Shit, that’s sort of the whole point of the thing: it’s fake. She’s the smile for the media, she’s the cover story while you go out and do the usual with groupies and cheerleaders and all the other fame-fuckers that come with being a star.
So why do I want her so bad.
This isn’t what I thought it was going to be. Well, obviously, we got real married - something I should probably get around to calling Derek about before he has an aneurism. But it’s more than just the piece of paper from the State of Nevada that’s still folded up inside the pocket of my jacket lying across my bed. It’s the fact that we’re barely two days into this whole thing and we’re already way past the boundaries we should have as employer and employee.
Because that’s what we are - at least, that’s what we should be. Not “husband and wife,” not even “friends.”
It’s just business.
Except “just business” shouldn’t get my cock this hard. “Just business” shouldn’t get my pulse roaring like a fucking stadium and my head going blank when the thought of those piercing blue eyes, and that innocent mouth, and those legs for days dance through my head.
Getting drunk and getting married I can handle. Yeah, it’s not ideal for what’s supposed to just be a cover story, but hey, at least now it’s legit in case any gossip magazine starts doing its research for once.
It’s the part that comes after that worries me.
It’s the part where I can still taste her lips against mine in the middle of that Vegas club. The part where I can still feel the heat of her body grinding against mine as her hand snakes up into my hair to pull me in.
It’s the part where we apparently stripped our clothes off and crawled into bed together.
And shit, here I am kissing her all over again, like a fucking idiot.
Because as strange as it is with a woman who’s supposed to be my wife, fucking around with her is what could fuck it all up. Making it more than just an arrangement is how this gets messy, and complicated, and ugly. Fast.
This whole thing needs to be platonic; we need to have an understanding. She’s got a job to do, I’ve got an employer role to fill, and that’s that.
I grimace as I pull another swig from the bottle older than me.
No more lounging around in bathrobes and pajamas drinking wine, no more letting those eyes of hers and that smooth skin of her neck beneath the wave of her hair get to me like that. I snort and glance down at the bottle in my hand. Shit, I need to never drink around this girl, ever, because I apparently lose all fucking self control around her when I do. I should make this a dry house if I want either of us to survive the next six fucking months.
I groan, still rock hard as I think about that white robe, grazing across the smooth skin of her thighs out on the veranda just now. I think about what might be under it - what it might look like dropping to the ground at her feet.
Christ, I wish I could remember more of the brief flashes from last night in Vegas. I wish I could remember if I pulled her clothes off or if she did. Was it manic and fast, or was it a slow tease? Did I take my pants off, or did she use those delicate fingers to pull at my belt - needing it, craving it.
I know nothing happened from the lack of open condoms and the fact that, well, that fact that you can just tell when you’ve had sex the night before.
But damn I wonder how close we got.
I can feel my pulse throbbing like an engine as I picture pushing her back into that big, hotel bed. I imagine pulling her on top of me, and dragging her up until she straddled my face. My cock strains like iron against the front of my pajama pants as I let my head fall back against the door to my room and picture using my hands to center her on my tongue. I groan as I imagine tasting her - imagine sliding my tongue deep and drinking in the sweet honeyed taste of her. My hands on her ass, making her ride my mouth.
Making her come.
Before I can stop myself, my cock is out and wrapped firmly in my hand. And I’m growling as I stroke the thick length of it, imagining flipping us over, pinning her down on the bed with her legs over my shoulders, and fucking her slow and deep. I imagine sheathing every goddamn inch I have to the hilt inside her dripping wet pussy, feeling her grip at me, watching her face crumble as the pleasure rocks through her. I picture her hands on my hips, urging me on as her lips beg for more - harder, faster, deeper.
The cry comes grunting from my lips as I come in time to the Natalie in my mind going to pieces under me. And as she claws at the sheets and shatters inside my head, I groan as the cum arcs from my pulsing cock to drop hotly across the hardwood floor of my room.
Alone.
I’m still pulling, still feeling the blood roaring through me like a fire as I catch my breath and sink down against the bedroom door, shaking my head as I eye the bottle in my hand.