Spy Games: A Billionaire Bad Boy Heist Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  “Unnh god!” I moaned again, head dropping just as the music crescendoed, boobs almost popping out my cleavage. Oh fuck, it felt so good and I didn’t even care if I gave the audience an eyeful of breastflesh now, I was beyond the point of no return, absolutely soaring in heaven. “Ohhh!”

  But Donovan chuckled nastily.

  “Naw baby girl, I’ve only got three fingers in, and we agreed fisting this time, remember? So open wider sweetheart, Daddy’s still got two digits to go.”

  And my entire body shivered with his words, cream running from my hole, literally gushing around his hand. Because this is the new “us.” Donovan wants danger in his life, I get it, and somehow, some way, I am the embodiment of that danger. The difference is that the alpha’s got a partner now, and the danger runs ten times deeper, ten times more hazardous. Because no, Donovan still never uses protection, he’s still creaming into me again and again, giving me multiple doses of that semen. But it’s different this time, because I’m on board and aware.

  And our adventure at the opera is just another example of our joint quest for danger. Because yeah, fingerfucking in public is too tame now, Donovan made me promise to let him fist me, to stuff his entire hand into my pussy in plain sight of other audience members.

  “I don’t get it,” I’d gasped, brown eyes wide as I stared at him. We’d been discussing it on the couch in the Avalon, Donovan having moved me out of my old, worn-down shack within twenty-four hours.

  “Don’t get what?” he drawled lazily, one big finger trailing against my nether lips, making me shiver involuntarily. “You think this pussy can’t stretch?”

  I shook my head disbelievingly.

  “I mean it can Daddy, it can, but your entire hand? All five fingers, plus your palm? And your hand’s big too,” I whispered pointedly, looking down at where his fingers grazed my twat.

  Donovan chuckled deep in his chest, male form hard and tense, immense ridge already evident within his trousers, tenting them like a flagstaff. Oh god, I wanted to suck, but even more, I wanted to feel. But Donovan wanted me a certain way, and I was gonna get it.

  “Trust me baby, you can do it,” he rasped throatily, gazing at my bare pussy hungrily. “And Daddy will help you through the exercise, Daddy will absolutely get you so hot that you thank me afterwards, this little pussy will drip buckets of lust.”

  And now here, at the opera, my lover was true to his words. Because as I parted my thighs wider, he slipped another finger into my pussy, four now in total, prying me open, and making me feel oh-so-full.

  “Oh god Daddy,” I moaned, throwing my head back, reaching forward to stroke the ridge of that fat cock through his pants. “Oh god.”

  Donovan’s eyes were such an intense blue that I could see them even in the dark of the theater. But he pushed my hand away because this time was all about me, and my lover was gonna bring me to a shattering finish, audience and music be damned.

  “Almost there,” he rumbled soothingly, that blazing blue gaze never leaving my secret flesh. “Almost there.”

  And with one more twist of his wrist, a clever jerk and then a deep slide, it happened. Donovan slipped all five fingers in, the stretch incredible, my pussy so fucked. I looked down with shock, almost unable to breathe. It was so obscene, so unbelievably disgusting, and yet so good. Because only Donovan’s wrist protruded from my vaginal hole, creamy thighs spread wide. There was so much pussy juice, so much female nectar that his arm was absolutely drenched, rivulets dripping off onto the floor.

  “Oh fuck yeah,” he groaned, moving his fingers experimentally in me. “Oh fuck yeah.”

  I mewled helplessly then, throwing my head back. Oh god, was this really happening? This was danger personified, shit, I didn’t know how we could get more risky than this. Because if someone noticed, how could he pull his fingers out in time? The alpha was stuck so far in my body that it would take at least twenty minutes just to exit the way he’d come, finger by finger, slowly pulling out of my puss.

  But for now, I just wanted to feel.

  “Yeah Daddy,” I panted. “Ohhh, god, yesss.”

  And with that, the billionaire began to fuck me. Right there, at the opera, my dress pulled open and legs spread obscenely wide, he began running his entire fist in and out of my pussy, only his wrist showing as he rampaged my hot folds. Oh god, I was so fucked inside, slutty cunt gushing heavily, gripping him, stretched to the max.

  “Oh god,” I moaned again. “Oh god god god.”

  And with that, my snatch burst. Literally juices flew out three feet in the air, spattering his tux, getting on my beautiful red dress, staining the ornate furniture. There was so much that it literally bubbled up around his wrist as my folds clenched and spasmed, squeezing his hand like a python, pulsing with ecstasy.

  “Ahhh!” I cried out, throwing my head back, one big boobie popping out from my dress now, my lust impossible to contain. “Ahh!”

  But Donovan was quick. In a flash, the big man reached around my torso and covered the pendulous flesh with his hand.

  “Oh yeah, baby girl,” he ground out, squeezing hard before flicking a nip. “Oh yeah, Daddy’s got you.”

  And that’s the story of my life now. Daddy’s got me, and I’ve got him. We’re together through the good times and bad, riding storms in one boat, oars paddling in sync. Sure, we began in the most illicit of ways, as an anonymous finger fuck after meeting on-line, but it’s become something real now. Because we live together, Donovan moved us both into the condo in the sky, and it’s good. Better than good. We make love all the time yeah, but we also cook, shower, and talk non-stop, blabbing about big and small.

  So no, I didn’t expect this. I was Rachel Smith, virgin librarian, a shy, plump brunette with a sweet smile and a longing to explore and see the world. And he was Donovan Jones, billionaire alpha with a penchant for the dirty, using females like disposable goods. But we’ve both changed. Now that we have each other, the past is the past, it formed us, but it’s not us anymore. Because we’re living our present now, and with bright eyes, I have high hopes for the future.

  Because Donovan has a desire for danger, yes. Was I afraid I couldn’t satisfy him, that I was too boring? Was I afraid I couldn’t meet his expectations? Absolutely. After all, virgin Rachel wasn’t so long ago, only a matter of weeks in fact. But slowly, as we’ve grown closer, our relationship has deepened and matured, and I’ve become more confident, more sure of myself. My body and mind are the ultimate drugs for my man, and yes, I’ve realized I can fulfill the alpha’s desire for danger. I can go to the Billionaires Club and play any game with him, I can take him to the opera and let him fist me in public, pushing that huge hand right up into my sweet, pulsing twat.

  And this is our life. This is our life, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. By no means is it perfect, we’re not Ken and Barbie by a long shot, living a bland, plastic life with a house in the burbs. But Donovan is my man, and the love that soars between us, that binds us tight, is one hundred percent real. So what else can a girl ask for? After all, this was an anonymous encounter that became something much, much more … and it’s mine for keeps.

  THE END

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  Falling for My Son’s Best Friend

  ~An Erotic Romance~

  © 2017

  By Cassandra Dee

  DEDICATION

  To all the ladies who have a thing for young studs. Cheers!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marie

  “Seriously Marie, lighten up,” scolded my friend Angie. “Guys are going to think you have the shakes, you’re so wound up.”

  I bit my lip as the elevator zoomed to the top of the tower.

  “I don’t know Ang,” I said nervously, heart fluttering. “It’s been a long time since I was out
.”

  “That’s it exactly,” huffed my friend. “It’s been a long time since Marie Sands was out, way too long in fact. What, were you going to join a nunnery next? Seriously Marie, you’re divorced, not dead.”

  And I bit my lip again because Ang had a point. I’ve been divorced for five years now and haven’t found it in me to date yet. I guess I got burned hard when Rob, my high school sweetheart, left me for a woman ten years younger, a bouncy bright blonde that made me feel old and washed out in comparison. But Ang had all the answers.

  “Stop tugging at your skirt, girl,” she scolded. “You look fine, if I had a body like yours, trust me, I’d be showing a lot more skin.”

  And I laughed then because the outfit I was wearing was totally out of character. Angie had coaxed me into a wine-colored cocktail dress with a shockingly daring décolletage and a skirt up to there, skimming the tops of my thighs, showing off creamy flesh. And to top it all off, I had on four inch heels, elongating my legs and making me feel positively willowy.

  Well, as willowy as a curvy girl can be because I’m round all around. It was part of what stung so bad about the break up. Rob had told me he wanted petite, tiny and neat, and I was none of that. I was juicy, with boobs out to there and a behind out to here. I can’t help it, I’ve been this way since I was fifteen and started developing, and it was a slap in the face when my ex said I wasn’t “desirable,” that I wasn’t “sexy,” and he wasn’t attracted to me anymore.

  But all that was in the past. Even though it felt like it happened yesterday sometimes, making me gasp with pain, five years was five years, and I made myself take a deep breath and summon my courage.

  “Come on girl,” chirped Angie as the door slid open. “Let’s meet some men and have a good time!” she yelped, sashaying into the cocktail lounge like she owned it. Tentatively, I stepped forward, a little disoriented by the dark interior, lit only with flashing strobe lights and some dim wall sconces. Figures milled about in shadow, drinks in hand, the men in suits and the women in tiny cocktail dresses, everyone elegant and suave, like they belonged here. I gulped, feeling like the odd man out. I hadn’t been social in years. Because sure, I have my women’s book club, I play tennis, swim, I even crochet sometimes with the local ladies, but dating? No, my heart had been torn to shreds five years ago and it’d taken that long to recover. If I was even recovered. So yeah, I hadn’t dated in ages, since I was eighteen in fact, and the rules had definitely changed.

  “Excuse me,” harrumphed one elderly gentleman, bumping into us. “Pardon me, lovely ladies.”

  “No worries,” chirped Ang, a smile lighting up her striking features. “Nice to meet you, I’m Angela.”

  I was furtively making eyes at her, signaling “No, no!” Because the gentleman, while nice looking, was far too old. He had to be at least seventy, with snow white hair and deep grooves around the corners of his mouth, jaw slack with age. But Angie completely ignored me, instead allowing the man to take her hand and press a kiss to the back, like she was a princess.

  “You two are so beautiful,” he purred. “What brings you here tonight?” he asked.

  And Angela, ever the big blabbermouth, immediately spilled the beans.

  “My friend Marie here hasn’t been on a date since her divorce,” she said promptly. “You got any friends for her?”

  I turned beet red at that, ears going hot, cheeks flaming pink. Oh god hopefully they couldn’t see, hopefully it was so dark in here that no one could tell that I was currently the color of a tomato, flashing hot and then ice cold within seconds, a cold sweat breaking on my brow.

  “No, Ang, that’s not it,” I protested. “I’m just, you know, getting to know myself,” I said helplessly, smiling at the old man. “Stepping back into the world after a couple years of self-imposed exile.”

  But the gentleman was kind, if a little old-fashioned.

  “A woman as beautiful as you isn’t going to have any trouble,” he said with a bow, even waving his hand as a flourish. “You’re a breath of fresh air, a breeze amid these shadows, and men will be throwing flowers at your feet, dying to escort a femme fatale.”

  I had to giggle at the flowery phrases, exchanging a glance with my friend. Was this guy Sir Lancelot, courting a lovely lady in waiting? Maybe I hadn’t dated in a long time, but still, I knew cheesy when I saw it. And thankfully, Ang agreed.

  “Thank you kind sir,” said my friend, shooting him a smile. “We’re gonna get ourselves drinks, we’ll catch up with you later.”

  And with a quick smile, we moved on, losing ourselves in the crowd.

  “Ang,” I said, shaking my head, grabbing her elbow for a moment. “I don’t know if this is a good idea, that wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

  But my blonde friend was unperturbed.

  “No worries, you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you get to a prince, and besides, that wasn’t exactly frog-like,” she said. “He was nice in his own way, you know, old at all.”

  I snorted.

  “Old? That’s it? More like he was super-cheesy and super-old. Please Ang,” I said. “I haven’t dated in a while, but I’m only thirty-nine. Like you said, I’m not dead and I’d still love someone who has a heartbeat and lives in this century.”

  “Oh you!” pshawed Angela. “So picky, and it’s only your first night out! No worries, a heartbeat it is then,” she smiled wickedly. “But let me get you a drink, mojito okay?” she asked before turning away. And just like that, my friend started burrowing into the crowd at the bar, pushing her way through reams of well-dressed people, determined to get to the front.

  I sighed. Ang was always going to be Ang, the good and the bad mixed into one. On the one hand, my friend was a lifesaver. She was the one who’d convinced me to come out, who’d harangued me during multiple phone calls, cajoled me into this outfit, and built up my confidence so that I could wear something sexy, something revealing, giving up my nurse’s scrubs. But on the other, Ang was so bold, so brave and socially confident that she’d left me alone at the party. She was now deep into the thicket, her blonde head shining amid a sea of others, authoritatively ordering drinks, clasping her purse tight as elbows jostled, drinks sloshed, and talk rang out, loud and raucous.

  I could never do that. I’ve always been shy and parties have never been my thing, even when I was young. Besides, it’s always been Rob for me. Or was, past tense. We’d met when I was fifteen and he was sixteen, getting married as soon as we were legal. Back then, I thought it’d be a forever thing, that the handsome boy would morph the man of my dreams, that he’d be everything and anything I needed. But after fifteen years together and one beautiful baby boy, it all went to shit. Rob found his teenage slut, and over the course of one year, managed to divorce me, marry her, and get her pregnant, three for three.

  So I snorted a little. Life hasn’t been easy, and yeah, it’d taken five years for me to recover. I’d thrown myself into work, into being a mother, and fortunately my son Robbie has turned out okay despite his parents’ acrimonious divorce. In fact, Robbie was at State now, doing a double major in Environmental Science and Economics and I was never more proud of him. My handsome boy had grown up and was ten times the man his father was, responsible, hardworking, and a stellar athlete at that, it was his soccer scholarship paying his tuition. I’d gotten off light given that school fees now topped thirty thousand a year.

  But still, there was something missing in my life. Maybe it was the fact that Robbie was gone, maybe it was the fact that the house was empty without him, dark and silent when I came home at night, maybe it was the fact that I was hitting forty soon. But what would make me happy again, what would make me buzz with excitement and life, was another child. Yes, it was time for a second baby, and now at thirty-nine, my timeline was short, biological clock thumping like the beat of congo drums.

  So yeah, I was here hoping to meet a man, but realistically, was my baby daddy going to be here tonight, at this party? Probably not. What w
ith meeting someone, dating for years, getting engaged, being engaged for years, and then finally a wedding, getting to baby the traditional way took forever and then some. So yeah, it was unlikely that Mr. Dad was milling about tonight, sipping a cocktail, making small talk.

  But no worries, modern technology is wonderful because it almost doesn’t take a man anymore. There’s a thing called sperm donation, guys who sell their swimmers to a bank and then you can literally buy the goods. It’s crazy if you think about it, a man selling his DNA, what makes him him. But I guess it makes sense given that there are so many reasons why a woman might need sperm. Maybe they’re a lesbian couple who wants to conceive, maybe they’re an infertile hetero couple who need a little juice. Or maybe you’re like me, hitting forty with no man in sight but determined to have a baby, a cooing infant in my arms.

  So surreptitiously, without telling anyone, I’d researched the process and looked into the best donor banks. It made me a little nervous honestly, going to the fertility clinic and clicking through page after page of information about potential baby daddies, nothing but words, words, words, plus a childhood picture if you were lucky. And so far, I hadn’t found anyone I liked, despite spending hours studying each profile, reading each one carefully, weighing the pros and cons of each man. There was Donor 162, who was tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, but his hobbies were puzzles, crosswords, and Sudoku. Nothing against that, but it just sounded unbelievably nerdy to me, even if the guy’s IQ was sky high.

  And then there was Donor 1798, who was of mixed Greek, Latin, and Mediterranean heritage, and spoke six languages after living in thirty countries as a war photographer. But that was the thing. What if my child wanted to find his father one day? What were the chances that the war photographer would still be alive? So I shut the door on that donor too, sighing and exasperated. There were so many guys, but the descriptions didn’t do them justice, it was so difficult to describe a person via an application. And frankly, I was starting to give up. What seemed like it would be easy, plucking a resume from a stack, was actually turning out to be a huge chore, sobering and dispiriting.