Eager Housewife: a smutty free-use romance (Filthy Scottish Kingpins Book 2)

1. Blythe

“I’m a bit worried,” Ainsley confesses, pausing in rolling clothes into her suitcase to glance up at me, sitting on her bed in her father’s house.

“It’s natural to be nervous before a big trip,” I say, and my mind flits through all the reasons we both have to be anxious. “You’re travelling around the world, solo!”

“It’s not that. It’s my dad. I think he’ll be lonely.”

Ask me to go and see him, I beg her internally. I’ll listen to everything he wants to talk about. I’ll do anything. I’d be perfect for the job.

I don’t say that aloud, because Ainsley thinks I like her dad in a normal way. She doesn’t know about my crush, and she’d be horrified if she did. As would he, because I’m so much younger than him.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay.” And I believe that. Unfortunately. “He is a mafia boss, after all.”

He runs the Blackstone mafia, as generations of Blackstone men have before him.

“Mm.” Ainsley fiddles with a pair of pink socks. “I feel bad for leaving him behind. And you.”

“I’ll be fine as well.” I put on a careful smile, because this I’m less convinced by. Not only is my best friend going travelling without me, my house share has fallen through, and far worse, I won’t have an excuse to see the man I love more than anyone in the world: my best friend’s dad. “You, on the other hand, will miss your flight unless you get stuff in your suitcase, stat.”

Ainsley snorts. “Yes, Mum.”

“Yeah. Well.” I fold my arms and give her a mock severe look. It’s a running joke between us that I try to mother her, even though we’re the same age. I guess it comes with the territory of doing a degree in childhood studies and being an orphan. I’m desperate to love someone who loves me in return. A baby would be ideal, but my friend is a decent second. Especially since she’s been such a good friend to me, inviting me for holidays at her house so I don’t have to spend them alone, and always being up for a chat.

We have been inseparable since we met in the library while studying in the first semester of both our third years. She is super smart and got top marks in her biology degree. Whereas I did well with the practical stuff, but struggled with the written work.

Ainsley fiddles with the sleeve of a hoody. “What if Dad doesn’t eat properly while I’m away?”

I shake my head. That man knows how to keep in shape, no question. And he’s a billionaire. He has a chef to cook for him and his men to remind him about meals. He’s forty years old and in the prime of his life. Ainsley’s concern is purely fictional and a displacement from worrying about her own trip.

“You continue packing,” I suggest. “I’m going to get your dad so he can tell you he’s capable of remembering food is necessary for continued existence.”

It’s the morning, so Mr Blackstone is in his home office. The door is closed, but because he’s the best of dads and never minds dropping everything for his daughter, I know that’s not an issue. I tap on his door before poking my head in. Mr Blackstone has his phone to his ear and a glass of water in his hand.

For a second I’m struck dumb by his beauty. His auburn hair—much darker than his daughter’s red hair—is shot through with a hint of silver at the temples that adds to his distinguished look and his stormy blue eyes are surrounded by laughter lines.

You wouldn’t think to look at his face that he was feared among the London mafias. But it’s not his imposing height at six-foot-four, or impressive physique that scares people. It’s the fact that when Ainsley was five someone tried to kidnap her. She doesn’t remember it much, but she showed me a photo of an old newspaper cutting of the aftermath. Mr Blackstone killed every member of the gang who tried to take his daughter, and left them unrecognisable except by their DNA.

Guess it is true what they say about a redhead’s temper.

There are faint lines of scars across his knuckles from the hours he spent exacting that bloody revenge. Sometimes, when Ainsley is talking, Mr Blackstone will rub the faded marks unconsciously.

He looks up and his expression goes from a scowl to something that, if I didn’t know better, I’d interpret as joy. Then that’s wiped away and his eyebrows pinch.

“I’ll call back,” he says smoothly. He hurriedly places both phone and water glass onto his desk. “Blythe.”

I love the way he pronounces my name, his Scottish-accented voice like warm alcohol-laced chocolate.

“Ainsley is upset.” I try to focus. “Will you?—”

Mr Blackstone doesn’t need to be asked, he’s immediately on his feet. But there’s a crash and splosh as in his haste, he’s knocked the glass of water from his desk.

“Shite,” he swears under his breath and halts, having already taken several steps towards the door.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clear it up,” I offer quickly as he hesitates, about to go back. “So you can see Ainsley.”

“Sure?” he checks.

“Nae bother,” I assure him, and amusement sparks in his eyes from me using the Scottish phrase I picked up from him and Ainsley.

“Tissues—” He gestures vaguely to his desk.

“I’ve got it.”

Mr Blackwood flashes me a grateful smile that basically sets my knickers on fire—good thing there’s water around—and is out of the door and striding down the corridor to talk to his daughter before I can so much as swoon from him being so scorching hot.

I inhale a deep, shaky breath as though the smoke from my burning knickers is making me oxygen deprived. His office smells like him, of a woodsy scent, with pine and charcoal, mixed with fresh mountain air. For the first time, I approach his desk and go around it. My heart drums with how intimate it feels to be in his private space.

The water has splashed over the carpet and his enormous black leather chair, but the glass is undamaged. I bend to pick it up, and pause as I see his computer. The screen is on, a document showing. At the bottom the cursor blinks, as though he’s just stopped typing.

Position available: marriage of convenience

Seeking wife for a London mafia boss to accompany her husband to formal events, homemaking (cooking and cleaning optional, fully staffed household), make a family, etc.

Children compulsory, no contraception.

Luxury accommodation, million-a-year expenses, and lifelong security.

Must laugh at husband’s jokes, be around 5’4”, brunette, blue eyes. Would prefer if the applicant could get along with my young-adult daughter.

No emotional attachment.

A fake marriage. Don’t expect love.

Free use. No knickers to be worn.

My eyes bulge out of my head as I read. Then read it again, and again.

The kingpin of Blackstone is advertising for a wife.

He’s been a single father for the time I’ve known him, and Ainsley says she can’t really remember her mother. It’s always been her and her dad, and she’s never mentioned any women in his life. Not girlfriends or even casual companions. And now he wants a marriage of convenience.

I could do that. The realisation lights a fuse in me.

I want it so badly my chest feels like it might explode. I keep flitting around between all the details, every one more exciting than the last.

Children. Oh my god I’d love Mr Blackstone’s babies so much.

Free use. I’ve heard that on social media. It means he’d be at liberty to use me however he wanted, whenever he wanted. The idea should horrify me. He’s twice my age, and my best friend’s dad. But it doesn’t. Not even slightly. Heat blooms between my legs, revealing how not just not disgusted I am. I’m turned on.

The thought that I could be in this house going about my life, and Mr Blackstone would just come up behind me, push my skirt up, unzip himself and bend me over the nearest surface without so much as a “please”?

The idea shimmers over my skin.

Other things are attractive too, of course. I need a place to live. I love homemaking and I’d be proud to be on Mr Blackstone’s arm at any event he chose.

And the physical description. That’s… Me. Exactly. I’m five-four. I always keep my hair tied back, but it is brown. I’m not pretty though, certainly no match for Mr Blackstone with his rugged good looks and sharp suits. My nose is snub, and my face is kinda oval and boring. But my eyes are pale blue, and I get along with Ainsley.

I am the perfect applicant.

Except for the obvious and prohibitive issue: Ainsley is my bestie and Mr Blackstone is almost twice my age.

* * *

At the airport departure gate, Mr Blackstone and I stand side-by-side and watch Ainsley all the way until she’s out of sight. Through security. Off on her adventure to Europe.

Any second, Mr Blackstone is going to leave. I’ll be alone, homeless, without my best friend, and the man I love more than anything in the world will be married—conveniently—to another girl, who looks like me.

So I screw up all my courage.

“I saw your advertisement,” I croak.

He turns his head oh so slowly and stares down at me. “What?”

“The one for a wife.” My heart flutters, a caught wild bird.

The blood drains from his face. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

No. Obviously. And neither should I be doing this. I swallow hard.

“I want to apply.”