And Tucker grinned back at me, flashing those pearly whites.
“Yeah, pretty good wasn’t it?” he ground out, one hand lightly stroking over my curves, the hills and valleys that came to me naturally. “In fact, I’d say it was fucking amazing.”
And I giggled then, my breath muffled slightly against the pillowcase.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Amazing,” I agreed.
The big man just rumbled once more, chuckling deeply in his throat.
“My last name’s McGrath by the way,” he dropped casually. “Just thought we should be on a last name basis.”
And I flushed slightly. Oh my god, he was right. I only knew his first name, he’d been Tucker the Delivery Man in my head until two seconds ago.
“I’m Laurie Holmes,” I said quickly. “Laurie Evelyn Holmes.”
And the big man’s quirked his mouth at me, amused. Oh god, that mouth, those lips, where they’d been. I shivered again just thinking about it, my body tensing oh so slightly from the memory.
But Tucker was unperturbed, coolly casual, always in control.
“I know, Laurie Holmes, NYC Concierge has your credit card info. I know everything about you already,” he said with a sly smile.
And I flushed again. God, I hardly seemed in control of my body around this man, it was beyond crazy, so wild.
“Just wanted you to know,” I murmured, cheeks slightly pink. “Just in case, you know, for …”
But what for? I bit my lip. Here I was, completely nude in front of a man I’d met twice in my life, a man who’d sampled my pussy and ass, tasted me everywhere, taking my virginity, and yet I was tongue-tied, not sure what to say next. Because where were we headed next? What were we exactly? A quick fuck? A drive-by, much-needed form of stress relief? Suddenly, I felt a little sad. Sure, I couldn’t expect much but at the same time, it sucked to think that I meant nothing to Tucker, that I was just a momentary distraction and nothing else.
But Tucker surprised me. He slapped me on the ass, his big palm leaving a handprint that flashed pink and then melted, my skin growing hot as he pressed his lips to the mark.
“How about some pizza and beer tomorrow night?” he murmured against my white cheeks. “You free?”
I was silent for a moment. Was my delivery man asking me out? Like on a date, where we got to know one another, talked and exchanged information about each other, revealing ourselves? Something in my chest bloomed and I inhaled deeply, suddenly ridiculously happy, a smile wreathing my lips.
“Sure, I’d love to,” I murmured, looking up at him from between my lashes. “But after five okay? I don’t get off work until five.”
And he grinned at me.
“Don’t worry baby girl, I’ve gotta work during the day too,” he said, his voice like silk. “Seven okay with you?”
“Sure,” I smiled again. Oh fuck, but my nips were growing tight with need. I tried to hide it, shifting my forearm to press against my breasts but nothing escaped Tucker’s observation. He just pulled my arm away to drop a kiss on one tip, and then the other, before reaching for his pants, pulling them back on, hiding that magnificent staff from my view. I hadn’t realized I was staring, mouth probably open, hungry for that man meat because Tucker just laughed when he saw it.
“Oh you’ll get more of it, don’t worry baby girl,” he growled. “Just come over tomorrow night and you’re get your sweet fill, guaranteed,” he promised, his eyes on fire again. “But for now, I’ve got a couple more deliveries to make. Gotta roll, honey. The address is 501 Greenwich Street. Got it? Just remember 501, like Levi’s 501’s.”
And my forehead scrunched for a moment as I pulled up a mental map of the city. He was inviting me to his apartment? How sweet, New York apartments are so small so usually people hang out in bars and restaurants. Furthermore, street numbers in NYC are completely predictable and you can pinpoint where someone lives based on little information, and in this case I was coming up with a “non-compute.” I gazed at him, puzzled.
“Is that at the intersection of Greenwich and Venable?” I asked. “Right next to Bubby’s?” Bubby’s was a high-end breakfast place famous for its blueberry pie, but even more, Bubby’s was in the heart of Tribeca, the most expensive neighborhood in Manhattan. Tucker lived there? How could he afford it? Well, maybe he was splitting the rent with five guys, sharing a huge loft partitioned into multiple living spaces.
But the delivery man just dropped a kiss on my forehead, pulling on his baseball cap, shielding his face once more, only that strong jaw visible.
“Yep, right next to Bubby’s,” he confirmed, picking up his gear. “Now I gotta roll, customers are waiting.” And with a wink, he was gone, my front door clicking shut behind him. And I sprawled on my bed, lying back, my hair a mess on the pillow, my body completely sated and relaxed, but slowly starting to hum once again. Because I couldn’t wait to see him, couldn’t wait to get to know Tucker … and sample that big body once more.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tucker
I sauntered into the office, whistling quietly, coolly confident as always.
My cousin turned to look at me, swiveling on his stool.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Hunter asked.
I just ignored him, throwing my shit down on my desk before sprawling in a chair. Man, I was sore like I’d been working out for hours, but it wasn’t from the gym. Oh no, I was wrung out from being buried in my best girl’s pussy, that cunt so tight, so small, that it sucked every last sperm out of me, draining me to the last drop. Fuck and it felt so good, I couldn’t wait to see Laurie again for more.
Hunter strode by my desk, dropping a sheaf of papers.
“Orders are up by fifty percent,” he said, “We gotta hire more staff.”
I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, stretching, twisting my neck. Fuck, that girl had me bent out of shape, I’d probably pulled a muscle from the sex games alone.
“Sure,” I grunted. “We can afford it, easy.”
Hunter just looked at me, shaking his head.
“Seriously man, as CEO of this place you’d think you’d want to run the numbers first or at least ask someone to run the numbers for you before making a decision. I mean aren’t you afraid that you’re wrong, that you’re dragging us into some black hole?”
But I shrugged my shoulders. I was on top of the numbers every day, I knew exactly where NYC Concierge stood in terms of staffing and expenses, our revenues versus our profits. Even if it didn’t look like I was paying attention, I was on the dashboard constantly, scrutinizing our figures like a hawk. Besides as our COO, it was Hunter’s fucking job to bring me the numbers, help me make informed decisions.
“These the spreadsheets?” I asked, eyeing the sheaf of paper.
My cousin nodded.
“Yeah, this is it. Let me know if you have any questions,” he said rolling his eyes before turning and walking away.
I fingered the papers unenthusiastically, staring at his disappearing back. Because my cousin and I founded NYC Concierge together a year ago, it was my idea and Hunter agreed to come on-board to bring it to life. During business school I’d noticed a gap in the market and strove to take advantage of the opportunity. It’s always been an asset of mine, this ability to spot openings and manipulate them before anyone else got there, getting a first-mover’s advantage.
Because sure, there are tons of door-to-door delivery services in the city, heck even Fresh Direct was getting into the game, going beyond mere groceries and expanding into personal care products and beauty items. But I wanted NYC Concierge to go beyond that. I was intent on creating a personalized elite delivery service, one where you could order absolutely anything and have it arrive on your doorstep within the hour if possible, no questions asked.
And what set us apart was our technology. Like Uber and Lyft, we were app-driven, you ordered using your cell and we’d provide a countdown ticker to estimate wait time. That way, customers could leave the house, take their dog for
a walk and run errands, all without worrying about missing the delivery guy.
And of course, you can request a specific delivery person as well. That’s part of the charm, part of the “elite” aspect. A lot of rich people only want to work with people they already know, and this way we could gain their trust, build bridges before mining the one percenters for more.
But of course, in our beta stage, NYC Concierge was open to everyone, we needed to test this shit, get everything going like clockwork before we restricted our service to the elites. And that’s how the lovely Laurie came to find us, ordering her bottle of shampoo and soaps. NYC Concierge had been doing some select promotions where people of any net worth could use our services, but the program was destined to be short lived at best. It’s not that we didn’t want to deliver shampoo and laundry detergent, that hardly mattered. It was the prices we planned on charging. That’s right, we’re working on a tiered payment system and for our bronze members, the cheapest category, monthly membership would be a flat ten thousand dollars fee. So yeah, this wasn’t going to be a service for just anyone, more like folks who flew in helicopters or had their own private jets.
And in the meantime, fuck but this promotion was the best idea I’d ever had because it’d led me to the juicy virgin, her firm, fine form so succulent and tasty. I leaned back in my chair again, lost in my thoughts. Laurie was fucking amazing and my cock stirred a little just at the mental image of her. A virgin? How often did that happen in NYC? Girls these days lost their v-cards so early, in junior high practically. So to find an adult woman, shy and unassuming, with her hymen intact had been an incredible turn-on, and I was on it in a flash.
And fuck, de-virginizing her had been amazing because the brunette was a slut, hands down. Letting me push my tongue into her ass? Coming hard that way, without any stimulation to her pussy? She was so sensitive, so attuned to my big body that that was all it took, I’d thrust into those sweet folds, feeling her barrier break, her shocked cry and indrawn breath all the proof that I needed that she was truly untouched, a nubile, creaming girl.
And fuck, but I wanted more. Laurie was coming over tomorrow night and I wanted to make it special for her. Of course I was going to devour her again, help myself to a huge heap of tasty twat and ass, but I wanted her to be comfortable, to relax, to reveal the full sweetness of her nature. Every time I looked at her, those big brown eyes danced, her pink pout slightly open, begging me to kiss her. And I was going to, after I inhaled her form, savoring every sweet curve, every sassy jiggle of her plump body. Fuck yeah, I was going to treat this woman well, stop at no lengths to romance her like she deserved.
But my thoughts of tomorrow night were rudely interrupted because Hunter had come striding back, his gaze suspicious.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he asked, waving another sheaf of papers under my nose. “What the fuck? Why did it take you half an hour at this one chick’s place?”
Goddamnit. The technology that was our strength was also a pain in the ass at the moment because of course my cousin knew exactly where I’d been, how long I’d lingered at each stop, how long each delivery took. I growled at him, my hackles rising, but then forced myself to calm the fuck down. No need to let the cat out of the bag, might as well be professional, this was a business after all.
“An old lady asked me to help move some furniture around, so I said yes,” I shrugged casually. “Didn’t look like she had many options.”
Hunter frowned again.
“Wasn’t there a doorman or a super or something? Why you?” he whined. “Tuck, you have shit to do, you know the clock’s always running in this business.”
I just shrugged again.
“Maybe cause she lives five floors up,” I said helpfully. “And there’s no doorman, it’s a pretty run-down place on the Upper East Side.”
Hunter just frowned again. But my cousin is a good guy, he wasn’t going to ream me out for helping little old ladies with no options. So he just huffed again and turned away.
“Well, if this Evelyn Holmes person requests you again, we’re going to say you’re unavailable,” he said tightly. “Time is money in this business and we gotta move fast, roll with the ball.”
I just shrugged again. Hunter could spout whatever shit he wanted but I was still the boss and I was coming and going when and where I wanted, complaints be damned. After all I had even more invested in this business than him. Not only had I poured a fortune into the company as start-up capital, but I was also working as a lowly delivery man to better understand our business, running up and down flights of stairs, humping heavy packages, my baseball cap pulled low the entire time, anonymously delivering shit. After all, it’s critical to explore every niche of our business, know exactly what’s going on and there was no better way to do it than as a stealth boss. To understand what kept our employees up at night, I’d decided to take on the job myself, schlepping up and down all of Manhattan as a nondescript messenger. Only then would NYC Concierge be able to optimize on all fronts, truly push the boundaries of this developing sector, otherwise we’d be manipulating something that management, at its core, did not fundamentally understand. And I’d be damned if I was the boss straight out of Dilbert, giving wedgies with his head in the clouds. So yeah, delivery was our business, and I was the delivery man sometimes.
I shrugged again. Shit had to get done, and Hunter was right in some respects, I’d been spending a lot of time with my special customer. There were reports to read, client data to scrutinize, investors to chat up, endless lists of to-dos that always got pushed to the back. I shook my head, getting serious, flipping on my laptop while turning to focus on my work. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, I couldn’t wait to taste, to sample Laurie again, but for the rest of today, NYC Concierge was my baby.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Laurie
Hesitantly, I knocked on the big door. To say I was out of place was putting it mildly. I stood in a swanky building in Tribeca, a neighborhood so expensive that the most I could afford was maybe a pastry at a bakery, and not even a fancy bakery. Oh no, not the ones with the twee decorations and pyramids of macarons stacked in pastel colors, that was too expensive. I was talking about a pastry from Dunkin’ Donuts, I’d wandered into one on the way here, treating myself to a snack before arriving at Tucker’s building.
And looking up, I almost gasped. The grey edifice was classic Tribeca with the huge, cast-iron windows and a grey and green striped awning over the front door. Even the doorman was fancy, a burly man in a snazzy bellhop outfit, jaunty cap perched on his head.
“Can I help you?” he said, businesslike. Guess the jaunty cap was just a prop, there was nothing friendly about him. In fact, he was kind of like a bulldog brought in to shoo away randoms, his expression suspicious and impassive at once.
And I mumbled before lifting my chin and looking him straight in the eye. No need to act awkward, be the timid little girl. After all, Tucker was a delivery guy and there had to be some explanation for these majestic digs. No way he could afford this on a delivery man’s salary even with generous tips.
So I piped up confidently, “Tucker McGrath please,” and the doorman nodded. With a sweep of his hand, he pointed me towards the elevators.
“I’ll let Mr. McGrath know you’re here,” his voice trailed as the door closed. I took a deep breath. Okay, I was going to see Tucker again, and the big man was about to show me his home, show me where he lived. My cheeks colored, my breath going fast in anticipation. It was exciting to be seeing a man ever since the disaster of my divorce, maybe even a little early, but who knows? It’s better to get back in the saddle right away, not lie on the ground and cry when you could be having a ball with a gorgeous male.
And finally I was at Tucker’s floor. I stepped up to the big, mahogany door and pressed the doorbell, a melodic chime ringing out before the massive slab opened. Tucker was there and god, he was so gorgeous that I lost my breath immediately, his massive shoulders almost as w
ide as the doorframe, those sculpted arms, the thick thighs.
Before I could even say hello, he’d pulled me into the foyer for a deep kiss, thrusting his tongue between my lips as the door slammed shut behind us. I was lost in his arms already, mewling, writhing, pressing my breasts against that hard chest before we finally came up for air.
“Hey baby girl,” he murmured against me, lips soft on my mouth. “You look nice.”
And I flushed because I’d taken special pains for our dinner together. He’d said it was going to be pizza and beer but I still wanted to look attractive, make it special. So I’d rummaged through my stuff before reappearing with a pair of designer jeans, the denim flattering as it lifted and shaped my butt, the pockets on the ass highlighting my juicy curves. And I’d paired it with a white cashmere sweater, the cable so fine and soft that it was like rubbing your cheek against velvet.
Except the cashmere was doing me no favors right now. My nips poked out through the wool like rocks, totally apparent, pointing straight at the big man like heat-guided missiles seeking their destination.
“Is that for me?” he growled, eyebrows raised. “Or are you just happy to see me?” he said lasciviously, eyeing my hard nips.
And I giggled then, slapping a small hand against a hard bicep.
“Oh you!” I flirted. “That’s for the girl to say, not the guy.” And in this case it was true because there was a tent at Tucker’s crotch already, I could make out the curve of his penis, the bulge enormous and appetizing.
But Tucker was a modern man.
“Hey, we don’t have to have defined gender roles,” he rumbled with a wink. “No need to hold back baby girl, if you want to be the aggressor I’m all for it.”
And I looked at him through my lashes.
“Really?” I purred, thrusting my chest out further. “Is that what you want?”
And Tucker’s eyes lit up, his hand tracing the shape of my breasts, weighing them in his palms, savoring their heft, their firm shape.
The Billionaire's Kitten: A Fake Marriage Romance Page 45
