“Forever,” he growled against my lips, our breaths mingling. “You’re mine, you hear?”
I pulled away for a moment, tears in my eyes.
“Yes, forever,” I whispered. “But Stone, I have something to tell you too.” And with a slow movement, I pulled one of his hands to my belly where a slight swell was developing. It was tiny still, just a small addition to my soft stomach. But Stone’s eyes went wide, his hand rubbing my tummy as if for good luck.
“Is this what I think it is?” the alpha breathed, as if hardly daring to believe his good luck. “Are you pregnant, Morgan?”
I nodded then, tears welling in my eyes.
“Yes Stone. When I left you, I was pregnant already although I didn’t know it,” came my broken voice. “But the baby’s good now. He’s got his mom and his dad, and we’ll be a family together. Always,” I whispered, lifting my lips for a kiss.
The billionaire’s mouth crashed down on mine, commanding, possessive, and oh so masculine.
“Always,” he ground out, seizing my heart with dominant authority, wrapping those muscular arms around my frame. “Always sweetheart. You’re mine now, Morgan Nelson. And I will love you and this child until the end of my days.”
With that, I let myself truly relax for the first time in months because when I discovered my pregnancy, shock had overtaken my frame. Unable to move, I’d stared at my reflection in the mirror, mouth dropping open. Holy cow, pregnant with the billionaire’s child? No, it couldn’t be, seeing that he’d just kicked me out of his life.
But the drugstore test told another story. Two blue stripes meant I was with child for sure, and once the shock passed, elation took its place. Because I loved Stone Evans, even if he felt nothing for me. This child had been conceived in passion, and my emotions would have to carry us even if they weren’t returned.
I promised to do my best for my little boy, no matter what happened between me and his dad. But now, my dreams have been answered to the millionth degree. Things have worked out, despite the inauspicious start. Initially, there were the accusations of spying and deceit. But sure enough, those accusations fell by the wayside, devoid of any truth whatsoever. Even more, Stone’s seen the error of his ways, and he’s come out of this a better man. One who wants to do his best for me, by me, and for our child as well. And what else could a woman ask for? After all, we started out playing spy games. But in the end … there’s no game that trumps the game of love.
Epilogue
Stone
She moaned in front of me, that curvy frame jiggling and wiggling as I stroked her sweetest spot.
“Oh Stone,” Morgan cried out, breathing hard, her face pressed against the mattress. “Yes, right there.”
I chuckled deeply, pushing my fingers even deeper into that warm, wet channel.
“Like this?” I asked roughly. “Is this what you want, sweetheart?”
Morgan moaned again, breasts swaying beneath that torso.
“Yes, just like that, Mr. Evans,” she breathed, her sweet pussy beginning to spasm around my fingers. “Yes, please.”
I chuckled, my dick rigid and dying to get into her. But my baby’s pleasure means more to me than anything else, especially after what we’ve been through. Because it was hard getting to this place with my ring on her finger. There was a lot of suffering on both sides, deep-seated pain and longing that had nowhere to go for the longest time.
But I didn’t get to be CEO without recognizing my own faults, and one of my strengths is correcting them once they’ve been identified. So after realizing that this woman was everything to me, I went at it full bore. I bought the ring. I chased her down. And I made her mine, without giving Morgan an opportunity to get away.
Because she’s the best thing that’s ever happened in my life. This sweet female is the sun that lights my day, and the moon that guides my ship at night. And now with the pregnancy, she means even more to me. Because Morgan is my all, and with our son on the way, her ripe, female form and beautiful brain are what rocks my word 24/7.
And yes, her intelligence grips me by the balls just as much as that curvy body. Somewhere during our courtship, the brunette blossomed into her true sassy self, and shit, but when she handed my gonads to me during that last confrontation, I was scared. I was terrified that Morgan was going to walk right out of my life, and that was before I knew she was carrying our child.
But my woman has good judgment, and she’s able to make excellent decisions. Because the minute that diamond ring appeared, it was clear my words were true. I had every intention of hunting her down and making the female mine. Morgan’s visit had merely pushed things forward dramatically, shortening the timeline.
But all’s well that ends well. The Nick Prescott bullshit is nothing, and the “top secret” information he was so intent on getting? Most of it was just drivel. My attorneys stamp almost every paper with the words “Privileged and Confidential,” so the stuff he had on tape was never going to get into the public.
And poor Evelyn, his ex-girlfriend. I say ex because the minute Morgan stopped talking to her, she was dumped like a rotten tomato by Prescott. But Morgan’s been kind to her friend because Evelyn was used too. Frankly, that girl’s too dumb to mastermind anything crazy, and she’d been nothing but a pawn in Prescott’s sick game. Hopefully, with my wife’s help, she loses her taste for seventy-year-old trolls and meets a decent guy her own age.
But in the meantime, I’ve still got my curvy female to attend to. At the moment, she was on her hands and knees, moaning as I slid my fingers deep into her vaginal channel, feeling the walls pulse around me.
“Oh yes,” the woman moaned, her belly so big that I’d slipped a cushion beneath her stomach to provide support. “More.”
And with a jerk of her hips and a sudden cry, the tremors began. Her sweet pussy clamped down on my hand, once, hard, before shaking like an earthquake gone mad.
“Stone!” she cried. “Now!”
Right on cue, I slipped my fingers out of her pussy, moving them upwards to toy with her anus before pushing once, hard, and driving them deep into that sweet brown hole. Oh yeah, my baby likes getting her ass fingered, and it’s best when the torrent has already started. Her body’s loose, my fingers are lubed from pussy juice, and shit, but that hole is tight.
“Unnnnh!” my woman cried, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Fuuuuck!”
With that, Morgan exploded altogether. Her curvy frame shook, boobs swaying as orgasm wracked that frame.
“Oh Stone!” my name erupted from her throat. “Stone Stone Stone!”
Never has any music sounded so sweet to my ears because this is my woman, and I’m her man. The female started as a flight attendant on my private airline, morphing into an alleged spy. But my sweet Morgan is no spy, engaged in the world of darkness. She’s my wife now, and the mother of my child. She’s the star that I sail my ship by, and her light will carry us forwards on rocky waves … together forever.
* * *
The End
* * *
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A Sneak Peek: Client Number 6
By Cassandra Dee and Kendall Blake
* * *
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About This Book
CLIENT NO. 6: A Dial-A-Date Romance
* * *
I never thought I’d turn to a male escort service.
* * *
Jennie needs a date for her high school reunion. Ten years out, she wants to show that she’s made it – career-wise, looks-wise, and most importantly, relationship-wise. One problem: There’s no boyfriend in sight. Not even close.
* * *
Jason’s a former high school quarterback who works as a movie pr
oducer. He moonlights on the side meeting women and providing the “boyfriend experience.” Little does he know that his next client is the curvy girl from his past … who’s turned into a bombshell!
16
Jennie
I look at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Not bad, especially considering that last year, I used to weigh a lot more. Not that it was so terrible. I’ve always liked myself, but now a few of the pounds have melted off and I’m … dare I say, cute? Maybe even beautiful if you squint into the mirror.
Because I’m someone who’s always had a terrible relationship with food. Everything clichéd is true when it comes to me. How you shouldn’t equate eating with love. How you should turn your energy outwards and feel balanced so that you don’t feel hungry.
But none of that has ever worked because after my dad left, my mom showered me with treats to fill in the emptiness. So there was candy. Brownies. Fudge apple pies (yes, they exist!). We even made peppermint bark together once a month even though most people only enjoy that stuff at Christmas. But not the Lake girls. Me and mom ate peppermint bark, not to mention candy canes and gingerbread cookies year round. So by the time I was seventeen, it was hard to fit into clothes that had any shape.
“Honey,” burbled my mom. “Do you want to lick the brownie spoon? It’s mm-mm good!”
I shouldn’t have, but I did. I know it’s gross but it was just the two of us, and besides, licking the stirrer is a tradition. I’ve been doing it since I was seven and first learned to bake.
“Thanks Mom,” I said. “This batch is going to be terrific.”
Trudie smiled.
“You know it,” she said, leaning forwards to push the brownies into the oven. “We make the best team, sweetheart.”
So as you can tell, my mom and I bonded over food, especially when times were tough. We didn’t have much but at least our small home was always filled with the good smells and love.
The problem is that unexpectedly, my mom had a massive heart attack last year. There was no reason for it except that Trudie was round and didn’t exercise much. But losing my best friend so suddenly shocked me, and I sprang into gear immediately.
“Oh my god,” I sobbed. “I have to start running, walking, and biking all the time. I have to get my butt in gear otherwise the Grim Reaper’s coming for me too.”
So with determination, I started working out like a madman and the pounds slipped off. It was slow at first, and a lot of hard work. Plus, I was absolutely devastated by Trudie’s death, so there were many times when I was tempted to give up. It seemed easier to seek solace in a jelly donut or a pint of ice cream rather than to haul myself back to the gym for another tortuous session.
But it’s been a year now, and I’ve gotten some great results. I’m still big, but now it’s a nice kind of big. My breasts are huge and soft, and I have a big butt still, but at least my rump is toned and in shape. Yes, I still have thunder thighs and big upper arms, but guys like a little to hold at night, right? It doesn’t seem fun to be in bed with someone who’s nothing more than sticks and bones, so I kinda like the extra heft on my frame.
This has all been good timing too because next week’s my high school reunion. Ah, high school. It was only five years ago but the memories are still fresh. Jennie Bong Bong, was one of the names I was called, not to mention Ring-Ding, Ring-Dong, and Big Dong. The sad part is that the names don’t even make sense. I’m don’t have a dong, nor do I use bongs. But trust the mean girls to come up with nonsensical monikers that can make you cry.
So I want to triumph next week at my reunion. I want to walk into the hotel ballroom and show off my new shape with a sassy swing to my hips and a sparkle in my eye. I want to show them that there’s a new Jennie Lake in town, and make all those bitches twist with jealousy as their eyes go green.
The only problem is a date. Most girls from South Carolina get married early, and I know for sure that Savannah Sherman, my worst tormentor, married some hot guy with a cleft to his jaw and a preppy-sounding name. What was his name again? Reginald? Reggie? It’s something annoying yet uppercrust at once. Exactly the type of guy who never saw me.
And I know what you’re thinking. My desire for a date is so old-fashioned and backwards. But that’s the thing. This isn’t New York City where Carrie and her friends spend decades going to cool art parties and bars lit up with fluorescent lights. This is Charleston, South Carolina, and below the Mason-Dixon line, people still judge women by how far you’ve come in life. Or more specifically, whether you’ve landed a husband by age 21. Doesn’t matter if he’s a loser who’s never worked a day. Doesn’t matter if he guzzles beer and never takes a shower. Just so long as you have that ring on your finger.
So desperation courses through my veins. Aaron, my gay friend had promised to feign being straight for the event, but now he’s sick with a severe case of bronchitis. I’d make him come anyways, except that he looked really bad last time I saw him. His usually sparkling blue eyes were faded and cloudy, and his slick brown cut looked like a rat’s nest when he opened his front door.
So what am I going to do? Frankly, I have no idea. In desperation, I flip open my laptop and surf to Facebook, browsing idly. Oh shit. Here’s a pic of Savannah Sherman herself, and the air in my chest grows tight. Because not only is she happily married according to her profile, but her husband is gorgeous. Male model type of gorgeous with a strong jaw and a flashing, bright white smile. I almost want to throw up because I can see it now. Me, striding into a hotel ballroom with my head held high in a stunning cocktail dress. But they’ll be there too, gathered in a corner and casting sly looks my way.
“Jennie thinks she’s so high and mighty, moving to the big city after high school,” they’ll whisper maliciously. “But bless her heart, she doesn’t have a man. Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a guy in New York City? She should have stayed down here in Charleston. Big mistake moving,” they’ll sneer while shielding perfectly-lipsticked mouths.
Uck. Fuck ‘em. I hate the mean girls, and the rage makes me see red. So with a vengeance, I click over to the Craigslist classifieds. I know it’s a bad idea because Craigslist is filled with scammers and thieves allegedly. The only thing you can use it for is to sell furniture, and even then you have to be careful not to get ripped off.
But I scan the personals section while holding my breath. Maybe I can find someone within the next week to take to reunion. We’ll meet on Monday, go out again on Tuesday to make sure we’re compatible, and then by Friday, we’ll jet to Charleston together and wow the old crowd.
But I know this is pure folly because the ads are pure ridiculousness. Things like:
Sixty but you must be thirty or under. Young ones only. I can promise a lifestyle that you won’t regret.
Or:
Looking for a live-in housekeeper. No rent necessary, but you’ll have to do your chores in the nude.
What the hell? Who answers this kind of stuff? I can see that some of the ads have been posted multiple times on multiple days, like they’re hoping that some girl who’s desperate will respond.
But the thing is, I’m the girl who’s desperate, so with an exasperated sigh, I click over to another section. Maybe if I look at some furniture for sale, I’ll be able to take my mind off this drivel before me.
But my mouse slips and instead, I click on the women for men section. My eyes pop open because this section is even crazier than the men for women. In fact, these ladies are straight up prostitutes. The ads run the gamut from:
$$$ SWEET THING AVAILABLE $$$ Call-in or meet-out.
To:
You got the cash? Then I got the booty! Dial 555-5555 for fun timez!
I’m not one to judge. After all, this is the oldest profession in the world, but at the same time, my eyes bug and I gasp as seeing the pictures the girls have posted of themselves. Most have their heads cut off, but some even leave their heads on, and it’s photo after photo of beautiful girls with amazing bodies in skimpy bikinis. T
hey all have perfect skin and narrow waists, and all of them invariably have a come-hither gaze that would make even the sturdiest man melt.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes. These women are for sale. They’re clearly offering a service for money, and as a woman of the world, I should use my brains and leverage this to my advantage. After all, the times in the past when I’ve felt outraged at some injustice or other, it never turned out well if all I did was fume and sit on my butt. Instead, the times things got better was when I used my brain and made something of the situation.
So taking a deep breath, I open a new browser and hesitantly look at the screen. What should I say? There’s no delicate way to phrase it, so I type out: MALE ESCORT.
Immediately the browser responds with dozens of sites. There’s one for escorts available in the Caribbean, the model on the page a bronzed god with tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest. Oh, me likey. A cut guy with tats always makes me salivate.
Then there’s NYC Gentlemen, where a man in a suit greets visitors digitally. He’s dapper with a gleaming white smile and black suit, but when I click on the site, warning lights start flashing and a pop-up informs me that my computer has been infected with a virus. Hurriedly, I close the window before who knows what pops on my screen.
Okay, that didn’t go well, but I’m not a quitter. Especially not so soon in the game. So I open another new browser, and this time I type MALE ESCORT SOUTH CAROLINA. This time, there are relatively few results, and one at the top catches my eye. It’s called Southern Charm written in elegant script font, with a picture of exactly the type of guy I’m looking for. He’s tall with dashing, dark brown hair and a charming grin. Plus, he’s dressed Charleston-style with a pair of red pants and a windowpane check shirt. I know it sounds cheesy, but that’s what guys down South wear.
Falling For My Enemy Page 16
