Come Back to Me_A Brother's Best Friend Romance

by Vivien Vale

  Figure?

  Voluptuous, for sure. I want a large rack and a nice, round ass that I can grab and spank.

  Sexual preference?

  I check off virginal and adventurous, chuckling at the irony of those two options. I want someone who isn’t afraid to take it in all three holes, but I want to be the first to pop that sweet cherry.

  I’m dreaming here, and I know it.

  But what the hell, right?

  Aim high, miss high. I’m hardly taking this shit seriously.

  After going through the rest of the questions, which stop short of asking my blood type and burial plans, I have created the perfect wife.

  I take a quick look at the price tag—one million dollars.

  Well, Christ. It’s definitely a scam. But at the same time, a million bucks is barely a drop in the bucket when I’m looking at my bank account.

  It’ll annoy my accountant, but next month, I’ll barely even notice.

  And what can I say? I admire their fucking moxy.

  Sold.

  The phone rings as I click submit, placing my order for the woman of my dreams. Glancing at my caller ID, I see it’s the hospital.

  “Kirkwood here,” I answer immediately.

  “Michael, we need you to come in right away, it’s an emergency. Dr. Scola nicked a good portion of Ms. Medina’s intestines, and only you can fix it.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cover for that prick.

  Fuck.

  I grab my lab coat, swinging it on over my blue dress shirt as the front door closes behind me. Hopping in my Lambo, I’m off to save yet another life.

  Stella

  A Russian mobster unceremoniously dumps another shovelful of Styrofoam packing peanuts into the Stella-sized box I’m currently standing in.

  “Excuse you!”

  I put on my best I want to speak to your manager pout and glare up at him.

  “Can’t you read? The box says handle with care, dickwad!”

  “I can’t wait to get rid of this blyad,” the mobster tells his cohort.

  He dumps another shovelful down on me. The Styrofoam feels weird against my bare nipples—because yeah, I’m totally naked right now.

  “Can you believe some poor ublyuok paid a cool million for her?”

  “Not so poor, then,” a voice I know all too well says back.

  I thought I was going to lose my virginity to that voice.

  Or, at least, to the dick that’s attached to it.

  I had my whole awesome fucking life laid out ahead of me on a silver platter before Moscow fashion week.

  Harvard degree. International modeling contract. The whole Hensley family fortune coming to me as soon as my parents have the decency to kick the bucket.

  But fucking Moscow. Moscow is where it all went wrong.

  The night before the Moscow fashion show, I had found myself in the hotel bar. I was dressed to the nines in a black dress and stilettos that could kill a man. My blonde hair was looking thick and shiny and especially stunning.

  So when he walked in, it felt pretty natural that his eyes went straight to me.

  He was gorgeous. Tall, buff, blonde. Pretty much checking all of my boxes.

  I moved my purse from the stool beside me, a silent invitation that he accepted without hesitation.

  “How does it feel?” he asked in a thick Russian accent as he sat down beside me.

  “How does what feel?”

  “Being the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  I laughed. Not because I hadn’t heard the same line countless times before, but because I’d never heard it from a mouth as captivating as his.

  “At the moment,” I said, “it feels pretty fucking great.”

  That was it. No games, no pretense of being coy. We flirted openly for all of five minutes before he asked me to come home with him.

  In retrospect, I most definitely should’ve thought twice before accepting. I should’ve pondered those helpful PSAs about being a woman alone and abroad.

  If I’m being honest, though, I didn’t hesitate even a little.

  See, my virginity had become sort of a pest as of late. I had no attachment to it personally, but it seemed damn hard to find a man that was truly worth fucking.

  In that bar, in that moment, I was pretty sure I’d finally found a means of ridding myself of my damn v-card. Forever. So, when he suggested we continue our little chat back at his apartment, I jumped at the chance.

  Twenty minutes later, we were in his apartment, a swanky-set up which made me feel right at home. I sat on the leather sofa, heart beating even faster when he joined me on it.

  In my imagination, I expected we’d get straight to business. But boy could this guy talk.

  At first, it seemed routine enough. He asked where I went to school, and I told him Harvard. He asked what kind of functions I usually attended; I told him about galas and fundraisers, normal stuff.

  Then, he got a little more personal.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but are you, in fact, a virgin?”

  How some men have the uncanny ability to detect these things, I’ll never know. I saw no point in lying to the guy though. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

  “Sure am.”

  “And would you say you’re…adventurous?” he asked in a strangely clinical tone.

  “I—well yeah, I suppose I would.”

  He smiled widely at that.

  “Perfect.”

  Normally, I’m a big fan of talking about me. But by this time, I was starting to get more than a little impatient.

  I decided to take the initiative. I scooted closer, arching my back so that my tits, big already, appeared to double in size.

  “Any more questions?” I asked, trying for a good mix of seductive and impatient.

  “No, no more questions,” he said as he leaned in closer.

  I closed my eyes and leaned towards him, happy to get on with it.

  “Actually…” he said, stopping me moments from the kiss that was going to end my innocence for good. “One more thing.”

  If it hadn’t been for that sexy accent of his, I would’ve stormed right out.

  “Okay. What?”

  “How do you feel about big, thick cocks?”

  My eyes lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July.

  “I love big cocks,” I told him, closing my eyes and leaning in again.

  Suddenly, there was something pressing firmly against my face, and not in a good way. My eyes flew open to see my date had produced some kind of awful-smelling rag, which he held hard against my nose and mouth.

  Fuck. Have I had something on my face this whole time? I wondered.

  Then, there was darkness.

  Until, of course, this moment right now.

  The box. The box and the damn packing peanuts.

  I’m nearly covered in the peanuts when I snap out of my memory-induced stupor. Around me, the Russian bastards continue to chat away.

  “Comfortable, my sweet?” he asks from somewhere outside of my well-cushioned prison.

  “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 usual
ly 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.

  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.

  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.