Perfect Fit
A Modern Day Dirty Cinderella Fairy Tale with a Fake Royal Marriage Twist
Copyright 2017 by Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.
To Matt Matt.
***
This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to real places, people or events are entirely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format except for short quotes for review purposes, without the express written consent of the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Ella
Chapter 2 – Ella
Chapter 3 – Gregory
Chapter 4 – Gregory
Chapter 5 – Ella
Chapter 6 – Ella
Chapter 7 – Ella
Chapter 8 – Gregory
Chapter 9 – Gregory
Chapter 10 – Ella
Chapter 11 – Gregory
Chapter 12 – Ella
Chapter 13 – Gregory
Chapter 14 – Ella
Chapter 15 – Ella
Chapter 16 – Gregory
Epilogue – Ella
Yes, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance (Always, Boss Book # 1)
Please, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance (Always, Boss Book # 2)
More, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance (Always, Boss Book # 3)
Babies, Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance Bonus Novella (Always, Boss Book # 4)
Sold on St. Patrick’s Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance
Sold as a Fake Fiancée: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance
Hot Single Daddy: A Second Chance, First Time Bad Boy Romance
Out of Bounds: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Twice the Fun: A Bad Boy MFM Menage Romance
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Chapter 1 – Ella
Swish, swish, swish.
Slip, slop, slap.
Sluuuuurp.
Thud, thud, thud.
These are the sounds I hear as I approach my bedroom.
Sex sounds.
These are definitely, and disgustingly, the sounds of sex.
It's like something straight out of a Showtime TV show or an Alexis Angel romance book. Except, unlike in both those delicious forms of entertainment, I'm not the one enjoying the action that is causing these sounds. Even though they're coming from my bedroom.
In Showtime shows, it's likely that the guy causing this ruckus is an asshole that we're somehow supposed to root for anyway. But those damn romance novels are like fairy tales. Setting up girls to believe that a former bad boy turned into our own personal Prince Charming will come rescue our asses— before spanking them until we're writhing around on his lap begging him to make us come because our pussies are so dripping wet from how he’s exerting his dominance over us.
But real life is a lot more disappointing than that. At least, mine has definitely been so far. So, it doesn't surprise me that someone is using my bedroom for a hot sex session that doesn't include me.
My life has never been a fucking fairy tale. This is probably why I’ve always hated them.
As I get closer to the door of my room, muffled voices mix in with the sounds that have already been drifting out since I was further away.
"Oh yeah. Give it to me. Yeah, ooooooh."
Well, that sounds like one of my step sisters— Sheila, to be exact— which also isn't surprising. She's been known to fuck anything with half a brain or half a boner. I'm not even sure if her standards are that high; that's probably giving her too much credit. She'd fuck any guy that shows the least bit of interest in her, although she'd prefer him to be filthy rich and as boringly handsome as a plastic Ken doll.
The question is, though: why is she doing this in my room? The one part of this whole wretched house that is supposed to be mine and mine alone? She has her own room that she's had since she was a tiny spoiled brat— now she's just an older spoiled brat— and that room, predictably, is much larger and nicer than mine.
But who knows what Sheila's up to? I shouldn’t even ask such questions to myself because I know there’s no answer that would make sense to most people. Sheila and my other step sister Gloria are always trying to find ways to make me miserable, because, other than banging random Ken dolls or spending all the money from my dad’s estate on overpriced clothes, they have nothing better to do.
I don’t know exactly what Sheila is doing. But I'm sure it’s some kind of ridiculous ploy to rub it in my face that I'm a virgin.
Yeah, it's ridiculous. I'm nineteen years old and still a virgin and still living with my mean step mom and two step sisters. It sounds pathetic, but I have my reasons. When it comes to my living situation, it's complicated, and too painful to think about as I'm listening to sex noises coming from my bedroom.
But when it comes to the sex situation, well— I just want to make sure the timing is right. It feels like the one area of my life I can control, and I need it to feel magical and perfect. I guess maybe I really do still believe in fairy tales, at least a little, even though I’ve always despised them for being unrealistic.
I have a boyfriend named Paul and we've made out but haven't gone all the way. He's wanted to, of course, but I just want to wait a little longer. Something just feels a little “off,” and therefore, doesn’t fit into my definition of the “absolutely perfect” circumstances that I want to exist before I do the Big Deed for my very first time.
Paul’s told me he understands and that he’ll be patient. I have a feeling, though, that he's starting to get a bit impatient, because he hasn't been around as much lately as he used to be.
That's why I'm at home now— which is a place I usually avoid. I can't go hang out with Paul because I don't know where he is. He hasn’t exactly been anxious to see me, like he was back when we first started dating.
That’s fine with me though. I could use a break from him anyway, because it's annoying me that he's pressuring me for sex when he knows it doesn't feel right to me.
But anyway. Back to the very pressing— and loud— matter at hand.
I'm sure it's just Sheila and some random guy in my bedroom, and that she’s trying to rub certain facts in my face while she rubs her pussy around on said random guy’s cock and picks up an STD or two. She’s probably looking forward to showing me with my very own eyes that although I've never had sex before, she' has sex all the time and is actually having sex on my bed— or probably like my floor or my dresser or something, knowing her.
She’s undoubtedly doing it just to show me that she's better than me, or at least she thinks she is. And that everything here is really hers, and not mine. She wants me to know can take my dad, she can take my formerly happy life, and she can take my spot when it comes to where I would naturally be having sex, if I were in fact having it.
I shouldn't go in. Shouldn't give Sheila the satisfaction of knowing I see her doing the thing which she clearly wants me to see her doing.
But by not giving her her way I'd also be losing, since all I want to do is grab my Kindle that has the Ash Harlow romance book I’m currently reading bookmarked at a really good spot (Crave is my kind of romance book, since it’s definitely not all rainbows and unicorns and fairy tales— more like an addictive nightmare you don’t even want to try to get out of, because it’s so damn fascinating), and head to the bathroom for a bubble bath and some me time.
Hey, I said I'd never had sex before— not that I'm some perfect angel. I certainly imagine all the perfect, outstanding, magical sex I'm going to have, when I have
it. I just don't act on those urges or fulfill those fantasies in real life. Yet. Not until everything’s perfect.
I put my hand on the doorknob and decide it's time to take control over my own life. Or at least my own bedroom, for a start. I'll give Sheila a piece of my mind and tell her she can't be giving a piece of her ass to every guy in the world right under my nose, or at least not right in my bedroom.
But as I open the door, prepared to roll my eyes and tell Sheila and Ken Manwhore Doll to get the hell out before I snap pictures of them and post them online— although Sheila would probably like that because she'd think it would make her the next Kim Kardashian or something— I see something I wasn't expecting. Or make that someone I wasn’t expecting.
Sheila's having sex on my bed of course, just as I'd expected. Typical evil Sheila. But I didn't think her evil ways would extend to the point where it would be this person underneath her, currently gritting his teeth during an apparent near orgasm before he turns his shocked face to look at me.
I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now. Because my life is more predictable trainwreck than surprise happy ending. Unless you’re talking about the happy ending that my step sister just gave my boyfriend, which certainly came as a surprise to me.
Yep. It’s Paul that Sheila is having sex with.
He's underneath her, his hands around her ass, her tits still swinging, uninterrupted, in his face as she continues riding him into the ecstasy that I have not yet let him experience. And which will never, ever happen.
Just like that One Direction reunion tour I used to wait around for someone to announce. They’d been my favorites since early high school but since January 2016 they’ve claimed to be still together but on a “hiatus.” At some point, I realized I was waiting in vain for them to do another concert. Or maybe, I just grew up.
Life is full of disappointments, and on a bright note, at least I don’t have to wait around to see how this one turns out. I know right here and now what the future holds when it comes to Paul and me: a big fat nothing. And at least I didn’t let him pop my cherry before he let my step sister motorboat him.
Unfortunately, these small comforts barely make a dent in the huge range of emotions I’m feeling right now. Just what a girl has always wanted to do— walk in on her boyfriend and one of her three least favorite people in the world, getting it on like there’s no tomorrow. I’m beginning to wish there really was no tomorrow, no today, no right this minute— so that I wouldn’t have to face this.
But here I am, face to face it with none the less, all because I was drawn towards curiosity and my love of books and bubble baths to check out the noises coming from my bedroom. They say curiosity killed the cat. But unlike some Disney Princess, I don’t have a friggin’ cat. I have me, myself, and I— and definitely not my boyfriend any more— and that’s exactly who is going to have to handle this, one way or another.
Chapter 2 – Ella
Speaking with having to deal with this, I wish I had time to think of a better way to do it. But in the heat of the moment, what I actually do is the first thing that comes to mind, which is to yell out Paul’s name, in case somehow it really isn’t him. Maybe it’s his doppleganger or something. Maybe Sheila found out he had a secret twin and brought him here to prank me instead of further ruin my life.
Yeah, right. When pigs fly.
"Paul?" I exclaim, loudly, vehemently, at the same time he says, "Ella?” in a confused near-whisper, the pussy.
The only good part about me catching them in the act— which was exactly what Sheila had intended, of course— happens right here: when it becomes clear that he’s caught off guard just as much as I am. Sheila was playing us both. That’s why she was flashing me a wicked grin as she continued fucking him when I first walked in.
But the best part of this comedic tragedy is that he starts buttoning his jeans, mid orgasm, which I do hope I interrupted, and says, "Oh shit, I got some on my Armanis!”
That's when I know for sure how much of a douche my boyfriend— make that ex boyfriend— is. Not just because he just fucked my step sister, and not just because it happened in my bedroom.
It’s not even because he didn't wear a condom, since I figure he'll be justly rewarded in a week or two when he breaks out into a rash and who knows what other symptoms he might have caught from whatever my step sister is bound to have. But he’s the world’s biggest douche because he cares more about his Armani jeans than he cares about any of the stuff listed above.
These revelations mix with my continued surprise of finding him here. Humor has always been my immediate defense but of course I’m also upset underneath the comedy I use to mask tragedy. And mostly, I’m still in shock, I suppose.
It's like one part of my brain is surprised, while the other really isn't. I knew there was some reason I was holding back from going all the way with him, and now I'm just so glad I didn’t. I’m so ecstatic that I saw his true colors before it was too late, and that bridge was crossed— or, uh, broken and unable to be repaired— that part of me wants to thank Sheila, even though the other part wants to hit both of them, while simultaneously breaking out into a big crying, blubbering mess.
"What are you doing here?" Paul and I both ask each other at the same time.
Only Sheila is smiling, because she knows exactly what we're both doing here. Her smug, sinister grin has morphed into lips upturned with glee.
Her curly blonde locks— always perfectly styled— sashay from side to side as she taunts me, and her perfect dimples dot her face as if to say, “See? I told you so. I can take— and I have taken— everything you’ve ever had. Even this.”
A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser is enough to remind me— if I didn’t already know— that I’ll never be as perfect as she is. My musty colored brown hair sticks up with humidity-induced static like it always does. My shirt has some mustard smeared on it because I was trying to write down some ideas to improve my dad’s business over lunch, which morphed into writing down story ideas, which it always does— all at the same time as I was eating.
Compared to my svelte step sister, I look like a whale. I’ve always hated my big hips, except when it comes to my amazing ability to balance books on them when walking from one place to another. I cradle them like babies in my arms, since they let me escape to far-off places in my mind, where my miserable real life can’t intrude.
To top it all off, everything about me is imperfect, imbalanced. One of my eyebrows sits up a little higher than the other. One of my arms has a birth mark while the other does not. Even one of my feet is bigger than the other— and that’s probably the most embarrassing thing about me. You can imagine how awkward it makes shoe shopping.
I’m so thankful for online orders these days. As a child, I just wanted to shrivel up and die when we were in a shoe store, even though my mom and dad always told me I was perfect just the way I am. I never believed them though, and I still don’t, although I often try to.
“Umm, Ella?” Paul asks, snapping me back into the here and now.
He seems to realize that asking me what I’m doing here, in my own bedroom, is a stupid question. So, he changes it.
"Why aren't you at the shelter?"
"It's Tuesday," I tell him. "Not Saturday. Why would I be…?"
Oh.
I trail off as I realize a couple things myself. The first thing is that my boyfriend of nearly a year doesn't pay enough attention to me to remember which day of the week I volunteer at a homeless shelter. The second thing is that my obnoxious step sister probably lied to him about where I was, so that she could seduce Paul into this vulnerable state for me to catch them in.
I wave my hand, as if it doesn't matter, when everything, in fact, matters very much. I'm not going to give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that it matters, though. That's exactly the rise Sheila is expecting to get out of me.
"Well, why are you in my bedroom? Having sex with Sheila?" I ask him.
He give
s me a sheepish grin as he grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head. His cherub-like face seems to say, “no big deal” but he can’t fool me with that act anymore.
I always knew he wasn’t as perfect as he seemed— doting on me, bringing me a sandwich he’d made, rubbing my feet while I read a book; he had to be hiding something sinister lurking just beneath the surface.
My suspicions are being proven true as I realize that he’s been no better than Sheila this whole time, and at least she’s been pretty open and honest about her vileness. He’s just been being nice to me so that I’d give it up to him, and when I didn’t, he moved onto my step sister.
“Look, Babe,” he says, as he hurries towards the door, obviously wanting to get away from both Sheila and me as quickly as possible. But Sheila is following him like a snake; I bet he had no idea what he was getting himself into, with that crazy bitch. “You and I just grew apart.”
“You mean we didn’t grow close enough together?” I ask him, already knowing the answer. I know I should shut up, but I’m fucking mad… and who wouldn’t be? “Your cock didn’t grow hard enough to fit into my pussy?”
“Woah, babe,” he says, as if he’s scolding a child. “There’s no need for such language.”
He looks at me and shakes his head.
“That’s what I was never able to understand about you,” he says. “You talk like you’re this worldly-wise, feisty, independent woman. You read these smutty romance books and live in your head in this world of passion and fantasy. But in real life, you never even want to have sex.”
With you, I want to finish his sentence for him, but I figure it’s not worth hurling insults.
So instead, I just say, “Yep, I’m a real multi-faceted enigma. Imagine, a woman who knows what she wants. Or at least, what she doesn’t want.”
Sheila snorts from where she’s standing near Paul, straightening out the clothes she’s just thrown back on so that she can chase him on his way out. I can’t help but detect a hint of jealousy in that snort.
Perfect Fit Page 1
