Vikki

Grouchy Max couldn't get away from me fast enough last night and that was after he called me a "good girl" and my lady parts did a double take. I nearly got pussy whiplash, and given how unused it all is, it's as close as I've got to an orgasm in years.

I should be ecstatic. Not only am I getting paid a ridiculous sum of money to be this growly troll's companion for the next month, but he wants to buy me clothes, and he has an actual fucking library in his house. Admittedly, he also has the scary librarian from hell, but I'm not going to let that stop me.

I love reading. It's the reason I stayed in academia for so long, the reason I want to pursue the PhD, so I can spend long hours drinking in the scent of dusty books and listening to silence and the rustle of paper.

His apartment also includes a clearly unused gym and a rooftop swimming pool. I should be in heaven. But my emotions are churning within me. Can all of this be real? The fact he gave me a nickname, little Vee, the words rolling off his tongue and sending my stomach squirming in a delightful way. That has to count for something, right?

At least Max's swift departure puts paid to any concerns I might have about him using this situation to take advantage of me. After all, he'd softened me up with the most delicious dinner and a library.

A library.

I still can't get over it, even as I lie in my big bed, in the big bedroom, staring at the reflective lights flickering over the ceiling until I finally fall asleep.

And what do I dream about? I dream about riding a big dark troll, Max. I dream he calls me his good girl as I slide down his shaft, as his hands caress my breasts, cupping their flesh within his huge palms. I put my hands on his chest and he thrusts up into me…

Good girl.

Unsurprisingly, I wake up a sweaty mess, writhing in agony at the mental embarrassment of having sleep fucked my boss.

Yes, Max is hot. He's huge, muscular under that beautifully fitted suit, even with his little paunch. His face is granite handsome, as if chiseled out of stone by someone who really knew what they were doing. And his eyes…holy fuck…they are sinful in the extreme.

But he's also irritatingly dominant, peevish, and downright rude. He's my boss, who wants me to pretend to be his girlfriend for a month.

Well, if that's the case, if that's all he wants, despite what we shared back at Arcane, then that's what he'll get. The best damn human girlfriend he's ever had.

I fling back the bedclothes and pull on the silly, flimsy dressing gown, then stomp my way in whispering quiet because of his expensive carpets through to the room he identified briefly on our tour as his bedroom.

There's no sound in this place, not even a ticking clock. As I stand outside the door, there's no sound from within. I take a deep breath and knock.

Nothing.

I knock again, harder, louder. Behind the door are some muffled noises, then it's flung open so suddenly I take a step back.

Max stands in the doorway, towel around his thick waist, dark hair tousled, his granite skin gleaming with spots of water. He's holding a freshly ironed shirt, still on the hanger. Confusion reigns on his face, although, as usual, his brow is furrowed into a frown.

Fuck! He smells amazing. In a way no male creature has a right to smell. Hints of citrus, bergamot, and cedar swirl around Max as if designed to entice me.

I know I shouldn't, but my gaze travels down his body, over his muscular chest, down his rounded stomach, past the towel to the…sock suspenders?

I thought those things were something only seen in movies, but apparently not.

"What?" he growls.

I raise my eyes from his sock suspenders.

"I'll take that." I snatch the shirt from his hands, and as he wasn't expecting it, he lets it go.

"What?" he repeats, brow more furrowed than ever.

"I need something else to wear. You said you'd lend me something," I retort. "This'll have to do."

I march past him into his room, stunned at my boldness. It's even larger than mine, the curtains still drawn, so lit by the subtle lighting his designer was obviously fond of. The vast bed looks well slept in and his suit from yesterday is casually tossed over a well stuffed armchair. I lift the trousers and pull out the belt in one long movement before turning back to him.

He's standing awkwardly by the door, one hand clutching at the rather small towel which is having to perform an impressive cover up.

"What are you doing?" His voice sounds tired for a second.

"I'm getting my outfit ready," I reply. Spotting a set of drawers across the room, I continue my whirlwind, and within seconds I'm delving deep into his smalls.

Or rather not so smalls. I pull out a pair of boxers many times too large for me, but by now I'm on a roll. I hold them against my lower half and hum in appreciation.

"Yep, these'll do," I trill.

"Get out of my room," Max grinds. "You'll have your own wardrobe soon enough."

I walk over to him, a spring in my step, causing his nostrils to flare.

"I will, but not yet. And if I'm to be your girlfriend, it makes sense I've seen the inside of your bedroom anyway."

"Out!" Max releases his towel to point at the door.

It slips. He realizes what he's done, and his huge hand makes a grab for the offending fabric. But it's already far, far too late for me to unsee what I've seen of my boss's anatomy.

Trolls are big all over.

Big and grey.

All I can do is flee.