The Billionaire's Fake Fiance Page 8

  Mr. Drummond is a complete freak.

  And I’ve never wanted anybody more.

  I press my hand between my legs. Total sensation jackpot. “You are so pompous to think I’d beg.”

  “But I’m right. You know I am.”

  “Because you’re god’s gift to women?”

  “To the ones I fuck.”

  I smile. He’s such an arrogant asshole, and I so want him. My whole body feels pleasantly warm. “LOL,” I breathe softly, picturing him glowering in his white lab coat, all beautiful and evil and imperious.

  “I’d get you so wet, your pussy dripping to get me in there. And you’d be begging me so hard, you wouldn’t care what you sounded like. You’d do anything to get more of whatever I decide to do to you. And your clit would be warm and slick and a little bit stiff under my touch. God, the way I’d work you…”

  “It was your thumb,” I say. “You were doing me with your thumb.”

  “You liked that thumb?”

  “I like a certain amount of conscientiousness. Harps require attention to finger placement; that’s what I’m saying here.”

  “Baby, when I’m doing you, you won’t be worrying about hand choreography.” There’s a pause where I think I hear him breathing, like he feels as aroused as I do. “Your entire universe would shrink to whatever I’m doing to you with my fingers.”

  I slip my hand under the elastic of my sleep pants. My fingers find my clit.

  “It’ll be all you can do to survive the sheer pleasure overload while I make you ready for me.”

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.” I hear the smile in his voice. It’s like he knows. “You’re wet for me right now, aren’t you? You’re about to combust. If I were there, I could get you off with one touch. Maybe even a puff of air.”

  Excitement thrums through me. Am I masturbating on Mr. Drummond’s command? This man who runs Vossameer like Alcatraz?

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  “So presumptuous,” I mumble.

  “No, I’m realistic. Go ahead. Tell me how wet you are for me.”

  “I don’t think you need any extra encouragement, mister.”

  “Tell me anyway. Not that you could do yourself as well as I could do you.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” I say, sawing my finger along my madly tickly clit.

  “I could do you so much better. I might even make you say it. Maybe I’d keep you right on the edge until you admit it to me.”

  “You are such a pig,” I say.

  “Oh I am. An utter animal. Sex with me is a dirty, savage affair. Utterly uncivilized. It’s the opposite of civilized.”

  Did he really just say that? I let out a shuddery breath. I’m full-on doing myself, and I never want him to stop talking.

  “Are you feeling how wet you are? Spread it around. I want you really wet and silky for me.”

  I make my motion more circular now, letting him direct my fingers. Because apparently it’s not enough that he’s my tyrannical boss at work.

  “If I were there, I’d be burying my rock-hard cock so deep in that pink little pussy, your head would be spinning.”

  I flash onto Mr. Drummond’s big, hands. Massive knuckles. Thick fingers. Is it possible those fingers are wrapped around his cock at this very minute?

  A thrill shudders through me.

  I hated him so much at that presentation, and I still kind of do, but I like the idea of his big, stern hand holding his cock.

  “Faster now,” he says.

  “You just assume I’m masturbating,” I tease.

  “God, you and your sassy mouth,” he says. “And yes, for the record, I do assume it. I assume you’re close, too.”

  “Such a freak,” is all I can manage. It sounds like I’m saying it about him, but I’m really saying it about me.

  Lying here at four-freaking-thirty in the morning touching myself. Belly rising and falling. Shimmery sensations shivering over me. Because of Mr. Drummond.

  Yes, it’s safe to say I’ve entered freak zone.

  A little voice deep inside my brain whispers, if you come, he’ll win. It’s the same little voice that keeps chanting about his evil microwave popcorn ban.

  The voice isn’t half as exciting as Mr. Drummond’s voice is.

  Eleven

  Theo

  * * *

  “Such a freak,” she says.

  She has no idea. I barely recognize myself. And I couldn’t be more into it.

  She’s into it, too. Her arousal comes through loud and clear; it’s in her breath. In the way she phrases her words. Short clauses. Gusted delivery.

  “It’s already happening,” I say. “You’re already there.”

  Seven snorts. Even now she’s annoyed, but she’s coming apart all the same. She seems to dislike me, yet she can’t stop herself from obeying me.

  This blend of dislike and obedience and heat is the most erotic combination I’ve ever experienced.

  I’ve never ripped off a woman’s clothes—it feels irrational—but when I’m talking to Operator Seven, rational and irrational are out the window.

  “Such a freak,” she rasps again.

  “Whatever you need,” I say. She has to be close; I can feel her leveling up right through the phone. God, it’s hot.

  “I love how you think the whole world revolves around you,” she says.

  I slide my hand over the cool steel of my kitchen island. Dim lights illuminate the subway tile above the sink, all neat lines and crisp corners. “Me, too. I love how it revolves around me, too,” I say.

  An annoyed gust of breath. Angry and turned on.

  She’s not the only one. This anonymous girl has me hard as rock, but I won’t jack off. I want to concentrate on her. I’d do anything for her right now.

  “Are you almost there?” I growl. “I need to hear you come. I know you’re close.”

  Her breath rasps in and out. Soft and sweet.

  “You’re almost there,” I say softly, coaxingly. I’m losing sight of my goals and questions, and for once I don’t care. I ball my fists, wishing I could press my lips to her cheek and feel her raspy breath in my ear as she comes apart.

  Where in the city is she? An office? A bedroom? A basement hovel? What does she see when she looks around? What’s out her window?

  “You’re almost there, aren’t you? And you’re all mine.”

  “Uh,” she breathes.

  I need to hear her come. It’s an utterly senseless need. This woman who’s driving me crazy. This woman who fills my dreams, who looms large in my mind when I wake up in the middle of the night, I just need her to come. I need some control back, or maybe just to give her something.

  “Do yourself, baby. You’re every inch mine right now,” I say. “I’ll take what I want, and it’ll be so good.”

  I hear her suck in her breath. A short intake of air.

  Then nothing. She stops breathing. It’s as if everything between us grinds to a halt.

  “What?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “No, no, no, no.”

  “What happened?” I ask, feverishly reviewing my words. You’re every inch mine. I’ll take what I want. Was it a terrible thing to say? We say whatever thing comes into our minds—isn’t that the agreement with phone sex?

  “What happened…” she begins, “what happened…is that you’re awake.”

  “No,” I say. “Wait—”

  “The weather is cloudy. It’s a mild forty-two degrees at JFK.”

  Click.

  I stare down at the screen, blood racing.

  Just like that, she’s gone.

  And I feel bereft.

  I clutch my phone. It’s the newest iPhone. Fast. Powerful. Precision engineered by the best tech minds in the world.

  Utterly useless.

  Call ended.

  God, is she calling other people now? Talking to them the way she talks to me?

  Don’t. You can’t.

  My mind
races with visions of hunting her down. Pressing her to the wall, whispering in her ear, making it all right again. I’d taste her lips and make her never want to call anybody but me.

  I need her all to myself. Completely to myself.

  It’s insane, the thoughts I have about her. I’m a chemist, not a caveman. And she’s just a wake-up-call girl.

  And the only thing I want.

  The thought stuns me. I have no idea what this woman looks like or what she’s into or how old she is. She’s the only thing I want.

  There’s a lifesaving clotting gel I’m supposedly in a race to develop, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind.

  I could call back, but she won’t pick up. I may not know anything about her on a surface level, but I have a sense of what she’s made of. I know how she’ll react to things.

  The knowledge that I have of her feels intuitive. Primal.

  I walk to my window, stare down at the lights that dot the pathways of Central Park. Like looping dot-to-dots in a sea of darkness, framed by the relentless glow of Manhattan.

  According to caller ID, she’s in New York City. She’s a cab ride away, somewhere out there in the crowds of people marching up and down the city streets, streaming in and out of the subway, lining up for shows, elbowing her way through the produce section at the corner store.

  And my need to find her blazes wild as the sun.

  Twelve

  Lizzie

  * * *

  I lie in my bed with weird energy bouncing all through me. I’m hugely turned on, and even more upset and surprised.

  What am I doing taking up with somebody like Mr. Drummond? Wasn’t it enough to lose myself to one control freak of a man?

  You’ll let me take what I want.

  Screw that!

  I pull my robe on and shiver to the bathroom. Feel annoyed at Mia leaving a towel on the floor and all her hair stuff on my side of the counter.

  The annoyance is enough to momentarily blot out the memory of Mr. Drummond’s rumbly, sexy tenor, still vibrating through me. The way he was just so assholey, but hot and stern.

  “Whatever, dude,” I say aloud, arranging Mia’s leave-in conditioner and hair oil on her side of the sink counter.

  Because seriously? He gets to have his empire and entire company and crazy millions and everybody bowing and scraping in front of him. And his asshole leadership techniques that make life for each and every one of his minions utterly unpleasant. But he doesn’t get to have me.

  No, I will not let you take what you want!

  Mr. Drummond is seriously the jackass of the century—that’s the thought that is running through my head. But it’s not like a normal thought. It’s more like a fiery comet, zipping around inside me. And I want to go tell him. I want to claw at his handsome face and perfectly tailored everything with pretty red fingernails between hot, dirty kisses. I don’t actually have pretty red fingernails, and I don’t want to hurt him, but that’s the unruly image that’s currently invading my mind.

  I get into the tiny shower and scrub my hair really well. I double rinse it. I soap myself up, refusing to imagine him ripping off my pajamas, desperate to get to my pussy.

  If I were there, I could get you off with one touch.

  “You think you’re all that, and you’re not,” I say as I rinse off with the sprayer, directing the warm, deliciously pulsing jet of water around my body, washing the shampoo and soap away.

  Mr. Drummond doesn’t get to be in my head, directing my fingers. I can direct my own fingers, thank you very much.

  Furthermore, if I want to masturbate, I’ll do so without his voice in my ears. Without picturing his chocolatey dark hair. Without imagining the storm-cloud sparkle of his eyes on my bare skin. Without imagining his thick, manly fingers calming the ache between my legs.

  The edge of the warm spray is like a soft pulsing laser on my sex. I aim it right on my clit, moving it just so. Uhhhh so good.

  Wait, what?

  Shit.

  But now that I started, I have to do it! How will I concentrate on the Instagram strategy? That’s the thing I tell myself as I enter the land of no return in two seconds flat. I come so hard, I nearly fall over and crack my head open.

  With shaking hands, I put the sprayer back in its holder. Take that, Mr. Drummond!

  Thirteen

  Lizzie

  * * *

  I arrive at 7:30 sharp in drab dress number one. “Good morning, Betsy,” I say.

  “Hi, Lizzie,” she says, and then she kind of winces and adds, “Sasha wants to see you ASAP.”

  Gulp.

  I tromp down cubicle row. Did I go too far? Did Mr. Drummond finally complain about the wake-up service? But what’s he going to say? I tried to get the wake-up-call girl to masturbate, but she hung up on me before her orgasm! But then, why does Mr. Drummond do anything he does?

  I smile nervously and approach Sasha’s immaculate desk. “You wanted to see me?”

  She looks up. “IT needs a new site map for our meeting today. Will you put together complete packets with the current map, top-level-page printouts, and our overview goals? All recent edits, PDF and hard copies, five each. Betsy will show you how to tab them up.”

  “Of course.” I nod enthusiastically. I nod and nod. I’m a bobblehead of relief.

  She waves me off, and I walk to my desk feeling like I just won a death sentence appeal. Because if Mr. Drummond was going to complain, he wouldn’t wait around. He’d get right on it. He’s ruthlessly efficient that way.

  I put together the files in under an hour, collecting every edit into one place. I zip them up and send them to print. I grab them from the printer and bring them to Betsy. “We’re supposed to tab these up?” I say. Because I actually don’t know what that means.

  “Ah.” She grabs a few boxes full of colorful tabs from a nearby shelving unit. We discuss what the different colors should represent, then we create a two-person assembly line, tabbing and collating.

  We chat about The Bachelor and exchange theories on our most hated contestant, keeping our voices low, lest somebody hears our jubilation and issues a demerit.

  People head in and out of the department while we complete our task. It’s nothing special that people come in and out. The door opens frequently, and I don’t bother to look over my shoulder.

  Until the time that I do.

  I don’t know why I feel compelled to turn and look at the very moment he comes through. The woo-woo answer would be that some strange force field is connecting us because of our weird phone call, like I still feel him inside me.

  The more logical explanation is that he’s just louder than everyone else. That he practically smashes open the door, entitled jackass that he is.

  You will give me what I want.

  His eyes rivet instantly to mine as he crosses the threshold, and suddenly I’m back in bed, snuggled under the covers, saying things to him I’ve never said to any man.

  I swallow.

  He’s in his lab coat, of course. He wears it open over a charcoal gray suit with a gray-blue shirt underneath. The color seems to heighten the gray of his eyes, which in turn seems to heighten the color of the shirt. It’s like they’re in some kind of feedback loop that just gets louder and louder. And the loop is focused on me, and the closer he comes, the more mesmerized I am.

  I attempt to stare stupidly at his nose. I attempt to imagine gummy bears.

  But instead I’m back in the shower, trying not to imagine the spray is his fingers, sliding between my legs.

  One touch and you’d explode.

  Did he masturbate this morning, too? I feel like he wasn’t jacking off during the call; his attention on the phone felt so strong and fierce. No way was his focus divided. Nothing about him was distracted.

  That’s part of what made it all so hot. Like he was hyperfocused. The way he hyperfocuses on his chemistry.

  He’s found me out, I think. He knows.

  “Mr. Drummond,” Betsy sa
ys. “How can I help you?”

  He comes up to the desk, immobilizing me with his eyes. He should be focusing on Betsy, but he’s focusing on me.

  Sex with me is a dirty, savage affair. Utterly uncivilized. It’s the opposite of civilized.

  Fourteen

  Theo

  * * *

  Turnip Truck stands in the front reception area of the marketing and HR department, clutching a sheath of papers, pretty green eyes gone wide, gaping at me. More than gaping; she seems positively frantic with alarm.

  You’d think I sprouted fangs, that I might bite her. And for one long and very strange moment, the idea seems enjoyable.

  My pulse kicks up. It’s the wake-up-call girl, scrambling my mind. Suddenly even Turnip Truck is enchanting.

  She wears another one of her plain dresses. Like she stepped out of a black-and-white picture, and all she needs to be complete in this life is a bonnet and a flock of ducks.

  Even so, she’s beautiful.

  I force myself to think about what Sasha told me about her being a moron, so incompetent that Sasha has to do her work for her.

  I don’t believe everything I hear from Sasha, but I don’t see what advantage there would be to her telling me she’d hired a moron if the woman wasn’t a moron. It’s too bad, because there really is something about her. Something indefinable. Which doesn’t make sense, as I have zero interest in moronic women who are easily impressed and frightened.

  Turnip Truck is the opposite of my type.

  The opposite of the wake-up-call girl.

  It’s just my lack of sleep. My lack of progress on the formula.

  I turn to the receptionist. “I need to see Sasha.”

  “Let me see where she is,” the woman says.

  I set my hand on the desk. Turnip Truck’s alarmed gaze falls to my fingers.

  In the tight moments that follow, I flash on something I haven’t thought about for years—a strange cardboard book I had as a child. The pages were cut into thirds—heads, outfits, and shoes, so that you could turn the parts independently of each other and put a clown’s head with a ballerina’s body and firefighter boots, for example. Or a clown head could have a suit and tie over ballerina shoes.