I gasp.
“To pretend I’m you?” I ask disbelievingly. “Really?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” replies Ann-Marie, waving her hand airily. “I mean, everyone wants to be me,” she continues, as if that were obvious. “Especially you, Anna. I’m just a little younger, a little taller, and god knows, a lot lighter. Guys ask me out whereas you’ve just got your make-believe boyfriends in books,” she says with a pitying look. “The kind that look like Fabio and star in fake butter commercials.”
I literally can’t speak. The words seize in my throat, my mind spinning because my sister’s level of self-absorption is at a new level. I pity whatever poor guy is hanging out with her tonight. I really feel sorry for him because seriously, it doesn’t matter how beautiful a girl is when she’s got the attitude of a thirteen year-old adolescent.
But when I see that my sister’s absolutely serious, I give up. Shrugging my shoulders, I say shortly, “Fine. You’re more than welcome to search my room if you want. I guarantee you won’t find it there, but fine.”
“Fine,” she shoots right back at me, hands on hips. I half-expect Ann-Marie to stick out her tongue, like we’re second graders fighting on the playground but she whirls around instead.
“I don’t believe you anyways,” she tosses off like a queen. “You’ve always been good at hiding things. Remember those candy wrappers mom used to find under your bed? You were always so sneaky.”
While the memories cause her to smile, they twist a painful dagger in my chest. My eating habits have always been an issue, and as my sibling, Ann-Marie knows exactly what buttons to push. Back then, I ate a lot but it wasn’t healthy stuff. Ding-Dongs, Snowballs, and of course, Little Debbie chocolate cakes were my drugs. It was a problem, but then again, that was when I was fifteen. Now I still eat a lot but it’s all organic. Now it’s about fresh fruit, whole grains, and lots and lots of veggies. But Ann-Marie’s words sting anyways.
She drops her hands at her side and smirks at me derisively.
“Besides, where would a chubby stick in the mud like you be going anyways? It’s not like you ever leave this dump except to work and buy more of your precious books.”
The way she says makes it sound like a bad thing, but I enjoy my simple existence. Although, I must admit my couch isn’t the best place to meet men. Or anybody for that matter.
But fine. There’s no sense in putting up with another second of this bullshit, and finishing my meal, I throw the packet in the garbage and walk over to the sink to wash my lone fork.
Ann-Marie is still standing there with that godawful smirk and I wanna grab that long red hair and make her squeal with pain. But that’s for kids, so instead, I take a deep breath.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask, expression calm. “I’m putting some water in the kettle.”
Dismissively, she flings her glorious hair over one shoulder and marches back to her bedroom grumbling incoherently under her breath, probably to tear the place up looking for that damn dress.
Happy that the exchange is over, I fill my favorite blue tea kettle with water and turn on the ancient gas stove.
Deliberately, I thumb through my case of specialty teabags in search of a particularly calming blend. Deciding on chamomile, I place the tea bag on the counter and open the cabinet to retrieve my favorite mug.
But out of nowhere, guilt begins to nag. Oh god, it’s terrible. It’s the big sister blues, the sense of obligation that starts and won’t stop until I solve her problems. So like they’re magnetized, my feet start walking down the hall, stopping only when I’m at the doorway of Ann-Marie’s bedroom.
I’m not sure why I feel compelled to help her find the stupid dress, but I do. Chalk it up to my need to please everybody. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure others are happy and it’s probably not gonna change anytime soon. And standing in the doorway of her room, I see that Ann-Marie’s already made a huge mess.
She’s in the huge walk-in closet throwing things left and right, creating even more chaos in the usually messy space.
“Did you need help?” I ask from my post at the door. I’m not going to enter unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Not sparing me a glance, Ann-Marie suddenly stops and reaches for something near the back of the closet. When I see the glint of rhinestones and purple fabric in her arms, I shake my head silently to myself and turn to leave.
There’s no sense in lingering. I know there won’t be an apology for her tirade or nasty remarks. There’s never any remorse for her hotheaded actions.
She’s gotten what she was looking for and now she’ll move on as if it never happened. Until the next thing goes missing, that is. I can only imagine what it’ll be next. Maybe she’ll accuse me of stealing her favorite mini-skirt.
I can see it now.
Well, yes Ann-Marie. I was planning to use it as a scarf. It’s cold outside, I thought this would be perfect.
Yes, Ann-Marie. This is a handkerchief right? A pretty one, for blowing my nose?
Thoroughly amused by my silly musings, I begin preparing my tea, resigned again. As I’m pouring the hot water into my ceramic mug a few minutes later, my sister waltzes by in sky high heels and a purple dress that molds to her body perfectly.
She looks stunning. But what else is new?
The redhead ignores me completely, only pausing at the entrance to the apartment to fasten a string of pearls around her neck. A necklace that my grandmother specifically left to me, but my sister acts as if it’s entirely normal. What the hell? She must have gone into my room, dug through my jewelry box, and taken the pearls, knowing full well that they’re mine. And yet, she’s acting like nothing’s wrong, like all’s well in the world.
God, what did I do to deserve this? Save me, I pray in my head. Please just let her leave. I just want this to be over, please just let her go.
And finally, the redhead acknowledges my existence.
“I’m going to a cocktail party at the Grand,” she says, emphasizing the name of the fancy venue.
“Have fun,” I tell her, wiping down the already pristine counter. I’m pretty anal when it comes to the cleanliness of the place. Something about cleaning is just therapeutic. Scrubbing away the grit and dirt and revealing something pure and whole is gratifying in a way I can’t explain.
“What are you up to tonight?” Ann-Marie asks randomly.
She never asks me about my plans so I can’t help being caught off guard.
“The usual,” I answer slowly. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
She pauses to look at me closely and it seems like she wants to say something else. But her mouth snaps shut, and I’m thankful because I don’t think I could take another one of her insults tonight.
“Don’t wait up,” she mentions as an afterthought before breezing out and slamming the door.
Sighing, I walk into my room and strip down to nothing. In my full length mirror, I examine my plump curves and the peaks and valleys of my anatomy. My boobs are full and the pink nipples are distended and hard from the chill of the air. My hands land on my thick waist and my head tilts to take in the roundness of my belly below traveling lower. I bypass my neatly trimmed mound and instead focus on the swell of my hips and thighs.
I may not be a stick thin model like Ann-Marie. But sometimes when I’m not being too hard on myself I think my curves are sassy, and someone will appreciate them. Someday. Even if it feels like it’ll never happen.
Patience, Anna, the voice in my head speaks. Prince Charming is coming soon enough.
I snort. Yeah, right. There are no guys in white horses. More like my book boyfriends will be keeping me company again tonight.
Grabbing my robe, I head to the only bathroom in the apartment. After a long, steamy shower, my muscles have relaxed quite nicely, and I change into my favorite comfy pajamas. In the mirror above my dresser, I pull my dark red hair into a messy bun atop my head.
My full cheeks are flushed and blotchy
from the long day, eyes decidedly dull.
Okay, the voice in my head says. So you’re not a model. But you know what? You have a nice smile, even if you’re a little tired right now. So take it easy, tomorrow is another day.
Because working as a secretary for the town’s top CPA firm is no easy feat, but somebody’s got to pay the bills.
Of course, I’d love nothing more than to leave the crappy desk job but the truth is that it’s not possible, not by a long shot. I’m paying all of our expenses, Ann-Marie doesn’t contribute, and who knows when I’d find another job? The economy sucks, and a paycheck is nothing to scorn.
So with my mug of tea in hand, I settle on the plush, comfy couch and retrieve my favorite romance novel from the side table.
Hey, a girl can dream, right?
I don’t get out much, but it sure is nice to live vicariously through the words an author etches on a page. No matter how temporary the escape.
The pages of this particular paperback are worn and tattered from the numerous times I’ve devoured the story.
Finding the dog-eared mark near the middle of the book, I sink lower into the couch cushion and pick up where I left off. Yep, this is me. This is me, Anna Jones, small-time secretary in a small-time town, finishing off another week with a book in hand and a mug of tea.
Nothing to report, nothing exciting, but it’s my life, and it’s not bad. I wish something were different for sure, but how? After all, I’m just me and it seems impossible to make a change. With my parents dead and my only sister a dependent, there aren’t many options. It’s not like Prince Charming’s beating down my door, looking for a kiss.
So with another sigh, I burrow into the couch and flip to my favorite chapter. Oh yeah, here it is, where Lucy meets her paramour. Paramour, what a funny word. Why don’t they just say “date” or “hot guy”? But these Scottish highland romances are always like this. The guys always wear kilts and have long hair, flowing with the wind. The girls are always tiny things, wearing long, elaborate ball gowns except when they’re in sheer, see-through nighties.
But none of that matters because the best part’s still coming. Because yeah, these guys always have huge dicks. For some reason, Scottish lairds are always about six five, with broad shoulders and monstrous cocks, and my insides begin to moisten, eyes traveling the words, cares forgotten. Oh yeah, this is good. This is yummy. This is where the heroine sighs, gasps, and then rides that stiff cock for the first time, screaming and cussing, crying out his name, something along the lines of “Donegal, Donegal!”
Don’t ask me about the funny names, but does it really matter? Because with a tall, dominating alpha male, I wouldn’t care what he was called. I wouldn’t care if he wanted to fuck me backwards, forwards, on the side, or upside down. I’d be happy as long as … well, you know. Down below, I want him to be massively huge.
So with a secret smile on my face, I let go for the first time all day, my hand creeping down to my pussy, stroking those soft folds. Unnnh, oh fuck it’s good, and my puss juices wetly. Shit, I always have so much cream, and struggling out of my panties, I looked down at myself. Sure enough, my slit’s already bright pink, lips puffy and full, beginning to drip.
Might as well go with it. Leaning back on the couch again, I tease myself, legs spread as my eyes flutter shut. Unnnh, Donegal, Donegal. Yes, Daddy, give it to me. Yes, Daddy take me, feed me that cock, stuff me full. Because the truth is, I’ve never been with a man, but it’s coming for sure. There’s a guy out there who’s ready to fuck me, who’s ready to take a curvy virgin, it’s just a matter of time.
So what if I’m home alone on another Friday night, masturbating to a dirty romance? So what if I’m reading books, letting an imaginary alpha taste my insides? Because it’s right around the corner. I know the man of my dreams is coming and with a sigh, shudder and gasp, I give in. My snatch creams wetly, spasming hard and I cry out once more, back arching off the sofa. Oh god yes. Come to me Daddy. Come to Anna … because I can’t wait any longer, my pussy needs you.
CHAPTER TWO
Anna
The next morning at 6 a.m., it was like a dream. Had I really passed out last night after orgasming a couple times? Had I really gotten completely naked in the living room, frigging my cunt again and again, dreaming of my Scottish highland lord?
But yeah, it’s true. Because I’m a dirty girl. I’d gotten super into it, spreading my legs wide, pussy dripping like a faucet as I touched where his dick would go. Oh god yeah, it’d been awesome. It’d been so amazing to see my puss spasm and clamp, clit waving stiffly in the air. There was even a stain on the sofa from my creaming cunt, I’d gushed so hard while screaming “Daddy, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me good!”
But now it’s like it never happened. I’m in the kitchen making coffee, sunlight streaming through the window, everything spic and span. Last night was some kind of hedonistic getaway, a hazy dream from Neverland. I blink again, shaking my head. Shit. It’s gonna take something a lot stronger than tea to get me through the next twelve hours at the office, what with memories of Donegal still flitting through my mind. It’s Saturday, for crying out loud, and yet I’ve been called to the office for some “emergency assignment.”
As I take a tentative sip from my steaming travel mug, breathing in the silence, keys jingle outside the door before Ann-Marie pushes it open.
My sister practically falls inside, bursting with giggles despite the fact that it’s six a.m.
It would be a boldfaced lie to say I am surprised to see her returning from a night out at this hour. This is right up her alley so I don’t even bat an eye at her rowdy entrance. Because Ann-Marie likes to party hard. And her job as a model basically requires it, industry shindigs lasting into the wee hours of morning.
“Good morning, Anna!” she greets me, far more cheerful than I could manage even though I’ve had a full night’s rest.
“Morning,” I reply, eyeing her movements carefully. She seems sober, just really, really happy.
I want to roll my eyes when I realize that despite a full night of partying and God knows what else, Ann-Marie still looks fresh and beautiful.
“Guess what?” Ann-Marie squeals, leaning over the counter to snag a crusted piece of toast. She chomps on it, mouth full, while I look on silently.
“What?” I finally ask.
“I’m engaged!” my sister declares gleefully, unable to keep still. She dances around the kitchen and even bumps her hip against mine to get me to join in the celebration.
But instead of taking her cue, I grab her thin arm and bring her left hand into my line of vision.
There’s nothing on her ring finger, but from the smile on her face you would think she was sporting a ten-carat custom diamond ring.
“Engaged to whom?” I ask, raising my eyebrow as I drop her hand.
Positively overjoyed, Ann-Marie giggles and starts gushing about some guy named Chance.
“I met the sexiest man at the Grand last night. And guess what?” Her voice has heightened to a shrill. “He’s LOADED!”
Hmm, figures. Ann-Marie can spot a rich guy from miles away, it’s her special skill. I’ve seen her poring over GQ and other men’s mags, but the girl’s not looking at the male models or reading the articles. She’s learning about thirty thousand dollar watches and crocodile suitcases, studying up on men’s luxury goods so that when big prey is near, she can pounce
And of course, high rollers are drawn to her as well, Ann-Marie’s got those big blue eyes that she blinks so innocently, paired with legs that go on for miles.
But I keep my thoughts to myself as she shares details about the previous night.
“His name is Chance Morgan,” she trills delightfully.
I don’t recognize the name but that’s no surprise. High rollers aren’t exactly my thing.
“We spent all night just talking and getting to know one another,” my sister babbles. “The connection is so strong between us, Anna. It’s like fireworks on the fou
rth of July.” Ann-Marie pauses to sigh contentedly. “After our incredible night together, he proposed to me this morning and I said YES!”
Frowning, I have to ask the obvious question. “So you’ve only known each other for one night?”
Nodding happily, Ann-Marie says, “Yes. I’m so in love, Anna. I’ve never felt like this before.”
I watch her, mind spinning furiously, filled with all sorts of catty remarks, but there’s no point. Despite everything, I want the best for my sister. I don’t want her to be married and divorced within a year, all by the ripe old age of eighteen.
So I try to infuse some logic into this situation. She’s not ready to get hitched and take care of a household and man. After all, she can barely take care of herself, I’ve been doing it for her.
“But you barely know him,” I say gently. “You only met last night. Don’t you want to get to know him better?”
My sister laughs and smiles, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“Sometimes you just know, Anna. He’s the one.”
She sighs blissfully and clasps her hands in front of her with a serene smile.
“Oh, thank God! I’m finally going to get out of this shitty apartment.”
I take a deep breath, letting the insult roll of my back, before trying again.
“Ann-Marie, please take some time and think this through. This is a big decision,” I say gently. “Maybe you two should date for a while and go from there.”
Her voice is small and petulant in reply.
“I know what I’m doing, Anna. I am an adult you know.”
Just barely. Maybe legally yes, but mentally, no. But it’d do no good to bring that up now, so I take another deep breath.
“What does he do for a living?” I venture carefully, trying not rouse her. My sister is known for her hot and cold personality and I don’t want to poke the bear.
Her face falters at this question, and I see the wheels turning in her head.
His Captive: A Revenge Marriage Romance Page 2
