Chapter 8
Corbin
This is never going to work. I should pack up Teagan’s belongings, throw them back into my car, and take her back to Portland before I do something absolutely insane.
Like wrap my hands around her slim waist, toss her onto the kitchen counter, and fuck the daylights out of her. Which was the first thought I had when I saw her watching me in the kitchen, eyes glazed over, and it wasn’t from sleep. She’d clearly been watching me for a while. I’m no longer sure if us spending more time together than absolutely necessary is the best idea. Perhaps for the next two years, I could live out at the house, keep her in my condo in Portland, and we could just see each other when we have to.
It’d give her the freedom of an actual life and give me the chance to work on the business I want, not remaining a sheep for my father at Lane Holdings.
As smart as it sounds, I brush the idea out of my mind while I hop into the shower. At any point over the next two years, per the will, my marriage could be challenged. If it’s deemed a ruse by anyone’s standards, the conditions of the will revert back to the clause as if I never got married in the first place.
So I no longer have to just get married and follow the steps Eleanor has outlined. At the very least, I need to make people believe I’ve truly fallen in love. Which means I can’t exactly live in a separate residence from my wife.
Fuck my dad’s greed for putting me in this position in the first place. If he’d been a decent son to Eleanor, or hadn’t spent the majority of my life acting like a complete scheming and deceitful asshole, I wouldn’t have to choose shit right now.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have put the clause into the contract I gave Teagan this morning that states we would either remain celibate or find alternate, private ways to find sexual satisfaction during our marriage. I don’t want her to think I’m marrying her and paying her for sex, and at some point, I know it’s going to be brought up. But after seeing her waltz into the kitchen this morning, trim waist and hips exposed from the cutoff sweatshirt and low-riding, snug yoga pants, thinking I’m going to be able to keep my hands off her entirely is a fucking joke.
We’ll have to touch. We’ll have to kiss. We’ll have to sell that we’re completely and madly in love. The only way to do that is to be seen in love as much as possible.
My dick hardens, clearly liking the idea of being touched by Teagan, and I wrap my hand around it. Stroking myself, I try to banish all thoughts of her from my mind, but it’s pointless.
In less than twenty-four hours I already want her. She’s taller and curvier than women I tend to be attracted to, and I wonder what in the hell I have been doing with socialite bitches and stick-thin models. Everything about Teagan’s body is meant for rough fucking and shower fucking and taking her on the furniture and counters and even the damn pool outside. In a matter of moments, I’ve imagined all the places where I want to have her. I brace one hand on the shower wall, dropping my head into the spray.
Just the idea of having my hands wrapped around her hips, watching her full breasts bounce as she rides me, driving up and down on my cock, has me groaning so loud I’m certain I can be heard over the running water.
I bite my lip and imagine my hands fisted in her hair, pulling her down to my mouth, taking her mouth and devouring her while she grinds against me.
It’d be heaven. It’d be better than any one-night stand I’ve had before because Teagan isn’t a woman who can fake or hide her attraction. Every moment of fucking her would be intense.
I groan again, biting my lip while my hand moves viciously up and down. I force myself to stay quiet as my release pummels down my spine, racing like a thundering train.
I come hard and fast, my knees trembling as my orgasm hits me.
My chest is heaving and my brain feels like it’s boiling.
This was all a fucking horrible idea, but what choice do I have other than to follow through with it? No way in hell am I putting my ring on a woman’s finger who will love the Lane name too much to agree to the relationship ending after two years. From the little Teagan said, she’s doing this for a purpose, and once she reaches her goal, she’ll be happy to get the hell away from me and all the bullshit I’m about to subject her to.
There’s no other choice.
I just have to figure out a way to keep my dick in my pants all while putting on the biggest show of my life.
No matter. I’m a Lane. I’ve been pretending since the day I was born, and this is simply one more torturous performance. But in order to pull it off, I’m going to have to show her who I really am, not who she thinks I am based on following my Instagram feed.
—
She’s downstairs when I come down, sitting on the couch and dressed in the same damn tantalizing, relaxed outfit I saw her in this morning. While I was hoping she’d change, the firm set of her shoulders when I hit the bottom stairs tells me she didn’t for a reason.
Perhaps she’s not going to allow me to boss her around, or hide who she is from me, either.
“Ready to go?” I say, slipping my wallet into the back pocket of my khaki shorts. We’ll make quite a pair in town, I’m certain of it. Teagan dressed like she’s ready for a workout class and me dressed like I’m ready for a few hours on the golf course.
She jumps off the couch, grabbing her purse while looking down at her phone. “Yep. Did you know that the photo of us in the street from yesterday has over three hundred and fifty comments already?”
Like I give a crap. By the way she’s nibbling on her bottom lip, she’s not entirely thrilled, either. “Seeing that maybe it’s not too much fun having people talk about you?”
She reaches me and I take the phone out of her hand, easily sliding it into my palm. “Hey!”
I ignore her and turn my back to her, holding her phone out of her reach. “Ah, but they think you’re cute.” At least, they say she’s cute before the comments start bitching about her hitting my car, then the nasty comments begin. Typical.
