Oh Have Mercy!

Seven. Bloody. Months.

Patience was a trait Deok-su prided himself on having in spades. But not when it came to Lauren. Abandoning the coffee cart and the horny office workers, he crossed the room with long strides, his gaze zeroed in on Lauren. Lauren, who wore one of those black trousers that cupped her ass in the most perfect way and a cream-colored silk blouse. A red scarf was banned across her hair, the color a match to her nails and lipstick.

Despite the time and place, Deok-su had to hold himself back, taking deep measured breaths so he wouldn't act on the impulse to fist that hair and feed his woman his cock. Smear her makeup, rip her blouse, and lay claim to what was his where everyone could see.

"Lauren," Deok-su barked, surprising the group of women she was sitting with, most were foreign hires, some European and American, but at least one girl was Korean.

A sardonic brow lifted, his Lauren showing past the carefully constructed facade she put on at work. "Mr. Park. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Pleasure. He loved that word on her tongue. "Have you picked a date for our wedding yet?"

Gasps issued around the group as Lauren bolted up, fists clenched at her side. "Excuse me?"

"Our. Wedding."

***

Time. That's all I asked from Deok-su. And dammit, I didn't ask for much. Not for my birthday or Christmas.

How about a car?

Nope. Just time.

An emerald necklace?

Really. Time is a great gift.

An engagement ring?

Maybe you don't know the definition of time, but it's how hours and days and months are measured and exists somewhere in the distant future for us.

But see, Deok-su was about as good about the whole "time" thing as I was about keeping my mouth shut. Seven months was decent. More than I honestly expected, but I was gunning for a year. A solid year. After which time we could be seen in public together, do coupley things without me hearing the whole "you got this job because you slept with the boss," because that's absolutely what happened.

Was it fair? Probably not. But just because it wasn't fair, doesn't mean I didn't still work my ass off and more for the position. Didn't mean I wasn't still dedicated and driven to do more and better. Hell, I'd even got myself a Korean teacher and semi-apprenticed myself out to two other Korean event planning companies to better understand the challenges I would face in the country.

Which were many.

I worked fourteen hour days, six days a week, to make an outstanding event management team for JDP. And with the help of the marketing department, I threw an outstanding conference for the company's latest acquisition, Pierce and Pierce Technologies.

With all that on my back, you would think time was such a small, inconsequential thing for Deok-su to give, especially because I lived with the man. But no. Two weeks ago he'd asked me to marry him, submit a CRWA (Consensual Romance in the Workplace Agreement), and officially--without the veil of work--meet his family as Lauren Eckles, his fiancée.

I'd agreed on the pretense of time. The right one. And he'd acquiesced with a caveat: not another seven months.

Fair enough.

But apparently "not another seven months" was just code for two weeks and a handful of hours.

"Have you picked a date for our wedding yet?" Deok-su rumbled, all growly and irritated. I'd have found that adorable if I wasn't so pissed.

"Excuse me?" You are not doing this here, my eyes fired at him as I stood up quickly.

Oh yes I am, he shot back. "Our. Wedding."

It was on the tip of my tongue to disavow him, turn away and dismiss the man as crazy. Go back to my carefully selected group of friends who were all warmed up for when I told them I was marrying the boss.

But seven months. That deserved a reward.

So even though it chafed my very independent soul, I released my anger, stepped forward and planted a soft kiss on my man's lips. I knew him too well. All he wanted was acknowledgement outside of our home that we were together, that I was his as much as he was mine. There was no fault or anger in that.

"Six months from tomorrow," I said, drawing back.

He scowled. "One."

"Five."

"Three."

"Deal."

He blinked, shock skipping across his face. "Three months and you're mine."

I smiled, draping my arms over his shoulders. No point in distance now. The cafeteria was silent, and I was sure phones were out and snapping our pictures. News spread like wildfire; I could practically hear the newspaper printers, the keyboard strokes writing articles about the JDP's scion putting a ring on an American nobody, both our respective families tossing in their two cents about every aspect of our relationship. None of that mattered though. I loved Deok-su. Loved his faults and strengths and everything in between. I simply loved this man in every corner of my heart and full expanse of my soul.

"You're mine," he breathed against my lips, kissing me deeply with so much feeling I was a little overwhelmed.

"We're each other's."

SECOND EPILOGUE

Red, Tina, Martina, and...

"This never happened," I said with far more conviction than I felt.

The zipper of Mark's pants was horrendously loud in the cavernous room of his office while the tiny, plastic buttons slipping through the holes of my blouse were almost upsettingly quiet. Nothing about my outfit declared I was the kind of girl who'd stripped for six years of her life before moving to corporate eight months ago. Not the jewel toned flats or the black a-line skirt or the cotton button down with quarter length sleeves.

I wasn't supposed to be "Red" anymore. No. Here I was "Tina," the easy to pronounce, American, shortened version of my Argentinian name Martina. Tina was a number savvy, lunchbox-toting office drone for Lemair Enterprises who wore the bare minimum requisite for workplace makeup on her face.

Everyone got a different version of me: from my family to my friends to my job and even strangers on the street. In a past life I must have been an actress or screenwriter because I created these characters and slipped into their roles seamlessly.

Or I did.

Tina wouldn't fuck the owner of her company cowgirl style on his desk. She wouldn't dig her nails in his chest and demand he fuck her harder.

Even her alter-ego Red, badass stripper extraordinaire, wouldn't take her pleasure from a man and give two fucks about him getting off. Red lived to fulfill men's fantasies, be the femme fatale and the sweet girl next door, sliding into those roles as easily as she slid into the costumes.

Red didn't take, she gave.

Tina didn't demand, she acquiesced.

Martina didn't... Well, Martina didn't do anything her family didn't expressly give her permission to do. No kissing boys, no dating, and certainly no down and dirty sex in the middle of the day with a man a decade older than her.

Hijo de puta.

"This won't happen ever again," I said with far more conviction that I felt, flopping between my personas, unable to slip back into any of them. Or even my clothes apparently, as I looked down and was off by one.

Mark closed the distance between us, brushing my hands aside and redoing the buttons. "It will."

I bit my lip. "It won't."

"But the next time," he continued as if I hadn't spoken, "it will be in my home. On my bed. With my mouth eating out your pussy." He paused, brows furrowing in concentration as he slid the small pieces of plastic through the holes. "You'll come twice from my mouth and once from my fingers. Mm-hmm. And when you're drenched and desperate I'll slide all the way in and fuck you from behind. Ass up. Face down. Maybe I'll spank you if you ask nicely."

Eight years at a strip club burned the shock right out of me. Mark's words didn't surprise me, the absolute certainty behind them did. Because this man knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that everything he said would happen. If he'd been anyone else, maybe I could have given in.

Maybe.

But he was my boss. Chronic strip club-goer. Single father.

Tina wouldn't fuck her boss. Again. Red wouldn't sleep with a client. Martina would never be allowed to date a single father.

I fisted his tie, yanked him down, and kissed him: biting his lip, sucking his tongue. I pulled back the minute his hands landed on my ass. "I need to get back to work, Mr. Lemair. If you'll excuse me."

"A week," he said quietly to my retreating back. "You'll stay next weekend. Meet my daughter. Ruin my sheets. It'll be good between us, Mar."

"It's Tina," I snapped, ignoring his declaration as I reached for the handle.

I didn't even hear him move, but his hand was splayed on the door, breath hot at my ear, voice deep and gruff. "I let you go once. Let you walk away. You came back. To me. You're Mar--My Mar."