by Vivien Vale
“Go fuck yourself!” I offer in return.
His only response is laughter.
I’m preparing something equally scathing to shout at him when I’m suddenly thrown back into darkness.
We’re apparently past the packing peanut stage then.
All sealed up and nowhere to go.
Suddenly, I feel the world shift as the box is elevated. Maybe there’s somewhere to go after all. I can’t say exactly how long I lay in the damn box.
Things get weird with no light.
It’s a long fucking time to wait for a girl like me.
Like, two or three hours tops.
I scream myself hoarse, demanding to be set free, threatening their lives and their dicks.
Finally, I ask in my very best impression of my mother, if they know who the hell I am. It’s really a great impression, but usually much more effective.
At some point, I begin to plot.
I’m forming some wonderful plans about exactly what I’m going to do when I get out of the Stella-box. There’s a recurring testicle theme in my schemes for vengeance. Ripping them from the bodies of stupid, sexy Russians, tea-bagging them with their own nuts—that kind of thing.
I’m busy thinking up newer, crueler things I’m about to do to these assholes when I suddenly feel the box deposited roughly back to the ground.
I hear muffled voices, the scrape of shoes on concrete, then a doorbell being rung. It’s not your usual doorbell. It’s a rich person doorbell.
I’ve lived in mansions all my life, so trust me—I can totally hear the difference.
The booming chimes even shudder through the place where I’m tucked neatly into my box. They remind me of home.
I hear the creak of an opening door and feel myself being lifted once again. When I’m settled back on the ground, it’s far gentler.
Deep within the mound of packing peanuts that has been my temporary home, I begin to smile. Visions of rendered parts and screaming Russians flit through my head.
It’s painfully obvious that these asshats really don’t have any idea who I am. I can catfight with the best of them—and I’m fucking dirty about it, too. They’ve definitely messed with the wrong blyad.
Whatever the hell that means.
I feel the box being opened before I hear it. I’m now lying on my side, which factors heavily into my little revenge plot.
I picture the moment the box opens. I roll free from my tiny prison, lunging faster than the clearly ‘roided-out mobsters can counter, French tips bared. It’s a perfect plan, and woe to the testicles that find themselves in my path.
My moment comes. The box fully opens.
I roll, lips pulled back in a vicious smile, and I lunge. Nothing can stop me now!
That is…until I see the man I’m currently attacking.
I think I must’ve died in that box because I’m currently kneeling before a god.
He’s huge. Six four at least, with a body so well defined that not even his clothes can hide it. He’s not the Russian—he’s actually even more gorgeous—but he’s got that same coloring I like.
His sandy blond hair near glows in the light from the chandelier, and his blue eyes seem to pierce me, seeing into my very soul.
He stares down at me, beatific, shining, and I—well, I’m naked on my knees in front of him.
I feel too many things at once. I feel the packing peanuts that cling to my body from head to toe, my hair that feels probably only half as crazy as it looks.
I feel that somehow, in my shock, my maniacal grin has frozen in place.
Worst of all—or best, I haven’t decided yet—I feel the huge, hot weight of his balls, which are still clutched firmly in my hand.
Chapter 3
Michael
She takes my fucking breath away.
And not just because she has me by the fucking balls either.
Her hair is as blonde as the website promised, and her eyes are as just as blue. Her hips are wide. Her tits are perky. Her legs are so long I’m surprised to find that she’s not wearing heels.
In fact, save for a diamond necklace and a few packing peanuts that cling to her skin with static electricity, she’s not wearing anything at all.
It’s not every day that a gorgeous, naked woman rolls into my living room combat style and grabs me by the crotch.
For a man like me, it happens once or twice a week, tops.
Still, it’s not something that you ever really get used to.
No other woman I’ve been with has been able to handle me. They couldn’t take my cock. They couldn’t keep up with my libido.
They weren’t cut out for being my bride.
Those women weren’t mine.
The moment she grabs my balls, though, I know for certain that this woman could never be anything but mine.
I fall in love with her then and there. No hesitation. Not a second fucking thought.
It lasts for about as long as it takes her to open her mouth.
“Who’s the blyad now?!”
Blyad? What the fuck is that?
She glares at me and squeezes harder. At the end of her delicate, beautiful hands are talons that are threatening to give me the vasectomy I never wanted. Now I’m fucking feeling pain instead of pleasure.
Christ, is she trying to castrate me?
I’m tempted to smack her hand away, but I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I would never hit a lady…at least, not in a way she wouldn’t enjoy.
Plus, the way she’s holding on, like a pit bull with lockjaw, I’m not going to chance it.
It’s painstaking work, peeling her fingers off one by one until my balls are finally free. Good thing I’m a skilled doctor.
I step back before she can grab me again. I don’t need a repeat of that.
“You’re…not Russian,” she says, sounding kind of disappointed about that.
She doesn’t take her eyes off my crotch either. She looks a little in awe of it.
I raise a brow. “Should I be?”
“Ideally, no. But then…who the fuck are you?” she demands, rising to her feet.
She rests her hand confidently on her hip like it doesn’t bother her that she’s bare-ass naked…or like she’s already forgotten she doesn’t have a lick of clothes on.
I gotta give her credit. Spunk, she’s got it in spades. But I’m not really into this haughty princess attitude. This isn’t the happy, eager-to-please wife I’d ordered.
I knew that shit was a scam.
“I’m Michael Kirkwood,” I say. “I ordered you.” Then, I add for good measure, “And now, I’m sending you back. Never thought you’d actually show up.”
It’s the truth. I was ready to kiss that $1 million goodbye. Actually forgot she was coming until she was rolling out of the box in all her naked, ball-grabbing glory.
“You ordered me? What are you, a pervert?”
Now she’s really getting on my nerves. “Yes, I ordered you. Filled out a survey and everything for the perfect mail-order bride. Gotta say, feeling a little disappointed here.”
“Bride?! Hold up there, Mr. Pervert! Why would I marry you?”
“That’s Doctor Pervert to you. And trust me—in terms of marriage, right now the feeling is mutual. Which begs the question of why you crawled into that box to come here in the first place.”
“Um, hello! I was kidnapped! I went to a damn party after the Moscow Fashion Show to lose my V-card and ended up here. Ta-freakin’-da!”
Moscow Fashion Show? V-card? Kidnapped?! I feel like I stepped into some damned soap opera drama.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Kidnapped, no. I ordered you. As in I paid for you. You didn’t come cheap either—so I presumed you were, well…willing.”
“Of course I’m not fucking cheap, you asshole!” She throws a handful of packing peanuts at me. “Do you even know who I am?!” Her voice raises an octave and starts grating on my last nerve.
“You’re a real fucking headache, that’s what
you are.”
I drag my hand over my face. I’m fucking tired after completing a seven-hour surgery, and now I gotta deal with this bullshit? At this point, I’m thinking I should’ve left her in the damn box and went to bed instead.
“You’re a bad man, Doctor Pervert. I hope you know that.”
“Maybe I am. But I didn’t fucking kidnap you—let’s get that straight right now. Do I look like the type of guy that needs any help in landing women?”
“This coming from the guy who paid out the ass for me.”
Well, fuck. Touché.
All I want is one goddamn minute to put my thoughts together. But does she shut up? No.
She even sneers at me. “Why are you wearing a lab coat, anyway? Are you one of those freaks who buy women to experiment on them?”
Is this chick for real?
“It’s not a lab coat. It’s a doctor’s coat. I’m a doctor. A surgeon, actually.”
“Well, aren’t you all high and mighty.”
Christ. This is going nowhere fast.
She’s beautiful, no doubt about it. I could have real fun with her. After I break her in of course.
But that mouth? Better have a roll of duct tape handy—better yet, I could just shove my cock in it.
That thought momentarily distracts me, and I’m suddenly drawn to those lush lips. Could it in there?
Before that happens, though, I have to get to the bottom of this. Kidnapping?
Not my kink; not my forte. I prefer my women willing—exclusively.
She chooses that moment to look at me. I mean really look at me.
Her eyes drag down my body, stopping at my pelvis before moving back up to lock eyes with me. It’s not an unusual reaction, and it’s one that I see quite often.
And of course, I’m fully clothed. She’s still stark naked. As much as I want to enjoy the view and show her the unbelievable amount of pleasure she could experience with me, it’s painfully clear that something’s just not right here.
I remove my coat, and her eyes widen. She looks at me as though she’s anticipating more. This ain’t the time for that, sweetheart.
I drape the coat over her shoulders, taking care not to let my eyes wander. Her voluptuous curves and perky nipples really make it hard, though.
Yet I can see the disappointment on her face clear as day as I step away.
Chapter 4
Stella
He’s gotta be, like, six foot four. Maybe taller. If I had a ruler, I would totally whip it out and find out for sure.
Height isn’t the only thing I’m interested in measuring on the man who bought me. The bulge he’s packing in his pants doesn’t do much to preserve any mystery on the dick front: this guy is hung.
It makes my lady parts clench and get drenched just thinking about it, which is saying something—considering I don’t know what it feels like. My pussy just knows that it wants it.
As if the doctor’s coat, the broad shoulders, the chiseled jaw, and the dreamy blue eyes weren’t enough, knowing that he’s got a massive cock sort of seals the deal.
I could have been bought by a creep. Or a loser. Or a dude with a forehead tattoo.
Instead, I was bought by a total dreamboat.
A total dreamboat who is now totally taking off his lab coat.
I mean, except for this fucking necklace, I’m already naked. So if he wants to join me, I’m not about to complain.
I bet he’s got an eight-pack beneath his shirt, too.
But to my dismay, he stops with the lab coat. He’s desperately trying not to look at me as he wraps it around my shoulders so that neither of us are naked anymore.
Damn.
Though I have to admit, I’m grateful for the warmth.
I risk a glance down at myself. Not exactly an improvement on my previous state. It should be designer or nothing.
“Look, I’m sorry for the mix-up,” he says, although he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’ll book you the next flight home.”
It takes a second to register since, in my head, I’m unzipping his pants with my teeth.
“Right,” I choke out after only a second’s hesitation, “that sounds good. LaGuardia. Private charter flight if they have it. If not, Delta will do.”
He pulls out his phone, which conveniently has a flight app already installed. I watch his fingers dance over the screen. Obviously, he’s skilled with his hands.
“There’s one in the morning,” he says. “At eight.”
“First class?”
He looks at me like I’ve grown horns. “Coach.”
I swear to God, I nearly gag.
“Coach,” I groan. “Do you know who I am?” This time my Mom impression is so good it almost scares me.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he says, having the nerve to match my tone. “You’re a spoiled little brat. Let’s not forget, though, you came here in a box.”
I’ve never really understood what it meant to see red. In this moment though, it makes perfect sense. I’m seeing goddamn crimson—with an accent of blood orange!
“That’s right,” I say. “I came here in a fucking box! Have you ever traveled by box? It fucking SUCKS! So, if you think I’m about to leave in anything less than first class, you’ve got another thing coming…Mister!”
I emphasize the last with a couple of hard pokes to his chest. Holy shit, this guy is ripped. I look down at the floor, trying to hide my wince as pain shoots through my finger.
At the same time, I’m fighting the urge to reach back up and tear the shirt from his body.
When I feel ready to meet his eyes again, I find them brimming with anger.
“Okay princess,” he says in an eerily calm voice. “First class it is.”
“Good.” I decide to smother the triumphant smile that threatens to break across my face.
Probably shouldn’t push my luck.
He looks back at his phone, fingers again flying with an ease that makes my mind race. Oh, the possibilities.
Less than a minute later, his attention’s back on me. I can’t say I like that mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “All set. First class all the way. Happy?”
“Perfect! When do I leave?”
He smiles broadly. “Two weeks.”
“Two weeks? I can’t wait two weeks!”
Now I understand the mischievous glint…and the shit-eating grin now spreading even wider across his face.
“Oh, you can’t?” he asks with mock sincerity, “I can always downgrade you.”
This stupid, sexy son of a bitch.
I might have caved. I might have just given up right then. Probably would have in fact, if it weren’t for that grin. That smug, shit-eating grin.
“Okay,” I say, letting the word hang in the air just long enough to foster false hope. “I’ll wait the two weeks. Where’s my room?”
The look of utter confusion that comes across his face is almost worth the trip in that damn box.
Almost.
“Your room,” he repeats, deadpan.
“Right. The room I’ll be staying in while I wait for my flight out,” I say, hugging the doctor’s coat around me and wandering around the foyer, gawking at the décor.
It’s not bad, honestly. A little homey and a little too minimalist for my tastes—but whatever. I could get with this for two weeks.
“What makes you think I’m putting you up for two weeks, princess?”
“What made you think you could buy a kidnapping victim over the internet?” I shoot back. “I’ll also settle for the Hilton, but you can bet your ass I’ll be getting room service.”
He laughs, yet there’s no humor in it. In fact, he looks annoyed. He shoves his phone back into his pocket.
“I didn’t know you were a kidnapping victim when I bought you,” he reminds me. “And if you trash the place, I’m billing your sugar daddy.”
Before I can respond, he’s moving, his long legs eating up the dis
tance to the stairs.
I furrow my brow. I don’t have a sugar daddy—I have a trust fund.
“Hurry up,” he calls without looking back. “Before I decide to turn you in to the LAPD instead.”
I think of telling him not to order me around. That I’m many things, but his bitch isn’t one of them…yet.
I bite my tongue instead.
If I’m going to be here for two weeks, I should probably start picking my battles. After all, I’ve already come away pretty victorious tonight.
I follow him, hurrying to match his pace. This place is huge and, by the time he finally comes to a stop, I’m a little winded—and I do pilates, for fuck’s sake.
Not that I’ll let him see that he’s already worn me out.
“Here you go,” he says, pushing open the nearest door.
I step into the room, eyes assessing the place.
It’s fantastic! Four-poster bed, lush carpeting, gorgeous chandelier. Now this is a place I can relax.
I turn to tell him so, but he isn’t there.
I poke my head back out the door and catch him turning the corner, walking even faster now that he’s alone.
I tamp down on the disappointment that threatens to bubble up. Sure, I kind of want to smack the guy, but part of me was hoping he might stick around for a while.
I shut the door and lean back against it, taking in the room anew.
I glance down, realizing I’ve still got his lab coat on. I shrug it off. I might have to stay in his house, but I damn sure don’t have to wear his clothes.
After a moment’s thought, I hold the discarded garment to my face, deeply breathing in his lingering scent.
Holy fuck… he smells good.
I consider putting it down or throwing it away.
But I can barely pull the lab coat away from my face. It’s like I don’t want to stop breathing in.
When I breathe out again, it’s a sigh…
Then, I smell the lab coat again and go right on basking in his manly, sexy scent.
Kidnapping and threats of coach class aside…
A girl could get used to this.
Chapter 5
Michael
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
