5. Sophia
5
SOPHIA
“You need to get married?” I whisper, in shock.
I never thought I’d hear my gorgeous, severe boss casually talking about us having sex as though it were a work project, but marriage? That’s insane. He could have any woman he wanted, and he’s a billionaire mafia boss, what possible reason does he have to “need” to do anything?
He regards me for a moment, then rises from his chair and casually turns his back. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stares out of the window onto the golden-yellow of the early afternoon sunshine.
He’s framed as a dark silhouette in a black suit compared to the light outside, that slightly wavy dark hair highlighted. His neck is in shadow, and I have this sudden impulse to trace it with my finger.
I’m hot and squirmy at the thought of him breeding me. Such an animalistic term, I really shouldn’t be turned on by it. But my body hasn’t got the message that I’m not a creature made up of hormones, wet secret places waiting to be discovered, and stationery with doodles of hearts and Mrs Streatham written on it.
If the first time I had a man inside me was with the man I love, surely it would be worth it, especially if I was helping him?
But maybe it would only be once, just to give me a child?
That might break me.
“You know the London Maths Club?” he says eventually.
“You mean the London Mafia Syndicate,” I say, but I’m thinking what it would be like to have him naked on top of me. Inside me.
Since I took over as his assistant, the London Mafia Syndicate has been a constant fixture of his schedule, with a combination of highly-sensitive negotiations and also charity balls and that sort of thing.
I still don’t understand why sometimes it’s called the London Maths Club, since they clearly don’t do any mathematics.
He tilts his head in an action that doesn’t mean yes or no. “There are social events for the wives too. Many of the most-influential mafia bosses are married, and unenthusiastic about bachelors.”
“You don’t fit in?” My chest aches at that. He might be rich and powerful and I’m nothing by comparison, but this feeling I know about. Being on the outside of the popular crowd.
“They’re more welcoming to members who are married.”
“So you want a marriage of convenience to fool them that you’re the same?”
He makes the same tilt of the head, which I take to mean, yes.
He needs me.
How can I refuse? All the same reasons not to do this remain: I’m for sure going to be hurt beyond repair by being his wife, having sex with him to make babies, and never ever be able to get over my crush . But I think he’d be a good father. I’d have the children I so want, he’d have a token wife to smooth things with the London Mafia Syndicate.
Only my stupid feelings stand in the way of a good solution.
“Do you think you could fake some affection for me?” he asks huskily.
My mouth goes dry as I bore my gaze into the back of his head.
Fake? No.
But I could open up a few of the internal doors I keep locked, and reveal a small part of how far gone I am for my boss. Would he pretend to love me in return?
My little heart patters at the idea. Maybe we wouldn’t let on to the London Mafia Syndicate that it was a marriage of convenience? Foolishly, I’d like that. Could we go to every meeting together? Three visits a day, preferably, so he always had to pretend.
“I think I could manage.”
“Good girl.” If I thought he’d sound relieved, or happy, I was mistaken. But good girl? I cover my mouth to suppress a gasp. Good girl. That’s borderline pornographic. Is it even legal?
My clit throbs.
“Mr Streatham.”
He nods.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” I didn’t want to reveal this secret, especially not to my boss. But he’s telling me the truth, confessing he’s left out of the London Mafia Syndicate. And honesty is the basis of a good relationship, right?
So before he can turn, I tumble the words out.
“I’m a virgin.”