My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,150
say seriously.
Violet looks up at me, her eyes searching mine in question even as she jokes. “You do remember that twins and triplets run in my family, right?”
I snuggle her to my chest again. She relaxes, thinking I was just kidding and that she scared me off. But there’s no way. The only thing better than the thought of her by my side every day for the rest of our lives is the idea that she would be there holding our child.
“Bring it on, Chickie,” I whisper, and she balks loudly. Until I flip her over and slip my fingers in her messy pussy and press my lips along those shapely legs she’s trying to wrap around me. Amazing how she settles quite quickly and starts chanting my name when I do that.
By the time she comes, she’ll have agreed to think about babies. We’ll get there, when we’re both ready. Just like we got to this point, happily married, when the time was right. Even if it did take a big, fat, fake wedding.
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Continue reading for a preview of the first book in my Get Dirty series, Dirty Talk. It’s naughty, but it’s sooo sweet! Derrick King is the ultimate book boyfriend.
Excerpt: Dirty Talk
Chapter 1 - Katrina
“Checkmate, bitch,” I exclaim as I do a victory dance that’s comprised of fist pumps and ass wiggles in my chair while my best friend Elise laughs at me. I turn in my seat and start doing a little half-stepping Rockettes dance. “Can-can, I just kicked some can-can, I so am the wo-man, and I rule this place!”
Elise does a little finger dance herself, cheering along with me.
“You go, girl. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Now let’s eat!”
I laugh with her, joyful in celebrating my new promotion at work, regardless of the dirty looks the snooty ladies at the next table are shooting our way.
I get their looks. I mean, we are in the best restaurant in the city. While East Robinsville isn’t New York or Miami, we’re more of a Northeastern suburb of . . . well, everything in between. This just isn’t the sort of restaurant where five-foot-two-inch women in work clothes go shaking their ass while chanting something akin to a high school cheer.
But right now, I give exactly zero fucks.
“Damn right, we can eat! I’m the youngest person in the company to ever be promoted to Senior Developer and the first woman at that level. Glass ceiling? Boom, busting through! Boys’ club? Infiltrated.”
I mime like I’m sneaking in, shoulders hunched and hands pressed tightly in front of me before splaying my arms wide with a huge grin.
“Before they know it, I’m gonna have that boys’ club watching chick flicks and the whole damn office is going to be painted pink!”
Elise snorts, shaking her head again. “I still don’t have a fucking clue what you actually do, but even I understand the words promotion and raise. So huge congrats, honey.”
She’s right, no one really understands when I talk about my job. My brain has a tendency to talk in streams of binary zeroes and ones that make perfect sense to me, but not so much to the average person. When I was in high school, I even dreamed in Java.
And even I don’t really understand what my promotion means. Senior Developer? Other than the fact that I get updated business cards with my fancy new title next week, I’m not sure what’s changed. I’m still doing my own coding and my own work, just with a slightly higher pay grade. And when I say slightly, I mean barely a bump after taxes. Just enough for a bonus cocktail at a swanky club on Friday maybe. Maybe more at year end, they’d said. Ah, well, I’m excited anyway. It’s a first step and an acknowledgement of my work.
The part people do get is when my company turns my strings of code into apps that go viral. After my last app went number one, they were forced to give me a promotion or risk losing my skills to another development company. They might not understand the zeroes and ones, but everyone can grasp dollars and cents, and that’s what my apps bring in.