Velvet Kingdom – A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Mafia Tags Authors: B.B. Hamel Advertisement

Advertisement

My hot-as-sin boss just caught me taking dirty selfies.My relationship is falling apart, so I decide to spice things up by snapping some steamy pics at the office. Seems like a great idea until my gorgeous-but-terrifying boss, Renzo Rossi, walks into the room as I’m contorting in the mirror. Completely. Freaking. Topless. And he’s not shy about complimenting my pose. Life gets even worse when my boyfriend breaks up with me and skips town with all my stuff. Dumped, humiliated, and at rock bottom, I’m seriously considering joining a nunnery, if those are still a thing. When Renzo drops a arranged wife went on the run and he’s desperate to find a replacement. He wants me to marry him and carry his surrogate child for the casual sum of five million dollars. Turns out, the Rossi Famiglia is one of the five biggest mafia organizations in the city of Philadelphia, and Renzo needs an heir to maintain his legitimacy. My life can’t get worse, right? And anyway, this is just a temporary deal. Except one nighttime visit turns into two, which turns into three, and soon I can’t get him out of my bedroom.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

Maddie

Icontort myself in front of the mirror, trying to find a good angle that makes my boobs look nice while I shove them together with my elbows, and I make this horrible sultry duck-face, but that’s not right, women don’t make this face anymore. Instead, I shove out my tongue, which just feels so immature—and I end up grinning like a moron instead as I hit the camera shutter.

Spice things up. The three worst words I’ve ever heard in my life. My best friend, Nicole, basically said I was a dead fish in the bedroom and that was why things were strained with my boyfriend, Mark. Send him some naked selfies. Make him remember how hot you are!

Maybe that’s good advice for someone else, but right now I feel like a total idiot.

I’m not good at taking risks, and I’m definitely not good at doing the whole sexy pictures thing.

I check the screen and I look like I’m constipated—delete.

I’m cold, my nipples are rock hard, and I’m terrified someone’s about to walk in and catch me pouting and sticking my butt in the air and squeezing my chest like I’m trying to rip my tits off.

What the hell is the matter with me?

Normal girls know how to look sexy or at least they can fake it for a few intimate snaps.

I just look like I’m trying to weld a pipe with my teeth.

Also, more important, normal girls aren’t dumb enough to do this at work.

Except I live with Mark and he works from home, which sort of defeats the purpose if he walks in on me spread-eagle on the bed.

Or that could work to my benefit, actually.

Besides, the office has good lighting. Especially this office. Lisa Snell, head of sales, loves her some intense lighting. It’s overkill, but hey, beats the flickering bulb back in our tiny apartment.

There aren’t many people working out of the office today—it’s the end of the week and our beloved, not-at-all-terrifying boss lets people work from home on Fridays. Everyone, except for me.

I’m the head office manager. Which basically means I refill coffee pods, clean up the break room, order paper, run random errands, and get crapped on by everyone. It’s fine, as far as jobs go, even if I scurry around like a scared mouse whenever Renzo Rossi comes into the room.

My gorgeous and terrifying boss.

Right now, I have Lisa’s office all to myself. Door shut, blinds pulled. She’s the type of woman with multiple mirrors to check her absurdly enormous hair at least fifty times every day. Not that I need them, but she also decked the place out with crazy good ring lighting for her Zoom calls, like professional studio quality stuff. Which suits me since I can use her glam-obsession for a little spicy-time.

“Okay, Maddie, think sexy.” I take another picture, check it, delete it, and try again. Are my shoulders always that broad? Do I always look like I’m trying to squeeze a little extra toothpaste from an empty tube? “Come on. Sexy. Sexy. Sexy.” Another picture. Another. Delete, delete. “Okay, fine, maybe sexy isn’t my thing, but pretty at least. I can do pretty. Heck, passably attractive would be good enough.”

More photos, more deletions. I’m about to give up, pull my sweater back on, and commit myself to giving Mark a blowjob when I get home as a sort of consolation prize. That’s usually easy enough. Five minutes, some groaning, and boom, finished. It’s a chore and I don’t love it, but whatever, it’ll make him happy for a little while.

But that’s not spicing it up. His once-monthly blowjob isn’t enough anymore.

Gotta think big.

I try a few more pictures, until finally, after so much struggle, I get one that’s halfway decent. I don’t look amazing, but hey, I’m trying here and Mark will appreciate that. Before I lose my nerve, I pull up our text chain, which consists mostly of grocery lists, and send the photograph with no preamble and no warning. Some surprise boobs to get the motor started. What man wouldn’t love that?

It happened. I did it. I took a smutty picture and sent it to my boyfriend. I took a little risk—even if it’s the smallest, lowest-stakes risk imaginable—and it didn’t kill me. Armed with a little more confidence and optimism, I shoot a few more, really letting loose now, right up until the knob to the door turns, the latch clicks, and it opens.

I’m mid-photo, tits out, duck-face plastered, camera held out at a relatively flattering angle, every single light in the room trained on my freezing cold body showing off every single nook and exposed cranny, when my boss steps into the room.

Renzo Rossi. Terrifying and glorious. The man’s always perfectly put together: Armani suits, Prada loafers, belts that cost more than my rent. His hair’s dark, thick, styled in a perfectly imperfect wave like he just rolled out of bed. Strong jaw, a little bit of stubble, and these incredible dark eyes, so brown they’re nearly black.

Advertisement