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.
“Here you go!” she chirped. “And here’s your receipt,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with a wink.
I grabbed it, crumpling it in my hand. But once outside, I took a glance and the bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t the purchase price that was shocking, it was the fact that the salesgirl had drawn a heart on the receipt and added her name and phone number. What the fuck!?! Amelia had done this last time and I’d ignored it, grinding my teeth at the come-on. She was absolutely not my type, skinny, blonde, with the nails like Cruella de Ville. What the fuck, this bitch couldn’t get a clue, and I was ready to barrel right back in there and chew her out, waiting customer be damned.
But fuck. There was no time, I needed to make my delivery. So jaw set with frustration, I got back on the bike, strapping the stuff to the back. What the fuck was wrong with females in this city? They threw themselves at me right and left, and you know what? I was over it. I was looking for curvy and round, with heft and some real weight, creamy flesh to grab and hold, and in this city of skinny minnies, it was fucking hard to find. Fuck me, this fucking sucked. Can you believe it? In this city of fifteen million, I couldn’t find a sassy, curvy girl to meet my needs.
CHAPTER THREE
Tucker
I pulled up in front of a dilapidated tenement building, the kind of thing that hadn’t been renovated in seventy years, the window frames sagging, the interior hallway dirty and ragged with years of caked-on dirt, a sad row of metal mailboxes lined up against the side. Seeing that the lingerie and soaps had cost a pretty penny, I was surprised to be dropping them off at such a down-and-out location.
But then again, New Yorkers are a weird bunch. It’s such an expensive city that people splurge on the little things to make life more bearable – expensive shampoo, smokes for a deep drag, shit even cocaine sometimes. That’s the beauty and the downfall of the city. There’s something for everyone but it might cost an arm and a leg.
But it wasn’t my place to judge, I’m just the delivery guy. So I bolted up the five flights, stopping at a run-down landing which showcased three doors. Looking at the address, I knocked on 5A, the one furthest to the left, the paint on the door peeling, scratches on the wall the product of long nights and too many moves.
I was expecting some middle-aged lady or some dude with a live-in girlfriend, some frat boy making his apologies. But instead, the girl who answered the door took my breath away because she was delicious. The door cracked open and a pair of big brown eyes peeped out, topped by a mass of curls swept in a messy topknot.
“Hi,” came a breathy voice as an arm extended awkwardly around the door. “Can you just hand it to me?”
“Sure,” I said, my senses on alert. If I wasn’t mistaken, the girl’s awkward attempts to hide herself were because she was naked. I could see that the arm was attached to a bare shoulder, and the way she cowered behind the wood slab was pretty telling body language in and of itself.
“But ma’am,” I said wryly. “I’m gonna need your signature.”
And the girl sighed, a gusty breath from behind the door.
“Can you just forge my signature for me?” she said, exasperated. “Please?”
I shook my head, almost laughing. Honestly, if she’d said, “Could you sign for me?” or “Please draw an X on my behalf,” I would have been happy to. Sometimes people aren’t in a position where they can sign because of epilepsy or some medical disorder and I’ve signed for other folks more than once. But the way Ms. Holmes had phrased it, “Can you forge my signature?” basically made it impossible. Nah, I didn’t want to go to jail and besides, I was curious.
So I shook my head, getting my electronic pad out.
“Sorry ma’am,” I growled. “No can do.”
And there was some shuffling from behind the door as well as another gusty sigh, an exhale of Titanic proportions.
“Okay okay, I’ll do it then,” came the voice and the girl appeared this time … butt naked except for a pair of jeans wrapped around her middle. My mouth dropped open because she was the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. Curvy with huge boobs, a fat ass and wide, swinging hips, the denim did nothing to hide her generous proportions, she was Venus de Milo come to life. My cock punched out immediately, my staff rock hard at the miles of creamy flesh before me, barely covered, side boob, under boob, top boob, all on display coupled with a tiny bit of pussy hair right where the denim stopped, the material unable to hide much.
“Sorry,” she muttered, looking down, trying to shake her hair forward to hide her face while biting her lip. “I just moved and can’t find anything,” she gestured to a mountain of boxes in back of her. But that movement caused everything to go awry. The jeans slipped despite the girl’s effort to keep them clutched under her armpits, falling to the ground in a crumpled pile and suddenly she was slickly nude before me, everything showing, cunt, tits, ass, miles of creamy flesh trembling and jiggling.
And I did what any red-blooded man would have done if his girl was naked in public. I stepped into the apartment, slamming the door behind me, protecting her from the eyes of inquisitive neighbors or anyone else who might stumble by. Because she was mine. This little brunette with the pink nips and beautifully flushed pussy was mine, all mine.
CHAPTER FOUR
Laurie
Holy shit, the delivery man was fucking hot. I’d been shivering on my couch, the effects of the hot shower dissipating, cold, wet as a mouse, with nothing to cover me but these blasted jeans and the flannel shirt. They were basically useless because the shirt was soaked through already and the jeans? Damp denim is no fun when you’re wet and cold.
So when a knock sounded on the door, I’d leapt up. My robe and soaps were here! Yippee-yi-yay! I grabbed the jeans to me as best I could and ran over to the door, sneaking a peek through the peephole. And gasping, I’d stepped back for a minute. Because the man outside had an amazing body, tall and athletic dressed in a grey jacket and nondescript shorts. Broad shoulders filled my vision, a muscled chest that narrowed to a trim waist, and thick, strong thighs, perfect for going up and down stairs. I couldn’t see much of his face because it was covered by a baseball cap, but I could see the razor-sharp edge of his jaw, square and dominating.
And when I’d opened the door, my first impression hadn’t been wrong. The delivery man’s eyes lifted and they were the clearest blue, penetrating, intense, making my pulse flutter immediately.
“Hi,” I gasped, cowering behind the door, shivering from the cold … or was it his closeness? I cursed myself. This guy was a total stranger, here to do his job, nothing more, and here I was creaming and trembling from just the sight of him.
But his voice augmented the shivers in my spine, making me weak, my knees almost giving out at the sexy rumble.
“Delivery for Ms. Holmes?” he asked, an eyebrow quirking, blue eyes amused, almost like he could see through the door. I cursed myself. What was wrong with me? Unless he was Superman with x-ray vision, he couldn’t see through solid wood.
And I embarrassed myself, grabbing at the package with my free hand while trying to keep myself covered, holding my head down, too humiliated to meet his eyes. But that was nothing because when it came time to sign for the delivery, I completely fucked up. I was forced to step out from behind the door and somehow bungled it all, I’m so clumsy and inept.
Because I dropped my jeans. Yeah, the only piece of covering I had over my naked body fell to the floor for some reason, and I was bare in my birthday suit before this gorgeous man, my pink nips hard already, my cunt moist just from his presence.
“Oh my god!” I screamed, trying to cover myself futilely, one hand shielding my pussy while my other hand skipped between my breasts, attempting to hide one big tit and then the other. But the thing is that I’ve got Double D’s and it was impossible, there’s just too much flesh, too much sweet heft going on, so my boobs kept popping out, much to the amused glance of the big man.
And swiftly, reacting immediately, he stepped in, swinging the door shut behind him so that at least no prying neighbors would see, no one would get an eyeful of this awkward predicament. Except that I was still butt-naked in front of him.
So leaning down, I scrambled for my damp jeans and pressed them to my breasts, the fabric hiding my girls at least, shielding them from his hot gaze. But that meant my pussy was bare and his eyes dropped immediately, taking in everything, my nether lips slick, my thighs already wet, smeared with the evidence of my arousal.
“Is that for me?” he growled, an eyebrow quirked, taking it all in, not missing a detail. “Is that beautiful juice for me?”
And to my shame, I just gushed more. Because yeah, I wanted him in me, I wanted him to feel my pussy, pet my kitty, squeeze my breasts and kiss my nips. It was exactly what I needed after an acrimonious divorce, some sensuous loving from an alpha male who was ten times more magnetic than Gary.
So I went with my intuition, throwing caution to the wind. Dropping the jeans on the floor, abandoning my pathetic attempts to hide myself, I purred at the big man, jutting one hip to the side saucily as my boobs bumped and swayed, my sleek vee glistening with temptation.
“Want some, big boy?” I purred. “Come and get it,” I invited.
And the gleam in those blue eyes deepened as he reached for me, growling, those big hands warm on my curves.
“I’ll take it,” he rumbled before drawing me close, pulling my head back for a deep kiss. And I was lost … lost in a tangled, delicious whirl, a storm of sensations descending over my body with every sweep of his lips on my mouth, his hands across my breasts, and oh god, that huge steel rod press
ed against my tummy. I wanted it, no I needed it … bad.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tucker
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Seducing clients isn’t part of the job, not by a long shot and I was way off the reservation here, alone in the apartment with a nude girl, ravaging her within two minutes of the door opening.
But she was so fucking gorgeous and exactly my type. That curvy body, those huge boobs, that slickly pink cunt. It was like she was a temptress stationed here to ruin me, and I actually considered that possibility for a moment. Maybe someone at the office was trying to catch errant employees and was planting fakes along the way, honey pots to lure unsuspecting delivery men into Hell.
But it’d gone way past that by now. Because if the cameras were rolling, if HR was going to jump out from behind the door, they’d already missed their opportunity. The girl was stark naked, purring in my arms, rubbing herself against me, that sweet kitty humping my leg with hunger as I pressed my cock against her belly.
“Ohhh,” she moaned, twisting in my arms, eyes half-closed. “Do me, please mister.”
And fuck it, it was worth it. Getting fired was totally worth this. So I swept the curvy girl up in my arms, loving her substantial weight, that poundage in my arms, and strode about five steps into the bedroom in back, depositing her on a squeaky mattress.
The Billionaire's Kitten: A Fake Marriage Romance Page 40
