My Fake Husband, Black, L. [romance novel chinese novels .TXT] 📗

not to fall in love for real, my sister texted back. I chewed on my bottom lip.

Love is the last thing on my mind, I replied, not sure if it was the truth.

I felt awkward about how to approach Damon. How did you contact a guy you proposed to and then freaked out and wanted time to think? Phone call? In person? Hire a skywriter to write, “I accept my own proposal, meet me at the courthouse” above the fire station? It was a business arrangement, pure and simple. So, I just texted him.

If the offer still stands, I agree that marriage is the most practical solution for me. Thank you, I texted him, then waited.

I saw the three dots appear onscreen to show he was typing, and then his message popped up.

That’s the most romantic message ever. Yes! It’s all so sudden, but YES I WILL MARRY YOU! 1000X YES!

I snorted with laughter, Lmk what day works for you, goofball.

I looked up the estimates from plumbers to figure out what I’d need to repair the pipes and electrical damage. I’d already filed for replacement on the cooler and my insurance adjuster was scheduled to come on Tuesday sometime and survey the wreckage. So anytime but Tuesday, I was free to get married. That sounded weird, like being available to meet for lunch or something. Any day but Tuesday I’m free for a lifetime commitment and a legally binding contract, I thought ruefully. My only way out of this mess was to marry a man who didn’t love me. I mean, a man I didn’t love. At least there was a way out, even if it went through the garden of questionable decisions.

I wouldn’t fall for him. My sister had warned me, and as much as I didn’t like her pointing out my crush on him, I was a grown woman and knew he was being a helpful friend. A helpful friend with a killer body and a great sense of humor and intense greenish-blue eyes full of mischief and passion. A grin that made me want to do filthy—no, enough of that train of thought. He was attractive. That didn’t mean I couldn’t control myself.

Still, after my bath, when I settled down to read, I couldn’t get my mind off Damon. My future husband.

I wasn’t thinking about making pancakes for him or who would be taking out the trash. I thought about those abs, his shoulders, how he had looked in his basketball uniform back in school, and how he had that Little League shirt from the team he coached along with Brody, and it was so tight around his biceps and his shoulders. The flex of his arm and back as he threw a ball effortlessly to the outfield. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on the book I was reading, I couldn’t keep him off my mind. I threw the library book aside and gave up.

Because a fantasy of Damon formed behind my eyes. Auburn hair in the sunlight, his eyes bright and intense on me. He drops his baseball mitt and strides across the field to where I sit with my mom and his in the stands. He takes my hand, leads me away from the crowd. People stare after us, but I don’t bother to turn around. He doesn’t even say a word to me. But I know exactly where we’re going and why. He opens the door to his truck, and I climb in. We drive off to the falls, to the spot where the couples always went parking in high school. We roll down the windows to hear the crash of the water, to feel the cool spray mist our faces and arms.

We turn to each other. He touches my face, meets my eyes just for an instant. Then his mouth is on mine, consuming me, a hungry kiss that leaves me breathless. His tongue surges into my mouth, and his hands slide through my hair, anchoring my face to his, so I can barely get a breath. His stubble scrapes my chin and cheek, a sound surprises me, and then I realize I’ve moaned. I’ve moaned out loud from kissing him. I must sound like the horniest, most inexperienced girl he’s ever met, but it doesn’t slow him down.

The next thing I know, he’s peeled my t-shirt off and fastened his mouth to my nipple through the lace of my bra. His hot mouth feels amazing, and I moan again and can’t figure out what to do with my hands. I weave them into his hair, arch against him, and he sucks harder, making my nipple go tight and hard, my breasts ache with arousal. I know I’m wet between my legs already, and I want him to know it too. I feel this desire for him to run his fingers through my slick folds and feel how turned on he has made me.

I fumble for the button on my shorts. His hands cover mine and rip the fabric in his urgency to get them off. I work his tight shirt off over his head and marvel at the muscles, the cut lines it concealed. I run my hands all over his chest and stomach, but I have to stop because my breath and heartbeat stutter. Damon’s putting his hands on me, easing me down onto the bench seat, looming over me, crowding me. His fingers dip between my thighs and I watch him, the sly grin that steals across his handsome face when he feels the proof of my arousal.

“You want me, don’t you, baby?” he asks. I grind into his fingers, and he stops teasing me with gentle strokes, starts parting my slickness and thrusts a finger into my pussy. I clamp tight around the invasion, thinking how good it feels and how I want something thicker, like his cock inside me. He pumps that finger, rubs in just the right place, slides in another long finger and