Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  He curses under his breath. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I went to a special training school. I told you I’m a certified massage therapist.”

  “Mmm. What smells so good?”

  “The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.”

  As I continue to work his back, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and then lets it out with a sensual, drawn out sigh that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

  “You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “A lot of reasons. The amnesia, the wedding, going back to work. Plus, I have some other major shit I’m dealing with. A crisis.”

  “You do have a lot stuff going on,” I agree, wondering what his personal crisis is all about. Something other than his amnesia-induced identity issue?

  Applying more pressure, I knead his knots, but they’re not loosening up. “You’re carrying a load of stress in your upper back. If it’s okay by you, I need to straddle you so I can go deeper.”

  “Be my guest.”

  As the next instrumental piece starts up, I climb onto the table and mount him, my legs straddling his narrow hips. It’s a good thing I’m wearing stretchy yoga pants. Not the most ass-flattering thing I own, but they’re comfy and functional.

  The sexy sound of the sax mingles with the soothing lavender scent of the massage oil as I press my fingers deep into his tissues and make circular motions. His skin feels like warm velvet and glistens from the sheen of the oil. My fingertips burn at the touch of his flesh. I’m working up a sweat. As I work him deeper and deeper, leaning into him and using my elbows, my breasts brush against his shimmering flesh. My nipples harden beneath my sports bra. His massage—or should I say my massage?—is arousing me, sending pulsing sensations to my sex. With every rock of my hips, the cluster of nerves between my legs rubs against him, buzzing with my hunger for him. I’m a hot, wet mess. I suppress a moan of my own while he groans.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He sounds like a man on the verge of a major orgasm. His low, sexy rumble rouses me further, creating a tremor of excitement in my core. Making my way down his chiseled back, I have the sudden impulse to drag my tongue along the curve of his spine and taste him, then press my lips against his delicious skin and kiss him everywhere. My body is burning with lust. It takes all I have to concentrate on the massage.

  “I feel so much better,” he mumbles, his voice muffled.

  And I feel flush with fever. Delirious with desire. I’ve gotten out all his knots, but now I’m the one who’s tense, twisted, and on edge. Touching him has made me want to touch myself. And quell the pulsing ache between my thighs.

  “Should I turn over?”

  “Not yet,” I breathe out, trying to compose myself. “I want to massage your feet.”

  I unstraddle him—far from a graceful move—and stagger to the end of the massage table. My heated body is still aflutter. “Bend your right leg.”

  He complies wordlessly. After squirting more of the massage oil on my palms, I take his foot into my hands. Painfully aware of my body’s sensations, I admire the length and shape of it—so elegant and manly, and the skin is soft, not calloused. I dig my thumbs deep into the sole, pressing hard against various pressure points.

  He hisses.

  Good. He’s releasing stress. I rub and tug each of his beautiful toes. The truth: I’d rather be sucking them while bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm with one of my talented hands.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs while I squeeze his little toe.

  Silently, I repeat my motions with his other foot. His moans and groans grow louder, and he cusses again under his breath. Foot massage, formally called reflexology, is very powerful. It’s called reflexology because the nerves in your foot connect to all the nerves in your body. What you feel in your feet can be felt elsewhere. There’s even one spot that connects to your genitals. Women, in particular, have reported achieving orgasms when that trigger spot is massaged.

  I ask him to flip over. With a groan, he twists onto his back.

  Kenny G’s moving rendition of the Titanic theme song filters into my ears and my eyes widen. Make that pop out of their sockets. Holy smoke! His eyes closed, he’s got a Titanic erection. I underestimated it. It’s fucking monstrous! And it’s straining against his boxers, begging to burst through the slit. My breath catches in my throat; my heart beats like a jackrabbit’s. My pussy pulses madly. I’ve seen plenty of hard-ons, but nothing like this. I have a decision to make—let it sail or let it sink. I opt for neither.

  The melody of the haunting song plays on. I’ve forgotten how much this song affects me. Auntie Jo and Pops took me to see the epic movie with Jeffrey opening day for my tenth birthday. Little did they know it would end with a drowning. Like Mama’s. In the ocean no less. I bawled my eyes out and made myself sick. So sick I had to stay home from school the next day. The unsung lyrics play in my head:

  Every night in my dream

  I see you, I feel you.

  A surge of emotion overwhelms me. Tears well up in my eyes. I think of Mama. I think of him.

  My eyes stay locked on his colossal cock. I want to touch it. Hold it. Stroke it. Possess it. Fill the deep need that’s stealing my breath.

  Unable to control myself, my hand descends toward his mega erection. The heat of it, radiating right through the fabric of his boxers, draws me like a moth to a flame. I touch down lightly on it for a heart-stopping second. It stirs, and a soft, throaty “mmm” exits his lips. At the sound of the rumble, my hand jumps off as if it’s been singed. A twinge of guilt is followed by a twitch of his dick.

  “Brandon, we’re done.” I barely manage the words. The tangle of emotions I’m feeling is strangling me while the erotic sensations are debilitating me. I’m shaking all over, from my head to my toes. I can’t go on like this.

  His eyes blink open. He bolts up to a sitting position and faces me. His lids are hooded, his expression dazed and confused. “What do you mean?”

  My eyes quickly shift from the outrageous bulge between his legs to his dreamy face, which looks even more beautiful in the warm glow of the flickering candle. His lush lips are slightly parted and his violet eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. My heart hammers painfully in my chest for the stunning man I can’t have. Touching him has touched me in all the wrong places.

  “I mean, time’s up. In our contract, we agreed to a one-hour maximum massage.” I glance down at my watch. It’s way past eleven. “I’ve actually given you extra.” More than you’ll ever know.

  “Oh,” he mutters. “I don’t remember that clause.”

  Thank goodness for his memory loss. He has no clue I’m bullshitting him. My contract actually calls for me to be at his beck and call 24/7—even on Sunday, my one day off. I’m at his command. But right now, I need to get away from him. Desperately. The combination of touching him physically and this melody touching me emotionally has wreaked havoc on my body. I feel lightheaded and weak, short of breath. I cling to the corners of the massage table, thinking I may faint.

  “Brandon, I’ve got to go,” I breathe out. “You need to get off the table.”

  Brandon repositions himself, draping his long legs over the edge. Unable to move, I stare at him, memorizing every beautiful feature that basks in the candlelight. The Titanic love song, still playing, tears at my heart, tears me apart. I fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

  “Zoey, help me off the table.”

  I don’t move. I don’t respond.

  “Zoey…”

  I will my unsteady legs to move. Every little step is an effort.

  “Just stand up slowly,” I tell him softly, face to face, almost eye to eye. I avert casting my gaze downward.

  He stays put. His warm breath heats my cheeks. His gem
stone eyes glisten and hold me captive.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.”

  “I think I’m allergic to that oil I used.” I fake a little smile before a telltale tear escapes.

  He tenderly brushes it away with this thumb. “Thank you, Zoey.”

  A thank you?

  “You helped me with one of the issues I was dealing with.” He looks down. “Enormously.”

  My eyes flick to his enormous erection. No way can Brandon Taylor, the sexiest man alive, be suffering from erectile dysfunction. He’s sex on a stick.

  Trembling, I look back up at him and mumble one word: “Sure.”

  “Do you want to share some wine with me?”

  My heart skips a beat. He’s never asked me to share anything except those fries earlier tonight. I glance down again at the mega-tent between his legs and decline. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust him.

  “Brandon, I think what you need is a hot bath.”

  His smoldering eyes stay glued on me. “Then, draw one for me.” Another order.

  “No.” My voice is shaky. “I don’t do baths.”

  “I suppose that clause is in your contract too?” A layer of sarcasm laces his voice.

  “Correct.” Another white lie, though personally I’ve never taken one since Mama’s drowning.

  Silence. The Titanic theme segues into “Going Home.” My cue.

  “Well, I’d better be going.” While I put the bottle of oil back into my tote, he stays put on the massage table.

  I move back to the table. I need to fold it up. Except he’s still on it. His bulge hasn’t budged either. “Um, uh, would you please—”

  He cuts me off and clasps my hands in his. He raises them close to his lips, so close I can feel his warm breath skim my knuckles. Every nerve inside me is buzzing. His eyes stay on my hands and then they hold me fierce in his gaze.

  “Zoey, your hands are magical. And they’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself. It doesn’t help that my racing heart is pounding loudly. I’m sure he can hear it.

  “That massage really helped me.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” I learned in my massage classes about the power of touch. It can arouse feelings. Even bring back memories. In fact, just a single caress can become a symphony of passion, an unquenchable desire to possess.

  “You’ve made me feel something I haven’t felt for a long time.”

  My chest is tightening. And my heart’s beating so hard it may burst right through my bra. I force myself not to look down at his straining erection. “Feeling is the gift of touch,” I say softly.

  Suddenly, his eyes flutter madly. Like he’s having some kind of seizure.

  “Brandon, are you okay?” I ask anxiously. Maybe it’s associated with his head trauma.

  A smile curls on his luscious lips. His violet eyes light up. “Yes! I’ve remembered something.”

  A sinking feeling eats at me. I’ve aroused both his cock and his memory. He remembers how much he loves Katrina.

  “What?” I ask with hesitation.

  “The day I hired you.”

  My eyes widen with surprise. “You do?”

  “Yeah. Like it happened only yesterday. It was raining and you crashed your car into my garage.”

  I screw up my face. He’s right! I’ve tried not to think about that little incident. Sometimes forgetting is better than remembering.

  “I was a nervous wreck.” Just like I am now. A hot wet bundle of nerves. I was in love with his character, Kurt Kussler, but I wasn’t prepared for the shock of meeting Brandon Taylor in person. He was even more gorgeous than I’d imagined. The most gorgeous man I ever met.

  Brandon chuckles. “You were quite amusing.”

  “I was?” My hands tremble in his.

  “Yeah. When you got out of the car, you dropped your purse. All your tampons came flying out. I had to help you pick them up. If I recall correctly, they were the easy-to-insert brand.”

  Mortification races through me. I chew on my lip. That episode plays in my head like a scene out of a sitcom. Yeah, I was a total spaz. That’s because I was shaking all over. And it didn’t help having Mr. Gorgeous squatting next to me and trying to look up my skirt. Making me wetter than the pouring rain. And then our fingertips accidentally met, and it was as if a bolt of lightning had zapped me.

  I’m not going to tell him about the effect he had on me. “I was freaked out. It wasn’t exactly a joy ride driving up to your house in the pouring rain with all those narrow, winding, dimly lit streets and those crazy drivers whipping down them.”

  “I would imagine you’re very good at them now.”

  “I’m very good at a lot of things, Mr. Taylor.”

  He smiles seductively. “I’d say you are. Are you sure you don’t want to have some wine?”

  The word “yes” is burning on the tip of my tongue, but just as I’m about to say it, his cell phone rings.

  “Would you mind getting me my phone? It’s on the coffee table.”

  He lets go of my hands. Wordlessly, I retrieve it and hand it to him. He hits answer.

  “Hi, Katrina.”

  My stomach twists.

  He listens intently and then says, “Love you too.”

  The three little words have a massive effect on me. The ache in my chest overtakes the ache between my thighs. It hurts to breathe. With an avalanche of tears forming behind my eyes, I pass on the wine.

  “I’ve gotta go.” I rush the words.

  “No, Zo. Don’t go!”

  Leaving my massage table and a miffed Brandon behind, I hurry back to my little guesthouse. I don’t even say goodnight.

  Chapter 9

  Brandon

  Thank you, boner gods, Lords of the Universe, for restoring my potency. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get it up again. I’d done some online research and it didn’t look good. Lack of libido was a common aftereffect of a traumatic brain injury and could last longer than amnesia. While I’m not pleased the last ten years of my life are still stuck in some neverland, I’m ecstatic my cock’s memory has come back. But now, I have a new problem.

  Damn my assistant. She took off like the wind, leaving me horny as sin. My cock’s so hard it hurts. And don’t even get me started on my swollen balls. They’re probably so sore because I haven’t had an orgasm for ages. I still can’t remember the last time I did.

  In retrospect, I should have knocked down the door of her guesthouse and given that girl what she deserved. A good spanking. Slapped some sense into that ripe ass of hers. Reminded her who’s the boss. But instead, I’m doing what the cock tease told me to do—soaking my body in my whirlpool tub.

  My cock sticks up in the waist-high water like a rocketing torpedo. I stare at it. It’s big. Really big. Bigger than I remember. It belongs in a cock museum. Or The Guinness Book of Records—“The Monster of All Cocks.” I could seriously be a porn star.

  The jets of bubbles gurgle in my ears, and curls of steam shoot up from the hot, sudsy water. Yeah, thank God, I can get it up again. I was worried. Worried sick. While a big flaccid dick gives a man confidence, a big erect one gives a man power.

  Except my smart-ass assistant gave me a serious case of blue balls. She knew exactly what she was doing. And I think she did it on purpose to show me she has bigger balls than me. From the minute she showed up, she’s been fucking with my head. No pun intended. I don’t need this. With my damn amnesia, my head’s fucked up enough as it is.

  My memory’s coming back slowly but surely. So, now I remember what a monster boner feels like. Or should I say, a neglected one. My raging cock is mad as hell. Berating me. “I woke up. Now, asshole, you better wake up and take care of me.”

  Katrina’s going straight to her condo after she and her mother have cordials at the Polo Lounge. And that little minx assistant of mine would rather see me suffer than comply. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’m going to ask Sc
ott to bring over her contract. I bet wanking me off is written in stone. But then again, what does it matter? I’m engaged. For some reason, I keep forgetting this or at least wanting to forget.

  My throbbing cock shouts out to me again. Christ. It’s threatening to fall off. I have no choice. I’ve literally got to take matters into my own hands. Desperate for relief, I wrap my fingers around my thick shaft and begin to slide my hand up and down. Harder and faster. I shut my eyes tight and imagine her magic hands following mine, picking up speed, pumping me just right. Oh, yeah! So fucking good! And then she grips the base, squeezing it while her mouth descends on the crown. She parts her full lips and covers it. Sucking and humming. The erotic sounds in my head mix with the gurgling bubbles, creating a heady symphonic combination. She goes down on my length, taking me to the hilt, and in a heartbeat, she’s bopping up and down in sync with my hand movements. I hear myself groan. She’s bringing me to the edge. Pressure is building in my groin. My cock is pulsing. Ecstasy is just a few strokes away. “Come for me, Brandon.” Her raspy voice sounds in my head, coaxing me to climax. I pump harder. Faster and more furiously. My breathing grows labored. Colors swirl behind my eyes and every muscle tenses with anticipation. Yes! I’m about to have an orgasm of epic proportions. Finally! But just as an eruption is about to rock my world, another voice interrupts my fantasy.

  “Brandon, what are you doing?”

  Katrina.

  My cock sinks like the Titanic. I wince. The pain. The humiliation. It’s like I’ve been attacked by a weapon of mass destruction.

  I snap my eyes open. She glowers at me.

  “Oh, so I’m not good enough for you?” With a fling of her head, she stalks off.

  Jeez. You’d think she’d be happy to see my cock at attention. Take advantage. I mean, she’s been begging me to take Viagra. Complaining about my ED. Shit. Maybe she’s the source of it. The truth: It wasn’t her hands and mouth I was fantasizing about.

  They belonged to someone else. My infuriating assistant.