About the Book

Boston socialite Morgan Lett is having a run of bad luck. Her fiancé just dumped her for her stepsister, the charity foundation she’s given her life to is in danger of folding, and now, the gorgeous man she bid on and won at a masquerade bachelor auction turns out to be a cold-hearted jerk…and her new employer.

Millionaire Alexander Bishop needs the best wife money can buy. In order to inherit his family business, he must get engaged—fast. And Morgan, with her beauty and pedigree, is the perfect candidate. Her sharp tongue may drive him crazy, but she needs money to save the foundation she loves, and he needs a fiancée. It’s a flawless arrangement—no strings, no love. But soon she has him craving more, and cursing the platonic terms of their agreement.

Still, he won’t allow need—no matter how hot it burns—to threaten everything he’s built.

Excerpt

“Since you’re my betrothed, I can share my worries with you,” Morgan propped a hip on the edge of his desk. “I’m not going to pretend a humility I don’t have—I’m hot.”

“You’re right.” Alex paused. “You don’t possess any humility.”

“The point is, men have been hitting on me before I grew breasts. But not you. Of course, I could chalk that up to you being a little, uh…” She pursed her lips, squinting her eyes. “A little emotionally challenged. But then it occurred to me that in addition to not liking me, you just might not be attracted to me.”

She rose from her perch and flattened her palms on the desk top, leaning forward. Her breasts pushed against the silken material of his shirt, the tiny row of buttons earning their keep by containing the soft weight of her flesh. His body tightened, a rush of lust pouring through his veins and culminating in his cock. His erection strained behind his zipper, and he grasped hold of every scrap of control he possessed not to fist the thickening column through his pants.

Fuck, this was crazy. He wasn’t even sure he liked her, and yet thoughts of shoving that tight skirt up around her hips and tasting everything the clothing hid consumed him.

The woman was slowly shredding his control, and he hated it.

Feared it.

Yet, as he stared into her eyes that glittered with something reckless, a little bit wild, he felt nothing but hot, control-searing need.

“I think you should kiss me,” Morgan stated.

The matter-of-fact tone didn’t match the slightly taunting smile she wore or the hooded gaze that barely concealed a sensual gleam. For him.

His mind questioned the veracity of her attraction.

His body didn’t give a good goddamn.

“What are you doing, Morgan?” He couldn’t eliminate the rasp from his voice. Not with lust roughening it like a plow churning up newly turned earth. “What game are you playing?”

“The game you’re buying me a building for. Be the best fake fiancée possible. And as two people desperately and deeply in love, PDA will be expected. So let’s do a trial run. Kiss me. See if we need to work on it before taking this show on the road. So. Kiss. Me,” she murmured.

“No,” he ground out.

“Why not?” she countered. “Scared you won’t be able to live up”—her gaze dropped to his lap and the rigid flesh that mocked him—“to the occasion?” When she returned her attention to his face, that blue scrutiny fucking smoldered.

With a growl, he rocketed to his feet.

In three long strides, he rounded the desk and, as she turned to face him, he cupped the back of her neck. Dragged her forward until her chest and thighs pressed against his.

The heat in those eyes had accomplished what her words couldn’t.

They snapped his restraints.

He crushed his mouth to hers, answering the siren’s call that had been tempting him since they’d walked into the office. On another, deeper, growl, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, parting those pretty lips.

Jesus. The taste of her. Sultry. Sweet. Like ripe, delicious fruit. He entwined his tongue around hers, licked the roof of her mouth, drawing on more of her flavor. Burying his other hand in her hair, he fisted the strands and tilted her head to the side and dove deeper. Demanding she give him what he needed, wanted. Not that she was holding back. She opened wide for him, meeting him thrust for thrust, lick for lick, suck for suck, groan for groan. Her fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, and she rose on her toes, grinding her mouth to his.

The kiss was wild, a little messy, a lot raw, carnal. Addictive. And not enough.

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About the Author

Naima’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey and Linda Howard many years ago. Though her first attempt at writing a romance novel at 11 never saw the light of day, her love of romance and writing has endured. Now, she spends her time creating stories of unique men and women who experience the dizzying heights of passion and the tender heat of love.

She is the wife to Superman – or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent – and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.

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