9. Sophia
9
SOPHIA
I wake up wrapped in the best blanket. Warm, comforting, deliciously male. I’m lying on my side, and he’s pressed up behind me, our legs entwined.
My fiancé.
It all returns in a rush. I’m going to be married to my boss, and we’re in his bed together. He took my virginity and promised to marry me and give me his baby. Mr Streatham said I was his good girl.
I shift experimentally, and something solid touches my bottom.
“Mmm.” Behind me, Mr Streatham gives a rumbling purr. “Sore?” he asks.
“No.” And the word is hardly out of my mouth, but he’s got me bent at the waist, revealing where I’m wet and needy.
“Is this what you want, little one?” The hot, silken tip of his cock nudges against my thigh. “Breeding practice?”
No , I want his love. I wish this was a real engagement, but that’s delusional.
“Yes,” I whisper, trying to wiggle to get him inside me. Because if I can’t have his love, then this is an acceptable second.
“Let’s try it this way,” he murmurs and flips me so I’m on my front, underneath him in one fluid movement. His knees push between mine, and he’s feeding that massive thing into me, inch by glorious inch.
It’s easier this time. My body knows his, and I breathe through the sting.
He pauses at the hilt. Then he starts to move.
Oh my god.
If I ever thought Mr Streatham was big, I had no idea. Because above me and inside me, he’s enormous. He’s overwhelming.
I’m entirely at his mercy, trapped, being pushed into the mattress with every push of him into me. He’s infuriatingly slow, as though he has forever to get all the way into me with that long, thick cock.
But he’s effective. So, very thorough, that I come even more easily this time. Once. And then again, holding my face into the pillow as I scream and shudder.
“My god, Sophia.” He gives a low chuckle when I turn my head and try to see him, my orgasm dying away. “The things you do to me…”
He slides out of me with a wet pop, and I’m immediately bereft. Empty, or rather, even more empty.
“Not make you come,” I mutter.
“Not yet, darling,” he says lightly, pushing off the covers.
Something dark and prickly twists in my chest. I didn’t anticipate this being frustrating. Surely it shouldn’t matter whether he finds release? I’m getting a higher chance of becoming pregnant. That should be enough, and yet I’m left feeling more and more denied every time Mr Streatham doesn’t climax.
I cast a sideways look at his erection. It’s glistening with my juices, and he’s in control. It’s ridiculous, but I want him to come more than I want another orgasm myself. I wish he was as affected by this relationship as I am.
Honestly, I’m chasing the impossible: for my severe boss to love me.
He rolls out of bed, and I peek at his gloriously naked body. He’s beautiful. He might be older than me and nearly forty, but he’s trim and muscular. I’ve never seen a man in real life, naked, not close to. And certainly not nude and aroused. I’m entranced. His cock from this angle is a thing of beauty, long, proudly jutting up, smooth. My mouth waters.
I will never get used to seeing him like this, not in a month of Mondays…
It’s only then that I realise it’s a weekday and I have no idea what the time is. “Mr Streatham?”
“Dex.” He turns and regards me, hands on his tie. “You should call me Dex since you’re going to be my wife.”
There’s an emphasis on those last two words that sizzles across my skin. His wife.
“Dex.” His name is illicit and powerful on my tongue. “What about work?”
“We’re taking the day off to get married.”
Up until yesterday, I thought I was unshockable. I’m the private assistant to a mobster, after all. I’ve seen Mr Streatham covered in blood. I’ve seen people coming in for meetings and never leaving. I’ve booked drug raids into his schedule and typed up notes from interrogations.
My disciplined boss is taking the day off?
“What about Operation Calculus?”
“It can wait.” He finishes his tie with practised hands, and I can’t keep my eyes off him.
“But—”
“Everything can wait, today, Sophia. Everything, except getting married.”
Oh wow. He’s serious about this.
“Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?” The last thing I need is bad luck, and my boss is conventional. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of this.
Mr Streatham sighs like I’m being very tedious. “That’s a superstition left over from arranged marriages?—”
“Which ours is—” I point out.
“When the groom seeing the bride beforehand risked him deeming her not attractive enough, and not going through with the marriage.”
Oh.
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I won’t change my mind, little one.”
“You won’t?” There’s a tremor of uncertainty in my voice.
“No.” And when I look up at him, he’s as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “Not least because you’re very pretty.”
That comment settles onto my chest like spring blossom. “Thank you,” I murmur.
He shakes his head dismissively.
“It’s only, this is really quick…” I say, mostly to myself. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t love me. I was never going to have love from my husband, only maybe, my children.
“There’s a Maths Club meeting later this week,” he replies. “I want to introduce you as my wife.”
Right. Yes.
And as I get up and dressed, thankful that Mr Streatham leaves me alone to do so with a curt, “I’ll be back,” I keep that in mind. The only reason we’re doing this is so I have a child, and Dex has a wife.
Being reminded he doesn’t actually want me makes me shy about what I’ve been doing. Basically, I threw myself at my boss. I’m glad I don’t have to dress in front of him. He’s seen me with no clothes on, but there’s horny nude, and then there’s “which of these knickers is least grey” naked. I am not convinced I’m attractive in either scenario, but I don’t want my boss watching me wiggling into my jeans.
I’m particularly glad for white underwear when he takes me dress shopping after an extravagant breakfast. I try on the first dress then hesitate at the curtain leading out of the changing room.
He said he was going to help me choose a dress because otherwise I’d be alone, but I’m still irrationally worried about giving us bad luck. What if I don’t get pregnant because of him seeing the dress before the wedding?
But then, if I can’t get pregnant within six months, will Dex be one of those people who used to be close to me, and then forgot? The fair-weather friends who wanted to hang out with me when it was convenient but didn’t bother to keep in touch when school, university, or our jobs took us in different directions. Who never phones or messages?
I guess he wouldn’t, since I don’t think he even owns a smartphone.
“Come out here,” Dex calls from the main part of the shop.
I don’t respond, because I think my voice would emerge with all the melodic grace of a five-year-old playing the violin.
Oh shit, Sophia, don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry.
I exhale. Perhaps I don’t need luck, or already have it. Because despite all the odds, I’m marrying my boss.
Drawing back the curtain, I see Dexter lounged on a sofa, knees arrogantly sprawled apart. His neck shifts as he swallows, and unbidden, excitement curls in me. This man is gorgeous.
“No. Not that one,” he states immediately.
“But it’s good, isn’t it? Demure.” I indicate the high neckline. I thought this would be what he’d like.
His eyebrows pinch together. “Mmm. Try something more revealing.”
The next dress is outrageous. Low cut and sparkling with diamantes. Dex drags his gaze down my body in a lingering way that leaves no room for ambiguity. I squirm.
“It’s sexy,” he says. “And you look beautiful, but it’s not the right one.”
We go through a dozen dresses, all equally gorgeous. Each dress I show to my fiancé he compliments me, says that I look lovely, but shakes his head.
Then there’s a dress that’s silky inside, and has just the right neckline. When I catch sight of the girl in the mirror in the changing room, she isn’t dull or boring… She’s… Beautiful.
Bouncing onto tiptoes, I know. This. This is a dress that feels worthy of a groom like the Streatham kingpin.
I almost run out to show Dex, sweeping back the curtain and rushing until he glances up from writing notes and I realise too late I was trying to be dignified.
“That’s the one,” he says instantly. He nods, not even looking at the dress, his gaze remaining on my face.
“You’ve seen it for all of a second,” I laugh, sheer surprise bubbling through me. I thought I’d have to persuade him. “Why this dress?”
Dex studies my face.
The energy between us rises and the closeness is so odd. I’ve had sex with this man, and spent whole days working with him. I slept with him inside me. We woke up together.
But it’s only now that I have the bone-deep sensation that he knows me, as he sees me in this perfect dress.
“Because of that smile,” he says in a low, hoarse voice that gives shivers down my spine to heat between my legs. “I know it’s the right dress for you because of your face when you came out wearing it.”
He likes it because it made me happy? Is that the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me?
The rest of the day is a blur. Once I’m back in my jeans shorts and top, the dress arranged to be altered and delivered, Dex takes my hand and guides me out of the door. I go with no fuss. I’m along for the ride in my own life for maybe the first time ever. I’m not arranging anything, or doing the work.
I kind of like it. My husband is in control.
The next stop is a jeweller, and Dex is intent on playing the attentive fiancé there, too. He slips a casual arm around my waist as we walk away from the car and into the shop, and my brain stutters at how protective and possessive it feels to have his enormous body beside mine, and his big hand warm on me.
Just like with the dresses, Dex watches over me as I try on different metals and designs, and we eventually settle on matching yellow-gold bands and a huge diamond engagement ring for me. My fake fiancé pockets the wedding bands, and takes my hand without fanfare, sliding the engagement ring on.
The band is heavy, and feels like a lock of ownership snapping shut. It’s an echo of when he penetrated me yesterday.
Back at the Streatham mansion, Dex takes me to his apartment, which is a buzz of activity. A hair stylist, the assistant from the bridal shop, a makeup artist, and a photographer all introduce themselves and I’m so swept up in wedding preparations that initially I don’t notice that my husband-to-be has disappeared.
And it’s only when I’m instructed to wait a moment when everything is ready that I realise something is wrong. Very wrong.
I push free and peek outside, and the problem is immediately obvious.
There’s an archway decorated with dusky pink roses, and Streatham Common stretching out beyond. An officiant waits patiently and seated on either side of an aisle are the Streatham employees I’ve worked with. Bulky enforcers, assistants like me, house staff, and dozens of contacts I’ve dealt with in the past six months. Our people, I realise. Or they will be mine too, once I’m the kingpin of Streatham’s wife.
But Mr Streatham isn’t there .
He’s jilting me.
The humiliation isn’t hot and sweet like being embarrassed yesterday was. No, this is a cold, creeping sensation. Every uncertainty rises and surrounds me like a swarm of insects I’ve been batting from my face for the last day.
Dex isn’t there.
I cannot do this.
My first instinct was right. I want to help Mr Streatham, but I’d be crazy to tie myself forever to having children with a man who won’t love me. I head blindly away from the door, heading for the stairs to get out of this dress and run. Somewhere, anywhere.
“Miss Berry.”
I stop, instinctively obedient to Mr Streatham’s harsh voice.
“Where are you going?”
Excuses scroll through my mind. I forgot my phone? No. I need to water the flowers in this bouquet. I thought I might run away to Australia after all. I’m actually a werewolf and the full moon is rising. Lost your chance of a human bride by being late, bad luck. Shouldn’t have seen the dress.
“Nowhere.” But I don’t move.
“Darling,” he says more softly, from right behind me.
My heart thumps. The unfamiliar weight of the dress puts me off-balance as I turn to Dex. On the first step of the stairs, I’m only a bit shorter than my boss. He’s wearing a dark suit, and immediately I see a speck of blood. Fear surges in me.
“I’m sorry I’m late, darling. There was an Essex Cartel incident,” he says calmly.
I reach for his lapel, covering the mark.
Whatever delayed him, and it was only a moment, must have been important. Was I really going to run away? When he says he needs me?
He slowly places his hand over mine. I’m too shy to look at him, but it’s like my soul is reaching out, pushing through my skin, the silk, the air, his shirt, and trying to link to him. I think we’re closer than we’ve ever been before, with or without clothes on.
Maybe it’s the gravity of the situation. We’re going to be married.
“Sophia,” he breathes.
I try to let my hand fall away, but he moves with me, interlocking our fingers so they’re joined at our waists.
“Dex, are we doing the right thing?” I ask in a whisper, giving voice to the surface of my fears. This is a marriage of convenience for me to have babies and him to gain influence. Of course it’s the wrong thing for me, because I’ve already broken the unwritten rule: don’t fall in love.
“I am.” His voice is a smooth and confident bass. “Why are you concerned?”
“You’re a billionaire kingpin, and my boss, and I’m just… Me.” A girl who is so out of her depth she’s doing splashy doggy-paddle to stay afloat.
“Ahh. I understand.” He tightens his grip on my hand, and for a second, I think perhaps he really does. “I’ll never cheat on you. I swear on my life and yours, and that of the baby I’m going to give you.”
It’s not that, although obviously his oath helps.
It’s that I’m in love with him, and he’ll never know.
“Now, are we getting married?”
“Yes.” Because scared as I am of being hurt, opportunities to marry your silver-fox crush only happen once in a lifetime. However painful anything that happens next might be, surely it’s better than not having him at all.
“Good.” Then he adds under his breath, “Because I wouldn’t have let you go.” But it’s so soft, as our gazes meet, I think I imagined it, because that hardness has dissipated from his titanium eyes.
Even so, my tummy is full of butterflies as Dex leaves me at the door to the house and stands waiting, a lone figure beneath the arch of flowers. Music swells as I walk towards him and he watches every step I take, gaze so intent and hungry I almost stumble.
The sun is low on the horizon, the sky stained pink-purple. He takes my hand again and something settles in my chest. This is where I’m supposed to be.
A pair of birds wheel high above us, and the air is fragrant with lavender and roses as we exchange our vows. To love and honour. To cherish. To love. I choke up a bit as I speak that word, and Dex squeezes my fingers reassuringly. It’s all elegant and low-key and intimate.
Okay, it’s gorgeously romantic.
Fine. Heartbreakingly romantic for a marriage of convenience, made all the more meaningful because Dex arranged it.
And I’m an idiot. Because when I look up into my husband’s face after the officiant announces, “You may kiss the bride”, I have rose-tinted glasses on. His colourless eyes seem pink in the setting sun.
It’s fake.
But despite me knowing that this is a pretence, I’m swooning.
There’s a click from a camera.
“Family photos,” Dex murmurs. “For our kids. Better look like we’re the loving parents they deserve.” Then he pushes my chin back around towards him and tilts my face to receive his kiss.
It’s sweet and rough from his beard, and any reservations I had fade. The camera clicks again, and I shut my eyes and focus on him. My husband. The scary mafia boss who planned our wedding, right down to a photographer and insisting on finding not just a lovely dress, but the perfect one.
And when his mouth touches mine, I know for certain I cannot live without this man. Six months isn’t enough.
Whatever the cost, I must get pregnant.