I matched the numbers on the building to the ones on the phone that Hayley lent me. Finding parking on the street, I headed in, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.
The whiffs of coffee and European pastry were quite strong from the next-door cafe. No doubt by design. Resisting the siren call of espresso and Eccles cakes, I soldiered on, making my way to the only elevator.
I leaned against the cool elevator wall, my head against the cool wood paneling, doing the meditative breathing technique I had learned in therapy. I hadn't been good with confined spaces since getting trapped for three days in the back of a flipped Humvee. The driver was killed instantly, and apparently, the shooters thought the transport was empty because they didn't even check the back. Even after we go out, I was the only one of my company who survived the extraction.
With an anti-climactic ding, the elevator doors slid open, and I was released on the top floor, taking a moment to get my bearings and found the conference room I was supposed to be in.
As soon as I opened the door, I regretted it. The room was filled with nicely dressed people milling about, chitchatting, and sipping coffee from paper cups. Large crowds in small rooms were the worst. My hands started shaking.
“Sit down,” I heard a voice say behind me.
As soon as I was seated, a hand attached to an arm in a well-tailored sleeve handed me an unbleached cardboard cup of water.
“Who—”
“Shhh. I get it,” Ann Howell whispered, standing near my shoulder.
I took the water and drained it in almost one go, forcing my pulse to slow down just a bit. I couldn’t go for too hard a drop, or I might pass out. Never a good look.
“Hey, bro,” Hayley said, walking up next to me. I hadn't even heard the door to the conference room open again.
“Hayley.”
We hugged as well as I could with my one arm. Ann took back the cup as I moved to stand up.
“Ready to start?” Ann asked.
“Yes, ma'am,” I said clearly, standing up straight and following her towards the head of the large table.
Ann had apparently been a sergeant during her service, and she still wore it well. Her ‘military bearing’ came across as efficiency in the civilian office setting. Her clothes, while fashionable, were still fairly stark, and she wore her black hair in a short bob. Even if it didn’t make the strong impression on her that it did on me, service could change one’s way of thinking. It made sense, really. Being in the military was a different way of life.
We were led to a room at the back of the conference room. I had attended enough college to know that it was set up as a classroom. Four long tables with about ten chairs each were set up to face the front of the room, where an impressively large whiteboard had been mounted on the wall. As was my custom, I sat in the back row by the window. The farthest distance away from most potential trouble.
When everyone was seated, the training began in earnest. Hayley really wasn’t kidding when she called it ‘intensive.’ I tried my best to focus, but my mind kept wandering to an apartment I really wanted to rent. Nothing fancy in and of itself. Just a basic one-bedroom, really, but it had a beautiful view of the ocean, mostly by virtue of the height of the building, and it wasn’t that far from the beach. The only downside was the landlord, who was somewhat hesitant to rent to someone with PTSD. Like I might start firing shots into the wall in the middle of the night or something stupid. Never mind that I hadn’t owned a gun since being discharged. It really seemed like a dick move for him to do that, but I didn’t know what to do to convince him that I was okay.
I was just about to get mired down in negativity when a different sort of distraction presented itself. A sexy girl was sitting in the row in front of me and slightly to the right. She had turned enough for me to see her beautiful face and that she had bluest eyes I had ever seen. This woman had a sort of delicate, ethereal beauty angels are depicted as having. She caught me staring, so I smiled to let her know that I came in peace. She seemed convinced and smiled back.
Somehow this angelic girl reminded me of a woman I had been writing to when I was deployed. Not anyone I knew. Just a sort of pen pal set up through the USO. Even so, at that time, the woman had given me a sense of purpose. Her letters gave me the will to keep fighting when life seemed broken. We stopped writing after I returned home, something that I regretted, but I couldn’t help the fact the PTSD had kept me from functioning for months.
Losing the movement in my arm and having to leave the military set me adrift with no real plan. I hoped joining the firm would give me a sense of purpose again.
Chapter Two
Charlotte
I thought my new job would be some big adventure, like college had been, at least at first. The first four years of college were relatively easy. My natural skill for Criminology presenting itself fairly quickly. It was mostly memorization anyway. Giving my grades, combined with my upper tier LSAT score, that let me walk straight into the law program at UCLA. I even met my fiancé there. Pride before the fall as Mother Superior at St. Bernadette's would have said.
My fiancé lost his scholarship and joined
the military to make money — my scholarships and grants only going so far to keep us afloat. It was another year or more before I would be allowed to practice law. I got pregnant soon after, and that did not make things any easier. We were happy, of course. We were together and about to start a family. We just had to hold on until he came back, and I graduated.
But my fiancé didn't come back. He had apparently been on a routine patrol when he was shot dead by a sniper. Then I lost the baby. Not sure how to go on, I dropped out of law school. Because we weren't married, I didn't qualify for the widow's pension. Unknown to me, though, he had gotten life insurance and set up a Survivor's Benefit Plan before joining up. It was almost as though he knew he was going to die.
The benefits plan wasn't a lot, but it was enough to get by, though there wasn't much I could do about my depression. That only began to lift when my friend Hayley suggested a program in which civilians wrote letters to deployed soldiers to keep their spirits up. It was based on a program that started during World War II; only instead of pen and ink, the correspondence this was conducted via email. Which made a lot of sense considering how long it would take to get a physical letter from California to Afghanistan even by airmail.
It was mostly anonymous, with only first names given, and no photos allowed. I was paired with a private also from California named Jacob. It was surprisingly comforting, and I came to really look forward to his replies. It was nice to have some sort of human connection again. Even if I wasn't allowed to see his face. I had asked a couple of times if he could send me a picture, or we could video chat, but Jacob refused to break the rules — mostly for fear of being removed from the program.
He did send a written description of himself. What stood out to me most at the time was the description of his eyes, which Jacob described as an almost luminescent blue. Those two words — luminescent blue — kept me up at night as I envisioned what my mystery soldier looked like and dreamed about meeting him.