Page 5 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Whoever on my team thought this was a good idea is about to wish they hadn't come to work today.
I deliberately wait a couple of beats before slowly raising my gaze towards the doorway, expecting to see the terrified expression of a junior member of staff who already realizes they've just made a fantastic error of judgment, and is ready to apologize and explain.
Instead, I'm met with the wrathful stare of an avenging goddess.
Fuck me… it's her.
Jenna Marlowe.
We only met once, but I can never forget her face. Those feline features, with sharp eyes, a bright smile with canines reminding me of a fox luring a rabbit into a trap.
I also recall her voice, husky, the kind of voice you'd want whispering to you at night, telling you to go harder, faster....
Fuck. This is exactly why I refused to meet with her and her planning team.
The dirty thoughts that plague me whenever I'm around her are reason enough to stay away from her.
So what the fuck is she doing launching herself into my room like this, and then standing there, legs apart, chest heaving—heaving very nicely in fact, I can't help but notice—and looking for all the world as if there's nothing she'd like to do more than bite my head off and eat it for lunch?
In short, why the hell has she barged into my office, looking good enough to fuck?
So many things are wrong with me lusting after my newly appointed event manager. She's young for one. About twenty years younger than me, to be specific. I know because I checked her profile on our contractor database, and don't ask me why I did that, because I don't know. Or at least, I'm not prepared to say.
Maybe it's the way she speaks with such maturity and passion for her age, holding effortless command of a room of powerful executives and seasoned decision-makers.
From our very first meeting, she proved to be entirely unintimidated by us. In fact she seemed relaxed, in her element. That arouses me.
Typically, I like my women older, more mature, with something to say in their heads that is more than what they've just been told by the latest TikTok or YouTube influencer. I need a woman who's sexually experienced enough to know what they want in bed, as well as how to please their partner. Classy—not fresh out of college, and not submissive, but definitely not too feisty for their own good.
Aside from being incredibly attractive to look at, Jenna Marlowe seems to fit all these requirements perfectly—except for the feistiness, it seems. That's never been something that's attracted me before now, but with this woman, it's like a forceof nature. Like fire, or ice. All consuming, irresistible, and ultimately, entirely deadly.
I met with her once and refused to do it again. The attraction was just too palpable, too powerful. It had such a strong effect on me that I had to hand the project to our junior director, James, and let him handle it. He was delighted, of course. Saw it as me giving him additional trust, which I suppose I was, in a way. She didn't seem bothered either, perhaps thinking James would be easier to negotiate with than I would have been. Perhaps she was right.
From my side though, it had been a mistake, because based on what I saw today, the entire showcase was going to look like some kind of a circus clown's act if I hadn't stepped in and taken some affirmative action of my own.
I should ask her to leave. The way she's standing there, hands on her hips, feet apart, breathing hard, her eyes wide in anger is making my cock throb. I have the insane idea to rip off her clothes, throw her over my desk and fuck her into oblivion.
But before I can so much as open my mouth, she starts to rant.
"Hello, Mr. Wolfe," I hear her say, her voice laced with venom. "I hope you're having a good day. Because I'm not. I just walked into the Ritz and found out they've trashed my entire setup, apparently on your personal orders. If this didn't come from you, then I apologize in advance for what I'm about to say, but if it did…"
She pauses, inhales, visibly almost shaking with anger.
"…then I need to know—do you have any idea how much time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears it's taken me and my team to get that place ready for your event?"
Here eyes latch onto mine, fixing me with a severe gaze that's clearly meant to intimidate. Even through this barrage of anger though, I can't help wondering what she would look like naked.The image of her, unclothed, but still livid, makes me want to smile, but I force the smirk from my face as best I can. I don't want her asking what I'm smiling about. I might tell her the truth, and then where would we be?
"In short, Mr. Grayson goddam Wolfe, how fucking dare you ruin my work?"
I blink, hard. Never in my forty-five years of life has anyone ever spoken to me like that. Not even my father, a supreme hard-ass, had dared to do that since I turned seventeen. Even at that age I could bench two hundred and fifty pounds, and with an attitude to match my size, very few people have ever wanted to pick a fight with me. Those that have… well, let's say they've mostly lived to regret it, and leave it like that.
Most people are terrified of even looking me in the eye. This barely-adult upstart, however, is going at me like she's about to teach me a lesson, and it's absolutely ridiculous.
Ridiculous, yes, but so fucking sexy.
No, Grayson. Not sexy. She's young enough to be your fucking daughter.
While I fight to get my lust under control, she closes the door behind her and walks in fully, her eyes sparking with fury. Her scent, spicy with hints of sweetness, surrounds me. Addicting me.
