Hold Me - Anne Marsh Page 0,3

His mouth softens. “You thought it was. Fuck, I thought it was. But it turns out we’re married for real.”

“What?”

“I got a wedding certificate in the mail from the fine state of California.” He shrugs broad shoulders. “It seems that we’re married.”

I’m married to Jax Valentine.

I’m the boss’s wife.

CHAPTER TWO

Four Months Earlier...

Peony

AS FAR AS parties go, tonight’s is a bust. I can accept the ridiculously over-the-top circus theme and the hundreds of people dressed as sexy acrobats or ringmasters is absolutely fun. I freaking love sexy role-playing and see no reason to limit it to Halloween. I’m even willing to overlook that most of us couldn’t do a backbend to save our lives—making the sex acts being performed under the big top more aspirational than DIY demonstrations. It’s the guy putting the moves on me who is the deal killer. Each time I take a step away from him, he moves closer, as if my showing up at a sex party is all the consent he needs.

What takes the crap cake? He’s not even a stranger. Seven hours ago, I said goodbye to him at the office because that’s what you do when you’re clocking out for the week and your boss is still hanging around. When Mr. Martin—clearly my about-to-be-ex-boss—mentioned he’d see me around, I didn’t realize he’d meant tonight. Or that he was the reason I’d gotten an invitation to this swank party in the first place. Invitations to sex parties at a California billionaire’s place in Napa Valley have been few in number—I’m a total sex party virgin—so of course I’d seized the chance to legitimately visit a ten-thousand-square-foot faux château. The fountains are awesome and I’d kill to swim in the pools, but the public sex acts make Marie Antoinette’s real French court seem tame.

“I’m really happy to see you tonight, Peony. I thought you’d like this.” Mr. Martin—“Call me Bob”—braces an arm beside my head and leans in far too close. This is not the first time I’ve encountered his lack of personal boundaries, but I’ve dismissed his previous transgressions as accidental. Apparently, I’ve been too charitable. Peony 2.0 needs to work on that character flaw.

Should I lie and chirp back that I’m thrilled to see him? Because I’m totally not. He’s swapped his circumspect, weekday suit for crotch-hugging khakis and a white linen shirt. The top buttons are undone, revealing a tuft of blond chest hair I’d rather not know exists. His own “happiness” is also apparent, straining against the front of his pants.

I look him in the eye. “I’m not okay with this. Please move.”

Please is the wrong word choice. I’ve dealt with bad boss scenarios before and you can’t give them a hint of wiggle room. I could knee him in the balls or make a scene, but I hesitate because I’m supposed to be turning over a new, responsible leaf. If I hit him, I could end up facing an assault charge and then I’ll have to put plans for Peony 2.0 on hold because Mr. Martin strikes me as the kind of guy who holds a grudge.

The last thing I want is to piss off my employer and hand him ammo to use against me. I’ve stood up to assholes before and it’s a lot of work. Also, my rent’s due in four days, making any indignant walking away from my job a luxury I can’t afford, at least for the rest of the week. So as much as I’d like to take him on, I mostly just want to get out of here...possibly via the open bar. My decision to come here wasn’t a good one, but I won’t apologize for compounding it with alcohol.

Mr. Martin leers at me. Ugh. “I’ve been fantasizing about doing this for weeks,” he announces.

And then, before I can repeat my no and remove myself, he swoops right in for a kiss. So much for using my words.

I twist, trying to slide down the faux Grecian column he’s backed me into. There’s an unwelcome flash of chest hair as I sink down and, for a moment, my escape plan looks successful. He can’t kiss me, or at least his mouth is limited to rooting around the top of my head. I lurch-angle myself to the right, seeking freedom, and am hit by a wave of cologne—he’s man-sprayed his happy trail—and then his hands catch my shoulders, stopping my retreat at a really awkward and unpleasant vantage point.

I’m facing his belt buckle and his hard-on.

And