Epilogue

A month later

Vivian

"How many people has Arthur invited to his "Second Coming'?" My husband scowls at the cars parked down the driveway and overflowing onto the street outside.

The second coming is what this event has been labelled by the rest of the Davenports. Apparently, there's a messaging group that Connor, the youngest Davenport, created, so they could talk about the purpose of this event. My husband was added, and he grudgingly accepted the invitation, though he rarely bothers to check it; shocker. The one time he did get on it in the past week is how he found out his nephews think Arthur's going to make a big announcement today, which is why he's invited not only the Davenports, but also close friends. The grapevine is abuzz with speculation that there might be a tabloid reporter in the mix, who'd be getting exclusive access to the event to report the big scoop.

Q eases his bike to a stop and lowers the side stand. I slide off with reluctance. My favorite part of being married is being able to ride behind my husband, clinging to him as he weaves through traffic and leaning into him as he takes curves. The thrill of doing it, with the momentum pinning me to him, my body plastered to his, the wind whipping around us, enclosing us in our own private cocoon as he zooms down an open highway… is almost orgasmic. Though that might have to do with my being able to slide my fingers under his leather jacket and his shirt, flattening them against his taut stomach, and feeling the muscles ripple as he controls the bike.

It"s a primal thrill. It infuses my body with adrenaline, which I'm coming down from as I wait for him to dismount. He takes my helmet and locks it in the rack, alongside his. Then, he holds out his hand. "Shall we?"

I take in his much-worn jeans which cling to his powerful thighs, the leather jacket which outlines the breadth of his shoulders, hair slightly overgrown, more than it was when I first met him, and mussed. His cheekbones are sharp enough to cut my heart to pieces, and his lower lip pouty enough that every time I glimpse it, I have an irrational need to bite down on it. The lines around his eyes crinkle as he grins at me. He looks younger, more relaxed, more at ease.

"Marriage suits you, Mr. Davenport." I smile.

"And you, Mrs. Davenport." He locks his arm around my waist and draws me in. I melt against him, raise my lips, and he closes his mouth over mine.

The kiss starts off tenderly, full of promises which I know he intends to keep, full of hope for our future, and happiness, and joy, and every possible emotion that feels right and true and real. Then he swipes his tongue between the seam of my lips, and a jolt of need shoots through my veins. My core clenches; my stomach bottoms out. The sensations zip down to my toes, then back to my pussy, where they hook their teeth into my sensitive skin and elicit a groan from me. A sound that he promptly swallows. He wraps his fingers around my hair and pulls, and the pain bites into my scalp, sinks into my blood, and zooms down to the triangle between my legs. He positions me over his thigh, and I shamelessly begin to hump it, trying to get myself off, trying to— A wolf whistle cuts through my thoughts.

I try to pull away, but Q continues to kiss me. I'm aware of someone approaching us. I slap at his shoulder, and he releases me, but not before he squeezes both of my butt cheeks with his massive paws. The sharp pain spikes my lust, and I almost come. Then he wraps his arm about my shoulders and, turning me around, pulls me into his side. "Son," he holds out his hand.

Felix shakes it, a broad grin on his face. "Seriously, you two, get a room." He laughs.

Q smirks.

I roll my eyes.

In the past month, since Q stepped down as CEO, he's spent a lot of time getting to know his son. The result? There's a noticeable ease between them. There'll always be history between the three of us, but there's an understanding which binds us as family.

"You guys have any idea about what Arthur's cooking up?" Felix stabs his thumb in the direction of the house.

Q raises a shoulder. "Don't know. Don't care. Am here only out of courtesy, and only because Arthur insisted."

He shakes his head. "You're free of his machinations, now that you're happily married, and you're no longer part of the Davenport Group. I admit, I was shocked to hear you resigned as CEO, but the more I think about it, the more I realize you made the right decision. You're a free man." His eyes shadow for a few seconds, then he pulls himself together. "It's time I owned my future. Time I gave shape to my plans and struck out on my own."

Q regards him with curiosity. "What are you going to do?"

He looks between us, and when he smiles, it carries a hint of decisiveness. "You'll find out inside." He nods at us, then continues into the house.

"Should we be worried?" I wonder aloud.

"Nah"—my husband shakes his head—"I trust Felix to make the right decision." A-n-d, that's how much things have changed. A few months ago, I doubt he'd have been able to say that. But Q has put in a lot of effort in building bridges with Felix. "No matter what he decides, his trust fund is in place as a safety net. He'll inherit, as long as he gets married before he turns thirty."

"Is that wise?" I look up into his handsome face. "You're doing an Arthur on him?"

He winces. "Guilty as charged. And I hate to say it, but perhaps there"s a method to Arthur's madness, after all. If not for him, I wouldn't have been compelled to act on my instinct and ask you to marry me as soon as I met you." He bends and brushes his lips against mine. "Or perhaps, I'd have done it anyway, but Arthur's ultimatum had a role to play in my actions. There's no refuting that."

"We owe him." I nod.

"Which is why we're here." He blows out a breath "Shall we get this over with?"

"Is the theme… A Mad Hatter's Tea Party?" Knox nods in the direction of the long table set up in the center of the garden.

"Sure could pass for it," I agree.

We're standing in the backyard of Arthur's townhouse. Trees surround the estate, shielding us from early afternoon visitors to Primrose Hill. Knox shuffles his feet, then rolls his shoulders. He continues to scan the group gathered around the table.

"You okay, man?" My husband shoots him a curious glance. "You seem… on edge."

"You need to get your eyesight checked, old man," Knox grabs a glass from a passing waiter and takes a sip, only to spit it out. "Some non-alcoholic shit," he growls.

"I can help." The same petite, blonde-haired, bespectacled, curvy woman who hides her curves by wearing a suit two sizes too big, who I saw at the gallery a month ago, materializes at his side. She pulls out a flask and splashes clear liquid into Knox's half-filled glass.

Knox relaxes. "Thanks, doll," he says without looking at her.

She winces but stays silent.

He downs half the glass and sighs in appreciation.

She begins to melt away, but he snaps his fingers, still without looking at her "Don't go, I'll need you to pour." He holds out his glass again.

My jaw drops. What the fuck? Clearly, being obnoxious runs in the Davenport bloodline. That is, until these men are put in their place by the right woman. I open my mouth to tell Knox off, but before I can speak, the blonde pipes up, "I don't think you want to get drunk, sir."

Knox frowns. Staring in the direction of the house, he keeps his arm outstretched. The silence stretches. The tension in the air ratchets up, but Knox seems oblivious. He's too busy scanning his surroundings, as if he's looking for something… Or someone?

The blonde purses her lips, then relents and pours a dollop more into the glass. "Thanks." He tosses it back, then looks around as if wondering where to keep it. She takes it from him, and he nods again. "Don't know what I'd do without you, Sierra."

"It's June," she mumbles under her breath, but he doesn't seem to hear her.

He knows her name but purposely got it wrong. Why would he do that? Does he want to rile her up?

I exchange glances with my husband, who shakes his head. Without saying anything, he communicates what I'm thinking: Knox is a cunt. And she's way too good for him.

"Anyone know what Gramps is up to?" Tyler prowls over to join us.

Man's the tallest and the biggest of all the Davenports. His features could be cast from granite. His eyes are cold. His expression is both bored and lethal. Something about these Davenport men. They're not what you'd call handsome… Not when their features have that hint of cruelty which marks them out as men who have few scruples in life. And yet, they have the kind of charisma that makes women throw their panties at them and compels men to turn envious.

While Ryot is the one I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley—I"ve seen what he can do—Tyler's the guy who'd come at you with such stealth, that despite his bulk, you wouldn't see him until he's too late. He looms over the rest of us. In a suit and tie, he looks barely civilized for this gathering.

Zoey waves to me from the other side of the garden, where she's talking with Summer and Sinclair Sterling. She's become close to Arthur, who treats her like the daughter he never had. Brody and Connor stand at a distance, smoking, without bothering to hide their cigarettes. Ryot is nowhere to be seen.

Lizzie is talking with Felix. The two have become good friends. I was worried there might be something romantic between them, but Lizzie laughed it off. She hinted, I"m not the only one who has a thing for silver foxes, a comment I chose to ignore.

My father was invited but declined the invitation, preferring to spend the evening with his caregiver-turned-girlfriend. He"s happy, and she seems like a genuinely sweet woman.

Tiny ambles into the backyard, making a beeline for the long table packed with foodstuffs. He surveys it, and his ears droop. The mutt looks crestfallen, then walks back to Arthur.

Guess he's unhappy he didn't find any champagne. The dog has a weakness for the bubbly drink, it's true! But since Arthur's diagnosis, Imelda has banned all alcohol and cigars from the house, and to my surprise, the man didn't protest. Is it true love? Watching him walk out with an arm around the woman, who's wearing fatigues today, the pairing seems incongruous. But when she guides him to a chair at the head of the table, he complies. Which is telling.

According to Q, you wouldn't have caught Arthur listening to anyone else before she came into his life. Now, he seems less hard on himself. She takes the seat to his right. It's a signal for the rest of us to take our places.

June turns to leave, but Knox points to the chair on his right. She hesitates, then complies. The chair to his left stays vacant. The rest of us take our seats. There's a general buzz around the table. Otis tops up our glasses with more of the non-alcoholic beverage then stands to the side.

Arthur clinks his knife against his glass, and the chatter dies down.

"No doubt, you"re all curious about why you've been summoned."

"Why should we be? We only had to drop what we were doing in the middle of a working day and attend to your summons," Brody growls under his breath.

"Something you want to share with the table?" Arthur arches an eyebrow in his grandson's direction.

Brody shrugs. "It's a working day."

"And I am the patriarch of this family… Still. So, you boys and girls will come when I call." It's a statement which brooks no argument. Arthur glances around the table, the look on his features implying my-word-is-final.

Then Imelda pats his arm. "Don't be a dick, dear."

A titter runs around the table, then there's full blown laughter. Next to me, Q chuckles. Zoey snorts, then slaps a hand over her mouth.

A vein bulges at Arthur's temple. He clenches his jaw. I'm sure he's going into a full-blown meltdown, but as he and Imelda glare at each other, something magical happens. His features relax by degrees and then a reluctant smile curves his features. Imelda's shoulders relax. Something passes between the two of them, then Arthur nods. He turns to the table. "And that is why each of you need to find the right woman."

Brody groans. Connor chugs down water from a bottle like it's going out style. Tyler's expression is as immovable as ever. And Knox? His gaze is focused on the house.

"Is he waiting for someone?" I whisper.

Quentin shakes his head. "Don't think so."

But the seat next to him says otherwise.

"Felix"—Arthur nods in his direction—"you have something to tell us?"

The noise at the table dies down again.

Felix clears his throat. "I'm joining the Marines."

My husband freezes. I shoot him a glance to find a mixture of surprise and pride on his face—combined with a trace of fear.

"You didn't know?"

He shakes his head. "He hinted to me, but no… I didn't think he'd go through with it."

Felix meets my husband's gaze. "I hope to be half as good at it as my father was."

My husband's throat moves as he swallows. Then he raises his glass. "To Felix."

"To Felix." The rest of us raise our glasses. After we've taken a sip—with the blonde topping up Knox's glass again—he places his glass on the table and rises to his feet. He heads toward the house, where a woman steps out onto the porch. She's tall, willowy, and wearing a green dress that reaches below her knees. It's sleeveless, baring her thin white arms. Her dark hair is a waterfall of health that flows down her back. Her eyes are almond shaped, her skin creamy, and so pale the sun seems to be reflected off of it to bathe her in an ethereal light. Knox guides her over to the table and seats her on his left. There's pin-drop silence at the table as we stare at the newcomer.

"Can I do the honors?" Arthur asks.

Knox shrugs. "By all means."

Arthur frowns, then smooths out his expression. "This is Priscilla Whittington, Toren Whittington's sister. Toren and I agree that the best way to resolve our family feud and join our collective fortunes is through an arranged marriage."

"Of course you did," Brody snorts.

Arthur ignores him. "Tor couldn't be here, but he was happy for us to go ahead with announcing?—"

"To cut a long story short, Priscilla has agreed to be my wife," Knox cuts in with a bored eye-roll.

I glance at June"s face, and she looks stricken.

There's the sound of a glass breaking, and I turn to find Tyler pushing back from the table. He looks between the Knox and Priscilla, then turns and stalks off.

June, on the other hand, seems frozen. It's clear, she didn't see this coming either.

Knox, of course, is oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. He raises his glass in Priscilla's direction. "To my future wife."

To find out what happens next read Knox and June"s story in The Unplanned Wedding HERE

Want an extended bonus epilogue with Q and Vivian and their child? Click here

Read an excerpt from Knox and June's story in The Unplanned Wedding

June

"Thanks, Norma." My boss nods in my direction without looking at me as I place the bottle of water in his outstretched hand.

"It's June," I mutter, wondering why I bother. I"ve corrected him a hundred, possibly a thousand, times about my name. Or at least, it seems like it's a thousand times. He's never called me by my given name. Worse, it's a different name each time. That's how much attention he pays toward me—or rather, doesn't pay in my direction. Which is, of course, what I intended when I joined Davenport Group as Knox Davenport's assistant. I'm also his Girl Friday. Which means, I go with him where he goes. In the office, to the gym in the basement of his luxurious condominium building, then back in the elevator with him to his home, where I cook him dinner.

I leave his apartment at seven p.m. each day and am back at seven a.m. each morning to make him breakfast. But not before I call him at five a.m. with a wakeup call. You heard that right—five freakin' a.m. Ugh! Which means, I have five alarms in place to wake me up, starting from four-thirty a.m. until four-fifty-five a.m, and I never wake up before the last one. Then, I only manage to crack open my eyelids enough to call him at five and wish him, "Good F'ing Morning," before crawling back under the covers and sleeping until 6:45 a.m.

The only saving grace is, I need less than fifteen minutes to make myself presentable and take the elevator up to his penthouse apartment. It's also one of the reasons I've hung onto this job for almost a year. Because as his sidekick—sorry, I mean his aide—I"m entitled to the apartment on the floor below his. It means, I have enough distance from him, but I"m close enough for him to call me in case of an emergency. It should also be stated here that, before me, the position was held by a series of men, none of whom lasted more than a few weeks. In desperation, the agency asked for a woman to interview for the role. And they were clear: it had to be someone who could put up with the whims of a dictator who looks like a pagan God—a gross understatement, IMO, for he resembles Adonis himself—and acts like he owns the world. Which, technically, he does, given what he and the Davenports are worth. Oh, also, it had to be someone who wouldn't fall for her boss. That wasn't in the specs on paper, but it was something the recruiter hinted to me on the phone.

They wanted someone who wouldn't complicate the situation by developing a personal relationship with the man. I thought they were joking, until I came for the interview, took one look at his almost too perfect jawline, those high cheekbones, and the piercing silver eyes, and swooned.

Then, there are those scars on his cheek—some kind of war wound, apparently, from when he was a Marine, before he took over at the Davenports. It only accentuates the perfection of the rest of his face and heightens the air of menace clinging to him.

Then he opened those pouty lips and called me by a name that"s not mine. And the mystery was broken. He may have fought for his country, but he remains a rich, privileged, born-with-a-sliver-spoon in his mouth, bastard who belongs at the top of the food chain and has no idea how the rest of the population lives. He didn"t look at me once as he tossed a few questions at me, yawned through my answers, and dismissed me. I walked out of his office in a rage, certain I wouldn't get be hired. Only I did, along with the perks associated with it. And to this day, I"m not sure why.

Not that it matters. To have an address in a post code that boasts more billionaires per square mile than Manhattan, and a monthly salary that helped me pay off most of my student loans within six months, and take care of my siblings' college education, is more than I expected. So, I grit my teeth and hang in there. It also helped that my boss was serious eye-candy.

Whether dressed in a fitted suit that shows off the breadth of his shoulders, or grey sweatpants that encircle his lean waist and hint at the package tenting the crotch, or the gym-shorts he"s wearing now, which outline every coiled muscle in those powerful thighs.

He drops down on his palms and feet and proceeds to pump out a hundred push-ups before he springs up and holds out his arm. I slide the bottle of water into his waiting palm. He throws his head back and chugs the contents, then tosses me the empty bottle. I walk over to the recycling bin, drop it in, and grab another from the refrigerator before walking back to him. He's at the push-board bench, pressing weights many times his own. I stand with the fresh bottle of water and a towel, trying not to ogle the way his abs flex, his shoulder muscles bunch, and his thigh muscles ripple each time he pushes up the weights. Beads of sweat glisten on his torso. One slides down his concave stomach toward his waistband.

I gulp. Feel my own forehead moisten. Is it hot in here? I glance around the almost empty gym. The only other occupant is a man on the treadmill, and he"s wearing a pair of headphones while focusing on the console in front of him. It's air-conditioned in here, but you wouldn't know it, given the way my palms are sweating. I raise the bottle of water and press it to my heated cheek, and I'm not even working out. Still, I'm dressed in sneakers and yoga pants, combined with an oversized sweatshirt. Maybe I should take it off? I hesitate, shoot my boss a glance and find his jaw hard, forehead wrinkled as he glares at the weights, he's busy grappling with. The scars on his cheek seem to protrude with the effort.

He looks fierce, like he's fighting a battle or about to start a war. The tendons on his throat pop, the veins on his forearms stand out in relief. And his biceps… Good god, they're as big as my thighs, and I'm not a skinny person.

I love my curves, love dressing to show them off. But also, I want to keep my job. It's why I prefer to wear clothes two sizes too big and tie my hair back in a bun. So far, combined with my eyeglasses, it's helped me stay nondescript. Maybe, it's working too well—my boss has no idea of my name. No idea that I exist. I might be part of the furniture, for all the times he's noticed me… Which, at this stage, is a big fat zero.

So why, why, why am I so drawn to him? Why, oh why can't I tear my gaze off the way his chest heaves and his shoulders swell, and the way his biceps bulge, and the way the muscles of his forearms inflate as he pushes up the barbell with a grunt that rolls over my skin and arrows straight to my clit?Goosebumps pepper my forearms. The sweat on my throat dries in the air-conditioning, and I shiver.

Great! First, I'm too hot, now I'm too cold. Maybe I'm coming down with something? Maybe, I need to take a break from the cloud of testosterone that's pressing down on my shoulders? "I, uh… I'll only be a minute. Just need to… uh… Use the little girls' room." I cringe. Little girls' room? Couldn't I come up with a better excuse?

I turn, and promptly trip on a plate weight, which I didn"t see. The water bottle in my hand hits the floor, and the towel slips from my fingers. I throw my hands out to break my fall, then find myself suspended an inch from the floor. The breath whooshes out of me. Then suddenly, I'm upright, and my feet don't touch the floor because two big broad palms are squeezing my waist.

Heat sizzles my back, the scent of sweat and something musky under it—sandalwood?—teases my nostrils. The fine hair on the back of my neck rises and I realize, it's him. He caught me? But how did he even see me? He was on his back, bench pressing, when my feet brushed against the weight. "You... you can put me down," I squeak.

His hold on my waist tightens, then he gently lowers me until my feet touch the floor. Only he hasn't let go of me. Instead, he spins me around to face him. Our gazes meet, and I swear, the world stops. My heart descends to the space between my legs. The pulse blooms there and travels to my fingertips, and my toes, and my scalp, which tightens. Silver sparks light up those colorless eyes, the heat from his body a lasso pulling me toward him. Then my nipples graze his wall-like chest and I realize, we've leaned in toward each other.

A thousand little hummingbirds whirl their wings in my chest. I raise my head; he lowers his. I draw my gaze down the raised scar bisecting his cheek. Then, because I've wanted to for so long, I raise my hand and graze my fingers over the puckered skin. Shock sears his features, and he pulls back so quickly, I stumble. This time, he doesn't right me. He takes a few steps back, then sinks down on the weight bench. I open my mouth to apologize for touching him, when he scrunches up his forehead. "Ah, Melanie, is it?"

What the—! I narrow my gaze on him.

He scrunches up his forehead, then his brow clears. He snaps his fingers. "It's Renée." He nods. "Yep, Renée. Get me an energy drink, will you?"

Remember all those sensations crowding me? Remember how I could have sworn there was an electric connection between us? All of it dissipates in a flash. I shake my head. What an ass! "It's June," I snap.

He raises a shoulder. "That's what I said."

I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. "No, you didn't."

"Sure, I did." His tone is condescending. He has a smirk on his face, implying I"m the one who doesn't know my own name.

Anger squeezes my guts. I grit my teeth. "My name. Is. June. I've worked for you for almost a year. The least you could do is remember my name."

My stomach churns, and my vision narrows. Before I can stop myself, I've closed the distance to the fallen bottle of water. I snatch it up and lob it at him. It hits his forehead and bounces off, and it's as if the world stops. Again. OMG, I did not mean to do that. Okay, I lie; I totally meant to do that. But I didn"t think my aim would be this accurate. Or that he'd freeze, then slowly raise his head and stare at me. And that those grey eyes of his would turn almost silver with rage. Or that his nostrils would flare, and he'd rise to his feet, so I"d to tilt my head back, then further back.

He takes a step forward. I gulp. He scans my features, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. Then his gaze widens. I swear, he's noticing me for the first time. He drapes the towel over his shoulders then prowls closer. He steps over the weight, then stops in front of me. A cloud of heat spools off of his body and slams into my chest.

I gasp. I want to turn and run out of there, but my feet seem to be cemented to the ground.

He holds my gaze, golden sparks flaring in the depths of his eyes as he bends his knees and peers into my eyes. "Run," he growls.

"What?" I gape.

"I'll even give you a head start."

"Excuse me?" I blink rapidly.

He bares his teeth like he hasn't heard me speak. "You have until I count to five." He jerks his chin toward the doorway. "Go."

Knox

"Go, before I change my mind," I bite out.

And what possessed me to ask her to run?She's my assistant, who I haven't paid any attention to until… a few seconds ago. Not until she stumbled over the plate weight—which I left out on the floor—a mistake and a health hazard, which I hadn't worried about because I hadn't clocked her presence.

She's been someone who hovers just out of my line of sight. Someone who"s there to fulfill my requests and obey my orders, because dominating women in bed isn't enough, and I haven't allowed myself to take a submissive in real life because... Who'd want to stare at my scarred visage hour after hour? It's why I prefer to never look her in the eye.

That way, I won't have to recognize the look of disgust in her gaze, or the expression of sympathy that follows it, or the questions which hovered just out of reach. But then she tripped, and I acted without thought. I was on my feet and springing toward her. I don"t recall placing my barbell back on the rack or swinging my feet to the ground, but there I was, in front of her, just in time to grab her around her waist and straighten her.

And then she raised those big brown eyes up to meet my gaze, and I was a goner. And when she brushed her fingers down the scar on my cheek, the shock of it felt like someone dropping me in a vat of boiling oil, then dumping cold water on me. No one has touched that scar since I was injured. Not even me.

I hate how I look; hate the evidence of my mistakes. Hate my face. Hate what I've become since I left the Marines. I buried my feelings. I swore to never let myself care for anything or anyone again.

And this slip of a woman comes along and rouses emotions I thought I"m no longer capable of feeling. I realize, now, that I want her. I want to push her onto her knees and shove my cock inside her mouth. I want to bend her over and spank her until she begs me for release. I want to defile her and take her every orifice. I want to bury myself in her until I find release.

The intensity of my need punches into my chest like a cannon ball. Worse, something inside me insists I get to know her. To find out all about her. What she likes and hates. What makes her laugh. What she loves to eat and drink and what she likes to do when she isn't working for me and…

What the hell?Where is this compulsion arising from? Why do I want to find out about her as a person before I fuck her? This… is new. This has never happened to me before. This… is something I will not allow, for it leads to my becoming vulnerable. Something I've sworn I'll never let myself be. It's why I'm going on the offensive. It's why I am going to warn her off.

I glare into her face then growl, "Go. Now."

Something in her finally catches on; when I take a step in her direction she turns and bolts toward the exit of the gym.

Adrenaline races through my blood. My heartbeat quickens. Without letting myself think further, I give chase. I jump over the plate weight that tripped her up, then rush past the man on the treadmill near the entrance who tracks my progress with a raised eyebrow. I barrel past him and exit the gym.

I fully expect her to run out of the building but spot her at the elevator. She's stabbing at the button to call the elevator cage. The car arrives, and the doors open. I sprint toward her and careen to a stop as the elevator doors begin to close on her. I plant my shoulder in the gap between the doors, and they spring back. I step inside, and she gasps, then stumbles back until she hits the back of the carriage. The doors swish shut behind me. I reach over and slap the button for my penthouse, and it begins to rise.

She looks from me to the indicator flashing above my head, back to my face, then glances around the space once before wringing her hands together. I stay silent. So does she. The air between us thrums with tension.

I drag my gaze down her features, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the parted lips, the way her eyelids flutter, how her eyes spark with a tinge of anger. Good. She's a fighter. Not a surprise, considering how long she"s lasted working for me.

She shuffles her feet, and when I still don't say anything, she tosses her head. "This is stupid. I didn't do anything wrong. It"s you who can't seem to remember my name. I"ve corrected you so many times, but you always forget."

"Are you complaining?" I ask with interest.

"No. Yes." She throws up her hands. "Frankly, I don't care. You can call me by any name you want, as long as you pay my salary on time—" She raises a shoulder. "I shouldn't care." She says with vehemence, as if she's trying to convince herself.

"So, it's fine if I call you July?"

"The name"s June," she replies, then grimaces.

"You feel more like a July than a June."

She scowls at me. I'm sure she's going to tell me off for suggesting that which is why I did it, but she purses her lips and all she says is, "And you're going to be late for lunch at your grandfather's."

It's my turn to grimace. "Do I have to go to that?"

"Arthur's assistant called up and was insistent you be there." She sets her jaw.

My grandfather never stops meddling with the lives of his sons and grandsons. His one goal? To see us all settled. He succeeded in alienating his oldest, who cut off all ties with the family. His middle son—a.k.a. my father—died in an accident, but not before Arthur managed to get him married off to my mother. My youngest uncle, Quentin, is the most recent to fall prey to Arthur's wiles. He ended up marrying the same woman his own son jilted at the altar. A messy situation all around, but one which ended with Quentin getting the girl of his dreams.

"Good segue, but it doesn't change the fact that you're going to have to accept your punishment."

Her eyes grow huge. "P-punishment?"

"You hit me with the water bottle?—"

"That was a mistake."

"Seemed intentional to me."

She draws in a breath. "Fine. I concede, I did intend to hit you with it, but I didn't expect it to actually hit you." She pauses before adding under her breath. Besides, you deserved it."

I raise one eyebrow and suppress a smirk. Ignoring her final comment, I continue. "Nevertheless, it doesn't change the fact that the bottle bounced off my forehead. Ergo, you need to pay for the consequences of your actions."

She laughs nervously. "You're joking."

"Not at all."

"And what would this punishment involve?"

I reach over and slap the stop button.

June

"You"ve gotta be kidding me," I cry as the elevator screeches to a halt.

In reply, he slides down until he's sitting on the floor of the cage with his back to the doors and his legs stretched out in front. "So where were we?" he drawls.

"What if I say I'm sorry?"

He shrugs. "It's a start, but it's not enough."

"What do you want then?"

"For you to take your punishment." When he pats his thigh, my jaw drops.

"No way," I snap. One thing about being this man's assistant? There's very little about him I don't know. And that includes his proclivities. I've never seen him bring a woman home, but I know for a fact he"s a member of a very elite BDSM club, where he goes every other Saturday and doesn't come back until late the next day.

What happens there? I don't know. Okay, so maybe I researched it and I do know, and it"s possible I've been curious about what exactly he does there. And apparently, now I'm going to find out. "I'm, uh, not into that stuff."

"Stuff?" He arches an eyebrow.

"Whatever it is you do at the, uh, BDSM club."

His eyes light up with interest. "So, you"re curious about my activities at the club?"

"What? No! Of course, not." Heat sears my cheeks, but I manage not to give in to the embarrassment. "Anyway, aren't there a bunch of laws against this?" I wave at the space between us.

"Probably, but I own the building, and the security, and the security tapes, which will be erased. And then, it's your word against mine. We both know how that's going to pan out."

I firm my lips. Anger churns my guts. Insults tremble on the tip of my tongue, but I refuse to give in to them.

"Besides"—his lips twist—"I'm paying you enough to know you wouldn't want to cut off the source of your income."

"Are you trying to bribe me?" I scowl.

"Am I succeeding?"

My shoulders sag. I need the money. And yes, I could sue him for this behavior, but it's going to be a long drawn out battle, and I don't have the resources to keep it going.

"Of course, you only have to say "no," and I'll stop." He yawns.

"You… you will?" I'm, once again, gaping at him, but I can't help it. The way he breaks convention and doesn't care about common decency makes my head spin.

"Sure, all you have to do is be honest, and admit you're turned on right now."

"Oh, my God! How could you even say that?" I cry.

"Because if you took off your panties and held them out, you and I both know they"d be soaked."

I squeeze my thighs together, and the movement doesn't escape him.

"What do you say; shall we put it to the test?"

I shake my head.

"So, you admit, you're aroused."

Don't do it. Don't do it.I nod my head slowly.

"Good girl."

His approval sends a zing of sensations bursting up my spine. Oh, my God, why does his approval mean so much to me?

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I can't believe this conversation is happening."

"It's a bit unorthodox I admit"—he nods—"but it"s never too late to explore one's affinity for kink."

"What? No! I'm not into kink," I protest.

"Then you don't have to worry that you'll enjoy feeling my palm connect with your arse." He holds out his massive fingers and squeezes them into a claw-like gesture, and I can't take my gaze off of them.

I should be more shocked at the filthiness of his words, but somehow, I'm not. And I don't understand it. Maybe, a part of me always expected that, one day, he'd take notice of me and want to introduce me to the lifestyle. Is that why I finally lost my patience at being ignored by him and threw the bottle? Because I wanted him to notice me? No, no, I'm not that needy… Am I? I shuffle my feet, then tip up my chin. "Uh, you really are going to be late for the gallery opening."

"They can wait." He settles himself back against the doors. He looks comfortable and cool as a cucumber. Unlike me. Sweat pools under my arms and makes me want to hold them out at my sides so I can air dry them.

"I… Uh, I'm really not comfortable with this," I murmur.

He seems disappointed, like he can see through the lies I'm telling myself. I do want to find out what it"s like to be spanked by him. But if I do, I'll lose all respect for myself.

He rises to his feet and hits a button on the panel. The elevator begins to move. I slip my oversized specs up my nose and stare at the numbers.

So, that was it—my brush with kink. My brush with finding out how it could be to have him spank me. My brush with finding out how it feels to have him touch me. I should hate him for not noticing me all the time I worked for him, but there's something about finally having his undivided attention that sends a frisson of excitement up my spine.

He probably won"t notice me again. I'll go back to being the assistant who fades into the background, and he'll move onto his next weekend at the club and whatever he does there. Everything will go back to normal and… And I'll always wonder how it would have been if I'd let him have his way with me. I'll always wonder how it would have felt to be at the center of his focus. Something I'll never have again.

Live a little, June Donnelly. For once, throw caution to the wind and take this opportunity.Without giving myself another chance to think this through, I reach over and slap the stop button. The elevator whines to a halt one floor from his penthouse. I steel myself then turn to face him. If I expected to see any gloating on his face, there's none. Only curiosity and, dare I say, an expression that's almost understanding.

"I have a few conditions."

"Need I remind you, you're the one who hit me with the bottle?"

I wince. "And I'm going to take the punishment you give me, but only if you agree to my stipulations."

He widens his stance, drawing my attention to his thighs, but I manage to keep my gaze above his crotch.

"Go on then. As you reminded me, we have a gallery opening to attend."

I swallow, then square my shoulders. "One"—I hold up my forefinger—"this will not change our working relationship in the slightest."

"It won't for me. It's you who'll have to watch out for any lingering feelings from our little tryst."

I scoff, "As if."

His eyes spark with what I recognize as challenge, but when he opens his mouth, all he asks is, "What's your next condition?"

"We forget this ever happened."

He cuts the air with his palm, and the confidence in that gesture makes me stiffen. I know, I'm the one who asked that we both forget this encounter, but damn, if I don't want him to remember what he did to me.

"You get one last stipulation. You"d best spit it out before I change my mind," he warns.

"Uh, I want at least"—I raise my middle finger next to my forefinger—"two, no"—I add a third finger—"three orgasms."

Knox

Jesus Christ, this woman.She might have swung my water bottle at me earlier and gotten my attention, but it's only now that I truly notice her. She's nervous, as evidenced by how her fingers shake when she pushes the hair back from her face. But the stubborn set to her chin and the rigidity of her shoulders tells me she's settled on her stance. And while I prefer my women submissive, I also want them to know their mind.

"Done." I hold out my hand.

She stares at it for a second before placing her much smaller palm in mine. An electric current seems to zip out from her touch. I stiffen. So does she. Her gaze widens and she begins to pull back her arm, but I wrap my fingers around her palm and squeeze. A trembling grips her, and her lips part in an O of surprise. Once again, I find myself leaning closer. Goddam, this static electricity that seems to spring to life every time we touch is surely a coincidence. I release her arm, then reach past her and slap the button on the elevator.

It rises up to the top floor and she turns to me. "But?—"

"Not today."

"Eh?" She blinks rapidly. "I thought you wanted to punish me?"

"I will, but another time."

"Oh." She seems crestfallen.

"Don't be disappointed. I promise, I'll make it worth your while. I also promise I'll give you all the orgasms you deserve. But?—"

"But?" She swallows.

"But if we want to be at Arthur's lunch in time, we need to hurry."

She flushes, then nods. "Of course."

"These documents need your signature." Her fingers move across the tablet, and my phone buzzes. We're in the backseat of my Aston Martin. I got off the elevator at my floor and instructed her to get dressed and meet me at my place in half an hour. And wasn't surprised when I'd showered and walked into my kitchen twenty minutes later to find her already dressed and waiting for me. She"s back to wearing a trouser suit two sizes too big for her. She also pulled her hair back in an efficient chignon, and the oversized glasses slip down her nose as she studies her laptop screen.

For a few seconds, I watched her, unobserved. She was focused on whatever she was reading, and a tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. Her spine was straight, her narrow shoulders at attention as she perched on the stool at the breakfast counter. She muttered something to herself, then made a note in the book next to her. Her fingers raced over the keyboard as she typed something. A tendril of hair pulled loose and flopped over her cheek. She pushed it back, then continued typing.

I approached her on soundless feet, and when she looked up, our gazes met. She instantly flushed but didn't look away. "You have a packed day at the office. We'll need to get back in time for the four p.m. meeting with the sales staff, the five p.m. conference call with the East Coast, followed by the six p.m. review of the creatives for the newest ad campaign, and finally, the seven p.m. discussion with India."

"Best we get started then." I walked past her and headed for the elevator, leaving her to scramble to keep up. By the time the doors to the elevator opened, she was with me.

Never misses a beat, this one. The most efficient assistant I've ever had. And apparently, also a submissive in the making. Too bad my plans don't include her. She runs my office with a ruthless efficiency, which sets me free from the day-to-day and allows me concentrate on growing the business. She"s too valuable in her position. Which is why I've given myself one chance to punish her and make her come. And then, I'll never look at her in that way again. But is it worth changing the status quo and risking complicating the work environment? And if I don't, am I going to let her get away with throwing the water bottle at me?

It"s not my ego that"s hurt… Not only. It"s more the fact that she did it, hoping for the consequences of the action. She did it, wanting to be punished, whether she realized it or not. And I admit, a part of me is curious about how she'll take it. It"s academic curiosity, is all. I want to see the expressions on her face as she orgasms. Yep, chalk it up to intellectual curiosity.

And why am I spending so much time thinking about it?It pissed me off enough that I barely spoken a word to her on the way here. Not that it stopped her from continuing to work on her tablet, sending emails my way. I preferred to ignore her—easily done, given the practice I"ve when it comes to her—and we made the trip to Arthur's place in silence.

She follows me in, and I take in the long table set up in the center of the garden in the backyard of Arthur's townhouse. Trees surround the estate, shielding us from early afternoon visitors to Primrose Hill. The table is loaded with food, but no one makes a move toward the table. There's a hush of expectation in the air. Or perhaps, that's my imagination? I roll my shoulders, then continue to scan the group gathered around the table.

"You okay, man?" Quentin shoots me a curious glance. "You seem… on edge."

"You need to get your eyesight checked old man." I grab a glass from a passing waiter and take a sip, only to spit it out. "Some non-alcoholic shit," I growl.

"I can help." June materializes by my side. She pulls out a flask and splashes clear liquid into my half-filled glass.

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. "Thanks, doll." I down half the glass and sigh in appreciation.

She begins to melt away, but I snap my fingers, making sure not to look at her. "Don't go, I'll need you to pour." I hold out my glass again.

"Huh, don't think you want to get drunk, sir."

Sir? Did she call me sir?The sass on this woman. It shouldn't affect me, but fuck, if my cock doesn't instantly stiffen, and my balls tighten. I manage to keep my gaze away from her features and my arm outstretched. A few seconds pass, then she relents and pours a dollop more into the glass. "Thanks." I toss it back, then glance around, wondering where to keep it.

My efficient assistant, of course, takes it from me, and I nod. "Don't know what I'd do without you, Sierra."

"It's June," she mumbles under her breath.

Of course, I know it's June. But damn, if I'm going to reveal I remember her name.

"Anyone know what Gramps is up to?" My younger brother Tyler prowls over to join us. Man's the tallest and the biggest of all of us. His features could be cast from granite. His eyes are cold. His expression both bored and lethal.

He looms over the rest of us. In a suit and tie, he looks barely civilized for this gathering.

Tiny, Arthur's Great Dane ambles out onto the backyard, followed by my grandfather. Arthur walks out with an arm around his girlfriend Imelda. She's wearing fatigues today; the pairing seems incongruous, but when she guides him to a chair at the head of the table, he complies. Which is telling. You wouldn't have caught Arthur listening to anyone else before she came into his life. Now, he seems less hard on himself. She takes the seat to his right. It's a signal for the rest of us to take our places.

My assistant turns to leave, but when I point to the chair on my right, she initially hesitates, then complies. The chair to my left is vacant. The rest of the group take their seats. There's a general buzz around the table. Otis, my grandfather's butler tops up everyone's glasses—not mine— with more of the non-alcoholic beverage, then stands to the side.

Arthur clinks his knife against his glass, and the chatter dies down.

"No doubt, you are all curious about why you've been summoned?"

"Why should we be? We only had to drop what we were doing in the middle of a working day and attend to your summons," my other brother Brody growls under his breath.

"Something you want to share with the table?" Arthur arches an eyebrow in his direction.

Brody shrugs. "It's a working day."

"And I am the patriarch of this family… still. So, you boys and girls will come when I call." It's a statement which brooks no argument. Arthur glances around the table, the look on his features implying, my-word-is-final.

Then, Imelda pats his arm. "Don't be a dick, dear."

A titter runs around the table, then there's full blown laughter. Quentin chuckles. One of the women snorts, then slaps a hand over her mouth. A vein bulges at Arthur's temple. He clenches his jaw. I'm sure he's going into a full-blown meltdown, but as he and Imelda glare at each other, something magical happens. His features relax by degrees and then, a reluctant smile curves his features. Imelda's shoulder's relax. That woman has lady balls, but I'm guessing she fully expected to be thrown out of the gathering on her arse. Something passes between the two of them, then Arthur nods. He turns to the table, "And that is why each of you need to find the right woman."

Brody groans. My third brother Connor chugs down water from a bottle like it's going out style. Tyler's expression is as immovable as ever.

"Felix"—Arthur nods in my cousin's direction—"you have something to tell us?"

The noise at the table dies down again.

Felix clears his throat. "I'm trying out for the Marines." He meets Quentin's gaze. "I hope to be half as good at it as my father was."

Quentin seems visibly moved. He swallows, then raises his glass. "To Felix."

"To Felix." Everyone raises their glasses. I toss mine back, and June refills mine without prompting. I throw that back as well, then rise to my feet. I head toward the house, where a woman steps out onto the porch. She's tall, willowy, and wearing a green dress that reaches to below her knees. It's sleeveless, baring her thin white arms. Her dark hair is a waterfall of health that flows down her back. Her eyes are almond shaped, her skin creamy and so pale, the sun seems to reflect off of it to bathe her in an ethereal light.

"Knox." She holds out her hand.

"Priscilla." I tuck her arm through mine and guide her over to the table. She slips into the seat on my left. By the time I'm seated, the table is silent. All eyes are on me and the new arrival.

"Can I do the honors?" Arthur asks.

I yawn. "By all means."

Arthur frowns, then smooths out his expression. "This is Priscilla Whittington. Toren Whittington's sister. Toren and I agreed that the best way to resolve our family feud and join our collective fortunes is through marriage."

He's referring to the fact that the Whittingtons and the Davenports had a conflict going back a few generations, until Toren Whittington helped my half-brother Nathan stave off a takeover of the Davenport group by the Madisons. The only other family Arthur hated more than the Whittingtons.

"Of course you did." Brody snorts.

Arthur ignores him. "Tor couldn't be here, but he was happy for us to go ahead with announcing?—"

"To cut a long story short, Priscilla has agreed to be my wife."

Next to me, June draws in a sharp breath. I hear the sound of glass breaking and look up to see Tyler pushing back from the table. His jaw is hard, the skin around his mouth white. He looks from me to Priscilla, then spins around and leaves. Interesting. So Tyler and Priscilla have some history? Not my problem.

If he had feelings for the woman, he should have spoken up earlier. When Arthur broached the topic of my marrying Priscilla, I wasn"t interested. That is, until he dangled the role of the CEO of a Davenport Group company. The same one that Quentin opted out of when he got married. The same one my oldest half-brother Ed opted out of for the same reason.

Gramps made it a condition of our inheritance that we get married. Getting hitched is inevitable. Might as well be Priscilla. It makes no difference to me. If anything, this is better. Not only will there be no feelings involved, but the old man will owe me if I do this. He'll be beholden to me for helping to bury the ol' Davenport-Whittington hatchet. Something I can use to my advantage. So I said yes.

I raise my glass and glance around the table. "To my future wife.

To find out what happens next read Knox and June"s story in The Unplanned Wedding HERE

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Read Summer Sinclair Sterling's story HERE in The Billionaire's Fake Wife

Read an excerpt from Summer Sinclair's story

Summer

"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."

"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.

"Aka, there"s a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.

"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"

"It's the chemistry between them." He lowers his head. "You have to admit that, when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it's a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"

"Why?" I wave my hand in the air. "Because they hate each other?"

"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I?—"

"Proposed to?" I huff.

His face lights up. "You get it now?"

Yeah. No.A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.

I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.

"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it's free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"

"Which ends in precisely—" he holds up five fingers— "minutes."

"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."

A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.

One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.

A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?

The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.

"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.

My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can't feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."

"You sure?"

"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.

"No. She's had enough."

"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.

Indigo eyes bore into me.

Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with. I gulp.

"Like what you see?"

I flush, peer up into his face.

Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.

Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.

I scowl. "Gimme that."

He shakes his head.

"That's my drink."

"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."

I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.

What the actual hell?

I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!

The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.

"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.

"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"

"Hmph."

I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.

Look away, look away.I hold out my arm. He"ll help me up at least, won"t he?

He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn"t do that, no way.

A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.

His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it"s a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He"d mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.

No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.

"Arrogant wanker."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"You're a jerk, you know that?"

He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.

He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.

The hell!I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.

"Sorry, you're not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.

Heat curls low in my belly.

Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.

He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.

While I've had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.

"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"

"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?

He wears a cheap-ass watch?

That"s got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.

I reach up and he straightens.

I lurch back.

"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.

A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.

I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.

Sinclair

My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.

What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.

A huffing sound fills my ear.

I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.

All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.

Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me. Huh? He hates women, but not her, apparently.

I straighten and my nose grazes hers.

My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?

I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.

Pink hair surrounds her face. Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?

I stare at her face. How old is she? Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters. What the hell?

She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You"re demonstrating the plank position?"

"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."

She gulps and her pupils dilate. Ah, so she feels it, too?

I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.

Color floods the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyelids flutter down. She tilts her chin up.

I push up and off of her.

"That… Sweetheart, is an emphatic ‘no thank you' to whatever you are offering."

Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in a few seconds. What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?

She scrambles up, eyes blazing.

Ah!The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens, Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?

She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.

My heart begins to thud.

She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."

"What does that even mean?"

She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.

She pivots, grabs a half-full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.

I growl, "Oh, no, you don't."

She turns, swings it at me. The smell of hops envelops the space.

I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.

I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance.

She snickers.

I tip my chin up. "You"re going to regret that."

The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar.

I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It's only clothes." She gulps. "They"ll wash."

I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air. "I should have known that you wouldn't have a sense of humor."

I thrust out my jaw. "That's a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."

She blanches, then straightens her shoulders. "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"

"Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "it's you I was after."

"Me?" She frowns.

"We need to speak."

She glances toward the bartender who"s on the other side of the bar. "I don't know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened on my cock?

The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.

"This will take only a few seconds." I take a step forward.

She moves aside.

I frown. "You want to hear this, I promise."

"Go to hell." She pivots and darts forward.

I let her go, a step, another, because... I can? Besides it"s fun to create the illusion of freedom first; makes the hunt so much more entertaining, huh?

I swoop forward, loop an arm around her waist, and yank her toward me.

She yelps. "Release me."

Good thing the bar is not yet full. It"s too early for the usual officegoers to stop by. And the staff...? Well they are well aware of who cuts their paychecks.

I spin her around and against the bar, then release her. "You will listen to me."

She swallows; she glances left to right.

Not letting you go yet, little Bird.I move into her space, crowd her.

She tips her chin up. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested."

I allow my lips to curl. "You don"t fool me."

A flush steals up her throat, sears her cheeks. So tiny, so innocent. Such a good little liar. I narrow my gaze. "Every action has its consequences."

"Are you daft?" She blinks.

"This pretense of yours?" I thrust my face into hers, growling, "It's not working."

She blinks, then color suffuses her cheeks. "You're certifiably mad?—"

"Getting tired of your insults."

"It"s true, everything I said." She scrapes back the hair from her face.

Her fingernails are painted... You guessed it, pink.

"And here's something else. You are a selfish, egotistical jackass."

I smirk. "You"re beginning to repeat your insults and I haven"t even kissed you yet."

"Don"t you dare." She gulps.

I tilt my head. "Is that a challenge?"

"It"s a..." she scans the crowded space, then turns to me. Her lips firm, "...a warning. You"re delusional, you jackass." She inhales a deep breath before she speaks, "Your ego is bigger than the size of a black hole." She snickers. "Bet it"s to compensate for your lack of balls."

A-n-d, that's it. I've had enough of her mouth that threatens to never stop spewing words. How many insults can one tiny woman hurl my way? Answer: too many to count.

"You—"

I lower my chin, touch my lips to hers.

Heat, sweetness, the honey of her essence explodes on my palate. My dick twitches. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, reaching for that something more… more… of whatever scent she's wearing on her skin, infused with that breath of hers that crowds my senses, rushes down my spine. My groin hardens; my cock lengthens. I thrust my tongue between those infuriating lips.

She makes a sound deep in her throat and my heart begins to pound.

So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don't need in my life.

I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that's how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.

Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That's what I prefer.

Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.

Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.

I tear my mouth away and she protests.

She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.

I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.

Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.

Time to put distance between myself and the situation.

It's how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.

The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That's what's worked for me so far.

"How much?"

Her forehead furrows.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it."

Her jaw slackens. "You think… you?—"

"A million?"

"What?"

"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."

Her jaw slackens. "You"re offering me money?"

"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."

She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"

"Everyone is."

"Not me."

Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"

Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."

"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.

She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"

"What do you think?"

She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."

"It's what I'd expect."

"Why is that?"

I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"

"You own the place?"

"As I am going to own you."

She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won"t regret this."

A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that's all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.

"No one threatens me."

"You're right."

"Huh?"

"I'd rather act on my instinct."

Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.

No, she wouldn't, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.

Read Sinclair and Summer's enemies to lovers, marriage of convenience romance in The Billionaire's Fake Wife here

read Liam and Isla's fake relationship romance in The Proposal where Tiny first makes an appearance, click here

Read an excerpt from the proposal

Liam

"Where is she?"

The receptionist gazes at me cow-eyed. Her lips move, but no words emerge. She clears her throat, glances sideways at the door to the side and behind her, then back at me.

"So, I take it she's in there?" I brush past her, and she jumps to her feet. "Sir, y-y-you can't go in there."

"Watch me." I glare at her.

She stammers, then gulps. Sweat beads her forehead. She shuffles back, and I stalk past her.

Really, is there no one who can stand up to me?All of this scraping of chairs and fawning over me? It's enough to drive a man to boredom. I need a challenge. So, when my ex-wife-to-be texted me to say she was calling off our wedding, I was pissed. But when she let it slip that her wedding planner was right—that she needs to marry for love, and not for some family obligation, rage gripped me. I squeezed my phone so hard the screen cracked. I almost hurled the device across the room. When I got a hold of myself, for the first time in a long time, a shiver of something like excitement passed through me. Finally, fuck.

That familiar pulse of adrenaline pulses through my veins. It's a sensation I was familiar with in the early days of building my business.

After my father died and I took charge of the group of companies he'd run, I was filled with a sense of purpose; a one-directional focus to prove myself and nurture his legacy. To make my group of companies the leader, in its own right. To make so much money and amass so much power, I'd be a force to be reckoned with.

I tackled each business meeting with a zeal that none of my opponents were able to withstand. But with each passing year—as I crossed the benchmarks I'd set myself, as my bottom line grew healthier, my cash reserves engorged, and the people working for me began treating me with the kind of respect normally reserved for larger-than-life icons—some of that enthusiasm waned. Oh, I still wake up ready to give my best to my job every day, but the zest that once fired me up faded, leaving a sense of purposelessness behind.

The one thing that has kept me going is to lock down my legacy. To ensure the business I've built will finally be transferred to my name. For which my father informed me I would need to marry. Which is why, after much research, I tracked down Lila Kumar, wooed her, and proposed to her. And then, her meddling wedding planner came along and turned all of my plans upside down.

Now, that same sense of purpose grips me. That laser focus I've been lacking envelops me and fills my being. All of my senses sharpen as I shove the door of her office open and stalk in.

The scent envelops me first. The lush notes of violets and peaches. Evocative and fruity. Complex, yet with a core of mystery that begs to be unraveled. Huh? I'm not the kind to be affected by the scent of a woman, but this... Her scent... It's always chafed at my nerve endings. The hair on my forearms straightens.

My guts tie themselves up in knots, and my heart pounds in my chest. It's not comfortable. The kind of feeling I got the first time I went white-water rafting. A combination of nervousness and excitement as I faced my first rapids. A sensation that had since ebbed. One I'd been chasing ever since, pushing myself to take on extreme sports. One I hadn't thought I'd find in the office of a wedding planner.

My feet thud on the wooden floor, and I get a good look at the space which is one-fourth the size of my own office. In the far corner is a bookcase packed with books. On the opposite side is a comfortable settee packed with cushions women seem to like so much. There's a colorful patchwork quilt thrown over it, and behind that, a window that looks onto the back of the adjacent office building. On the coffee table in front of the settee is a bowl with crystal-like objects that reflect the light from the floor lamps. There are paintings on the wall that depict scenes from beaches. No doubt, the kind she'd point to and sell the idea of a honeymoon to gullible brides. I suppose the entire space would appeal to women. With its mood lighting and homey feel, the space invites you to kick back, relax and pour out your problems. A ruse I'm not going to fall for.

"You!" I stab my finger in the direction of the woman seated behind the antique desk straight ahead. "Call Lila, right now, and tell her she needs to go through with the wedding. Tell her she can't back out. Tell her I‘m the right choice for her."

She peers up at me from behind large, black horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. "No."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

She leans back in her chair. "I'm not going to do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Are you the right choice for her?

"Of course, I am." I glare at her.

Some of the color fades from her cheeks. She taps her pen on the table, then juts out her chin. "What makes you think you're the right choice of husband for her?"

"What makes you think I'm not."

"Do you love her?"

"That's no one's problem except mine and hers."

"You don't love her."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Excuse me?" She pushes the glasses further up her nose. "Are you seriously asking what loving the woman you're going to marry has to do with actually marrying her?" Her voice pulses with fury.

"Yes, exactly. Why don't you explain it to me?" The sarcasm in my tone is impossible to miss.

She stares at me from behind those large glasses that should make her look owlish and studious, but only add an edge of what I can only describe as quirky-sexiness. The few times I've met her before, she's gotten on my nerves so much, I couldn't wait to get the hell away from her. Now, giving her the full benefit of my attention, I realize, she's actually quite striking. And the addition of those spectacles? Fuck me—I never thought I had a weakness for women wearing glasses. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it's specifically this woman wearing glasses… Preferably only glasses and nothing else.

Hmm. Interesting.This reaction to her. It's unwarranted and not something I planned for. I widen my stance, mainly to accommodate the thickness between my legs. An inconvenience… which perhaps I can use to my benefit? I drag my thumb under my lower lip.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, and if I'm not mistaken, her breath hitches. Very interesting. Has she always reacted to me like that in the past? Nope, I would've noticed. We've always tried to have as little as possible to do with each other. Like I said, interesting. And unusual.

"First," —she drums her fingers on the table— "are you going to answer my question?"

I tilt my head, the makings of an idea buzzing through my synapses. I need a little time to flesh things out though. It's the only reason I deign to answer her question which, let's face it, I have no obligation to respond to. But for the moment, it's in my interest to humor her and buy myself a little time.

"Lila and I are well-matched in every way. We come from good families?—"

"You mean rich families?"

"That, too. Our families move in the same circles."

"Don't you mean boring country clubs?" she says in a voice that drips with distaste.

I frown. "Among other places. We have the pedigree, the bloodline, our backgrounds are congruent, and we'd be able to fold into an arrangement of coexistence with the least amount of disruption on either side."

"Sounds like you're arranging a merger."

"A takeover, but what-fucking-ever." I raise a shoulder.

Her scowl deepens. "This is how you approached the upcoming wedding... And you wonder why Lila left you?"

"I gave her the biggest ring money could buy?—"

"You didn't make an appearance at the engagement party."

"I signed off on all the costs related to the upcoming nuptials?—"

"Your own engagement party. You didn't come to it. You left her alone to face her family and friends." Her tone rises. Her cheeks are flushed. You'd think she was talking about her own wedding, not that of her friend. In fact, it's more entertaining to talk to her than discuss business matters with my employees. How interesting.

"You also didn't show up for most of the rehearsals." She glowers.

"I did show up for the last one."

"Not that it made any difference. You were either checking your watch and indicating that it was time for you to leave, or you were glowering at the plans being discussed."

"I still agreed to that god-awful wedding cake, didn't I?

"On the other hand, it's probably good you didn't come for the previous rehearsals. If you had, Lila and I might have had this conversation earlier?—"

"Aha!" I straighten. "So, you confess that it's because of you Lila walked away from this wedding."

She tips her head back. "Hardly. It's because of you."

"So you say, but your guilt is written large on your face."

"Guilt?" Her features flush. The color brings out the dewy hue of her skin, and the blue of her eyes deepens until they remind me of forget-me-nots. No, more like the royal blue of the ink that spilled onto my paper the first time I attempted to write with a fountain pen.

"The only person here who should feel guilty is you, for attempting to coerce an innocent, young woman into an arrangement that would have trapped her for life."

Anger thuds at my temples. My pulse begins to race. "I never have to coerce women. And what you call being trapped is what most women call security. But clearly, you wouldn't know that, considering" —I wave my hand in the air— "you prefer to run your kitchen-table business which, no doubt, barely makes ends meet."

She loosens her grip on her pencil, and it falls to the table with a clatter. Sparks flash deep in her eyes.

You know what I said earlier about the royal blue? Strike that. There are flickers of silver hidden in the depths of her gaze. Flickers that blaze when she's upset. How would it be to push her over the edge? To be at the receiving end of all that passion, that fervor, that ardor… that absolute avidness of existence when she's one with the moment? How would it feel to rein in her spirit, absorb it, drink from it, revel in it, and use it to spark color into my life?

"Kitchen-table business?" She makes a growling sound under her breath. "You dare come into my office and insult my enterprise? The company I have grown all by myself?—"

"And outside of your assistant" —I nod toward the door I came through— "you're the sole employee, I take it?"

Her color deepens. "I work with a group of vendors?—"

I scoff, "None of whom you could hold accountable when they don't deliver."

"—who have been carefully vetted to ensure that they always deliver," she says at the same time. "Anyway, why do you care, since you don't have a wedding to go to?"

"That's where you're wrong." I peel back my lips. "I'm not going to be labeled as the joke of the century. After all, the media labelled it "the wedding of the century'." I make air quotes with my fingers.

It was Isla's idea to build up the wedding with the media. She also wanted to invite influencers from all walks of life to attend, but I have no interest in turning my nuptials into a circus. So, I vetoed the idea of journalists attending in person. I have, however, agreed to the event being recorded by professionals and exclusive clips being shared with the media and the influencers. This way, we'll get the necessary PR coverage, without the media being physically present.

In all fairness, the publicity generated by the upcoming nuptials has already been beneficial. It's not like I'll ever tell her, but Isla was right to feed the public's interest in the upcoming event. Apparently, not even the most hard-nosed investors can resist the warm, fuzzy feelings that a marriage invokes. And this can only help with the IPO I have planned for the most important company in my portfolio. "I have a lot riding on this wedding."

"Too bad you don't have a bride."

"Ah," —I smirk— "but I do."

She scowls. "No, you don't. Lila?—"

"I'm not talking about her."

"Then who are you talking about?"

"You."