Sexy Mother Faker, Big Sexy Series, Book 2

by Remy Rose

When faking it becomes aching for it

They say a bachelor with a big “vessel” is a babe magnet. And you know what? They aren’t wrong. But the CEO of the family yacht company (a.k.a. my mother) is rocking my boat, demanding I bed and wed the heiress of one of our biggest competitors. If my mother doesn’t get her way and decides to fire me, I forfeit millions in trust fund money. So there’s that.

Salvation comes in the form of Delaney Brewster, who just happens to need an investor. In exchange, she agrees to help me stave off Mommie Dearest by pretending to be my girlfriend. It’s a crazy faking idea, but even crazier? My heart is telling me that spunky, sexy Delaney could be the real deal.

It’s not an overstatement to say my 9-to-5 equates to lying underneath a hairy fat guy and faking an orgasm. I desperately want to start my own business, but my cash flow…isn’t. Until Damon Cavanaugh makes me an offer my bank account can’t refuse.

Pretending to be his girlfriend should be easy, since I’ve sworn off serious relationships. And let’s face it, he’s easy on the eyes. But the more I get to know Damon, the less it feels like acting. And when his mother steps up the pressure, the gloves—and the masks—have to come off, exposing the one thing I swore to protect…my heart.

Read the Prologue and First Chapter!


The dorm room smells faintly of male sweat and spilled beer. All right, more than just faintly, but I don’t care because I’m with him.

I take a quick look around. It’s what I would have expected, except with more unwashed socks. There’s a neon PBR beer sign with a couple of bulbs missing, and there are posters—AC/DC on tour, Sybil Danning in a white string bikini, a topless Monique Gabrielle from “Bachelor Party,” a woman in a thong bending over to get beer on the bottom rack of the refrigerator.

I’ve detected two clear themes here.

There are two beds, one on either side of the room, and I silently hope that his is the neater, made one. I see a mini-fridge in the corner, a rugby uniform in a crumpled heap on the floor, an open notebook, a stack of textbooks and a gooseneck lamp on one of the desks, red Solo cups (some scattered, some stacked) on the deep windowsill.

I feel the need to take in every little detail because I want to remember everything about the night I lose my virginity.

He goes to the closet, takes out a striped necktie. I watch, my heart pounding, as he opens the door and drapes the tie over the knob, flashing me a slightly embarrassed, totally adorable grin.

He doesn’t have to tell me what that means.

“Want something to drink?”

I nod. I don’t even ask what he has because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is him.

He walks back to the closet, reaches up to the top shelf, and takes down a bottle of Svedka, then gets a clean Solo cup from the stack on the windowsill and makes us both screwdrivers with the orange juice from his mini-fridge. When he leads me over to the unmade bed to sit, I forgive him for not being the neat side because I’ve already fallen in love with him.

He’s looking at me steadily as he finishes his drink. He has the most beautiful eyes—they were what I noticed first when we were paired together a couple months ago in our Economic Theory class. His eyes are large, dark, and expressive, with lashes any girl would envy…the type of eyes you could fall into and never want to come out. I noticed his mouth second—how his lips looked perfectly moisturized and supremely kissable. And then all the rest of him received a fair share of stares from me as well—his thick brown hair that always seemed adorably unruly, his broad shoulders, trim waist, and muscular build.

He takes my empty cup and slips it inside his. It feels symbolic somehow, and I involuntarily shiver, thinking of what’s going to happen soon.

“We’ve got to be careful about this. About people finding out.”

I nod. I’m well aware. Our parents would kill us. “Yes, we do.”

He looks concerned, almost troubled, and I lay my hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “We’ll just be careful. And it’s kind of exciting, being secretive.”

I’ve said just the right thing. He lights up. I see a simmering in those dark eyes, and heated want slides into my belly.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the hair away from my face, letting the blond strands slip through his fingers. He slides over closer, and then we become a tangle of arms and groping hands, of hot mouths and eager tongues. His lips are soft but insistent, and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life, listening to him groan as we kiss.

My blouse is off, my bra unclasped, and he carefully lays me down on his bed, taking his shirt off while keeping his gaze on me. Impulsively, I reach out to grasp the bulge in his jeans, and he groans louder. “Fuck, I want you…so much.”

“Have me,” I whisper. “Have all of me.”

We each wriggle out of our pants. He’s so beautiful in the neon light of the beer sign. I draw in my breath at the sight of his erect penis. He has me help him put on the condom—this seems to excite him even more—and then, the intense sensation of him pressing between my legs.

A momentary bite of pain as he slides into me, but I’m very wet, and the friction soon feels amazing. I’m not quite sure what to do, but I lift my hips as he thrusts, hooking my legs around him, and he seems to appreciate this. He says my name over and over…tells me he’s almost there…and then I feel him shudder. I haven’t come yet, but after he rolls off me, he fingers me expertly, and I cry out as I climax.

I’m delirious, practically glowing. Being with him is even more wonderful than I’d fantasized.

“That was…amazing.” He grins, shaking his head. We kiss deeply, and I make him laugh when I tell him I want to do it again.

“We will,” he promises. “This is only the beginning.”

The beginning of what I hope will be my forever.


Chapter 1 / Damon

Scent is a very powerful thing. Sight has to be the most valuable sense, the one you’d miss the most if you lost it, but the sense of smell has the power to transport you to another place and time. Suntan lotion takes you right to the beach, obviously…warm ocean breeze, blazing sun, seagulls soaring lazily across a bright blue sky. Burning wood: bam, you’re sitting around a homemade fire pit at your college buddy’s camp, grinning at each other’s glowing faces and toasting with your can of Bud Light to no more fucking final exams, ever. Pine trees—correction, fake pine tree scent—sprayed on a gargantuan, artificial Christmas tree because your mother doesn’t want to deal with pine needles in the house, takes you on a nostalgic trip through time to all those warm and wonderful family Christmases you experienced as a little kid…


Or, scent can cement you right the hell where you are—make you hyper aware of what’s going on around you. Which is exactly what’s happening to me right now, as I walk in the door of Country Manor nursing home, heading for the dementia unit, room 304. I’m smelling a blend of strong coffee, disinfectant spray, and today—unfortunately—just the slightest whiff of pee.

The dementia unit is all kinds of fucked-up adorable. You’ve got the two WWII vets I’ve nicknamed Bert and Ernie, who sit in their wheelchairs wearing their veteran caps, and in moments of mental clarity, argue about who had the worst battle conditions—I’m going with Bert purely for weather-related reasons, since he was at the Battle of the Bulge, while Ernie was stationed in the South Pacific. You’ve got “Red,” a sweet, ninety-something woman with practically no hair who sits quietly in her chair, hands in her lap, till she randomly breaks into song—The Way You Look Tonight or Fly Me To The Moon are her go-to jams. I have to say, she’s pretty damned good.

And you’ve got Lillian Ruth Abbott, who’s the whole reason I’m here. She’s my paternal grandmother and the only grandparent I have left, since she was widowed before I was born, and my mother’s parents passed away during my toddler years. I’m the closest to Lillian out of anyone in my family, mainly because she’s nothing like my father. Or my mother, for that matter.

I don’t call her Mimi like I used to when I was young…I call her Mom, because she thinks I’m her son. Definitely not going to let my real mother know that because she’d flip. She doesn’t know how much I’ve been visiting Lillian since she entered the nursing home last year, and I plan to keep it that way. Mother never comes to see her, but I guess that’s understandable since my parents have been split for fifteen years.

What’s not understandable is that my father, Lillian’s son, also never comes to see her. Sad to say, though, it doesn’t surprise me a bit, since he’s a prick of the highest order. My grandmother was the one who came to all my middle school games when dear old Dad was too busy, and she was the one who kept coming to my high school games after he was no longer in the picture. She wouldn’t make excuses for him—she’d purse her lips and say he didn’t know what he was missing, and how he wasn’t worthy of a son like me. On the rare occasion my mother would show up at a game, she and Lillian would acknowledge each other with a frosty nod when they saw me afterward, Lillian usually handing me a Tupperware container filled with homemade cookies or brownies, which always got my mother fuming. But it also got me thinking, Mother, nothing’s preventing you from doing the same thing.

Nothing’s preventing you from being a mom—except yourself.

So my grandmother was there for me, and I’m sure as hell going to be there for her too. Even if she doesn’t know who I am anymore.

Walking through the common area, I chat for a few minutes with Bert and Ernie and give a thumbs-up to the new guy sitting in his wheelchair playing the harmonica. Chloe, who’s hands down the best nurse on the planet, is chatting with one of the CNAs near the kitchenette and looks up when she sees me.

“Ohh, she’s going to love that one, Damon,” she says, smiling at what I’m carrying.

“Thanks, Chlo. I hope so. She awake?”

“She should be—I was in there about ten minutes ago, and she was just finishing her lunch.”

The door to my grandmother’s room is partly open. She has a private room—I made sure of that when I set her up here—with a nice view of a field that looks postcard-perfect most every month of the year, except for this one because it’s March, and March in Maine doesn’t look good on anything or anyone.

Lillian Ruth is looking out at the field as if she can see beyond the lifeless, tattered grass and clumps of mud to where things are green and shining and beautiful. She looks even tinier than usual in the recliner by the window, almost swallowed up in it. Her thick white hair has been neatly combed—Chloe, undoubtedly—and her face is smooth with contentment. She’s wearing the green sweater I’d brought her the last visit for St. Patrick’s Day. There’s an afghan over her lap, her wrinkled hands folded neatly on top of it. I notice the shell of a tangerine next to her on the windowsill.

“Hey…Mom.” As usual, I feel the sharp little twist inside my heart whenever I call her that.

Her gaze snaps from the window to me, a fierce brightening in her face. “Trent! You’re here.” A deep sigh reverberates from her little frame as I walk over to her.

I hold one arm behind my back to hide what I brought as I bend way down to give her a hug with my other arm. She smells citrusy. “Yes, I am, Mom. And I have something for you.”

There’s an eager expectation in her eyes, like a little girl’s.

“Here.” I bring my arm forward and hand her the doll. This one has tiny pink lips, eyes that open and close, and a shock of dark hair. I never thought I’d become a doll aficionado, but this one’s cute as hell.

My grandmother reaches for the doll baby. Bringing it to her nose, she inhales deeply, her eyes glazing over with something close to ecstasy. “Baby powder. She smells like baby powder. Is she mine, Trent?”

“Absolutely, she’s yours. What’re you going to name her?”

“Oh! I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know…” She’s making a song out of her answer now, crooning, rocking her upper body back and forth in the chair with the doll. The sheer joy in her expression makes my chest hurt.

I pull the guest chair over near her, unzip my coat, and sit down next to my grandmother who thinks I’m her son. For as long as she’s alive, I’ll be doing my best to give her the nicest version of him that I can.

And for as long as I’m alive? I’ll be doing my best to turn out nothing like him.