Page 63 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Of course, that doesn't mean I'm going to put up with any shit from him. It's not my fault his family's batshit crazy, and his ex is every bit as bad if not worse. Why should he be given a freepass to take his emotions out on me? Answer is he shouldn't, right?
I mean, what the hell are his parents thinking about? What they're doing to him is so unbelievably unfair that I want to spit in anger every time I think about it. I'm absolutely furious with his parents. Sure, I get it… it's not like I expect them to ostracize their son George because he's marrying Grayson's ex-fiancée, but still.
They love both their sons, and they can hardly throw George out over his choice of bride, poor choice though it might be. What's pissing me off is that they won't give Grayson the same option. Why are they giving Grayson such a hard time about who he does and doesn't marry? Seemingly, George can marry Grayson's ex, who cheated on Grayson and broke his heart, but she's still fine. Yet Grayson can't marry the woman he loves, because they think she's not good enough?
Okay, Grayson isn't actually in love with me or anything, but they don't know that. For all they know, he could be madly in love with me, and instead of them supporting him in finding happiness again after the whole shitshow he's endured with Marina, they're making it worse for him by giving him a hard time over me.
In any case, why does he need to get married anyway, just to take charge of a company he's worked his ass off for already, all these years? It doesn't make sense.
Whatever.
It's none of my business, of course, but the truth is that the more I think about it, the madder I get. That being the case, I resolve not to think about it anymore. After all, it's not really my problem, and it certainly isn't anything I can do much to resolve. That's between Grayson and his dumbass parents.
I take another breath to quell my anger, gathering my purse, my Stanley cup, and the take-out as I get out of the car.
Instead of heading straight up to the top, I take the staircase up one flight to the lobby. I have a small mission to accomplish before I head upwards.
"Doing well, Alvaro?" I call as I step into the lobby. The ever-on-duty doorman greets me with a grin big enough to catch.
"Great as always, especially now that you're here, ma'am."
"Oh, you flatterer." I flick a hand, and he laughs. "Hey, I brought you something from a fancy place downtown. You said you like steak; this is the best I've had. It even comes with a side of caviar, if you can believe it. You did say steak was your favorite, right?"
"Really?" His eyes widen, and his already wide smile deepens until it practically splits his face as he accepts the take-out bag from me. "Aw, you didn't need to do all that."
"Oh, trust me. I did. My lunch guest was paying, and she made me wait, so I needed to make her pockets hurt a little. See, you were actually doingmea favor, not the other way around. "Not that an eighty-dollar steak from an overpriced eatery—or even twenty of them—could do much to make Steph's pockets hurt, but it was still enjoyable to try.
"Still, ma'am, it's very kind of you to think of me. Thank you."
"No problem, and please, call me Jenna. If you want wine with it, just knock on our door. We have plenty." Well,Graysonhas plenty, but the way I see it is that since we're fake-engaged, his wine is my wine.
"Thank you, Miss Jenna," he says. "I have a feeling I'm really going to like you living here."
"Thanks, Alvaro, I'm very pleased you're here too." I pat him on the shoulder before I head for the rank of elevators, wondering whether Grayson's chef is cooking dinner for us today, and if so, what it might be. My stomach rumbles. It's been a long time since lunch, and I've been dreaming about herlobster rolls most of the afternoon. Right now, I'd give up half my kidney just to taste them again.
I swipe my keycard and walk inside, cutting past the main living room to get to my own room.
"Grayson, I'm?—"
I freeze. My throat goes dry, my heart stops beating, and there's a piercing whine in my ear.
Oh my God.
Grayson is in the living room, and he's… I don't know how to describe it.
Technically, I suppose, he's jacking off, but that sounds too simple, too crude, and too…smallfor what he's doing.
His powerful legs are splayed wide, his body sunk into the cream-colored leather couch. His head tips, and one could almost think he was asleep, except that I'm staring at the mountain of a cock rising from his open fly. It's thick, veined, and angry-looking in its hardness. Even his oversized hand is barely enough to cover its huge girth, and I'm in awe that all that must have fitted inside me.
He drags it through his fist lazily, his body already tense, muscles twitching. A drop of precum glitters at its crown.
I stand there, frozen, my heart thudding in my chest. My throat feels dry, my tongue is parched, and I can already feel myself tracing those veins with my tongue. God, I can feel the shape of him on my tongue. I can almost taste him.
He strokes himself, slow and sensual, intermittently pausing at the base to squeeze lightly. A sound rumbles from his throat, his jaw clenched to show the strain it takes for him to go this slow.
He squeezes once more, near the head, and his body jerks in pleasure.
"Fuck."
