17. Dev
seventeen
dev
Lassoing A Wave
M y eyes glaze over the work email on my laptop screen, unable to focus on a single word. I’d have better luck reading Martian with how little I’ve grasped over the past half hour.
I’ve been hiding in my office since I heard Ralph bring Piper home this evening. Yes, as part of the agreement to live with me, I also had her agree to let Ralph become her full-time driver because I don’t trust her to watch her surroundings enough to know if someone is following her. Call me paranoid, but I’ve dealt with enough paparazzi to know that with our engagement now public, they’ll be swarming her like squawking seagulls. It’s for that same reason I have extra security around her salon.
I try to read the email again, but seconds later, I’m back to wading through my thoughts about the brunette living in my house. That smile of hers could cause a highway pile up.
I hear her chatting with my housekeeper Suzanna in the kitchen, their giggles floating through to my study. But it’s her laugh—distinct, throaty, and free—that has my fist clenching on my desk.
“Fuck,” I groan as an image of her in her oversized sleep shirt flashes behind my lids. Aside from her short-shorts and cropped tank, it’s the one she wears to sleep some nights. The one that practically shows her entire ass every time she so much as reaches for something.
The one that definitely showed the tiny lavender fabric nestled between her ass cheeks when she bent down to pick up her damn scrunchie as I walked into the kitchen this morning.
I spun around so fast, I nearly gave myself whiplash, mumbled a string of curses under my breath, and all but ran back to my room like my ass was on fire.
I’d seen her wearing it once earlier this week, and each time has been like a jolt of electricity plugged right into my stomach, bottoming it out.
What the fuck was she thinking walking around in that thing? I’ve been faltering between springing a boner and having a heart attack each time.
And as sexy as she looks in that T-shirt or those short-shorts, she was absolutely devastating in that emerald dress last night—something she really ought not to have worn, because I swear I found it hard to breathe, to think . . . to keep my damn hands off her.
There were a lot of things she really ought not to have done last night.
Like giggling while playing Connect4 with my sister for an hour after we put Mom to bed. I had business to discuss with Dad, but I’d barely heard a word he said as I watched my fiancée from my seat in his office, captivated by her little squeal of victory every time she won.
Like embracing my mother as if they were long-lost friends. In all the time Mom had known Camila, their connection had never sparked the way it had with Piper. Instantly. Fortuitously. And though I knew my to-be-wife was pretending, not a single person in the room could tell it was a rehearsed act .
Like the way she’d placed her soft lips on mine to seal our deal with the briefest of kisses.
Or the way she told me she wanted me to fuck her.
I’d practically gone catatonic.
Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped functioning completely.
Wrapped in emerald when she’d emerged from her room earlier that evening had already made me feel concussed, but then she said the one thing I never expected, rendering me speechless. My brain had blue-screened like it was Windows 95.
Not to mention the way her citrus scent filled my car, the way her cheeks tinted pink, or the little gasp she couldn’t stifle, surprised by her own audacity.
I’m not an idiot, nor am I blind. Over the past weeks, I’ve gathered that Piper is attracted to me, at least physically. The way she reacts to my touch—oscillating between pulling away and leaning further in. The way her eyes linger on my lips, with her wetting her own, or her nervous rambling.
I’ve become familiar with her tells.
Yet she still caught me off guard yesterday. One of the many things I’m realizing my fiancée is really good at, along with making me question my sanity and my ability to form coherent sentences.
Another thing my fiancée is really good at? Turning our living room into an emergency evacuation zone. She’s not quite the disaster she advertised herself to be, but I suspect she holds back because of Suzanna. Our housekeeper is the real reason my bride-to-be hasn’t unleashed her full chaos in my house.
Rolling my phone around in my hand a couple of times, I flip open my messages. My best friends are continuing on with their idiocy in our group chat, sending dumb GIFs and teasing each other .
As much as I pretend to be annoyed with their jokes, the Meyer brothers and Hudson have become the few people I can count on—friends who don’t give a shit about my net worth or the things I could do for them, but ones who would give me the shirt off their backs if I needed it.
It’s for that reason I messaged Hudson a few days ago, letting him know my reasoning for marrying Piper and this entire charade. I could have told them all in our group chat, of course, but I didn’t want to bring down the mood or change the vibe for what the chat was meant for—buffoonery. I’d told them all about Mom’s condition weeks ago, but I figured Hudson would update them on me and Piper. And given they haven’t asked me about my reasons for so spontaneously proposing to my hairdresser again, I’m assuming he has.
Hudson understood immediately, without judgment or questions, telling me there wasn’t a better person in the world than Piper in this particular case, but also warning me that her “heart isn’t as solid and unbreakable” as she makes it out to be. But given my fake fiancée doesn’t lead with the heart when it comes to men, I’m not too worried about heeding his warning.
My thumb hovers over Piper’s name, trembling slightly as if it knows the weight of the decision I’m about to make. Her proposal in my car echoes inside my mind. The same proposal that’s kept me hidden in my room for the past two nights like a monk in a self-imposed exile.
I’ve never been a “no-strings attached” kind of guy. Maybe I’m old-fashioned that way, but I’ve only slept with someone after having established a relationship. And while my fiancée and I do have a “relationship,” on paper at least, I can’t decide if sleeping together would complicate things more or make them simpler.
Well, let’s be clear. My mind knows the correct answer—to stay the fuck away from a woman who’s already dug herself past my barriers. It’s screaming at me that going further would take her to a point of no return.
My dick, however? He’s on a totally different page. One where he’s begging to be freed and impatient to indulge the new proposal she set forth for him. To get something out of this arrangement, per her words. Something we both want. Something hedonistic, depraved, and unabashedly selfish.
Goddamn, that sounds tempting.
More tempting than any offer I’ve ever been given.
But as the battle between my head and . . . my other head wages on, I feel the scales tipping. The rational part of me, the one that’s gotten me this far in life and my career, wins out, reminding me of the mess we could get into if we cross that line.
Because while I am a relationship guy, my fake fiancée is a self-professed commitmentphobe. She’d told me the day I’d asked her to marry me that she didn’t do attachments, commitments, or love. Tying down a girl like that was akin to lassoing a wave. Not only would I never have her, but I’d probably lose a part of me forever in the process.
Before I know what I’m doing, I slip my phone into my pocket and walk out of my office with all the determination I can muster. It’s been two nights of awkwardness between us, with her proposal hanging in the air like a heavy cloud, and given we have months more to spend together, I have to nip this in the bud.
I saunter through the living space between my office and the kitchen toward the sounds of Suzanna and Piper. But as I approach, my steps falter, my eyes landing on Piper, not in her work clothes or that infuriating oversized T-shirt, but in something even more aggravating. A fucking navy blue bikini.
“Fucking hell,” I groan under my very shallow breath.
Despite telling myself not to, my gaze travels the length of her back—from her delicate bare shoulders to the strap of blue fabric clasped over an expanse of creamy skin, to the flare of her hips. My imagination kicks into overdrive as I picture my hands clasped around those hips as she rides my cock, her body undulating like a serpent I’d willingly let bind me in a spell. Or guiding her by them over my length as I fuck her doggy style, leaving punishing bruises on either side.
Jesus. Get a hold of yourself, asshole. You literally decided none of that was an option two minutes ago. Get your dick out of her proverbial mouth.
Forcing myself forward on unwilling legs, I notice Piper stiffen at my approach, as if she can feel me at her back. Apparently, the two women were engrossed in something on Suzanna’s phone.
They both turn to face me, Suzanna’s smile melting off while Piper’s stays intact, if not becoming a touch more devilish. But it’s not her smile that has my attention, it’s the swells of her small breasts over her strapless bikini top. The hardness of her nipples behind it, as if waiting to be rolled between my fingers. And the miles of silky skin to the hem of her tiny bikini bottom, barely covering what I can only imagine is the most beautiful pussy to ever exist.
My mouth feels dry, even as I fucking salivate.
“Hey there, hubs!” she chimes, her voice as sweet and dangerous as poisoned honey, drawing my attention to her face.
As usual, her eyes sparkle with mischief, making me wonder if she’s read every one of my filthy thoughts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has. The girl has to know the power she holds over men just by fucking breathing, existing.
Her usually long, flowing hair is in two buns on either side of her head, giving me an unobstructed view of her slender neck and those tiny moles I’m so obsessed with. A part of me wants to unravel her hair, if only to twist it around my fist as I claim her. While the other wants to have her play out my boyish fantasies with Princess Leia on her knees, gagging on my cock.
“Hey.” I clear my throat, the single syllable scraping past my parched lips. I watch Suzanna excuse herself from the kitchen, clearly understanding my unspoken request for privacy. “Any chance we could chat for a few minutes?”
Piper takes a step toward me, her lashes fluttering. “I was just going to go for a swim.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder, the movement causing her breasts to jiggle. “Wanna chat out there?”
Every rational thought in my mind screams for me to decline, to retreat to the safety of my study and tell her we’ll just chat later. But as I watch the invitation playing inside her irises, her body a fucking siren’s call in that scant bikini, I feel my resolve waffling.
Following her out to the pool is a terrible idea, one that could shatter the decision I’ve come to before I’ve even spoken it aloud. But, as if I’m being pulled by an invisible thread—one by the name of Piper Parker—I feel my head bob up and down before I hear myself say, “Lead the way.”
I follow behind her, begging my eyes to turn away from the hypnotic sway of her hips, the curve of her spine, and the globes of the roundest, plumpest ass I’ve ever seen. An ass that begs to be palmed, spanked, and fucking bitten, if only so I can see how I’ve marked her skin.
I swear, the universe is testing my resolve today, asking if I’m really fucking sure about my decision.
Stepping outside, she sways her hips toward the cabinet with the towels, getting one out with practiced ease. The realization that she’s been out here before, likely while I was out of town this week, hits me like a punch to the gut. My mind conjures up images of her lounging around the pool in the same scant attire and has a possessive anger rising inside me.
I make a mental note to tell my security team to turn off the camera to the pool, my molars grinding at the thought of anyone else getting an eyeful of what’s mine.
She’s not yours, jackass, an internal voice reminds me, but I wave it off like a pesky fly.
I perch on the edge of a lounge chair, my body taut with anticipation as I watch her drop her towel on the chair next to mine before she heads to the edge of my pool.
With a gentle touch of her toes, she tests the water. Satisfied, she slowly descends each step, each movement illuminating the pool from within by underwater lights, glowing like liquid sapphire around her.
The water caresses the contours of her lithe body, creating ripples around her. Taking a breath, she fully submerges herself into the water before coming back up for air, propping herself up on the edge nearest me. My hands white-knuckle my lounger as I watch droplets of water roll down her face and neck, clinging to her skin, before reluctantly falling to the concrete under her folded arms.
“God, this water feels incredible,” she murmurs, running her tongue over her wet lips. Her mouth curves up as she assesses me. “Want to join me?”
I shake my head, swallowing. “I’m good right here, thanks.”
Piper juts out her bottom lip. “Oh come on, Lex. How often do you get to enjoy the things you’ve worked so hard for?”
Her words strike a nerve, conjuring up the imposter syndrome I’m constantly battling, reminding me that everything I have—this life, this wealth, my career—was given to me by my father. None of it is truly self-made, since all of it comes from a life of privilege . . . something I was born into.
And maybe it’s for that same reason I never really enjoy anything I have. It’s for that reason that I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation, watched a movie, or hell, swam in my enormous swimming pool.
Sure, I’ve worked my ass off over the years, tried to move out of Dad’s shadow and run things my way, but the fact remains: neither my schooling, my lifestyle, nor my position as CEO of Menon Inc. would be possible if he hadn’t started it in the first place.
A fact he never shies away from reminding me. A fact he reminded me of multiple times last night when he tried to “knock some sense into me” during our private conversation in his office.
He’d insisted we had an image to maintain. That being with an “uneducated” spouse contradicted my own pursuit of education, and undermined what our family stood for.
What he was not saying, but I comprehended nonetheless, was that it undermined him . His authority, his reputation, and all that he’d given me.
Still, I reminded him, without losing my temper the way I wanted to, that I didn’t give two shits about the kind of image he wanted me to uphold. That education wasn’t measured in degrees, and that Piper’s intelligence, kindness, and passion for life gave me a kind of perspective I never found in a textbook.
And while I was pretty fucking polite that time around, even my patience has a limit.
My eyes stay transfixed on the beautiful bombshell in front of me, looking at her as much as I’m looking past her.
What must it be like to just let go? To not carry the weight of anyone’s expectations but your own on your shoulders? To just . . . be?
Piper pushes to her back, floating gracefully as she gazes up at the dusky sky with wide eyes. “It’s beautiful out here this time of night,” she muses, her arms and legs splayed out in the water as ripples trace her toned stomach. “And it’s here, with my ears submerged under the water and my body above it, that I find peace.”
My eyes track down her body again, my fists tightening around the edge of my seat as if it’s the only thing tethering me to my spot.
“The funny thing is,” she flicks a glance at me, “I’ve never liked the quiet. It always unnerved me, made me feel like I was stuck with my own thoughts. But things seem to be changing recently . . .” Her eyes meet mine. “I’m finding that the quiet and the controlled have a gravitational pull I can’t seem to resist.”
Water cascades down her body as Piper comes to a stand in the shallow end, fixing her eyes on me. There’s a newfound intensity that’s a departure to the mischief that’s usually stirring within them.
Her chin lifts and she raises her hand, beckoning me like the siren she is. “Come on, big guy. I promise to save you if you start to go under.”
And once again, like the chump I am when it comes to this woman, I throw caution to the damn wind and let her convince me.
Going under might be the only way I survive this.