Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Fucking girl,” I murmur to myself, tempted to text that gorgeous piece of ass I ditched the night I found Deanna on my pool table. Instead, I stroke my cock at my desk, eyes blurred in the direction of the closed door to my office and hoping she walks in to find what I’m doing, and disappointed when I come into some tissues with her name on my lips, only partially relieved at best.
CHAPTER 7
DEANNA
Isit in the middle of my bedroom surrounded by spreadsheets.
This is my happy place. I want to pretend like Prime’s wife-finding job is a nightmare but the truth is, I love this sort of thing. Right now, I’m in the data-sorting phase, going through his black book, making a few tentative calls, doing some deep Google research and combing through social media profiles.
After a week, I’ve made some progress. I’ve been laughed off the phone a few times, threatened twice, and once I’m pretty sure I might’ve started a fight between a married woman and her husband (turns out she lied to Prime and told him she was single which he wasn’t happy about), but I’m left with a decent pool of real potential wives. There’s a long list of five and a shorter list of three that didn’t immediately tell me I’m an insane person for asking if they were interested in marrying a rich guy with immaculate oral sex skills.
It’s always the oral I keep coming back to. Prime between my legs. His mouth ravishing me as his hands roam my body. The way he cleaned me from his fingers like he couldn’t get enough.
And there was that crap a week back about him not being with anyone since that night. Which makes no sense. Prime’s main attribution is fuckboy. It defines who he is and how he spends his time. I can’t imagine Prime going through the day without trying to get his dick sucked by some pretty, vapid party girl with terrible daddy issues.
Except I can’t deny there’s been a change.
He’s been showing up to the office. Not on time exactly, but before ten in the morning. Which is crazy. He’s more engaged at work and seems to actually focus on what I’m saying. Our most recent in-house financial audits went extremely well and he was attentive and asking questions the whole time instead of like last year when he was sending dick pics to a Slovenian model every ten minutes (from the bathroom fortunately, not in front of me).
Giving a damn at work is not like him. I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe he really isn’t drowning himself in women, but what changed? Something with this whole marriage situation, and I still can’t figure out why he even wants a wife or what his long-term game is.
Because nothing’s ever simple with Prime.
I’ve got some suspicions though. Maybe he’s a foreign national and needs a green card. That’s not likely though. But maybe this is some kind of tax play and he wants a wife to help him shelter his income gains? Or maybe he’s got a sick aunt who will give him all her money (millions in Apple stock bought back in the 90s) if only he settles down? Or he’s dying of some slow but complicated disease and wants a partner to spend his final days with (doubtful; pretty sure he’d burn himself in a hedonistic blaze if he were on the way out).
But really my theories keep spiraling back to one simple truth:
Prime’s not a serious guy.
He’s popular. He’s charming and extremely attractive. But nobody would ever describe him as serious. He floats through the day, relying on his natural good looks and intelligence to overcome any issues that happen to get in his way.
A wife could change that perception. It’d make him look more stable. He’d have to stop his womanizing, curtail his drinking, regulate his hours.
It’d make him more normal. But would he still be Prime?
Not for me to worry about.
I shoot off a few more messages, nailing down my three primary candidates. Prime wants this over with sooner rather than later, and the speed doesn’t matter to me, since I’m getting paid double all year anyway. I’m whistling to myself as I head downstairs and pause at the bottom of the steps, waiting for the expected argument, the agitated grunting, any noise to indicate that my parents are interacting. It’s that time of the day already.
But there’s nothing, until—
Laughter.
Honest to God laughter. My gaze cuts toward the kitchen in horror when I realize it’s both my mother and my father. And the full-time nurse too, a pretty girl named Yolanda.
“What’s going on in here?” I enter the kitchen expecting a meltdown. I’m always on edge lately. But instead of the usual bickering, Mom and Dad are eating while Yolanda’s making them stewed red beans and chicken. It smells amazing.