Their Secret

by Cassandra Dee

  And not at all intimidated, Evie giggled.

  “Why Mr. Phillips, I had no idea you were so possessive,” she cooed. “Can I bring a male friend around now and then, you know for a study session?”

  And my face darkened, my brows lowering.

  “Fuck!” I ground out, fists clenched at my sides. “You don’t have any male friends, you don’t have any male teachers or male anything,” I ground out roughly.

  Now Evie was really amused.

  “Not even my friend Chip?” she teased.

  And I exploded at that stupid name.

  “That Chip dipshit doesn’t get near you after this,” I raged. I was so angry thinking that another man had touched my beautiful brunette during our year apart that I could hardly swallow, my chest tight, my lungs barely inflating. And Evie still wanted to hang out with him? Even if it was platonic, I was devastated all the same.

  But Evie took pity on me then, taking my hand in hers.

  “Oh Stone,” she said, her voice gentle, reading my mind. “Chip never touched me, we weren’t dating, we’ve never dated. It was always you. It’s always only ever been you,” she clarified.

  All the air whooshed out of my body, the world suddenly opening with possibilities.

  “What are you saying?” I said, barely daring to breathe. Oh god, it shouldn’t have mattered, she had every right after all, but still, if it was true…

  And Evie just nodded.

  “Yes Stone,” she smiled at me. “No one’s ever touched me but you. Chip was just a distraction, a friend, a nobody really. It’s always been you Mr. Phillips.”

  And I kissed her then, imbuing the contact with my adoration for the girl, how much I treasured her, how much it meant to me that I was the only man who’d ever touched her, felt that wetly creaming puss, savored her ass, her body pulsing and trembling only for me.

  “I’ll make it worth it,” I whispered harshly into her ear, my voice choked up, throat tight. “Move in with me, now.”

  And she nodded against me, her lips grazing my jaw.

  “I’ll move in this weekend,” she promised sweetly, gazing at me, eyes limpid pools of need and desire. “I promise.”

  And our living situation wasn’t the only change either.

  “Stop working in the coffee shop,” I commanded a few weeks later as I watched Evie tie an apron on, the green wrap highlighting her tiny waist contrasted against her huge boobs and generous ass. “I have more than enough, you know that.”

  But Evie had resisted on that one.

  “Stone I can’t just take from you,” she said slowly, her eyes flickering to me even as she bit her lip. “I’m already living with you rent-free, eating your food, and you’ve given me a car …” she said her voice trailing off.

  But I was adamant.

  “Evie,” I growled again. “What do you make at the coffee shop? Ten bucks an hour? Trust me, I have millions, am making millions at Phillips, there’s no need to work in the salt mines.”

  But my girl wasn’t having it.

  “No Stone,” she said softly. “I still need something that’s mine, I can’t live off your hand-outs and besides, the coffee shop is hardly a dungeon.”

  But I wasn’t having it.

  “It’s not a hand-out,” I said tightly. “You’re my girl and I’m more than happy to support you, my money is your money, what’s mine is yours.”

  And the brunette smiled again, taking my hand in her soft ones, bringing me close to cradle my face in her hands.

  “I know big guy, I know you’re all about sharing,” she said, giving me a sweet kiss on the lips. “And I appreciate you paying my tuition,” she breathed, punctuating the words with another kiss. “But I still need a small bit of financial independence, so I’m working and that’s final,” she said determinedly before sashaying out with a wink, those hips swinging and oh so tantalizing.

  And I accepted it. After all, I’m proud of my girl and that’s exactly what we’re working towards … independence mixed with dependence so that we’re in a balanced relationship. But at the same time, I want Evie to know just how serious I am about sharing, how serious I am about “our money,” “our things,” and “our life.” So I’ve decided to make it legal. I’m going to put everything on the line, my freedom be damned. I want to show the world that we belong together, that I belong to her and she belongs to me, and a wedding is exactly the answer.

  So I’ve got a diamond in my pocket, a real stunner, a five carat beauty that will look amazing on her finger. And I’m looking forward to getting down on one knee, proposing, watching a sweet smile slip over my best girl’s face, her eyes lighting with joy. Because you know what? I started out as the teacher but Evie’s more than just a student, so much more … she’s my fiancée, my wife, my life, my everything, and always will be.

  THE END

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  Continue on to read Delivering the Virgin: A Sexy Divorcee With Needs.

  Delivering the Virgin

  ~A Sexy Divorcee With Needs~

  (Erotic Romance)

  © 2016

  By Cassandra Dee

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  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Laurie's a recent divorcee with needs.

  I’m embarrassed to admit but I’m a divorcee and a virgin. Yeah, my ex was that bad and we were married for about three seconds flat before calling it quits. But still, I have this problem. I stay up nights, burning, aching, twisting and turning in my sheets. And one day when a hot delivery guy shows up at my door, I went for it.

  Except Tucker was so much more.

  He was charismatic and charming …

  Dominating and alpha …

  With a HUGE package that made me gasp

  Note: This is a sexy, smutty romance that will make your cheeks burn and your panties melt! Guaranteed HEA.

  DEDICATION

  To all the raunchy ladies out there …

  Here’s to big packages!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Laurie

  I heaved the box down on the floor of my new apartment, exhausted. My back ached, my fingers were sore and I’d pulled a piece of skin off my knee when I tripped on the stairs coming up.

  Because my new place was a fifth floor walk-up, a tiny nest on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on the fringe of the city where the sidewalk was still filled with drug dealers and junkies at night.

  But I shrugged, taking a deep breath and plopped on the couch. It was all I could afford right now and I was just happy to be out of the apartment I shared with my ex, Gary. Blech, even his name made me vomit. Gary. Sad to say, but we’d only been married two days before we separated. Can you believe it? When they say starter marriage, I don’t think they meant something that lasted a blink of an eye, over before it even began.

  Because Gary had had a mistress the entire time we were dating, making my stomach churn once again. For the two years before we got married, two whole frickin’ years, Gary had been keeping a sweet blonde thing on the side, not a day over twenty-one with bolt-on boobs, a tiny waist and even tinier ass. Yeah, she was Barbie doll skinny whereas I was real girl, with a butt and hips that were wide and generous.

  So I leaned back on the couch, a hand over my eyes. God, I was so goddamned tired and exhausted, the last couple months had been an emotional drain that rivaled only a nuclear disaster, my heart pulled apart, torn to shreds and then flushed down the toilet. But at least I was out now. I’d left our penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue and was happy to have my own space now, humble as it might be.

  Sighing, I looked around. Yeah, my new place wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp, and that w
as including the bathroom. There was a combination living/dining space with a utility kitchen spread out against the wall, and then a narrow hall which led to a tiny bedroom in back. The whole place had been coated in a terrible pastel blue paint that was cracking and stale, but the broker had assured me it was lead-free at least.

  I stepped into my tiny bathroom, trying not to cower as my eyes were seared by the overwhelming blueness of the place, the tiles, the tub, and the sink all the same aquamarine. The color was a throwback to the eighties when electric teal and hot pink had been popular, but now it just made my head hurt, my irises imprinted with the flashy shade.

  But I was disgusting, sweaty, tired and dirty, and I could keep my eyes closed in the shower if it came to that. Sighing, I shook my head and began to strip. The baggy plaid shirt I wore fell to the floor, crumpled and used, and I popped the waistband of my jeans loose, stepping out of the hot denim with relief. Taking a deep breath for the first time in weeks, I stripped off my grimy bra and undies too, wearing nothing now but my birthday suit and some flirty pink toenail polish.

  The spray spurted on with a hiss, the boiler coming to life with a groan but at least the water was blessedly hot. I stepped into the tiny stall, so small that I could touch both sides without stretching my arms and let the spray pound me, closing my eyes, steam filling the enclosure in a matter of seconds, turning it into a sauna.

  But when my hand groped blindly at the ledge, my mistake became apparent. I’d forgotten to unpack my toiletries and there was no shampoo or soap in the stall. In fact, there was nothing whatsoever, I’d forgotten to get a towel, a razor, a loofah, and I was stuck, soaking wet with nothing to get myself clean. I thought about going with it. I could rinse myself and call it a day, but my inner self was grossed out. I’d been moving for ten hours straight, heaving loads of junk, dirty, dusty and sweaty, and mere water wasn’t enough to do the trick. I needed soap and a good scrub.

  So resignedly, I shut off the water and opened the stall door, stepping out while dripping, a big pool of water forming on the linoleum floor. Fuck, what a way to start my new life. Reaching down, I grabbed my plaid shirt and tried to use it as a towel, scrubbing the faded cotton up and down my curves, trying to soak up as much as possible. But the problem was my hair. I have curly brown locks and when they get wet, they retain a ton of water, making me into a human sponge. So even though I tried to squeeze out the curls, wring out as much excess as possible, it was useless, the plaid shirt was soaked in seconds.

  Groaning, I turned to my jeans next. Gross, these things were so dirty, the light blue torn at the knee where I’d fallen, dirt streaks and random dust covering the denim. It was almost like I’d come from a construction site, they were so filthy. But I had no choice. So wrapping the material around me in a makeshift towel, I left the bathroom, my boobs and cunny each covered by a different pant leg, my tummy bare, my ass naked.

  And my teeth chattered as I tiptoed into the living room. Eff me, it was cold and I cursed myself as I began rummaging through this box and that, frantically trying to locate my toiletries. Fuck! I scraped my hand on the cardboard edge of one container, a red welt rising on my palm even as I tried to tear open another box, futilely digging through piles and piles of random items, dishes, books, kitchen utensils mixed together haphazardly. Why oh why hadn’t I labeled my stuff instead of throwing it together in a jumble? But I knew why – I’d been in such a rush to leave Gary, get out of our joint home asap that I’d tossed everything together without any organization or planning.

  And now I was paying the price, shivering and soaked through like a wet rat with nothing to wear and no hope of finding anything useful anytime soon. I almost cried, tears welling up in my eyes. It would be the perfect beginning to my new life if I kicked it off with a wretched case of pneumonia, my lungs clogged with fluid, a headache muffling my hearing, my sinuses clogged. Plus I’d have to stay home sick when my job was the only thing keeping me afloat, my only source of income.

  So I sat back, about to give up, when inspiration struck. I scrabbled for my cell among the junk and began scrolling furiously. There it was – an app called “NYC Concierge.” I gasped, and my fingers trembled as I logged in. A screen flashed to life and a Siri-like voice spoke, “How may we help you today?”

  I ignored the voice, instead choosing to type my request. First up was shampoo, and upon further thought, conditioner and soap too. And screw it, might as well order a bathrobe while I was at it. I typed in the brand Coeur L’Amour, figuring that since I was splurging on a concierge service, I might as well go all the way and get myself a fancy satin robe, not just some terrycloth thing that was warm and homey.

  And after I’d entered all my items, I pressed send, watching with bated breath as the program hummed, spitting out the words, “Please wait, we are thinking.” And then the screen flashed. “Thank you. Your items will be delivered in twenty minutes.”

  I let out a small yelp of relief, falling back on the couch with a gusty sigh. Saved, I was saved. A messenger would be here shortly with the things I’d ordered, I was going to be warm and toasty and clean, and I couldn’t wait.

  So I paced a bit, trying to ward off the chill by jumping up and down, my generous curves bouncing, hoping my neighbors downstairs couldn’t hear. I loved New York City and swore my allegiance to it once more. I loved how I could get anything and everything delivered at any time of the day or night, and all it cost was money. Gary wasn’t going to ruin my life, I was going to pull myself up by the bootstraps even if it killed me, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  But in the meantime, I was soaking wet with only my jeans to cover me, my curves popping out everywhere, droplets spattering as I moved around the apartment briskly to keep warm. It wasn’t ideal, but now the ticker read fifteen minutes, and my package would be arriving soon. I sighed, shuddered and forced my mouth into a grim line. What was important was that I work myself out of this mess and survive to fight another day … ex-husband be damned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tucker

  The order popped up on my terminal, the screen flashing to life. I squinted at the monitor, scrutinizing the shopping cart. Hmm, it was definitely a lady ordering this stuff or at least a dude who wanted to buy his girl some nice things. Because the soap and shampoo were fancy brands, French-milled soaps scented with lavender and the robe was a flimsy thing from an upscale boutique nearby. Well, no worries, NYC Concierge was on it.

  Because I work for a start-up, a concierge service that’s accessible through an on-line app. It’s just like an old-time concierge service but instead of calling someone and placing an order, you type your request on a phone for delivery. It’s not so different from the old days except the app streamlines things, makes the experience more efficient. Without a human person on the telephone, there aren’t any missed words, we can read your order verbatim, and we have a handy countdown clock so you know exactly when your package is arriving.

  Speaking of which, the stopwatch was already running. Heaving myself up, I stretched mightily, throwing muscled arms into the air before hopping off my stool. One of the great things about being a delivery guy is that it keeps you in shape walking all over the city, going up and down stairs, logging in hundreds of miles. So I worked out all the time, making sure I was athletic and flexible while also strong. You never knew if someone was going to order a microwave or god forbid, a refrigerator, and you were the only person on shift, manhandling that monster up a steep set of stairs. Fuck, I hated those deliveries, it was like they expected fucking Superman or something.

  But this one was gonna be easy. I pulled on my delivery jacket, a nondescript grey zip-up with the logo NYC Concierge on the sleeve, and smashed a baseball cap on my head. Yep, very much an anonymous delivery man now. Clattering down the stairs, I hopped onto a Vespa and zoomed off to my first stop, Coeur L’Amour. Mopeds are girly but uncannily useful in the City, able to wiggle through traffic jams, even jump sidewalks when need be. And pulling up
in front of the boutique, I switched off the motor only to find the door swept open in welcome.

  “Mr. McGrath,” purred Amelia the salesgirl. “So good to see you.”

  Fuck, the blonde recognized me. I’d been here more than a few times to buy stuff for ex-girlfriends, women that I’d fucked, anyone who needed something to shut them up and keep them happy. And unfortunately as a high-end place, Coeur L’Amour associates made it their business to remember every high roller, even my uniform and baseball cap hadn’t been a sufficient disguise.

  So I decided to make the best of it.

  “Hey,” I grunted. “I need a robe.”

  And the blonde winked slyly.

  “I have just the thing, Mr. McGrath,” she purred again, “Let me show you.”

  And she led me to a rack in back filled with lace fripperies, silky things that were barely two inches long and three inches wide. What the fuck? This shit cost five hundred bucks, were they kidding me? Hell, I should go into the lingerie business, this was clearly a high margin industry.

  But at least the rack of robes was a little better, at least there was a decent amount of material. Amelia pulled one, then another off their hangers, a pink thing, then a purple one, the array dizzying, all sorts of colors with lace and embroidery in tasteful patterns.

  But this was a delivery and the customer could be a sixty year old crone for all I knew. So I picked one that was middle of the pack, decently long, pink satin with a tie at the waist.

  “I’ll take it,” I grunted and Amelia cooed.

  “Excellent choice, Mr. McGrath, I’ll ring it up for you. And should I gift wrap it?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. I shook my head tiredly.

  “Not this time, thanks,” I said shortly and Amelia was off, her fingers flying at the register, her long nails click-clacking on the keyboard. And finally, she folded the silk into a tiny square and deposited it in a fancy bag.