Page 22 of Groom Gamble

Sure, it’s only with fitting in better with the Maths Club kingpins, but that’s enough. It’s heady. Mr Streatham, billionaire and mafia boss, needsme.

Yes, it’s fake, and yes, it’ll hurt when he gets bored, or strays, or becomes tired of faking with his wife and decides to…

I cannot think about that.

The orgasms he gave me, they didn’t feel fake. And Mr Streatham inside me? More decadent than expensive chocolate, better than getting full marks on a test. More swoony than my favourite book.

I think about it for the rest of the afternoon as I work. I don’t see Mr Streatham. He’s in his office, and I’m out here with my rising anxiety and newly needy pussy.

I don’t usually see my boss all the time, but between him not calling me to get him a cup of tea or pull this or that file as he normally would, my worry mounts. It creeps towards five o’clock with all the haste of my favourite author writing the last instalment of the series after a massive cliffhanger.

Normally, he asks me to work late because my standard working hours are nine until five. So when it’s four-fifty-nine, I’m about ready to vomit with nerves.

He’s ignoring me.

Does he wish this hadn’t happened? Maybe I should just pretend I didn’t give myself to him, heart and soul and first times, on his desk? Go home, eat an entire family-sized bar of chocolate, watch something on television, and figure out how to leave Streatham.

“Miss Berry.” The abruptness with which my boss strides out of his office steals my breath, along with how—unlike me—he is unfazed. He gets as far as the door before he pauses, holds out his hand, and looks back at me.

“Is there something you need, Mr Streatham?” I venture.

Letting out an irritated huff, he drawls, “Your presence, Miss Berry.”

He takes my hand and pulls me with him into the corridor.

I have no words. Who is this man, and where is my uncompromising boss? He hasn’t stopped work this early since… Well. I don’t think he ever has.

The Streatham headquarters is an old country mansion, with rooms off a magnificent central stairwell that curls up the middle of the house, lighted by an atrium and leading into a lobby with a patterned marble floor that is usually hushed and quiet. As we descend the stairs to the ground floor, the various other Streatham departments have open doors, and the staff are congregated. They stare at their boss, holding hands with me.

Nerves slither like snakes in my belly. Everyone is looking at us.

Mr Streatham comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs. “You got my memo, then, thank you for responding to my note.”

His note? What? Mr Streatham has me write his notes to the staff.

“Today I asked Miss Berry to marry me, and I am honoured to announce that she has accepted.”

There’s stunned silence, then a smattering of applause that quickly turns into a roar of approval.

Oh my god. I wonder if any of them heard anything earlier…

Mr Streatham nods in acknowledgement, raises his hand like he’s king, then turns to me.

“No backing out now, darling,” he murmurs, catching my wrist and bringing it up to kiss my knuckles. Heat surges through me.

He made a very public declaration that we’re going to marry.

This is fine. It’s fine. I’m not panicking. At all.

I’m a bit faint as, out of the corner of my eye, I can see everyone looking at me. I bet they’re wondering why on earth he chose me, just his little assistant. They could be taking bets on how long it is before this blows up in my face. Probably they think this is a joke.

Mr Streatham nods again to his people, before leading me back upstairs and down the hallway, unlocking the door at the end with a hefty key.

I gasp as he leads me into what is immediately obvious is his private apartment, though it’s more like a whole wing of the mansion. Where the rest of the building is dark, austere, shiny wood and stone, formal portraits and bronze statues, this is comfortable. There are bright landscape paintings, leather sofas with warm-looking throws, and richly patterned wallpaper featuring plants and birds. Predictably, there’s no television, just an expensive music system and walls of books.

It feels like home.

So much so… “You have the same cushion as me!”