The Convenient Wife (A BWWM Steamy Marriage of Convenience Romance)

The Convenient Wife

Imani King

Copyright 2015, All Rights Reserved

The
Convenient Wife

By
Imani King

Dorian Lambert
has a problem. His grandfather is dying, and the vast fortune he stands to
inherit has been compromised by one little detail: Dorian must marry and
produce an heir in order to receive it.

Dorian isn't
the type to play by the rules. And when he sees Georgia Devereaux, he knows
exactly how to get what he wants—and how to piss off his rich, conservative
family in the process.

Georgia
Deveraux—Gigi, to her friends—has her own problems to worry about. Graduating
from Harvard law school left her deep in debt, but when she lands a spot at a
prestigious law firm handling the Lambert estate, Dorian makes her an offer she
can’t refuse.

Love wasn’t supposed to be part of the bargain. Now Dorian
and Gigi must decide if their unconventional marriage can ever amount to
something more.

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“
Merci
beaucoup, mademoiselle.
”

What I really should’ve said was,
“Good God, woman. Have mercy on my soul,” because this Brazilian
goddess—Natalie, Natalia, whatever her name was—was tempting me to sin.

She laughed and flipped her long,
raven hair, and I watched the sound bubble in her throat. She had a beautiful
neck. A beautiful
everything
. But
that neck made her look like a bronze swan who’d come to roost in my lap, sleek
and elegant and damn near naked. And she’d brought champagne, too. This was my
kind of woman.

“In Brasília,” she said, her voice
thick and throaty like a siren’s call, “we speak Portuguese, not French.”

“But is Portuguese the language of
love?” I asked her, trailing my hands over the rounded globes of her ass. I
brushed my lips along her neck, inhaling the orchid scent of her hair. “Because
that’s the only language that should grace your ears.” And besides, it was the
only one I’d taken in college.

She batted her lashes at me, her
eyes shimmering like pools of hot whiskey. “So you love me, Dorian Lambert? Is
this your confession?”

I smiled and turned her so she was
straddling me. “I love
all
beautiful
women,
ma chère.
And every one is
special in their own way. I could show you…”

Her breasts, only barely contained
by a crochet bikini top, hitched as I grazed my thumb between them. I was
keenly aware that the only thing that kept them secured were two strings tied
at the nape of her neck. One little pull, and she’d come undone.

But I couldn’t release them just
yet. That’s what she’d be expecting. So instead I peeled away one cup of her
top to reveal her tiny brown nipple, and after dipping my finger into my
champagne flute, swirled a droplet of nectar around it until it pebbled.

I watched a bead of sweet champagne
hover on the tip. I looked up at my goddess. Her face was flushed, eyes
half-lidded, teeth embedded into her plump lower lip. She was practically
soaking my swim trunks through her bikini bottom and gauzy sarong. Without
looking away from her, I stretched out my tongue to her tender bud and licked,
then suckled from her breast, letting the flavor of her flesh enhance the
absurdly expensive vintage I’d coated her with.

She tilted her head back, shivered,
and cooed. But before she could get too comfortable I pulled away, savoring the
traces of her that lingered on my lips.

“I’d bet that champagne would taste
even sweeter as I licked it off your clit.”

Her sultry eyes flashed. “I’m willing
to let you find out.”

I grinned and began to work at the
knot in her sarong just as a flurry of fireworks exploded across the sky. I
could hear a chorus of approval from my friends by the pool, the ones
responsible for the colors raining down like shooting stars. They were women,
mostly, because those were the kinds of friends I liked to keep—the ones whose
only expectations of me were the things I was willing to provide.

They wanted expensive gifts. They
wanted a good time. Parties and pools and maybe something a little naughtier,
less legal, here and there. They were always down to fuck, and whenever I lost
one to a jealous boyfriend, there were two more ready and raring to take her
place. It was a good gig, and they knew it. And they knew better than to ask
for more.

Because
more
was only something I could give in the context of fucking and
fancy soirées. You want
more,
honey?
Here’s a credit card. Go nuts. Or how about I pound that pussy until your fever
breaks? Stretch you to your limits? Open you up like no other man has before,
or ever will?

That was something I could do.
Something I was good at. And everybody here knew it.

I was like Gatsby, but with more
game.
Better
than Gatsby.

Until my mother showed up
unannounced...

My Brazilian beauty had just gotten
my dick out, her fingers wrapping around my shaft and beginning to slowly work
her hand up and down when I heard the old bat’s grating roar over the sound
system.

“Dorian Eugene Lambert, you get your
privates away from that young woman’s hands and come here
this instant!”

With a sigh of resignation I gently
guided my buxom young lady friend off of my lap and slid my more erotic
appendages back into the confines of my trunks. My mother always had the worst
habit of spoiling the best moments of my life—something I hadn’t missed in the
years since I’d moved out on my own.

“Je
serai de retour, ma chère,”
I whispered in my South American beauty’s ear before gently cupping her
backside. She seemed more than a little disappointed, her plump lower lip extended
in the most beautiful pout I’d ever seen as she went back to mingle among my
other guests. I had to make it a point to find her again before the night was
over.

I wove through the crowd of faces
and half-naked bodies, most of whom I could never have called by name if I
tried. But the whole point of these parties wasn’t that I knew everyone—it was
that everyone was enjoying themselves. If they were having fun, they damn well
couldn’t forget me, and it was good to have friends. Even distant ones.

I glanced to my left in just enough
time to see the last seconds of an impromptu mud-wrestling match between two
gorgeous women—both of whom had apparently lost their tops in all their
tussling. I couldn’t help but smile. Who would ever want more from life than this?

I finally wound my way around the
room toward the stage where my mother had commandeered the microphone from the
DJ. She stood just offstage, her arms crossed and her face a deep-set scowl of
the utmost contempt. It almost made me grin knowing I’d gotten her so riled up.

“Mother!” I called with a mock tone
of cheer. “How are you? It really has been too long…”

“Come with me,
Eugene
,” she snarled, loud enough for me to hear above the pulse of
the speakers. Something in her face seemed to trigger a sense of dread in the
pit of my stomach, a look that belied more than her usual hatred for my
extracurricular activities.

I followed her through the crowd,
which seemed to part like the Red Sea as she liberally applied her horrific
death stare she only reserved for her most pungent of rages. After we’d made
our way up a few winding staircases and down a hallway, the sounds of the party
down below seemed like a distant memory. She pushed open the door to one of the
house’s multitude of bedrooms, signaling wordlessly for me to enter.

“You’re beginning to frighten me,
Mother,” I said as she closed the door in my wake. “What’s the meaning of all
of this?”

“Your grandfather is dying.”

“He’s been dying for years,” I
reminded her.

She pursed her lips. “No, you don’t
understand. Your grandfather is dying
soon
.
Within the next few weeks.”

Much like my mother, my grandfather
and I did not at all get along—he’d written me off years ago, citing my
lifestyle of hedonism, debauchery, and sin. Ever since he’d been diagnosed with
lung cancer, he’d become insanely religious—none more zealous than a convert,
as they say.

“We are having a preemptive reading
of his will tomorrow—something I’ve been attempting to call you about for the
past two days,” she said, though instead of her usual angry fire that lined her
voice, my mother seemed
tired
. “You
need to be prepared, Dorian.”

“I—yes. Of course.”

“I’ll have the car come for you at
ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And remember to wear something decent.”

Without another word my mother exited
the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor until the sound faded into
oblivion. I was left there alone, with only the crushing weight of the
bombshell my mother had dropped upon my shoulders.

The world seemed to slow down, and
the finiteness of my existence felt as though it were creeping closer to me
like some looming predator. Despite all my negative feelings toward my family,
despite my mock wishes for them to pass away and leave me alone, I never
actually wanted
any of them to die.

I forgot all about the party that
still raged on below—for all I cared, it could have been happening on the other
side of the world. All I could do was think of all the times I’d spoken to my
grandfather, all the silent judgment—and even the not-so-silent—wishing that
maybe it could have been different somehow, if I could have been a better son,
or even a better person.

I’d never handled death well. Ever
since my father died when I was a teenager, death only seemed to bring out the
worst in me. I got into drinking, smoking, indulging in all the things that
bored rich kids are expected to indulge in—especially sex. It was after that I
had started my journey to becoming the Gatsby-esque playboy that everyone
wanted to
be
, to
know
, and to
fuck
.

My thoughts wandered down to the
pretty little Brazilian that I’d left downstairs, expecting to spend her night
with my cock buried inside her, enjoying all the comforts that having sex with
a billionaire could provide.

I’m
going to have to disappoint you, ma chère
, I thought, running a hand through my thick thatch of hair.
It was a shame; she was probably the most gorgeous girl who’d walked through my
door today, and I always made it a point of enjoying all the pretty things in
my house.

I did my best to keep out of sight
as I headed toward my own personal bedroom. Every now and then I’d pass an open
doorway, the sounds of carnal pleasures wafting on the air and to my ears. I
envied them the desire to even entertain such things, even as an escape from my
own melancholy—but something in me didn’t feel up to it. I couldn’t even
entertain the idea of sex while I still felt my grandfather’s impending doom
hanging over my head.

“Dorian!”

I turned to find my best friend,
Ollie, jogging after me, nearly out of breath. He leaned against the wall,
panting heavily and clutching a stitch in his side.

“Jesus, dude,” he gasped. “Why is
this house so big? I almost had a heart attack trying to find you.”

“Sorry about that, Ollie.”

“Was that seriously your mom up on
the stage earlier? I thought she was going to shut the whole party down or
something with that look she was—” Ollie stopped short, his eyes locked onto
mine as his expression changed. “Are you all right? You look like someone just
killed your hamster.”

“Not far off,” I said, sighing. “My
grandfather is dying.”

“Well, yeah, we knew that but—oh,
shit. You mean like,
now
.”

“Maybe in the next couple of weeks,
yeah. She needs me to attend an early reading of the will.”

“Do you want to sit and talk, dude?
I can go get us some booze if…”

“I think I just need to be alone for
a little while, Ollie. Everyone can stay and keep partying. I dropped sixty
grand on tonight and I don’t want to spoil the fun. Just… have a good time
without me, okay?”

“Sure, Dorian. I mean, of course.
You just let me know if you need anything, and I’m there for you.”