Dr. Travis, I Love You: A Secret Baby Medical Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  But Vanessa waved a hand dismissively. “Everyone knows,” she reiterated. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

  Clearly this bitch was not going to be any help, but I was determined to get to the bottom of it, determined to whisk Teresa out of here before she became a laughingstock, the crowd jabbering about our contract. Oh god.

  Where the fuck was she? I turned to find Jeremiah behind me, his gangly form balancing a ton of stuff.

  “My phone,” I growled.

  But Jeremiah turned beet red. “Mr. Sterling,” he said, practically crying. “I’m so sorry, I turned to speak to the Senator and misplaced your handheld. I swear, it was only a minute and suddenly your cell was gone.”

  Really? Gone? This was some motherfucking messed up day. Even though I’d just won an election it was like the sky had gone dark, my horizons closing in, my chest tightening with pains. What the fuck?!?!

  I was angry but forced myself to do one more round of toasts, one more round of thanking loyal staffers, supporters, and interest parties alike. It would do no good to alienate anyone on what was supposed to be my night of triumph. It was only when I got into the black car that the full force of my fury took over.

  “To the Mission District,” I said in a gravelly voice. I knew with a sneaking suspicion that Teresa had already moved out, that she was no longer resident in my Pac Heights townhouse.

  We drove through some dilapidated areas, but frankly, the Mission was better than I thought. Once the home to a Latino base, it’s been gentrifying quickly with a slew of hipster bars, artisanal coffee shops and the like. Hmm, I hadn’t been here in a long time and it’d be good to start building coalitions in this up and coming neighborhood.

  But as I directed the driver to Teresa’s home, I saw a shadowy figure walking in the dim light. Gentrifying neighborhood be damned! What the fuck! It was my girl, walking alone in the dark, trying to find her way home after some godawful ride on public transit in the middle of the night. The sedan pulled over and I banged open the door, almost jumping on her.

  “Teresa, what the fuck? What are you doing walking alone at night?” I growled, hauling her close to me. Fuck, this was unbelievable. The night was dark but I could still see her face in the low light of a street lamp, covered in tears, her belated efforts to wipe away the moisture too late.

  “Matt,” she said slowly, pulling away and holding her head up high. “It was the end of our contract. I earned my hundred thousand and that’s all there is,” she said simply.

  “Hundred thousand be damned!” I roared. Thank god we were on a relatively deserted sidewalk. “What, you weren’t going to say goodbye?”

  She turned her head away, but I pulled her chin back to me. “Tell me,” I ground out roughly. “Were you really not going to say goodbye?” My heart pounded in my chest, my breathing quick, my eyes unable to leave her curvaceous form. Was I alone in my infatuation, did this girl feel nothing for me, ready to leave on a moment’s notice?

  But slowly, she reached into her purse. “You don’t have to pretend,” she said woodenly, pulling a familiar cell from her pocket. “I saw what Vanessa texted you.”

  I was filled with rage but grabbed the handheld and flicked it open. It went straight to a series of damning texts. There was the pussy shot, unmistakably Vanessa with the red stilettos, and then some banter back and forth between Vanessa … and me.

  “What the fuck?” I asked. “I didn’t write these texts. How did you get my cell?”

  Teresa looked at the ground, closing in on herself. “Jeremiah left me with your phone while he partied,” she said. “It wasn’t his fault, he’s young and wanted to talk to the Senator, so I offered to hold some stuff for him. Matt,” she added. “I don’t blame you, I don’t hate you, I don’t anything. We had an arrangement and that’s all it was,” she concluded simply.

  But I still couldn’t figure out how this situation had become so twisted.

  “But how the fuck did Vanessa know all those things about you?” I asked. “She mentioned the contract, your illegal status, all that stuff.”

  “Matt,” said Teresa. “Read the texts more closely.”

  I had glanced at them, but really my focus had been on the pussy shot. Reviewing them again, I realized that Teresa had outed herself … to that scheming bitch. She’d revealed the contract, the fact that she was my maid, the fact that once the campaign was over, I was dumping her. And all the while pretending to be me, using my cell.

  “Why Teresa? Why would you do this?” I choked. Only a girl who’d given up would engage in this kind of self-sabotage.

  She shrugged. “There was no need to pretend anymore,” she said quietly. “I’m not ashamed of being illegal, I’m applying for deferred immigrant status and should be able to legalize soon,” she said. “And I was just tired of living a lie,” she concluded. “I realized that we’re going to go our separate ways now, you back to your glamorous life, me back to mine as a maid.”

  “Thank you for the payment by the way,” she said quietly, meeting my eyes for the first time. “It’ll help me get through the next few years.”

  I was so consumed with rage I almost shook her, the ring still burning a hole in my pocket. And I wasn’t about to let this go.

  “Teresa,” I said roughly, grabbing her by the shoulders. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. Look,” I said reaching into my pocket. “I got this for you.”

  I wish I’d been a bit smoother, at least gotten down on one knee, but I was a desperate man at this point. She inhaled sharply at the sight of the velvet box but turned her head away.

  “You don’t have to Matt,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to pretend.”

  “No,” I insisted, pushing the box into her hands. “Open it.”

  And she did. Inside was a beautiful five carat diamond, one that I’d picked out with this girl’s brilliance and sparkle in mind. I’d decided that she was the one for me … a permanent running mate if you will.

  “Matt,” she said, her eyes growing big and tearing. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s only one answer,” I replied. “And that’s yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Teresa

  He hoisted me into the air, the tulle bunching around my waist like a ballerina’s tutu.

  “Matt,” I squealed. “The guests are already waiting outside!”

  “I don’t care Mrs. Sterling,” he rumbled while nuzzling my cleavage, popping out one boob from my strapless bodice and suckling. “I don’t give a flying fuck,” he said again, his voice muffled in my luscious flesh.

  And I sighed, throwing my head back, winding my legs around his waist. It was finally happening. I was getting married to the Mayor in front of a crowd at Mission Dolores, although you’d hardly know it given how determined he was to fuck me, the processional hymn already starting outside, the murmur of voices growing quiet.

  But I couldn’t fight him, his hands were so clever. Bracing me against the wall, Matt ran a hand between my legs, snapping my g-string so that my pussy was bare, ruining my wedding lingerie before we even got to the honeymoon. With a groan, he slid his fingers through my folds, savoring that wetness before unzipping his fly and pushing into me with an urgent thrust, his dick rubbing my clit, angling me so that I seized almost immediately, my cunny clamping down on him, that hot box like a vise on his monster member.

  But Matt wasn’t done yet. Shifting me in his arms, he pushed my knees up so that my ass was exposed, that pucker pink and bare, contracting reflexively in the cold air. Without missing a beat, he pulled out from my vag and shoved into my anus hard, drilling my rectum on our wedding day.

  And reader, it was so fucking disgusting, so fucking wrong that I came immediately. I cried out loudly, uncaring of the guests waiting, uncaring that we were already late for our own ceremony. All I could feel, think about, was that huge cock in my butt, the one that would be lodged in my ass for years to come.

  Because I’m a slut still.
I’d come clean with Matt, telling him everything about me there was to know, wanting to give him a way out, the excuse he needed to break up before beginning his new life.

  “My uncle,” I’d said slowly. “He raped me when I was a child. I don’t know if “rape” is exactly the right word, but remember how I screamed the first time you did oral? It was because my uncle licked my pussy for three years when I was a pre-teen.”

  That stopped Matt, the look on his face serious. He’d been running a lazy finger through my vagina, testing my hole, touching my clit with light flicks, but paused when I uttered those words.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “When did it stop?”

  I took a deep breath. “It stopped when my mom found out. And that very night, we started our trek to the United States. And it was really rough, the coyotes, the smugglers, the walk for days through desert. But we got here in one piece and I’ve never been ashamed of my past because things could be so much worse, you know?”

  “I know baby,” he rumbled, looking at me with new respect in his eyes. “But what about the molestation? Are you mentally over that?” he asked with concern.

  “Yes …,” I said slowly. “The fact is that after the first few weeks, it didn’t bother me at all.” I’d dropped my head so that he could barely hear me. “Matt, I loved it. I loved every second of getting my pussy licked, getting it touched and fondled, and I’m a slut because of it.” You could barely hear my voice now, I was so quiet yet so matter-of-fact.

  Matt had hauled me into his lap, circling me with his arms. “You’re beautiful honey, and I’m proud of you for making it through such an experience at a young age. There isn’t a woman I know who isn’t more tough, more real, more amazing. And I love that you’re a slut … my private slut for the taking,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye.

  And that’s how I ended up with his cock in my ass. Because we knew we were right for one another. My shamelessness and inability to hold back complimented his aggressiveness, his willingness to get down and dirty and explore the deep recesses of fucked-up sex. And there’s a lot more, toys, ropes, all that kind of stuff that we haven’t gotten to yet …

  But in the meantime, the wedding bells were ringing and it was time to make an appearance.

  “Umph!” I squealed one last time as he roared his ecstasy into me, that white hot semen shooting into my rectum, branding my backside. And reader, you know what? I walked down the aisle with the billionaire’s cum trickling down my thigh.

  And it never felt better.

  THE END

  Please turn the page for some more sizzling reads!

  A SNEAK PEEK

  SOLD AT THE AUCTION

  By Cassandra Dee

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ellie

  “Seriously El, you can’t wear that,” said my friend Rachel.

  I looked back at her, a little miffed.

  “Why not?” I asked plaintively. The jeans I had on were nice, a dark denim wash, and I’d paired them with a long-sleeve top, crushed velvet with a scoop-neck. “Looks okay to me.”

  Rachel snorted.

  “Seriously El, we’re in Vegas for the week. We’re going clubbing at a place that doesn’t even have a name, it’s so hot. You can’t wear the stuff you usually do, now take it off,” she commanded.

  I thought about refusing flat out, putting down my foot and digging in. But the thing is my friend is the one with the fashion sense, Rachel always looks amazing, knowing exactly how to do herself up for every occasion. In comparison, I was a little frumpy, dazed and confused most times, my brown hair unfashionably curly, my curves unfashionably round. So yes, I got invited to good parties because I was Rachel’s friend, but I didn’t look like any of them, skinny minnies all.

  And frankly, it was amazing that Rachel and I are friends at all because we’re so different, she’s swan-like, thin and elegant, with a modeling portfolio, whereas I’m round and small, an A-student. So our interests are poles apart, not to mention our paths in life. But we’ve known one another since we were five, and have seen one another through thick and thin again and again. Take last year, for example, when Rachel’s parents got divorced. I was her confidante, her therapist, and her anchor when she was lost at sea, adrift on waves of sadness. And I know she’d do the same for me if our situations were reversed. So despite the fact that outwardly, it looks like we have nothing in common, in fact we have a bond that goes deep, far further than mere clothes or personalities would suggest.

  And since my body changed, my friend’s fashion advice was even more important. Because gone was the old Ellie from two years ago, an underweight mouse shaped like a broomstick, and in her place was the body of a woman, like Venus de Milo incarnate. I have big boobs now, a huge ass that sways when I walk, and generous hips making it hard to fit any type of pants. In fact, it’d been a struggle getting into my jeans tonight, I’d had to hop up and down desperately a couple times before they squeezed on, and the button was threatening to pop off any second.

  So I sighed again.

  “I don’t have anything else,” I repeated plaintively, gesturing with open palms. “There’s nothing else, look at my suitcase, nothing, nada.” And flipping open the purple travel case to reveal the interior was uninspiring. There was nothing haute couture or racy, just a couple more colored tops and a pair of grey jeans to mix things up.

  Rachel pulled a face.

  “Really, you didn’t bring a dress? Something a little slinkier?” she asked, picking through the stuff in my bag.

  I shook my head.

  “Nope, you know I don’t wear dresses that often,” I reminded her. “I’m more of a tomboy.”

  Rach pulled another face.

  “Tomboy, schmomboy, El, you’ve got a body now that’s decidedly not tomboyish anymore,” she emphasized. “Come on, you’re gonna have to wear something of mine then.” And with that she began pawing through her things, flipping through the closet where she’d hung a million outfits, each one colorful and gaudy, some even with pom-poms and sequins.

  “No, Rach, no,” I pleaded. Even if I wore something of my friend’s, we weren’t the same size, not even close. My blonde friend was your typical petite vixen, about five one and a size zero. Whereas now, I was up to a size fourteen, maybe. Possibly a sixteen, it depended on what I’d had for breakfast, or sometimes dinner the night before. There was no way I could squeeze into one of Rachel’s outfits, I’d rip it at the seams like a juicy tomato busting out.

  But my friend couldn’t be deterred.

  “How about this one?” she asked brightly, pulling a dress out of the closet.

  I groaned. It was terrible, all psychedelic colors, oranges swirling with purples, great big globs of green here and there.

  “No Rach,” I said firmly. “Absolutely not, I’m getting a headache just looking at it.”

  She sniffed, her pert nose wrinkling.

  “Just so you know El, this dress is by Missoni, they’re a famous Italian design house known for their zany patterns.”

  I shook my head still.

  “I’ve never heard of this designer, but no Rach, it’s like an acid trip,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t.”

  Rachel sighed dramatically, hanging it back up.

  “How about this one then?” she asked.

  I paused for a moment, stunned. The dress wasn’t even a dress, really. It was more like a band of cloth across the bust paired with a skirt, with the tiniest piece of material connecting the two vertically, enough to hide your belly button.

  “What is that?” I asked, horrified.

  “What you’ve never seen cut-outs before?” my friend scoffed like a grande dame. “This here is an Azzedine Alaia, I love his work,” she cooed. “So sultry, he knows a woman’s body so well.”

  I shook my head again.

  “Rach, that’s more like a swimsuit, I can’t go into a club wearing a swimsuit.”

  And my friend laughed.

  “It’s not a swim
suit, the material’s not waterproof,” she said airily. “Besides, look what I’m wearing,” she said slyly, untying her purple fur jacket. And I gasped because beneath the fur, the blonde had on something that looked like a violet handkerchief, a triangle bound around her breasts, dropping to a point that barely shielded her snatch. One flutter, and everything would be visible. I goggled, astounded.

  “Will they let you in the club like that?” I stuttered.

  “They better,” Rachel said cheerily. “Otherwise Miles will be soooo disappointed,” she cooed.

  And I shook my head again. We’d been invited to this no-name disco by a bunch of guys we’d met at the hotel pool earlier this afternoon. Miles was the one Rachel had homed in on, an overly-tan muscular dude whose swim trunks left nothing to the imagination. I didn’t want to go out with them tonight, not really, but Rach was determined to see Miles again and I was just along for the ride, the best friend slash sidekick, always the voice of reason.

  “Okay, this one then,” my friend said with finality. “Seriously El, lighten up, this would look fantastic on you.”

  And I gasped again, but for a completely different reason. The dress she was holding in her hands was absolutely gorgeous. Size XS, yes, but still stunningly beautiful, a silky slip in gold that shimmered under the lights.

  “Try it on, okay?” asked my friend, pushing it into my arms. “Come on, chop chop, we gotta go, it’ll look amazing.”

  And with slow steps, I let myself into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and gazing in the mirror. What was going on? I was boring Ellie Danes, nerd extraordinaire, who never wore things like this. I was more a jeans and a t-shirt girl, swapping out the t-shirt for a sweater when things got cold, or a velvet top when things got sexy. No way could I ever pull off a dress like this.

  But never say never, and I was transfixed by the shimmering gold fabric, the material silky and glimmery in the light. Hesitantly, I pulled off my scoopneck, then squeezed out of my jeans, holding the tiny scrap of material in front of me. Did I dare put it on? Did I dare become someone other than plain old Ellie, always the wallflower? And with a sigh, I undid the zip and stepped into the shimmery fabric, sliding it up over my hips and breasts, pulling the spaghetti straps over my shoulders.