Overnight Wife(8)

I have no way to contact my new husband. In fact, the only thing I really know about him is that he’s probably wealthy and his name is John. Not exactly a lot to go by. You can’t really search “rich John in Vegas”—believe me, I tried. The results are… not what you’d expect. Definitely not men like the one I slept with.

I hope, anyway.

But when I park out front of the theater and glance up at the big Pitfire Media sign out front, it feels like a weight is lifting off my shoulders, despite all my first-day jittery nerves. Because what matters is still on track. My career is in the right spot. This whole marriage thing is a blip, and a frustrating one, but I’ll solve it.

I’ll figure things out, and as long as after it’s done I never have to deal with my frustrating as hell one night stand again, I’ll be golden.

Yes, okay, so he was hot. And sexy. And he’s right, he did make me come more than I’d even realized was possible in a single night. And maybe I had a sexy dream about him last night, one that I couldn’t even tell if it was a hot memory or a creation of my dirty mind.

In it, he had me pinned across the bed, my hands above my head and clasped in his, while he teased me with his hand between my legs, toying with me right up to the edge of an orgasm, and then stopping, until I was bucking against the sheets, begging for his cock. When he finally slid into me, stretching my walls, stuffing me full of his fat cock, it was everything I’d begged for and more.

But I’m not ready to be a wife. Not to anybody, least of all to a cocksure asshole like him.

Right now, I am all about work. Work first, and everything else second.

That’s what I’m reciting in my head as I stride into the general meeting for new hires and find my seat at the back of the room, between a couple other interns who both flash smiles at me. I’m still reciting it as I take out my planner and organize myself on the table, ready to take notes.

But then the doors open, and he walks in.

And my stomach plummets all the way through the concrete floor of this bunkerlike office. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t focus on anything, least of all the carefully detailed notes I’d planned on taking.

Because there he is. My new boss, the CEO of Pitfire Media and head of the company I’ve wanted to work for ever since I moved to Los Angeles.

My new husband, John Walloway, I realize with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. Youngest CEO of a major media company ever, a veritable genius and a workaholic to judge by the tabloid reports—or lack thereof—about him. But he certainly didn’t seem work-focused last weekend when he was fucking me six ways from Sunday.

He’s glancing around the room, a polite but disinterested smile on his face as he nods to each new hire in turn. Until he reaches me. Then he stops, stutters. It’s just for a second, but it’s a long enough pause to let me know that he sees me. He realizes what it means that I’m here.

And I’m gratified to realize that he didn’t expect this either, at least. He seems just as stunned as I am.

But it doesn’t stop the slow, self-satisfied grin that spreads across his face as he keeps his gaze locked onto mine. The sea of people around us seems to vanish, and for a split second, it’s just the two of us in this room. He looks like he’s just won a damn medal. Like his whole body is bursting with the need to tell me I knew you couldn’t stay away.

And the worst part is, as I watch him now, I’m afraid he’s right.

How the hell am I going to stay away from him now?





4





John





The moment I walk into the conference room on Monday morning, it’s like I can sense her. Like the rest of the room fades away and all I can focus on is Mara.

My new wife.

But why is she here, of all places? Sitting in the orientation session for Pitfire’s newest hires. I don’t remember hiring anyone named Mara Greene—I kept our marriage certificate close, so I’d be able to look her up and reach out to her if she stood me up for breakfast yesterday. Which she did. A predictable move.

This, on the other hand… This, I didn’t see coming. Which is probably why it makes me grin so much.

That, and it’s just a natural reaction to the sensation of my cock stiffening at the sight of her. It’s not my fault. One glimpse and I’m back in that hotel room, watching her on all fours in front of me, begging me to put my cock in her mouth, to fuck her from behind on the shag carpet, to spread-eagle her across the bed and have my way with her.

And oh, how I did. Every way I could think of, and yet here I am, still craving more. There aren’t many—no, correction, there are no women who have done this to me before. Not even my most recent ex, who I’d thought at the time was pretty decent in the sack.

She was nothing compared to Mara. Nobody has been. Which was why I was feeling pretty damn lucky that she’s the one who wound up with my mother’s vintage ring on her finger. I carry it for sentimental reasons mostly, after my mother foisted it on me years ago, insisting that I find someone to marry and carry on the family name. I’d only really considered putting it on someone’s finger once, and every tabloid in America has reported on how well that idea turned out.

But Mara was different. With Mara, after one night I wanted to give her the world.

Then the next morning, she woke up a different person. Acting like I was dirt, some random nobody who tricked her into a marriage she didn’t want. As if it hadn’t been her idea in the first place.