“Okay, I accept.”
“Are you sure?” Connor asks.
I’m pretty sure by all of me he means sex, but I need to clarify it further. Even if he does, I am sure about accepting his offer. At first, I was shocked, but would sleeping with Connor Barrett a few more times truly be a hardship?
The answer is no.
Especially given I’m asking him to be my pretend husband and to face my father, a mobster. I’m sure he is a busy man, and it wouldn’t be all the time.
Plus, the money.
No money is worth giving up my freedom, so I will happily hand it over.
“Yes, I agree to your terms. If this gains me my independence, then I’ll happily do it.” For a second, I glance over his shoulder into the darkness outside and wonder what I’m getting myself into.
I’ve completely lost my mind, I’m sure of it.
But what other options do I have?
Run away?
They’d replace me in a hot minute.
“Okay, then you’ll move in immediately,” Connor says as I nod. “You will wear my ring, and we’ll announce the engagement early this week,” he adds. “Then you’ll introduce me to your father, and we’ll tell him we plan to marry in six months.”
Holy shit.
I can’t believe he’s agreed to this.
He leans an elbow on the bench. “You will marry me, pay me the money, then we can divorce whenever you are ready.”
“And we sleep together,” I say, but he knows it’s a question and that I’m looking for clarity.
“You will live here as my fiancé, and you will fuck me. When and where I want.” Connor moves his hand from my hip to the space between my thighs, inching them apart. “I will be reasonable in my demands, but expect it to be frequent.”
My breathing falters. “You can’t be serious. I have rights. You can’t just demand sex from me.”
Can he?
If I’ve agreed to it, then of course he can. The question is, will I agree to this or walk away?
“On the contrary.” Connor presses his thumb against the denim covering my clit. “You want something from me? I want something in return.”
I hate how quickly he can affect my body. I’m wet and aroused. My sharp nipples are visible through my top.
“That’s…I’m not a whore.” I try to back off the stool, but his hand holds me firm. I need space.
This man is intoxicating and dangerous, and he wants me to be his sex slave.
“Is it prostitution, though, when you’re paying me?” Connor smiles darkly, and it sends a shiver through me.
I’m trying to think, while my body is craving his touch, his cock, and the release I know he can give me.
These are his terms. I either agree or walk away.
I’m not a whore, but that’s not what this is. I’m attracted to Connor, more than any other man I’ve met. I could think of this as a short-term relationship I know isn’t going to lead to anything permanent.
I won’t expect him to love me, and I’ll ensure I keep up a strong boundary so I don’t get attached to him.
He’s simply a means to an end while I create a new life for myself, independent of my family.
“No more than five times a week,” I negotiate.
Dark eyes graze my face for a long moment, then he nods. “Agreed.”
“What else?”
“No one can know about this. The risk is too great for my organizational reputation. I expect complete secrecy,” he adds, then his eyes meet mine. “And for your safety.”
My lips press into a smile. I like that he seems to care, or at least consider me. It’s nice.
“After we marry, you have thirty days to deposit the money into my account,” Connor says.
I chew my lip and glance away.
This will be worth it one day. Six months at most, then I’ll have my independence.
One day, I will fall in love and get married. Have a family. I won’t be bound by the mob, and I’ll have a thriving business of my own.
It will be worth it.
There is one question I’m curious about, though.
“Why do you want the money?” I ask. “You have a net worth of sixty-five billion dollars.” His wealth is widely known and spoken about everywhere. Monitored, analyzed, and judged.
Connor shrugs. “Compensation. Some of it will cover the ring, media management, your living expenses, and the wedding. The rest is profit. Or we could call it ‘services rendered.’” He smirks in a tease, then climbs off the stool.
What a smartass.
“I’ll drive you home so you can take the night to say goodbye to your old life, then tomorrow, you’ll move in. I will arrange credit cards and a ring for you,” Connor says, as if it is a done deal.
We both know it is.
We stare at each other, and he reaches out his hand to help me off the stool. Then he pulls me closer. My body presses into his, and he cups my cheek. It feels nice. Like all day, this is where I have been wanting to land.
“So, I guess I should pop the question,” Connor says, his dark chocolate eyes roaming my face. “Mia Mancini, will you fake marry me?”
Holy smokes, we are doing this.
“Yes,” I reply, dread filling my tummy.
Connor’s mouth descends on mine, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve sold my soul to the devil.
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