Or is that just what I’m picturing?

“I’ll help you with Ross. I know he drives you nuts sometimes,” she says patiently.

“And half of the state’s going to think I’m some social-climbing gold digger,” I grumble, regretting signing that damn NDA more and more each minute. “I’m going to be ruined.”

“Nonsense. This will all blow over before you know it. Especially when the papers start reporting that you and Ross are dating, meeting the family, and engaged. A few starry-eyed pictures where you two look like lovebirds, and maybe some well-designed PDAs, and you’ll be the romance story of the millennials. The childhood friends who finally ignite in fiery passion that can’t be stopped long enough to plan a proper wedding. Oh, no, the way this story goes . . . you two are ready for your forever, right now.”

She makes it sound plausible and easy. Maybe she’s right and I’m overreacting?

Seeing that I’m calming somewhat, she starts handing out instructions. “For now, you’re going to get a few hours of work in, send a few emails, and then . . . Paradise Burgers,” Abi says, grinning. “The big ones, with tomato, those four types of cheese you like, and . . .”

“You’re evil. You know I’ve been dieting to get into the dress. The dress I haven’t even found yet,” I remind us all sharply.

“ And the garlic aioli you adore, with milkshakes,” Abi continues, ignoring my interruption. “Come on, their milkshake brings all us girls to the—”

“Stop!” I finally laugh, shaking my head. “You know if you keep it up, Archie’s going to start twerking!”

“Won’t ever happen,” he says dryly, but we all know he was popping his shoulders left and right a bit and I can see the song lyrics running through his head. Hell, if Abi kept singing, he’d probably hop up and do a little whacking for us, the arm-twirling dancing kind, not the ‘call HR type’, and finish with a death drop.

But before he can, Abi’s and my phones both buzz, and I look at mine to see a text from Ross.

Dinner tonight with family. 8 PM. Dress nice . . . honey.

There’s a wink emoji after ‘honey’ and I know it’s in reference to our discussion to not call me Shnookums. I guess he’s trying out terms of endearment. “Ooh, that son of a . . .” I hiss, showing Abi my phone. She holds hers up too, showing me a much nicer, much more polite text from Ross inviting her to the family home for ‘an important family dinner’. “I’m so gonna get him.”

“Good,” Abi says, taking her phone back and slipping it into her pocket. “In the meantime, I’ll help you learn how to get under Ross’s skin, how to cajole him to be nice. When we’re done with him, he’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand. I’ve got a few years’ experience in driving guys crazy, especially my brother. And coupled with your track record, we should be golden. Let the games begin.”

I hold my breath and count to ten, gathering myself. “Okay . . . so how do I twist Ross around my little finger and make this whole thing not so ridiculous?”

Chapter 8

Ross

I’m able to hold off until I get to the office, but finally, my primal brain takes over. I barely drop my briefcase in my office, thankful that Kaede’s not at his desk to see my desperation, before I’m bolting for my private bathroom, locking the door behind me as images flash through my mind.

Last night, the feeling of that lush, delicious body pressed against me.

Her lips against mine, her moans when I cupped her ass in the elevator and squeezed.

Waking up to see her nude in all her glory, heavy teardrop breasts succulently swaying with every word.

Her face lighting up with joy when I took her ring shopping. I wonder if she knew she was hugging my arm, pressing her body against mine when I was being a gentleman to her, and if she was purposefully showing me the challenging fire in the dark depths of her eyes when I wasn’t.

But most of all, the sight of her gleaming wet pussy, wanting me to press her into the mattress and fuck her as hard as I could. I’d never even considered what Violet’s pussy might look like, but now it’s all I can imagine.

I’ve been with her all night and all day, a patient saint who didn’t want the delicious torture to end. But I can’t hold back anymore. I drop my pants and wrap my hand around my aching hard cock.

This is wrong, so wrong, but I can’t help it as another image of her soft pink pussy lips and caramel colored nipples floods my overtaxed mind.

In my head, a fantasy Violet drops to her knees, running her hands up my legs and over my thighs, her pink tongue licking her lush lips before taking my balls into her mouth.

I stroke hard, rough, as I give myself over to my lust and my need for her.

Violet Russo. The pest I childishly tortured who grew into the vixen I never noticed and is now the beauty I’m going to marry.

In less than a dozen strokes, my climax hits me like a shotgun blast to the balls, and thick, ropy streams shoot out of the purplish head of my cock to splatter against the toilet and into the water below.

“Fuck,” I rasp, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and wiping up the mess. I can’t believe how fast I came, so fast I didn’t even get to her sucking me or climbing into my lap . . .