3. Sophia
3
SOPHIA
The blood drains from my whole body like I sprung a leak in my foot. I might faint.
My boss read my perfect husband list .
The list I wrote as I daydreamed about him, and describes him right down to age, facial hair choices, and eye colour.
“I’m so sorry.” I go to snatch it from his hand, but he whips it out of my reach.
My mind reels through what he must have read.
Oh god. Now would be a great time for me to spontaneously combust. In fact, I think that’s what my cheeks are doing. My body is so embarrassed it’s trying to burn down the office. Perhaps smoke will pour from my burning limbs, the fire alarm will go off, and I can run away down the emergency stairs, out into London, never to be seen again.
“You wrote this?” he asks, with the absolute calm that I both hate and love and admire him for.
“That’s not what it says it is.” I squirm, but the lie is out of my mouth instinctively. Mr Streatham knowing about my pathetic crush on him is too awful. He’s so out of my league he’s practically on a different planet. “I was brainstorming. I was about to change half of it.”
His eyes narrow, and for the smallest moment I think I see disappointment in his face. Then he’s all grumpy arrogance again. He looks down, and reads aloud.
“Black hair. Grey eyes. Good teeth. Nice smile. Over forty. Perfect hygiene.”
That’s not too bad. That’s normal.
There’s a pause and he taps his forefinger on the page as though counting the other points.
Big hands.
I should have added that to the list, but in my defence, I didn’t know that strong hands with a scatter of dark hair and square wrists were such a turn-on until I met my boss.
“Large penis.”
I try not to breathe. Can I become invisible through sheer willpower? Probably not, with the heat emitting from my face.
I wrote penis.
My boss read penis . Not even a good word like cock or dick. Not a discreet, deniable word like length, staff, or magic sword, because I crossed out “staff” like an absolute muppet.
Actually, I think “staff” is worse. It makes me sound like a girl in a Regency romance about to shock everyone in high society by taking a glove off or something. Oh Mr Darcy! Ladies mustn’t indicate the girth of a gentlemen’s staff with their hand! Combined with my replacing it with penis—the official least-sexy word for cock, except perhaps weenie or beef whistle—gives me all the sophisticated sex appeal of an armadillo putting on lipstick.
My poor cheeks. As Mr Streatham regards me, I’m a neon sign. I could be part of the red-light district.
Armadillo. Lipstick. Trying to be a slut.
Nailed it.
And yet, I know there’s worse to come. Literally.
Mr Streatham regards the paper, his eyebrows reaching about halfway down his nose. I stand utterly still, attempting dignity in this situation of day-time-Japanese-gameshow level of humiliation.
“High sperm count,” he says, slowly enunciating every word.
Ah… Yes. There it is. The stupidest thing I have ever done, and that includes when I mixed up organism and orgasm in a presentation to my biology class.
“Miss Berry, why were you writing such a list, and how did it end up on my desk?” His tone is mild, almost neutral.
I consider saying, “For fun, I’m bored of life, and this seemed like a good way to go.”
“What is this about?” he prompts me again and his deep voice resonates inside me.
“It’s a list for a matchmaker,” I admit miserably. “I applied to have an arranged marriage.”
“You want a m arriage of convenience?” Mr Streatham snarls. “You’re too young to be getting married.”
“I’m twenty-three. Old enough.” I might blush so red I’ll taint the whole of London pink, but that doesn’t mean I have to back down.
“Why?” There’s restrained fury in that one word.
The answer is simple. Because no one will ever love me.
“Arranged marriages are common in other parts of the world. We shouldn’t be closed-minded.” I try to be confident.
“Why, Miss Berry.” His voice is dangerously soft, and he leans back into his chair, unblinking.
I gulp and clasp my hands together to prevent myself from fidgeting as I tell myself I don’t have to defend myself. He’s my boss, but this is private.
There’s a long, long silence as we look at each other.
It won’t be me that breaks.
Never.
Those metal eyes don’t relent, staring into me, bright and cold.
Mr Streatham is impossible to resist.
“It’s not about the marriage,” I admit finally.
“You’re trying to get married but it’s not about marriage. Explain.”
“To have a baby.” Right after the confession, I want to bite my tongue off. What is it about Mr Streatham that turns me into an idiot?
Oh, right. Hot, older, powerful mafia boss.
“Why not have IVF? Do I not pay you enough?”
“You do, you do.” I’m paid very well by the Streatham mafia, and I’m grateful. “I just…”
If I think my boss will let this go, or make it easier on me, I’m dead wrong. He’s intent on extracting the most humiliation. He isn’t even blinking, and although his jaw is clenched, his hands are now relaxed, loosely clasped.
Ugh. This is why I deal with paperwork and not the more physical aspects of the Streatham mafia.
“I want my baby to have a father!” I burst out. I’d be useless as a spy.
His jaw unclenches. “Because you didn’t.”
And of all the things that have happened today, his three words might be the most embarrassing revelation of all.
He’s seen me. I’m stripped bare. I have the crazy instinct to cover myself, but I’m wearing a top and a skirt perfectly appropriate for the office. I’m not naked, but with a single comment my boss has removed all my pretence of being a full adult making her own decisions, and exposed the worried little girl I’m always trying not to be.
Because, yes. I didn’t have a dad. I was the product of a one-night stand. My mother never contacted my father, or had another relationship. It was her and me against the world, until when I was twenty, it wasn’t her and me, it was just me.
Alone.
I open my mouth to tell my boss that I don’t come to work to be psychoanalysed, and that the absence of a father figure in my life has nothing to do with my feelings about wanting a proper family with at least one backup parent for my child in case something happens to me, or crushing on a man old enough to be my father, and that he can get stuffed and this is none of his business.
But instead, I say, “How do you…”
“You told me.”
For a second, I think I blurted out in a fever dream that I’m sad I don’t have a father, and I want my boss to be the man who protects and loves me. Then my brain catches up, and I remember a late night at the office—the paper files mean working from home isn’t a thing for the Streatham mafia—and he asked if anyone would be worried. He asked if I needed to phone my father, or a boyfriend.
And my heart sank to my toes as I said, no. There was no one waiting for me.
“You remember.”
“I remember,” he replies soberly. His gaze levels on my face. “Fine. Marriage it is.”
“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” I mutter and lean quickly across the desk and scoop up my insane wish list. It’s not realistic and I’ll have to scrap it, but I’m not leaving it with my boss.
His hand shoots out, quick as a snake bite, and grabs my wrist.
I gasp and try to pull back, but my little arm is no match for his rugged grip, his tendons bulging as he holds me in place.
His grasp is hard. Tight enough to hurt, just a bit, and my body responds with another flush of pink that I feel to my toes.
That sting of pain? Him holding me? His absolute dominance and the way I’m prone over his desk? All these things heat me between the legs. I’m instantly swollen and slick and needy.
My chin jerks up to look at him, and I’m totally at a disadvantage here.
He glowers down at me.
“I’ll marry you.”
“What?” All the blushing has overloaded my brain.
“I fit all the requirements on your list.”
I gape. I don’t think I heard him correctly.
“Well.” He releases my wrist, and I scramble upright, facing him with the desk between us again. “Except one.”
“The…” I can’t bring myself to say the word. Because there are only two things that I didn’t know for sure were true of Mr Streatham. “Size issue?”
“In a way.” His silver eyes gleam.
“I should never have written that,” I babble. I really imagined, having noticed at the uh, cut of his trousers, that he was big all over. “It was a stupid thing?—”
“I don’t turn forty until July,” he cuts in.
Ohhh… I saw his date of birth written down and thought the month was a 1. It was not a 1. It was a 7.
“You’re not yet forty,” I whisper.
“Thirty-nine.”
He meets all requirements except one, and that’s his age. And there are two items that I didn’t observe directly from him. Both to do with his… reproductive equipment.
“Be assured, Miss Berry,” he says, looking me up and down, and presumably able to read me like I’m that list. I’m obviously figuring out the inference of what he said, and he’s amused by it. “I have a very large staff .”
My face heats again. “I, uh.”
Any capacity to make words is steamrolled by talking to my boss about the size of his dick, after—and don’t quote me on this because I’m still not certain I understood it correctly—he offered to marry me.
“Do I need to prove that?”
“No!”
His lips twitch. “I haven’t checked, but it’s at least seven…”
My brain fills in inches and I almost faint. That’s very large. Very, very big indeed.
How would it fit?
How would it feel stretched so open if it did go in?
“Thousand people,” he finishes smoothly. “I can call HR and check?”
I’m scarlet.
“No,” I whimper. I’m going to need a new job because this is too much. He’s teasing me. Perhaps I should resign right now?
“I suppose you’re worried about the other thing ,” he continues.
Oh.
My. God.
Sperm count. It rebounds on me like a hair elastic pinging on your hand when you’re not paying attention doing a ponytail.
“Yes.” Did I just accuse my kingpin boss of having a low sperm count? Crap, no. “I mean, no. I mean…”
“I’ll prove it.”
“A sperm sample?” The image of Mr Streatham with his cock in his hand, jerking off, groaning, the head of his huge cock going purple-red as he spurts white creamy seed into a tub and then hands it over to me, fills my mind.
If he gave it to me, still warm from his body, would I actually send it for sampling? Or would I… Taste it. See how it looked on my skin. My hands, my face, my breasts…
I never knew I had such a vivid imagination.
“Absolutely not,” he says flatly.
No. Right. Obviously.
“But if…” I’m not sure what I’m saying here, since I cannot shake the image of Mr Streatham’s come and what it would feel like smeared over me.
“If my swimmers aren’t up to the job?” He taps his fingers on the desk impatiently. “They are.”
“You have kids already?” My tummy slumps. I really do not like the thought of my boss with another woman, ever.
“No,” he replies firmly. “No. I don’t have any children.”
“But you want kids?”
He leans forwards, suddenly much more intense. I can almost feel the heat from his body, burning me. His gaze strays down to my midriff and lingers there.
Is he imagining me pregnant with his baby?
“Yes, darling. I want children. I’ll give you children.”
Hooded eyes meet mine again and I melt. Darling. He called me darling.
And he wants me to have his babies. My suddenly inventive mind sees black-haired, hazel-eyed kids laughing as they play on Streatham Common. I see my boss spinning around a little girl with soft brown hair and grey eyes like his own.
“But it would be like an arranged marriage? No expectations of love,” I say faintly. “A sort of marriage of convenience?”
He dips his chin in assent.
It was me who came up with the idea, and so I can’t expect love, and yet my stomach lurches as though I’ve walked all the way up the stairs and expected another step.
Because being a wife to a stranger would be one thing. There wouldn’t be any feelings on either side, and I could get on with being a mother without love muddying the relationship.
But with Dexter Streatham, that’s impossible. There’s no chance of me being happy with just having his children and being his convenient wife.
It would hurt far too much.
I love him. The whole reason for this arranged marriage idea was to get over my feelings for my boss, so my heart didn’t tap-dance every time I saw him, not trap me in a lifelong situation where I pine for his affection but never have it.
So for the sake of my sanity, I have to top my most stupid action again today. Sorry organism and orgasm, you’re relegated to third place.
“I can’t marry you.”