Buying A Bride

by Cassandra Dee

  She stuck out her pinky. I crossed my pinky with hers, and we shook on it.

  “Deal,” Lexi sighed, sealing it with a kiss.

  Because we’d overcome an improbable beginning, from the Tinder date to a sexy liaison with my boss. And yet, now we were discussing moving in together, and even potentially, love.

  If you’d asked me two weeks ago, love wasn’t on the table. Passion was, but not love because I had no time. I was an intern at a magazine, ready to get my career off the ground. But now, everything had changed. Because sometimes love with the boss works out … and nothing could stop us now.

  Epilogue

  Lexi

  Eight months later …

  Ryan had invited a bunch of people over for a surprise birthday party. After all, it was my thirty-first birthday. I’d woken up feeling depressed about being old, but Ryan took my mind off any negativity right away. He’d brought me breakfast in bed, we went jogging on the beach together, and when we got back, everyone was waiting.

  Plus, my parents had finally accepted Ryan. Dad would often comment on how laid-back Ryan was, his easygoing personality suiting my alpha female ways. By contrast, Rowena praised Ryan’s initiative. After working a couple months at Sports Life, my man was promoted from writer’s assistant to a staff writer, and he was kicking a lot of ass with no signs of slowing down.

  As for me, I still worked as the editor-in-chief at Chic-Wise. Thankfully, my mom never brought up replacing me after that fateful day when we confronted her. Plus, the longer we stayed together, the less my co-workers seemed to gossip about me. Many of them seemed genuinely happy for me, seeing that I used to be depressed before. Some of them were even invited to today’s party.

  In the middle of the festivities, Ryan stood in front of everyone and called the crowd to attention. The whole room became silent as he swung penetrating blue eyes my way.

  “Lexi,” he said. “First, I want to say thank you. I’m so glad that you were born.”

  The room clapped. He nodded, a grin on that handsome face.

  “Please hold your applause,” he rumbled. “I guess most of that credit should actually go to Mom and Dad. So, thank you, Rowena and Jim for having such a beautiful daughter.”

  Jim lifted his glass in a toast, but Ryan wasn’t done yet.

  “I have a confession to make,” my man growled. “I didn’t just invite all our friends and your parents over for your birthday. I wanted my dad to be here too, but… Well, he’d be here if he could. He sends his love, and you’ll be getting a birthday card soon.”

  Where’s he going with this? I thought to myself.

  “Lexi, ever since we met, you’ve been there for me in more ways than you can possibly imagine,” Ryan said. “When I was running late with writing projects, you were always there to help me get them done. Whenever I’ve been sick, you took care of me. When I’m well, you make me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

  My heart skipped so many beats that I was forgetting how to breathe.

  “Our story has only just begun,” he continued. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve barely even gotten started. You’ve been with me on every part of our journey, and I fall more in love with you by the day. Now I want to ask you to come with me again.”

  He got down on one knee, sending gasps all around the room. I bit my lip, knowing full well what his question was going to be.

  “I’d like to ask you to be my wife.”

  He took out a jewelry box from his back pocket and opened it up to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. It was one that I’d told him I loved on a day we were out shopping together in the city. I knew how much it cost, and it was expensive. Tears filled my eyes.

  “Lexi, will you marry me?”

  I couldn’t even speak. I nodded silently, tears of joy slipping down my cheeks at this extraordinary birthday gift.

  My handsome alpha slid the ring on my finger, and then stood to press a kiss against my eager lips. He picked me up off the floor, and the crowd went wild. Everyone clapped and cheered as triumphant music began to play.

  “I asked your dad for permission almost two months ago,” Ryan whispered in my ear. “I wanted to wait until I’d saved up enough to get you the diamond. And I wanted to wait for the right moment.”

  “It’s perfect,” I whispered back. “I’ll be your wife, Ryan Payne.”

  Everyone was rushing up to congratulate us. Through the hugs, I could hear Ryan talking to my parents. My friend Piper literally jumped up and down, thrilled for me.

  “I’m glad you didn’t take my advice about Tinder,” she chortled. “If you’d stopped messing around with guys on that app, you would never have found Ryan!”

  “I’m glad I didn’t listen to you too,” was my laugh. “Who knew that this could happen?”

  “He’s a great guy, Lex,” Piper burbled, agreeing. “Set a date, and let’s start looking for dresses right away!”

  ***

  That night, after the party had ended and the room was officially clear of loved ones and other guests, Ryan and I walked slowly to the master bedroom.

  At the moment, I felt submissive to this handsome, dominant male. I was turned on by his assertion, and delighted to call myself his.

  But instead of our usual items, he used his belt as a makeshift binding device for my hands, tying them together tightly. Then he kissed me all over my nude body, biting me in some places to leave tantalizing red marks.

  But my man wanted to take things slowly and sensually. Ooh, it felt so good. His thrusts were slow and sweet while those clever fingers applied the proper pressure to my throbbing clit.

  I wanted to touch him. I wanted to hold onto him. I began to fight against the belt, trying to break my restraint. But the alpha only laughed pushing deep again.

  “Try as you might,” he growled, sliding that hard length into my softness. “But you won’t get away, pretty girl.”

  I mewled helplessly, twisting against the restraints. Normally, one or both of us would have had an orgasm by now, but we were both fighting the urge. He wanted to stay inside of me as long as possible, and I wanted to experience the intensity as best I could.

  He kissed me. “I love you, Lexi.”

  I kissed him back. “I love you more,” was my breathless pant.

  He chuckled. “I never thought I was going to find serious love on Tinder.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it back then,” was my helpless mewl.

  “I didn’t pressure you because I proposed in front of everyone we know, right?”

  I desperately wanted to rip the belt apart so that I could caress that handsome face even as he pumped inside.

  “I was hoping you were going to propose one of these days, Ryan,” was my soft admission.

  Our bodies never stopped their dance. I was still so wet for him, and he was so hard.

  But Ryan wasn’t done yet.

  “This is incredible,” he groaned, pushing deep once again as that big shaft made me cry out. I could tell he was close. “You mean everything to me.”

  I could only say what was in my heart.

  “You mean everything to me as well, Ryan Payne. I love you.”

  And with that, we both burst, soaring into the clouds. His cock twitched once before erupting, lashes of hot seed painting my insides. And I cried out, again and again, the only name that made a difference.

  “Ryan, Ryan!” was my heartfelt mewl. “I love you.”

  And his answering kiss told me everything. Because the alpha loved me too … and now we would be joined together, forever, in love.

  THE END

  Client Number 6

  ~Dial-A-Date Book 1~

  ~A Romance Collection~

  © 2018

  By Cassandra Dee and Kendall Blake

  Want to hear about our newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join our mailing lists at www.subscribepage.com/alphamalesontop and get a FREE book just for joining!

  ABOUT THIS BOOK />
  CLIENT NO. 6: A Dial-A-Date Romance

  I never thought I’d turn to a male escort service.

  Then again, I never thought Jason Morgan would show up to service me!

  Jennie needs a date for her high school reunion. Ten years out, she wants to show that she’s made it – career-wise, looks-wise, and most importantly, relationship-wise. One problem: There’s no boyfriend in sight. Not even close.

  Jason’s a former high school quarterback who works as a movie producer. He moonlights on the side meeting women and providing the “boyfriend experience.” Little does he know that his next client is the curvy girl from his past … who’s turned into a bombshell!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jennie

  I look at myself in the mirror. Hmm. Not bad, especially considering that last year, I used to weigh a lot more. Not that it was so terrible. I’ve always liked myself, but now a few of the pounds have melted off and I’m … dare I say, cute? Maybe even beautiful if you squint into the mirror?

  Because I’m someone who’s always had a terrible relationship with food. Everything clichéd is true when it comes to me. How you shouldn’t equate eating with love. How you should turn your energy outwards and feel balanced so that you don’t feel hungry.

  But none of that has ever worked because after my dad left, my mom showered me with treats to fill in the emptiness. So there was candy. Brownies. Fudge apple pies (yes, they exist!). We even made peppermint bark together once a month even though most people only enjoy that stuff at Christmas. But not the Lake girls. Me and mom ate peppermint bark, not to mention candy canes and gingerbread cookies year round. By the time I was seventeen, it was hard to find any flattering clothes.

  “Honey,” burbled my mom. “Do you want to lick the brownie spoon? It’s mm-mm good!”

  I shouldn’t have, but I did. I know it’s gross, but it was just the two of us, me and mom together. Besides, licking the spoon is a tradition. I’ve been doing it since I was seven and first learned to bake.

  “Thanks Mom,” I said with a smile. “This batch is going to be terrific.”

  Trudie winked in return.

  “You know it,” she said, leaning forwards to push the brownies into the oven. “We make the best team, sweetheart.”

  So as you can tell, my mom and I bonded over food, especially when times were tough. We didn’t have much but at least our small home was always filled with the good smells and love.

  The problem is that unexpectedly, my mom had a massive heart attack last year. There was no reason for it except that both my grandfather and uncle passed away from heart attacks years ago as well. But losing my best friend so suddenly shocked me, and I sprang into gear immediately.

  “Oh my god,” I said with a panicky feeling in my heart. “I have to start running, walking, and biking all the time. I have to get my butt in gear otherwise the Grim Reaper’s coming for me too.”

  So with determination, I started working out like a madman and the pounds slipped off. It was slow at first, and a lot of hard work. Plus, I was absolutely devastated by Trudie’s death, so there were many times when I was tempted to give up. It seemed easier to seek solace in a jelly donut or a pint of ice cream rather than to haul myself back to the gym for another tortuous session.

  But it’s been a year now, and I’ve gotten some great results. I’m still big, but now it’s a nice kind of big. My breasts are huge and soft, and I have a giant rear-end, but at least my rump is toned and in shape. Yes, I still have thunder thighs and soft upper arms, but guys like a little to hold at night, right? It doesn’t seem fun to be in bed with someone who’s nothing more than sticks and bones, so I kinda like the extra heft on my frame.

  The weight loss has been good timing too because next week’s my high school reunion. Ah, high school. It was ten years ago but the memories are still fresh. Jennie Bong Bong was one of the names I was called, not to mention Ring-Ding, Ring-Dong, and Big Dong. The sad part is that the names don’t even make sense. I don’t have a dong, nor do I use bongs. But trust the mean girls to come up with nonsensical monikers that can make you cry.

  So I want to triumph next week at my reunion. I want to waltz into the hotel ballroom and show off my new shape with a sassy swing to my hips and a sparkle in my eye. I want to show them that there’s a new Jennie Lake in town, and make all those bitches twist with jealousy as their eyes go green.

  The only problem is a date. Most girls from South Carolina get married early, and I know for sure that Savannah Sherman, my worst tormentor, married some hot guy with a cleft to his jaw and a preppy-sounding name. What was his name again? Reginald? Reggie? It’s something annoying yet uppercrust at once. Exactly the type of guy who never saw me.

  And I know what you’re thinking. My desire for a date is so old-fashioned and backwards. But that’s the thing. This isn’t New York City where Carrie from Sex and the City goes to cool art parties and bars lit up with fluorescent lights. This is Charleston, South Carolina, and below the Mason-Dixon line, people still judge a woman by how far you’ve come in life. Or more specifically, whether you’ve landed a husband by age twenty-one. Doesn’t matter if he’s a loser who’s never worked a day. Doesn’t matter if he guzzles beer and never takes a shower. Just so long as you have that ring on your finger.

  So desperation courses through my veins. Aaron, my gay friend had promised to feign being straight for the event, but now he’s sick with a severe case of bronchitis. I’d make him come anyways, except that he looked really bad last time I saw him. His usually sparkling blue eyes were faded and cloudy, and his slick brown cut looked like a rat’s nest when he opened his front door.

  So what am I going to do? Frankly, I have no idea. In desperation, I flip open my laptop and surf to Facebook, browsing idly. Oh shit. Here’s a pic of Savannah Sherman herself, and the air in my chest grows tight. Because not only is she happily married according to her profile, but her husband is gorgeous. Male model type of gorgeous with a strong jaw and a flashing, bright white smile. I almost want to throw up because I can see it now. Me, striding into a hotel ballroom with my head held high in a stunning cocktail dress. But they’ll be there too, gathered in a corner and casting sly looks my way.

  “Jennie thinks she’s so high and mighty, moving to the big city after high school,” they’ll whisper maliciously. “But bless her heart, she doesn’t have a man. Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a guy in New York City? She should have stayed down here in Charleston. Big mistake,” they’ll sneer while shielding perfectly lipsticked mouths.

  Uck. Screw them. I hate the mean girls, and the rage makes me see red. So with a vengeance, I click over to the Craigslist classifieds. I know it’s a bad idea because Craigslist is filled with scammers and thieves allegedly. The only thing you can use it for is to sell furniture, and even then you have to be careful not to get ripped off.

  But I scan the personals section while holding my breath. Maybe I can find someone within the next week to take to reunion. We’ll meet on Monday, go out again on Tuesday to make sure we’re compatible, and then by Friday, we’ll jet to Charleston together and wow the old crowd.

  But I know this is pure folly because the ads are pure ridiculousness. Things like:

  Sixty but you must be thirty or under. Young ones only. I can promise a lifestyle that you won’t regret.

  Or:

  Looking for a live-in housekeeper. No rent necessary, but you’ll have to do your chores in the nude.

  What the hell? Who answers this kind of stuff? I can see that some of the ads have been posted multiple times on multiple days, like they’re hoping that some girl who’s desperate will respond.

  But the thing is, I’m the girl who’s desperate, so with an exasperated sigh, I click over to another section. Maybe if I look at some furniture for sale, I’ll be able to take my mind off this drivel before me.

  But my mouse slips and instead, I click on the women for men section. My eyes pop open because this section is even
crazier than the men for women. In fact, these ladies are straight up prostitutes. The ads run the gamut from:

  $$$ SWEET THING AVAILABLE $$$ Call-in or meet-out.

  To:

  You got the cash? Then I got the booty! Dial 555-5555 for fun timez!

  I’m not one to judge. After all, this is the oldest profession in the world, but at the same time, my eyes bug and I gasp as seeing the pictures the girls have posted of themselves. Most have their head cut off, but some leave them on on, and it’s photo after photo of beautiful girls with amazing bodies in skimpy bikinis. They all have perfect skin and narrow waists, and all of them invariably have a come-hither gaze that would make even the sturdiest man melt.

  Suddenly, inspiration strikes. These women are for sale. They’re clearly offering a service for money, and as a woman of the world, I should use my brains and leverage this to my advantage. After all, the times in the past when I’ve felt outraged at some injustice or other, it never turned out well if all I did was fume and sit on my butt. Instead, the times things got better was when I used my brain and made something of the situation.

  So taking a deep breath, I open a new browser and hesitantly look at the screen. What should I say? There’s no delicate way to phrase it, so I type out: MALE ESCORT.

  Immediately the browser responds with dozens of sites. There’s one for escorts available in the Caribbean, the model on the page a bronzed god with tribal tattoos all over his arms and chest. Oh, me likey. A cut guy with tats always makes me salivate.

  Then there’s NYC Gentlemen, where a man in a suit greets visitors digitally. He’s dapper with a gleaming white smile and black suit, but when I click on the site, warning lights start flashing and a pop-up informs me that my computer has been infected with a virus. Hurriedly, I close the window before who knows what pops on my screen.