Read Online Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee by Julia Kent - Free Book Online Page B

“Amanda? I heard you and Andrew are looking for me?”
    Marie.
    “Oh, God,” Amanda groans, the sound hot and tortured against my mouth, her tone matching my erection’s voice. If it had one, it would sound exactly like Amanda, and why not?
    Her mouth is pretty much where I’d want it to learn how to talk.
    “Ignore her,” I hiss.
    Bang bang bang
    “Amanda! Chuckles is here and he really misses you, and Pam’s worried about you. She’s in her hotel room and doesn’t feel well. If you’re in there, it’s okay. I’ve seen you naked plenty of times before. It’s nothing special.”
    Amanda rolls her eyes.
    “It’s everything special,” I rumble in her ear, my hands all over her as goosebumps pop up where my touch lands.
    “I am about as aroused as a woman at a gynecologist’s appointment.”
    I’m confused. “Give me a sense of where that falls on the arousal spectrum.”
    “Unless you’re a fetishist, it means I’m about as dry the Sahara now, Andrew. Having Marie pounding on the door while you pound me isn’t my idea of sensual .”
    And that single sentence makes me go soft.
    “Okay, then. Arousal spectrum calibrated.”
    Damn it.
    “Go away, Marie!” I shout.
    “But you said you wanted your marriage licenses!”
    I’m up in a flash, across the room, opening the door. I’m wearing wet boxer briefs, but no worries. It’s not like anything’s being outlined right now, other than a package of unfulfilled expectations.
    “Did you file all those marriage licenses last night?” I demand, in her face, furious and self-righteous. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but hell really hath no fury like a guy with a boner untapped.
    The hell drains into the balls and turns blue. All those pictures of a red devil? Nope. Should be blue.
    “Did I...what?”
    Amanda picks up her wet shirt and wraps it around her chest like a bandage. “Hi, Marie. Did I really marry Chuckles last night?”
    She sounds so defeated. I become angrier.
    “No, honey. The people at the Love Me Tenderly drive-thru wedding chapel said even they had standards.”
    Amanda’s sigh of relief goes straight to the root of my heart.
    “Did you seriously think that you married that damn cat?” I ask, unable to keep the outrage out of my voice. This should be funny. It would be funnier if I weren’t standing in a misty hot spring wearing wet underwear, skin screaming and body buzzing, my ring catching on the elastic waistband of my briefs while I plant my hands on my hips and glare at everyone.
    “I didn’t really think so, but it doesn’t hurt to know I’m not Mrs. Charles Kulls!” She looks wounded, but a bitter beast inside me sets that aside. I’m spiraling through rage that needs to be expressed, frustration at being out of control, like a monster that has discovered the bolt attached to his chain is loose in the stone wall.
    “Didn’t the Supreme Court make inter-species marriage legal last year?” Marie asks.
    “Shut up!” Amanda and I shout in unison.
    Marie cowers. Good.
    “Where are the marriage licenses?” I demand.
    Her eyes go wide and shifty at the same time.
    “How would I know? Is that why you’re looking for me?” She laughs nervously.
    “Kari told us she saw you holding one of them, and the rest were in your purse.”
    Marie’s eyes land on my left hand, then jump to Amanda’s. “You want to know if you’re married to each other.”
    “Or anyone else,” I snap.
    Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s in her fifties and done to the nines, all makeup and hair product and style. Unlike most of the older women I associate with, Marie doesn’t broker in aloofness, using sophistication as leverage against a world that quietly dismisses them as washed up.
    She’s bold and weird, flighty and unpredictable, and that combination makes me seethe.
    She’s cagey. This does not add up.
    “I did exactly what you asked of me last night,” she says slowly, backing out the door.
    I rush her,