Page 47 of Pretend for Me

Yet she still caught me off guard yesterday. One of the many things I’m realizing my fiancée is really good at, along with making me question my sanity and my ability to form coherent sentences.

Another thing my fiancée is really good at? Turning our living room into an emergency evacuation zone. She’s not quite the disaster she advertised herself to be, but I suspect she holds back because of Suzanna. Our housekeeper is the real reason my bride-to-be hasn’t unleashed her full chaos in my house.

Rolling my phone around in my hand a couple of times, I flip open my messages. My best friends are continuing on with their idiocy in our group chat, sending dumb GIFs and teasing each other.

As much as I pretend to be annoyed with their jokes, the Meyer brothers and Hudson have become the few people I can count on—friends who don’t give a shit about my net worth or the things I could do for them, but ones who would give me the shirt off their backs if I needed it.

It’s for that reason I messaged Hudson a few days ago, letting him know my reasoning for marrying Piper and this entire charade. I could have told them all in our group chat, of course, but I didn’t want to bring down the mood or change the vibe for what the chat was meant for—buffoonery. I’d told them all about Mom’s condition weeks ago, but I figured Hudson would update them on me and Piper. And given they haven’t asked me about my reasons for so spontaneously proposing to my hairdresser again, I’m assuming he has.

Hudson understood immediately, without judgment or questions, telling me there wasn’t a better person in the world than Piper in this particular case, but also warning me that her “heart isn’t as solid and unbreakable” as she makes it out to be. But given my fake fiancée doesn’t lead with the heart when it comes to men, I’m not too worried about heeding his warning.

My thumb hovers over Piper’s name, trembling slightly as if it knows the weight of the decision I’m about to make. Her proposal in my car echoes inside my mind. The same proposal that’s kept me hidden in my room for the past two nights like a monk in a self-imposed exile.

I’ve never been a “no-strings attached” kind of guy. Maybe I’m old-fashioned that way, but I’ve only slept with someone after having established a relationship. And while my fiancée and I do have a “relationship,” on paper at least, I can’t decide if sleeping together would complicate things more or make them simpler.

Well, let’s be clear. My mind knows the correct answer—to stay the fuck away from a woman who’s already dug herselfpast my barriers. It’s screaming at me that going further would take her to a point of no return.

My dick, however? He’s on a totally different page. One where he’s begging to be freed and impatient to indulge the new proposal she set forth for him. To get something out of this arrangement, per her words. Something we both want. Something hedonistic, depraved, and unabashedly selfish.

Goddamn, that sounds tempting.

More tempting than any offer I’ve ever been given.

But as the battle between my head and . . . my other head wages on, I feel the scales tipping. The rational part of me, the one that’s gotten me this far in life and my career, wins out, reminding me of the mess we could get into if we cross that line.

Because while I am a relationship guy, my fake fiancée is a self-professed commitmentphobe. She’d told me the day I’d asked her to marry me that she didn’t do attachments, commitments, or love. Tying down a girl like that was akin to lassoing a wave. Not only would I never have her, but I’d probably lose a part of me forever in the process.

Before I know what I’m doing, I slip my phone into my pocket and walk out of my office with all the determination I can muster. It’s been two nights of awkwardness between us, with her proposal hanging in the air like a heavy cloud, and given we have months more to spend together, I have to nip this in the bud.

I saunter through the living space between my office and the kitchen toward the sounds of Suzanna and Piper. But as I approach, my steps falter, my eyes landing on Piper, not in her work clothes or that infuriating oversized T-shirt, but in something even more aggravating. A fucking navy blue bikini.

“Fucking hell,” I groan under my very shallow breath.

Despite telling myself not to, my gaze travels the length of her back—from her delicate bare shoulders to the strap of bluefabric clasped over an expanse of creamy skin, to the flare of her hips. My imagination kicks into overdrive as I picture my hands clasped around those hips as she rides my cock, her body undulating like a serpent I’d willingly let bind me in a spell. Or guiding her by them over my length as I fuck her doggy style, leaving punishing bruises on either side.

Jesus. Get a hold of yourself, asshole. You literally decided none of that was an option two minutes ago. Get your dick out of her proverbial mouth.

Forcing myself forward on unwilling legs, I notice Piper stiffen at my approach, as if she can feel me at her back. Apparently, the two women were engrossed in something on Suzanna’s phone.

They both turn to face me, Suzanna’s smile melting off while Piper’s stays intact, if not becoming a touch more devilish. But it’s not her smile that has my attention, it’s the swells of her small breasts over her strapless bikini top. The hardness of her nipples behind it, as if waiting to be rolled between my fingers. And the miles of silky skin to the hem of her tiny bikini bottom, barely covering what I can only imagine is the most beautiful pussy to ever exist.

My mouth feels dry, even as I fucking salivate.

“Hey there, hubs!” she chimes, her voice as sweet and dangerous as poisoned honey, drawing my attention to her face.

As usual, her eyes sparkle with mischief, making me wonder if she’s read every one of my filthy thoughts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has. The girl has to know the power she holds over men just by fucking breathing, existing.

Her usually long, flowing hair is in two buns on either side of her head, giving me an unobstructed view of her slender neck and those tiny moles I’m so obsessed with. A part of me wants to unravel her hair, if only to twist it around my fist as I claim her. While the other wants to have her playout my boyish fantasies with Princess Leia on her knees, gagging on my cock.

“Hey.” I clear my throat, the single syllable scraping past my parched lips. I watch Suzanna excuse herself from the kitchen, clearly understanding my unspoken request for privacy. “Any chance we could chat for a few minutes?”

Piper takes a step toward me, her lashes fluttering. “I was just going to go for a swim.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder, the movement causing her breasts to jiggle. “Wanna chat out there?”

Every rational thought in my mind screams for me to decline, to retreat to the safety of my study and tell her we’ll just chat later. But as I watch the invitation playing inside her irises, her body a fucking siren’s call in that scant bikini, I feel my resolve waffling.

Following her out to the pool is a terrible idea, one that could shatter the decision I’ve come to before I’ve even spoken it aloud. But, as if I’m being pulled by an invisible thread—one by the name of Piper Parker—I feel my head bob up and down before I hear myself say, “Lead the way.”

I follow behind her, begging my eyes to turn away from the hypnotic sway of her hips, the curve of her spine, and the globes of the roundest, plumpest ass I’ve ever seen. An ass that begs to be palmed, spanked, and fucking bitten, if only so I can see how I’ve marked her skin.

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