Small Town Secrets: A Forbidden Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  But the beautiful brunette wouldn’t meet my eyes, merely staring out the window.

  “You know that mid-term elections are coming up soon?” she asked in a wooden voice. “And your party’s in big trouble?”

  I snorted.

  “Yeah, but what does that have to do with this NDA? It’s not like I’m up for re-election.”

  Her head snapped back my way.

  “You’re not,” she said in a tight voice. “But they’ll use anything against you to bring you down. You know how many enemies there are? They’re everywhere, from Oklahoma to Idaho, not to mention within your very own party.”

  And that took me aback. Because I’d forgotten just how smart Susie was. Or more accurately, I’d been mooning on and on about her jiggly curves and sweet personality, forgetting that there was an intelligent girl with a college degree beneath the stripper exterior. She was a go-getter and fierce in her own way, which only made me love her more.

  Wait a minute. Love? What the hell was that? Frankly, I haven’t been in love since my dog Buddy died when I was thirteen. So what in the world was I thinking?

  But having Susie in the car with me caused emotions to roll over my frame because suddenly, I realized it was true. I’ve been thinking about the BBW brunette non-stop, from her laugh to her witticisms, to the way she moaned as I stroked those heavenly curves. I was in love with the woman from tip to toe. So I had to try and make the best of this unfortunate situation.

  “Sweetheart,” I rumbled again. “I swear, Josh Cotton was doing this on his own. Or someone else authorized him to make this payment. I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

  And suddenly, Susie’s head swung towards me, those brown eyes blazing with fury.

  “So you know the payment’s already been made,” she hissed. “Because when I woke up this morning, there was a hundred thousand dollars in my bank account!” she cried, tears filling her eyes. “Is that all I am to you? Some hooch that you throw money at?” she asked angrily, swiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I get it. I’m a dancer at the Flamingo, but still, Mr. President,” she said, her voice shaking with rage and hurt. “I would have thought you were better than that.”

  And even with the car speeding along the highway, the curvy female put her hand on the door, ready to make her exit. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of Susie being hurt, emotionally as well as physically. So moving like lightning, I blocked the door.

  “No,” was my low growl. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Try and stop me!” she shrieked, clawing at my face like a kitten gone mad. “You fucking wretch!”

  And we engaged in a wrestling match of sorts except that my lover’s about a hundred pounds lighter than me, not to mention a foot shorter. The scrabbling was over in about five seconds flat, with the curvy girl pinned beneath me on the limo seat.

  “Stop it,” I barked. “Stop it right now.”

  She struggled some more, only to bring those heaving curves in closer contact with my body.

  “Try to stop me,” she hissed again, eyes blazing. “Get ready for a fight, big guy.”

  Of course, this whole thing was ludicrous. The girl was pinned beneath my massive form, those huge Double Ds pressed up against my chest, her legs tangled with my long ones. And I did it then. I swooped down and pressed my lips to hers, infusing the kiss with everything I felt for her. Because Susie is my dream come true. Sure, it’s ludicrous. She’s a librarian cum feature dancer and I’m the President of the United States. Bu that’s the thing. This is the United States, where anyone can meet anyone else, and for whatever reason, there was a real spark between us.

  Susie fought it at first. She struggled and mewled, trying to push my heavy weight off of her. But I was relentless.

  “You love me,” I muttered against her lips. “I know it. You do.”

  And finally, the girl gave up, melting against me with warmth and passion.

  “I hate you!” she managed to gasp, half-crying and half-aroused while still trying to batter my shoulders. “I hate your guts!”

  It only spurred me on.

  “No, you love me sweet thing,” was my fevered reply. “We’re made for each other, however unlikely. Because sweetheart, you’re the good to my bad, the heaven to my hell. You’re what keeps me going when I have nothing to look forward to. Shit, you made tonight’s dinner that much better by showing up.”

  And for a moment, Susie stills, just looking at me.

  “So you didn’t order your lawyer to prepare that NDA?” she asks in a teary voice. “That was his idea and not yours?”

  “His,” I nod curtly. “And fuck but I’m gonna tear him a new one. Or whoever organized this shitshow because honey, you know the White House is a machine. It’s called the Deep State and fuck, but I have no idea myself how it works sometimes. Someone ordered something from somewhere and that piece of crap NDA is the result. But someone’s gonna pay, I can guarantee you that.”

  The brunette relaxed a little bit, her curvy form going still beneath me.

  “So you never wanted to shut me up,” she said quietly, a hitch to her voice. “It’s all a misunderstanding.”

  Fuck, I didn’t know what to say. It was more than a misunderstanding. It was a giant clusterfuck which wires were crossed in the worst ways possible. No wonder nothing ever gets done around this shithole! I didn’t order the contract drawn up and yet somehow, my personal lawyer had come up with this grand idea from who knows where. Probably the Office of Professional Ethics, those asshats. They always think they know what they’re doing, when in fact they’re the new SS come to life.

  So I looked deep into Susie’s eyes, imbuing the gaze with everything I felt for the woman.

  “I’m so sorry,” was my growl. “I never asked for this. I never wanted things to get screwed up in this manner. In fact, I’ve only been thinking of you, and trying to figure out a way to get back up to the Flamingo. It’s been a hellish couple months to say the least.”

  She gazed back at me, the caramel eyes still a little wary but at least the raging fear and anger were gone.

  “Okay,” Susie said while taking a deep breath. “I get it. Okay.”

  I levered myself off her body before pulling her close to my side.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” came my murmur again. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you or make you feel bad in any way. In fact, I love you. You’re the only one who means something to me in this cesspool of a city, and you don’t even live here,” I said wryly. “What I wouldn’t do to move back to Manhattan right now.”

  She looked at me, before turning to face my form with those soft curves undulating.

  “But you can move back,” she said in a gentle voice. “It’s not impossible.”

  I let out a sharp bark.

  “Are you kidding sweetheart? Not since Richard Nixon has a President of the United States resigned from office. I don’t exactly want to follow in the steps of Tricky Dick, if you get what I mean.”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, I get it,” the female spoke. “But you’re so unhappy. Doesn’t that count for something? You can’t live life like this, stewing non-stop in your fancy suits. It’s not worth it Thomas. Life isn’t meant to be lived like this.”

  I took a deep breath because how could I make her understand? I’m the President, for crying out loud. How could I just turn my back on the people who had elected me?

  But on the other hand, Susie had a point. I hate my life. I hate getting up in the morning, my heart heavy with dread. I hate putting on these goddamn suits that all look the same, while making nice with diplomats who can’t wait until I’m gone. I hate the cameras, the endless news coverage, and the media barons, all who want to bring me down. I hate them all. So to my own surprise, I nodded.

  “I’ll think about it,” came my low voice. “Because shit, I really want to quit.”

  She nodded.

  “We all do sometimes,” she said. “And
there’s no shame in quitting, so long as the circumstances are right. Because we’re not here on Earth to hate every minute of existence, Thomas. We’re humans. We’re meant to be happy, and it’s our right to pursue happiness in life. Isn’t that what the Declaration of Independence says? And you’ve suffered enough. You never asked for this, and it was only through sheer chance that the office landed on you. So maybe it’s time to throw in the towel. Be happy, Thomas. Start your life over because you deserve it.”

  And holy hell, but Susie’s words moved me. How did the girl do it? Somehow, her sentences stirred my soul deep within, tapping into what I really wanted. Because I was sick of this city. I was sick of this office and the in-fighting and squabbles, large and small, that happened each day. I was sick of the ceaseless demands, the non-stop traveling, and the rubber chicken dinners. I wanted peace and happiness once more, and becoming a private citizen was the first step on that path.

  So I took her hands in mine.

  “If I do it,” came my low growl. “Will you come with me? Because sweetheart, you mean the world to me. It doesn’t matter that you dance for a living. It doesn’t matter if you’re green, blue, or purple with polka dots. What matters is that we love each other, and want to be together.”

  Susie looked at me then with light and adoration in her eyes.

  “Yes, I’ll come with you, Mr. President.” She took a deep breath. “Because ultimately, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re the president or not. What matters is that I, Susie Hemphill, love you, Thomas Burke, and I want to be with you. So yes, Mr. President. Take that as my agreement.”

  And with that, I lowered my head to her sweet pout, taking the little girl’s lips. Because these were the words that I needed to hear, a balm over my sore heart. This woman would be with me through thick and thin, even if I rejected the highest office in the land. She didn’t care about keeping up with the Joneses, or about the trappings of success. She wanted to be with me because true love is the way to happiness, and we were destined to walk the path together.

  So yes, despite our unconventional beginnings, the starlet and the President found their way together. It was crazy, our first meeting taking place in a seedy joint called the Pink Flamingo. But you know what? It’s no crazier than on-line dating or using a matchmaker. And what’s important is that my true love is in my arms … for better or worse, richer or poorer, until death do us part.

  Six Ways to Sin

  ~A Reverse Harem Romance~

  © 2017

  By Cassandra Dee and Katie Ford

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  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  SIX WAYS TO SIN: A Reverse Harem Romance

  I’m a flight attendant who does more than drinks.

  I work for the hottest private charter company on the East Coast.

  It’s an amazing job with incredible perks.

  But even more enticing are the passengers.

  Because every single one is a billionaire.

  Tall, dark and handsome.

  Dominating as sin.

  Charming and possessive.

  As for me?

  Well, I’m a shy girl.

  Plump and curvy, pushing the drink cart.

  Except this job brings out my deepest desires.

  Because there’s Damien on the Dallas flight.

  Charlie on the Chicago leg.

  Nick in New York.

  Aaron and Andrew in Atlanta.

  And Tom in Texas.

  The billionaires don’t know about each other.

  Or so I hope.

  Because when they find out …

  How many ways can you say sin?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Joanie

  I took a big breath in and let it out in a short burst, hands on my hips, Superwoman style. My aunt once told me that it’s a power pose, that people perk up and listen when you have an air of command.

  But no such luck. The pose didn’t make me feel any more confident. In fact, it made me feel weird and uncomfortable because I was interviewing for a job as a flight attendant, nervous as hell.

  Being a stewardess wasn’t my first career choice, not really. But for several reasons it ended up being a good option. I just had to nail my first interview in order to get my career started. No biggie, right?

  But my first appointment wasn’t going well. An older woman greeted me with a tight French twist and pruney, pursed lips. She looked me over like she was reviewing a modeling portfolio. If the lady hadn’t been sixty and female, I might have felt ogled. Well, age and gender notwithstanding, I felt pretty ogled anyways.

  The woman’s eyes were sharp, not missing any details.

  “Just the right size for a flight attendant,” she noted, scribbling something on my application form. That was a weird comment for sure. I mean, flight attendants can’t be super tall because of the ceiling height in commercial planes, but still. Speaking your thoughts out loud was strange.

  Plus, the way her eyes sized up my figure was a little disconcerting. Again, I think there are weight restrictions for stewardesses, but with this kind of once over, I felt like a prize cow at the County Fair. Not a great feeling.

  Because I’ve never been a skinny girl. With Double D breasts and ample hips, sometimes squeezing through the narrow aisles of a plane can be tough. There’s more than a little junk in the trunk back there, and half the time I was afraid I’d hit some poor passenger’s head.

  But dieting doesn’t work for me. I tried that whole South Beach thing, but it was a bust. Food has always been my go to, and the more I tried to diet, the more nervous I got. The more nervous I got, the more I ate. Go figure.

  But the interviewer had no idea. She looked me up and down again, eyes narrow, missing nothing. And then with a harrumph, she pronounced, “You’re hired.”

  I gasped.

  “Really? No-no questions for me?” came my stammer.

  The lady looked down at her clipboard, reviewing my application once more.

  “Everything on here is accurate, isn’t that so?” she asked. “You signed a statement certifying its validity.”

  I nodded dumbly. That was true. But what interviewer doesn’t ask questions?

  The woman merely nodded again, clearly impatient.

  “Welcome to Elite Air,” came her clipped words. “Uniform fitting will be on Monday. Come back to the conference hall and the tailors will set you up.”

  I nodded dumbly. Hey, I was gonna get a paycheck, and it seemed wise to keep my questions to a minimum. But one small one escaped my lips.

  “Um, should I try to slim down?” I asked hesitantly. “For the uniform fitting? I can lose a lot in a week,” were my rushed words, although that was patently untrue. “I know the aisles on the plane must be narrow.”

  The woman lowered her brows, frowning

  “Absolutely not,” was her declaration. “There’s plenty of space on board, you’ll see.”

  Thunderstruck, my head nodded. I thought airplanes were regulation sized. We’d practiced on a bunch of models during stewardess school, and there wasn’t a lot of room on any of the commercial aircraft.

  But nodding again, I agreed.

  “Okay,” came my soft voice. “Monday it is then.”

  And dazed, I stepped outside onto the sidewalk, the glare on the sidewalks blinding. Who was Elite Air? Or what was it? I’d done some googling but there wasn’t much information on-line. The website said it was a private fleet catering to billionaires and famous people. Wow. Like Elon Musk or handsome George Clooney types? That sounded great.

  But real life isn’t filled with George Clooneys. You’d be lucky to meet even one George Clooney in your lifetime. More likely, it was seventy year old gazillionaires who had dozens of grandchildren. That was okay. I don’t mind families at all, and kids have always made me smile. And besides, there
was the paycheck. The annual salary and benefits were amazing, almost double that offered by other airlines. It’d be ridiculous to pass up this opportunity.

  So the next Monday, I showed up again. And sure enough, a seamstress was on hand, taking my measurements, nodding here while pinning there. And after ten minutes, we were done. I was dressed in my first uniform, ready to fly.

  But this wasn’t your regular stewardess outfit, with a dowdy cardigan and knee length skirt. Instead, it was seriously cute. Even sexy, come to think of it. The navy dress was form fitting in all the right places, with a modest décolletage that showed off my ample bust. There was an adorable matching pillbox hat, and a blue scarf with red dots to tie around my neck. The whole look was retro and jaunty and I fell in love with it immediately.

  My interviewer, Helena, materialized out of nowhere, scrutinizing me in the dress. No hello, no how are you’s. Instead, she addressed her words to the seamstress.

  “Perfect,” came her clipped voice. “The men will love it.”

  The men?

  What did that mean?

  But I guess it was possible. There are certainly more male billionaires in the world than female.