Wicked for Him (FairyFales Book 1) Read online

  Wicked for Him

  FairyFales, Volume 1

  Rexi Lake

  Published by Rexi Lake, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  WICKED FOR HIM

  First edition. August 3, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Rexi Lake.

  Written by Rexi Lake.

  Also by Rexi Lake

  Claimed

  Claimed by Christmas

  Claimed in Cuffs

  Claimed in Chains

  Claimed by the Chef: Turn Up The Heat

  FairyFales

  Wicked for Him

  Fated Mates

  For The Love Of Coffee

  For the Love of Chocolate

  Watch for more at Rexi Lake’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Rexi Lake

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE ~ Drew

  CHAPTER TWO ~ Drew

  CHAPTER THREE ~ Tate

  CHAPTER FOUR ~ Drew

  CHAPTER FIVE ~ Tate

  CHAPTER SIX ~ Drew

  CHAPTER SEVEN ~ Tate

  CHAPTER EIGHT ~ Drew

  CHAPTER NINE ~ Tate

  CHAPTER TEN ~ Drew

  CHAPTER ELEVEN ~ Tate

  CHAPTER TWELVE ~ Drew

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN ~ Drew

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN ~ Tate

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN ~ Drew

  Letter from the Author

  About the Author

  There are always so many people that I want to thank for their endless support and encouragement.

  My family that has encouraged my passion for writing from a young age and who consistently shares my excitement for my books.

  My friends who have enjoyed and put up with the many facets of my personality when I'm writing.

  My indie author group of friends that commiserate with me when the words aren't coming.

  And I have to name a few special people.

  For my daughter. She inspires my creativity and pushes me to write when I need to and take an ice cream break when she wants me to.

  For my doppelgänger. She's my sister in everything but blood. I wouldn't want to walk through this life without you - or our shared sense of humor.

  Special thanks to my cover designer. Krista Ames of Covers by Kay designed and inspired this novella and the concept behind the FairyFails series.

  CHAPTER ONE ~ Drew

  You’ve probably read or seen any number of the movies and adaptations out there about Cinderella’s story. Right? Don’t lie. I know I have seen them all. Probably because I’m a glutton for punishment. Why are those punishment? Because I am not Cinderella-like. In fact, you probably know about me because I’m one of the wicked stepsisters. Not Ana. She was whiny. And that awful nasally voice of hers drove me crazy.

  No, I’m Dru. Or, at least, I was Dru. When you’re written into a fairytale, you don’t get a choice about your role. I was written to be the bad to El’s good. That was my role, and I played it damn well. But, after all of that ended? After pretty, sweet, good El got her prince? What was I left to do? I didn’t have a fairy godmother to grant me a dream dress and a chance to change my life. I barely had a home that I could feel comfortable in. Maybe I got lucky, or maybe I was given a second chance. I don’t know. All I know is I was visited by a weird little fairy covered in feathers who called herself Quill. Quill didn’t have a wand or pixie dust or any magical abilities really. She was magical because she made the stories come to life thanks to the StoryTeller.

  She’s the real author behind our stories. Her magic makes us real. Not the Grimm brothers or the cartoon movie writers. Not any of the other writers who wrote their own twists to our tales and sent them out into the world. The StoryTeller, who is not a wizened old man in a cabin, created us. I met her once. Quill took me to her. She’s an enchantress. Probably. When I saw her, she was dressed like me, looked my age, and lived in an unimpressive home with a few dwarves and fairies walking and flying around doing things like gardening and cooking.

  She gave me an opportunity. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to get my own story. Since I’d played out my part for El, my character wasn’t needed anymore. She said I could go learn to be someone new. To be real. Not just the wicked stepsister, playing a role. I could be who I wanted, how I wanted, what I wanted. So I agreed. And a few swishes of Quill’s feathers across a dusty old book later, I was dropped into a world I’d never heard of and had no idea how to navigate. But I learned. I’m quick like that. Street smart. That’s what they call it here.

  Now, I’m Drew Stella, designer extraordinaire to the starlets of Hollywood. Okay, that’s stretching the truth a little bit. I have a tendency to do that. But truthfully, I could be that. Except I’m in a binding contract to be the exclusive designer and seamstress to one specific starlet and only her until she retires from the spotlight.

  All right, so maybe I wasn’t quite as street smart as I should have been. At least not then. I jumped at the opportunity and damn if I didn’t make a mistake by not reading all the little addendums to that contract of hers. Read the fine print, people. Or get trapped like me.

  MISS STARLA NIGHT.

  The pop star sensation that splashed her way across the country into the lives and hearts of every girl and boy between the ages of ten and twenty. If they didn’t want to be her, they wanted to be with her. And she was a total mystery. Her voice was crystal clear and captivating. Even I can admit that. Her attire was amazing and brilliant and worth copying. Okay, that’s me bragging. And her private life was utterly private. Literally, no one knew if her name was even Starla. No one knew how old she was. No one knew anything about where she came from. She just appeared. An overnight sensation.

  She had a mansion in the Hills that was surrounded by six foot tall iron fence posts and lots of trees. She even owned the airspace above her house so no one could creep a drone or something and spy on her.

  She had minimal staff that took care of the house, a security system that was the highest state-of-the-art it could be, and had a full-time bodyguard that stayed with her day and night. That was the rumor, at least. He lived with her. I hadn’t seen anything beyond the entry and one of the many sitting rooms in the house, but I would bet he did live there. And I had to admit, I was jealous of Miss Starla. Not for her voice or her stardom. Not even for her money, although I freely admit, I would love to be more than comfortable in my own financial stability. Nope. I was jealous of that bodyguard of hers. I wanted him like nobody’s business.

  He was delicious to look at. Those steely blue eyes that never stopped moving had pinned me in my place the first time she walked into my studio with him. I’d never felt that bone-deep desire before. But he’d done that to me without a single word. Just a look. A hard, dark look that had me thinking all manner of wicked things I’d do for him.

  And in this life, being wicked was a choice. Not a necessity. I’d done my damndest to leave being wicked behind. But after my first glimpse of him, I was ready to throw all my good intentions away for one shot with him.

  Tate Montgomery was my very own wicked fantasy come to life. And he was Starla’s.

  “Miss Stella?” That crystal clear voice was almost too good to be true.

  “Yes, Miss Night?” For all that I’d been her personal designer for almost two years, there was still a formality between us. Actually, there was a formality between her and everybody.

  “I would like for you to provide some attire for Mr. Montgomery for the gala event that will match this dress.”

  I sw
allowed hard. Oh, holy yumminess. I wasn’t sure I could stand close enough to that man and remember to mark his measurements.

  “I don’t need new clothes,” Tate insisted. His rough voice rumbled right through me, like a magic vibrator that left me achy and wet.

  “Of course you do,” Starla replied.

  I was kneeling at her feet, my eyes darting between the two of them even as I continued to monitor the pins I was placing in the hemline of her gown. It was a surreal gown. The multiple layers of soft silk and filmy netting were draped to create the illusion of the night sky in all it’s midnight purple and starlit glory. Tiny diamonds - yes, real diamonds - were sewn into the skirt and winked when the light hit just right. I knew it was one of the more elaborate masterpieces I’d done. Might even have been on par with El’s ball gown. And it was certainly the most expensive creation I’d made to date.

  “I can take his measurements when I finish your hem,” I told her, murmuring through the pins held between my teeth.

  “I would like to see at least a dozen diamonds on his jacket,” Starla instructed.

  One thing about the woman, she knew her mind. Even if she didn’t share all her thoughts with the world, she articulated everything with exact specifications. She was sharp. And as much as I would have liked to have my designs out there more, I definitely appreciated that Starla had an eye for fashion that matched mine. It meant we rarely had a difference of opinion on her wardrobe. And since I supplied the whole thing for her, that was nothing short of miraculous.

  CHAPTER TWO ~ Drew

  Taking Tate Montgomery’s measurements proved to absolutely be one of the most agonizing and amazing endeavors. First, Starla had left us on our own. She’d gone off to who knows where in the giant house of hers to do who knows what. And left me alone in his presence.

  He had undressed down to his boxers, which was necessary, but left me all sorts of distracted and bothered. I held the measuring tape against him, and I swear to the StoryTeller, every time I brushed his skin, I felt goosebumps. He was hot. And I don’t just mean to look at. He was actually heated. His skin burned me every time I grazed it with my hands. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see actual red marks on my knuckles.

  I started with his arms and chest. Because, quite frankly, had I started lower, I might have fainted or lost all ability to think. As it was, just seeing the outline of that bulge of his was making my mouth water like a fountain. I wondered if he was as hot there as he was everywhere else. Would he scald me from the inside out?

  I had to squeeze my thighs tight as that thought went through me. If I didn’t hurry this up, I’d end up with a wet spot on my pants.

  “I don’t really need a full outfit,” he said.

  I glanced at his face, startled that he’d chosen to speak. More often than not, he was silent. His eyes and demeanor spoke volumes enough. That voice of his, though, could bring me to my knees in a heartbeat.

  “Miss Night would be very put out if I didn’t create an entire ensemble for you,” I murmured, carefully choosing my words. I didn’t know if she had cameras around her house or not, but I was not going to risk saying something that would get me into any trouble.

  “She wouldn’t need to know,” he argued.

  I looked at him in shock. Did he not know how detailed his employer was? Had he been oblivious this entire time to her explicitness and nuanced ability to perceive if even the slightest thing was not to her specifications? That wasn’t possible, was it?

  “Okay,” he chuckled. “I guess that’s not entirely true.”

  Hot damn! That light little rumble of his was overkill. I think I may have even orgasmed on the spot just a little. Holy hell. I know I must have turned red, but I hope he attributed it to something other than my desperate desire to have him fuck me.

  If there was a way to work him out of my system, I would do it. But years of trying to make do with fantasies and nothing else hadn’t worked. And I had no clue how to approach him - hell, if I should approach him - for more.

  “Are you going to finish the measurements?” he asked, interrupting my rated R thoughts and bringing me back to the task at hand.

  I swallowed back my nerves and knelt in front of him. Dear heaven and hell. I kept my eyes glued to the tape measure and recorded his outseams first. As I wrote the second number down on my pad, I tried to steady myself. There was no way around it. I gripped my tape measure and as carefully and quickly as I could, I measured the first inseam. I tried to keep my hand from brushing against his cock. Instead, I held the end of the tape with my thumb and rested my palm against his thigh.

  The numbers in front of me blurred as the heat and strength of those muscles seared me. I may have jolted away a little fast, but luckily I kept my other hand in place on the numbers to record. It took a minute for my vision to clear and read them though. Just long enough, I guess, for him to realize something was a little off.

  “Are you alright?”

  I glanced up. Bad decision. Very, very, very bad decision. Now I was kneeling before him. In my head, I was begging for his cock. Hell, I was begging for a lot more than that. Let’s be honest here. I was more than willing to lay down, spread my legs and let him do whatever he wanted. He could tie me up, spank my ass, make me scream for more as he fucked me hard, and I’d still be desperate for him to stake a claim on my body. Again and again and -

  “Miss Stella?”

  I shook myself. Literally, I shook my head to try to clear away the images that were building up in my mind. It was a fantastic fantasy. One that started with me pulling down his boxers and fondling his cock before worshipping it with my mouth, and -

  “Drew?”

  “Huh?”

  He was smiling at me, a bemused smile that seemed to say ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking.’

  “Sorry,” I apologized. Damn my wicked thoughts. Apparently his proximity did nothing to quell the side of me I’d thought I could leave behind. I tried to do the second inseam quickly, and completely forgot to be careful. This time, the back of my hand brushed against a hard, steely length. “Sorry,” I squeaked again - yeah, squeaked, like one of El’s mice.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tate rumbled at me. Did the man ever speak in a normal, not rumbly tone? I mean, seriously? He’d just spoken more words in a matter of a few hours than I’d heard him speak in my presence in a few years.

  I needed help. Lots of it. Or I needed to get laid. That was probably a better option. After all, what therapist would believe that most of my life I’d been a fairytale character? Even if they did, I’d still probably be told I needed to get some. Fairytales didn’t give a girl many options for sexual exploration. If you know what I mean.

  “You can get dressed now,” I muttered, proud of myself for articulating words even if they weren’t very loud. I grabbed up my stuff as quickly as I could, shoving everything into my giant bag that I could never find anything in unless I dumped the whole thing out. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready for you to try on for a fitting.” I grabbed up my keys and sunglasses and hurried from the room before he could say anything else.

  Thankfully, Starla had placed her dress in the foyer for me to grab on my way out. That was her routine, and it was good to have a routine when your brain was scattered in a million different directions, all of which ended with either mortification or a screaming orgasm.

  I snagged the hanger and was out the door faster than I’d ever moved in my life. Even when those dang mice had scared the crap out of me, I’d never moved so fast. By the time I was in my car, the windows down, and speeding down the highway to my small apartment that wasn’t even the size of a wing of Starla’s house, my heartbeat had slowed to only fast instead of neck-breaking speed.

  CHAPTER THREE ~ Tate

  Being the bodyguard of a famous person wasn’t exactly all it was cracked up to be. Not that I’d ever let anyone else see that side of it though. Starla wasn’t just a pop star to me. What most people had no knowledge
of was that Starla was actually my sister. We had different fathers, so we looked different. But I’d been watching out for her since the day she was born. When she decided she wanted to hit Hollywood and grab her own spotlight, I wasn’t going to let her go on her own.

  And she tried. Damn did she try. She slipped out in the middle of the night and was halfway there before I tracked her down. No amount of trying to talk sense into her worked. She was hell-bent on being a star. And I won’t lie, I knew she would be. She’d even chosen a perfect name for herself. Starla Night. That wasn’t her real name, but I wasn’t about to let that slip to anyone. And it was pretty close to her real name that I wasn’t likely to slip up. Especially since I’d given her the nickname Star long before this facade of hers began.

  As soon as we reached Hollywood, she was Starla and that was it. It was assumed I was her bodyguard, and we let that rumor stay in place. Finding a place, hiring staff, setting up studio time and concerts. It was a bit of a whirlwind. And then she’d hired Drew Stella.

  She was every man’s wet dream come to life. Curves in all the right places. Long, dark hair that had me fantasizing about how it would feel wrapped in my hands or how it would look spread across a pillow. Those flashing green eyes were so expressive. And those long-ass legs of hers? I wanted them wrapped around me so badly I could taste the desire.

  But she was off limits. In fact, no one was in the limits. Not until Starla decided she was done being a starlet and was ready to go home. I’d promised our mother that she’d be one hundred and ten percent protected from the world, and that meant no relationships, no friends, no chance of anyone discovering the truth.

  But if anyone could make me break that promise, it would be Drew.