How do I convince a girl who once had everything that I can give her anything she cannot get herself?
Chapter Eight
Brielle
Watching women flirt with my date makes me horny.
It makes me hot because while they bat their pretty lashes at him and sashay their perfect asses by, he never takes his eyes off me. No matter who comes to take us away from one another—women wanting his attention or men wanting his money—we find our way right back to each other.
Tonight, is the eighth—yes, I have kept count—fancy schmancy function we have been to since this fake-a-date thing began. Only he has spent every moment between doing his very best to convince me, and anyone else who wants to listen, that there is nothing fake about us.
Every single time he calls me his fiancé and looks at me with that possessive heat in his eyes, my lady parts swoon. By the end of one of these nights out, where he says loud and proud how hot his lady is and how he can’t wait to get married and give me babies, my poor lady business is a mess.
And each night once he gets me home, he proves that he means all that talk. Sometimes we barely get inside his house before he has me bent over or spread out, fucking me like he can’t wait to a second longer to put his mark on me. Not that his beard, his teeth, or his rough hands have not left plenty of marks on me.
Glancing at myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I flush. I can see love bites sneaking out of my ruby red dress. Beneath the dress is worse, his teeth marks at my nipple, his beard rash at my thighs downright salacious. And I love seeing it and love that others see it too.
They know what I am just accepting—I am his, nothing fake about it.
“Come here, bunny,” he calls to me, tilting his head as he grins. He knows how much I love that little pet name, even more now that he told me just why he calls me that.
“We will be fucking like bunnies, Brielle. And making babies like rabbits.”
Just recalling his sex voice as he whispered that in my ear makes me hot. I rub my thighs together as he crosses the room towards me, downing my champagne. Our eyes meet and I laugh. He knows exactly what I was thinking about. He loves to tease me about how dirty we talk in bed and how shy I get about it later.
“Fuck me! Deeper, baby! I want to feel you come inside me.”
Laughing as he moves close, nuzzling his face against my throat, I lace my arms at his neck. Just this afternoon we were at his place, setting up a Christmas tree. I no sooner got the star on the top and he had his face buried beneath my skirt. He pressed me against the huge windows after he stripped me bare, fucking me deep and hard until I came three times.
This man is the best fake boyfriend I have ever had.
“Stop thinking dirty things, bunny,” he hums against my throat. “Or I will just have to find a way to give you those dirty things. You know I cannot say no to you, baby,” he reminds me, and I smile as I snuggle against him.
This is true. Besides spoiling me with new dresses for each of these parties we have attended, and matching shoes and purses if he feels lavish, he has given me everything I ask for. One night I was craving chocolate chip cookies. We drove to town where I expected to buy some. No, he never does anything simple.
Brett bought all the best ingredients, and we went back home, where he pulled out his grandmother’s fragile recipe. He turned on Christmas carols and we sang and cooked the best chocolate chip cookies I have ever had. It was not just about cookies though—he created one of the most significant nights of my life.
“Promises, promises,’ I tease, kissing his jaw as I tilt his head back.
God, he is a beautiful man. How did I ever pretend I was not smitten? From that day he waited at the bottom of the slope, my handsome savior, I put up a barrier. Ones he has broken past one by one.
At night, we talk about everything I never talked about with anyone else. Even things I never shared with Lennon or Quinn. He tells me about Shea Ski Lodge and how much it means to him. How much his grandfather meant to him. And I tell him how much I miss my mom even though I barely remember her.
“I wish...I wish I could just remember her perfume or what her voice sounded like. All I have are photos. Glimpses of moments. Father won’t talk about her and my brother...he was so close to her it’s too hard on him.”
“I can give you so much,” he had whispered to me as I admitted this painful truth to him. “Except the thing you want the most. It kills me to see you hurt. I am sure she would be so proud of you. Proud of the woman you grew up to be.”
It was just a few nights back when we laid by the fireplace, bare as the day we were born with snow falling from gray skies, I knew he was not the man I believed him to be. He was not some playboy—he had just played one on TV. And just to showcase the lodge, to do right by his grandfather.
Brett Shea is possibly the best man I had ever met. He hosted that charity the night he took me home for the right reasons. Well, he claims he hosted it to lure me to the lodge, knowing damn well I could not help myself. And all these fake dates we go out on, to all the most important holiday events, are just a way for him to give back because he can.
“I keep my promises to you, bunny,” he purrs, pressing a wet kiss to my throat as his fingers trace down the neckline of my dress.
“Brett, baby, don’t tease me,” I whimper, tilting my head back as he walks me out of the room. Always finding a way to escape, this one.
“Have I broken one promise yet? Tell me one,” he taunts me as he walks me onto a terrace.
It’s chilly with flurries sailing down slowly in big, thick flakes. Skies overhead are gray but dotted with stars here and there. A glance back at the mountainside shows smokestacks and pricks of lights where the lumberjacks of Driftwood make their homes. It’s like a scene right out of a snow globe.