Executive Engagement: A Boardroom to Bedroom Fake Fiancee Romance Read online

  “There goes five grand!” I announce. I’m laughing so hard, I can’t keep my lying-down position and hold my whiskey at the same time, so I sit up and sip it. “Oh, jeez, this is hard stuff.”

  “Yes! Let’s talk about hard stuff!”

  I give Bea the look.

  “I have limited interest in that kind of hard stuff. In my experience, it’s not that hard.”

  She snorts. “Maybe because you scare the fuck out of them,” she adds and bites another strawberry.

  Drips of dark chocolate shower over my new lounge. Being rich is proving rather stressful.

  I sigh, refilling both Bea’s and my own glass while munching a strawberry over a sip of whiskey.

  “Is it my fault that I know what I want?”

  “Yes,” Bea answers, looking at me very seriously in the face.

  I start giggling at her sage expression, and she giggles, too; but it’s actually not funny. My few short-term boyfriends could not cope with me, and that’s an understatement.

  After initially chasing me, they found my breathy demands far too…masculine, apparently. Or perhaps a woman who knows how to get wet and wants to tell her man how to best use his equipment is always seen as a threat to the fragile male ego.

  It’s not something I care about anymore.

  “Alright, look,” Bea starts as she places her glass on the table and pulls her phone out. “Let’s just have a browse, shall we?”

  “Let me guess…you found a shopping website for occupied businesswomen like myself.”

  “Yes, actually!” Bea cackles like Grandma. She lumbers around the table and throws an arm around me, pulling me close so we can both look at the tiny screen.

  She knows my troubles, of course. Many drunken, chocolate-fueled nights were spent talking about my exes and their failures.

  I can’t see the screen, it’s too blurry. I shove my whiskey-soaked sister aside and pull the laptop over.

  “Put it in there so I can see.”

  “If that’s how you talk to men, I can see the issue.”

  “What!?” I exclaim, pounding the lounge with a fist and spilling my whiskey again. “I’m not going to lay quietly and demurely on the mattress and giggle politely as he gets over his fucking Madonna complex! So I know how I want to be fucked. Is that a crime?”

  Bea doesn’t answer. She just positions the screen a little closer for me.

  “Just check out the man candy, babe, then tell me you don’t want it.”

  I sit up, sipping the whiskey again. There are some nice men. Very nice.

  I allow myself to engage in the giggling with Bea, letting her lift my mood, thinking about all the good things about having a man. But, still.

  To get those good things—if he even had them—you have to make time. Time I so do not have.

  It’s a simple matter of weighing potential gain against loss. And, I know exactly what I get back if I put in the time and effort into my career. Love is a risky business, and I don’t take risks like those.

  We leave the laptop open as Bea gets up and heads for the door.

  “Got training again first thing in the morning.” She sighs. “Now remember, this is a secure building, but you never know—”

  “Bea.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get out.” I grin. She pulls me over for a quick hug and heads out.

  I wander back in, slowly closing the door and moving through my big empty rooms. There’s something sensual about knowing you’re alone, in silence and in luxury. There’s absolutely nothing to hide.

  I head into my bedroom, slip off my clothes, and toss them at the end of the bed. I pull out my gorgeous new nightie, glowing pink with lace scrolled across the top. The fabric’s luxurious as I draw it over my skin.

  The walk back to the lounge is more than sensual. It isn’t just the air stroking me—it’s the delicious soft, shiny fabric, too.

  Something stirs deep inside me.

  I make a point of sliding against the lounge as I sit down in front of the laptop again, reaching for the champagne. I take a sip, picking up a dark strawberry.

  It’s all so sensual, and suddenly, I’ve got that longing. Not in my heart, but right between my legs. It’s an ache that burns.

  I finish my strawberry and scroll down the screen.

  This is ridiculous. Men for sale? It must be a scam.

  This is a stupid amount of money.

  But then it hits me. Like, so what? Why am I making tons of money if I’m not going to enjoy myself?

  I grin to myself. I keep scrolling until one face actually turns that ache between my legs into a sharp pain.

  Pretty-faced and tousled but nicely tamed hair. Ticks all the right boxes.

  He calls himself Will, and suddenly I hear Bea in my mind: Where there’s a Will, there’s a way.

  There’s definitely a Will.

  There’s something about his eyes.

  Fierce. Like a wolf. A hungry wolf.

  “Will,” I whisper, thinking how awesome it would be to give this man instructions on how to do me right. “You look like the kind of man who knows how to treat a lady right.”

  I’m already fantasizing about those lips on my clit.

  I barely know what I’m doing as I make the clicks. I’m swimming in whiskey, champagne, and in my own hot, sweet scent.

  Maybe it’s a bad idea.

  Maybe it’s a total fucking disaster.

  And definitely, absolutely I’m way too drunk to care.

  He’s hot, he’s sexy, he’s got the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen…

  And as soon as I enter my bank info, he’s mine.

  “Good night, Will.” I giggle to myself as I curl up on the lounge.

  3

  William

  My eyes peel open after passing out on the couch in my living room, chest bare and a fresh bottle of whiskey cradled against my cheek. Normally, if a noise wakes me up at this hour of morning, it’s the slurping sound of lips around my cock.

  But I didn’t wind up bringing anyone home last night, and these aren’t blowjob noises—they’re knocks.

  I run my fingers through my messy hair, groaning as I head for the door. I can’t remember ordering delivery—pizza, strippers, or otherwise. So, tired as I am, I’m curious to see what the fuck’s going on.

  I’ve had to blink a couple of times to be sure I’m seeing right once I open the door.

  Three women are standing on my doorstep, their arms crossed authoritatively. They’re all taller than I am, which is saying something, since I’m easily 6’4”.

  “Ladies,” I greet them, with a charming smile and a nod in each of their directions. They’re not exactly my type, but being polite never hurt anyone. “How can I help you?”

  The middle broad—the smallest of the three, so help me—gives me the kind of fee fi fo fum smile that gives the impression she skipped dinner and I’m about to be her midnight snack.

  “Mr. Ambrose, is it?” she asks. “We’re here to inform you that you’ve been…purchased.”

  The way she says it has me feeling more like a toy than a person. But then I remember the MaleOrder.com bullshit…and I recall how that’s exactly what I am right now.

  “By all means.” I make a gesture to welcome them inside.

  The smaller of the three walks in first, followed by her fellow Amazon warriors. I swear, each one of them could tell me they knew Wonder Woman and I’d believe them. One of them even looks like she could make Superman her bitch.

  “Isn’t it a little late in the night?” I ask, scratching the back of my head. I’m still waking up. “Couldn’t you grab me in the morning or something?”

  “No, we couldn’t, Mr. Ambrose. You see, we have a strict twenty-four-hour delivery guarantee policy. And we don’t disappoint our clients.”

  “Oh, well, do I get to know who’s purchased me?”

  I’m just hoping it isn’t someone like Betty White. Unless it was Betty White.

  A man
has standards, naturally.

  “No, you don’t.”

  She gives me that look again, and I just smile and nod.

  Damn, they’re intimidating. It’s kind of hot.

  “Well, nothing wrong with a little mystery,” I reason.

  “Indeed,” the small-ish one agrees.

  The two larger ones walk around my place while the smaller one takes in more of my physique.

  I can’t blame her.

  I have the body of Adonis. Hell, Adonis himself probably would’ve wished he looked this good.

  I grab the neck of my whiskey bottle and take a drink while the smaller one steps toward me.

  I wonder now if this is where they tell me they’re the ones who bought me and that they’re literally going to eat me alive.

  “Your pants. Remove them.”

  An eyebrow raises in curiosity, and I fight back the urge to laugh. Her tone and her look tell me she isn’t playing around.

  “No dinner and movie, first?”

  The other two return and look at me with arms folded over their chests. None of them laugh…or crack a smile. They just stare at me like the prime cut T-bone that I am.

  I take another swig of my whiskey, and set it down on my living room table.

  My thumbs slide down under the elastic band of my pajamas. Admittedly, they’re not all that sexy, but fuck it. They’re pajamas.

  I push them down over my hips and let them fall to my feet. I step out from the heap and put my hands on my hips.

  I can see them look down at my cock, and fight the urge to react, just letting their eyes grow wide for themselves. Not that I blame them.

  Even when I’m not hard, my uncut cock is thick and long. Like Subway-foot kind of long, though I’d like to think I cost more than just five dollars.

  I resist the urge to swing my fucking cock around like a helicopter and decide to wear my most charming smile for them instead.

  “So? Liking the angle of the dangle?”

  Fucking crickets. Red lights are flashing. Time to exit stage left. But they circle around me, inspecting me for any flaws. And I know they won’t find any.

  And they don’t.

  I’m Will fucking Ambrose.

  “You’ll do. I’m sure the client will be satisfied.”

  “Well, I’m a satisfaction-guaranteed kind of guy.”

  None of them show any signs of amusement nor even a hint of a smile.

  I’m starting to think that maybe they’re robots, not women.

  “I’m sure you are, Mr. Ambrose.”

  The small one reaches into her pockets. I’m tempted to tell her no flash photography. But it isn’t a camera she pulls out.

  It’s a giant fucking neon pink ribbon. And when I say neon pink, I mean that it could be used as billboard in Vegas and still look fucking ostentatious.

  “Is that what you’re going to use to blindfold me with so that I still won’t know where we’re going and who my patron is?”

  “No, Mr. Ambrose. This is for you to wear. And only this.” The small one points to my cock.

  The three of them finally smile.

  Now I feel like I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Or, at the very least, his three Amazonian robot wives.

  But I’m Will Ambrose. I can play it fucking cool.

  “Gladly.”

  I take the ribbon from the woman with the most arrogant smile I can muster.

  Now if only I knew how to tie a proper fucking bow.

  So here I am; in Downtown Chicago of all fucking places. Stark fucking naked save for the pink bow tied firmly around my massive cock.

  I look like I belong on some Vegas stage rather than the streets of an upscale Chicago neighborhood.

  If I get jumped, tell my sister it’s her fucking fault.

  I ring the doorbell to the penthouse that the website people dropped me off at.

  And, man, am I not prepared for her.

  The woman’s gorgeous, with dark hair and eyes that look like fucking sunsets. And she has a killer body that I want to fuck, lick, and suck till sunrise.

  Fucking.

  Gorgeous.

  “Hey,” I say to her, tilting my head and licking my lips like the cocky asshole I am. “Special delivery?”

  My cock twitches just looking at her, which is fucking perfect—because that way, I know exactly where her eyes are going.

  I’m going to make this woman mine.

  4

  Katrina

  He’s gorgeous.

  No, scratch that. He’s just plain fucking hot.

  He’s got hooded, smoky fuck-me eyes that a woman like me could get lost in—and I’m pretty fucking handy with a map. His chest is so sculpted, it looks like it was modeled after a Greek statue in the Louvre—or maybe the statues were modeled after him.

  His dark hair is so thick, I can imagine myself running my fingers through it in ecstasy just by looking at it.

  His abs…My hand is practically trembling as I raise my fingertips up to them. They make washboards look bad. I just wanna drop to my knees where I stand, and let my tongue roam up and down those sexy chiseled hills until I forget my own name.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “You can touch, if you like.”

  Let’s get one thing straight here, babe. Momma likes. Momma wants to touch this man all over until every inch of him is covered in my fingerprints.

  But then I look up at him and see the way he’s smirking down at me with that shit-eating grin. And that? That just pisses Momma off.

  “Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” I say, narrowing my eyes and pulling my hand away.

  Seriously—who the fuck does this guy think he is?

  “Come on, you know you fucking want to.”

  He stands with that smirk still on his face.

  “What I really want is to send you back where you came from.”

  I grab my laptop off the table and sit down on my leather couch. I pull up MailOrder.com on the screen.

  “You don’t really fucking want to do that now.”

  He struts over to where I sit and plops himself down next to me.

  “Get your naked ass off my couch!”

  “Make me, sweetheart.”

  He sounds like a tough guy from one of those bad-ass movies.

  “I don’t have to make you,” I tell him. “You’re canceled. Full stop. I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, but—”

  “Oh, I know exactly what kind of woman you are.” He leans in close to me, and for a moment I’m caught up in rapture by the smell of his skin and the closeness of his lips. “You’re the kind who orders hot men on the internet and then chickens the fuck out when it comes time to put them to use.”

  Which, okay. Fair.

  But that doesn’t change my mind.

  I pick up my laptop and move away from him. I can only hope he gets off my couch.

  He follows me to the kitchen. I put my laptop on the counter, and he shuts it.

  “You look fucking sexy in that nightie. Let me show you why you shouldn’t return me.”

  He stands like he’s some kind of god and smiles that shit-eating grin at me again.

  “No, you’re not going to show me anything. I’m returning you as soon as I figure out how to do it.”

  I open my laptop back up.

  He shuts it again. “Why don’t you give me a chance to show you what a good fuck I am? I’m already naked, so all I need to do is get that nightie off you. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “That’s not going to happen, so you can forget it.” I try to look at MailOrder.com again. “You’re not staying here another minute.”

  “That’s not the way to talk to this gorgeous hunk of meat.”

  He moves his body so his cock with the pink bow wiggles around, and his grin at me gets even bigger.

  I couldn’t look at him anymore. I keep my eyes on the computer screen.

  “Oh, I get it now. You’re nervous seeing my huge cock like this, aren’t you?�
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  His eyes watch me. I can see that out of the corner of my eye.

  “I bet you’ve never seen one this big, have you?”

  He’s still wiggling around.

  “No,” I say.

  “No, what?”

  He tries to look at the screen with me.

  “No, I’m not nervous.” I scroll down the page on the screen. “And no, I haven’t seen a cock quite as big as yours. You’re fucking proud of it, aren’t you?”

  “You can’t even fucking look at me. I make you that nervous.” He moves closer to me. “Yes, I am fucking proud of it. Girls love all twelve inches of my cock. I bet you would, too.”

  “Could you give me some room here?” I ask focusing on the screen.

  I can’t find MailOrder.com’s return policy on their website.

  “There’s no fucking way I’m moving. Not until you tell me why you ordered me in the first place.”

  “I can’t do anything with you standing so close to me,” I say.

  I still won’t look at him even though I know he’s staring at me. He doesn’t budge from the spot where he stands next to me.

  “Fine, have it your way.” I look at him. “Look, I was drunk. I was being horny and slutty and stupid. I thought MailOrder.com was a scam, okay?”

  “It’s not a fucking scam. I’m in your apartment, aren’t I?”

  He does that godlike pose again.

  “Besides, you’re not my type at all,” I say.

  I want him to leave. I want him out of my apartment right now.

  “So, what is your type?” he asks. He’s not leaving anytime soon.

  “Definitely not you,” I say…even though that’s not entirely true.

  “But you picked me out of all those other fucking guys on the website. Why would you do that?” he asks.

  “I didn’t pick you out.”

  “Yes, you fucking did. You can’t deny it. And I won’t let you.”

  He stands right in front of me.

  “You’re right. I can’t deny it. I did order you.”

  I look at his hooded, smoky fuck-me eyes and that thick dark hair. How can I deny what I did? Those eyes and that hair grabbed my attention the moment I saw his photo on MailOrder.com.