Big Package_A Dark Vixens Novella

by Vivien Vale

  My pussy instantly responds, like it always does when either one of them touch me.

  “Not now,” it takes all my strength to resist. “We don’t want to miss the announcements.”

  Scott pouts. “What about a quickie.”

  I leave him without another word.

  Once I’m in the kitchen I hear yelling. I poke my head back into the living room.

  “Quick,” Brad shouts. “Supporting actor is about to be announced.”

  I hear just the tail end of nominations and Scott’s name.

  With three quick steps I’m next to him and hold his hand. Brad is holding his fists tightly shut.

  Drum roll. The announcer smiles and pulls the name out of the envelope in snail’s pace.

  “Hurry up,” I urge him, bouncing up and down on my seat.

  “Scott from The Kings.”

  We hug and cry with each other, almost missing the announcement of lead actor.

  “Shush,” I hold my hand over Scott’s mouth. We listen to the nominations and again my heart is beating so fast I feel as if I’d just run a marathon. With Scott having won an award it would not feel right if Brad didn’t.

  The camera zooms in on the announcers face. She holds the paper in front of her eyes as if she needs glasses. I can see she’s reading silently. Come on, just say it, I mouth.

  “Looks like our new show is going to be cleaning up tonight,” she says and I’m already squeezing Brad’s hand.

  “The winner of outstanding lead actor is Brad from The Kings.”

  I can’t believe it. We hug, we kiss, and we hug again. I’m crying and laughing at the same time.

  When they announce our writing team as winners of outstanding writing I feel as though I can’t take much more.

  “And now ladies and gentlemen, viewers,” a handsome face says from the television “we come to outstanding daytime television producer.”

  Brad and Scott crowd around me. Both of them hold me as tight as possible. If they squeeze any more I won’t be able to breathe.

  “It’s a tough field this year,” says the blonde assistant to the announcer smiling broadly into the camera.

  “Like every other year,” agrees the announcer. The names are read out. Goosebumps crawl up my arms and back when I hear my own name. It feels surreal.

  I close my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I don’t think I can listen.

  “You’ve won!” shouts Brad.

  “You’ve won!” shouts Scott and both of them kiss me.

  I fall back on the couch. They pounce. Their hands are all over me as are their mouths.

  Oh my gosh. This is amazing.

  Almost at the same time both of them pull back.

  I sit up.

  “What?” Suddenly all feelings of happiness disappear. They look so serious. Do they have bad news? Are they leaving me?

  “Kayla,” Scott takes my hand.

  “Kayla,” Brad takes my other hand.

  Has someone died?

  “We want you to know,” Scott starts.

  “That you mean the world to us.” Finishes Brad.

  They are leaving me. I can tell from their faces. I brace for what comes next.

  “Kayla we love you and we want to spend the rest of our lives with you. Will you marry us?’

  I blink. What? Did I hear correctly?

  “Will you?” they repeat and now I start to cry.

  No words pass my lips and so I simply nod.

  We melt into each other’s arms and Scott kisses me. Brad’s mouth is traveling downward where my wet pussy waits for him. And both my hands are busy with needy dicks.

  I can’t believe it, but this is my life now.

  I’ve been blessed.

  Take a look at the preview of...

  The Other Brother

  A Billionaire Hangover Romance

  By Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn

  Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

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  Liam

  7:51 PM WEDNESDAY

  If there’s but one universal truth in this wild world we live in, it’s this:

  Hearing your fiancée yell out, “Hey, fucker!” while you’re shuffling into an elevator full of Russian prostitutes with your manhood cupped in your hands is generally a bad sign.

  I know what you’re thinking—but let’s get one thing straight here and now.

  That’s not me shuffling into the elevator with the saucy Russian whores.

  No, that’s my idiot step-brother, along with his three best friends and half a dozen women of questionable moral values.

  The whores, I can approve of. The cheating? I just can’t.

  My mother married Dan’s father when we were both just lads. It was the worst fucking mistake of her life, and I’ve hated my shitty American step-brother ever since. If he’d been calling himself Dan the Man back across the pond in London where I grew up, he would have been punched so hard in the fucking mouth that he would have shat his own teeth for a week.

  Instead, Dan the Man grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and a stiff steel rod up his arse. Being boring as sin never seemed to warrant his nickname, no matter how much money his bastard of a father left him.

  But that’s Dan the Man’s secret, really. He’s so fucking dull, no one would ever imagine his voracious appetite for Soviet bloc hookers or Colombian cocaine. Even I bought the charade for a while—until the first time he called begging for me to bring money to Tijuana, or else his coke dealer Alfonso was going to murder him.

  When I see the way he’s made his poor, gorgeous fiancée cry, I almost wish I would have left him with the drug lord.

  Becky Brooks, the woman Dan the Man somehow—against all odds—convinced to be his wife.

  It’s three days before the wedding, and from the way she’s holding the million-dollar engagement ring he bought for her in his fist, I think they might need to cancel the caterer.

  “You bastard,” Becky snarls. “You cheating fucking bastard. You are dead to me.”

  “B-becky-beans,” Dan the Man stutters, and I cringe.

  Oh fuck. That is not an attractive nickname.

  I know the reason that Dan the Man was able to afford such an expensive wedding band, and it’s not through anything good he’s done of his own. No, his father left him a fortune and left me nothing. After all, I’m not a Hardbottom of the illustrious Hardbottom family like Dan is—I’m Liam fucking Black, an actual bastard. All my father left me was his last name—and he hardly even left me that.

  I used to be a little bitter about it. But now that we’re older, bitterness has been washed away by success.

  I made a fortune out of nothing—out of counting cards and being so damn good at it, now I own my own casino: the Royale.

  And here Dan the Man is, standing in the Royale’s elevator dripping with lube and begging his fiancée not to kill him—or at least not to cancel the wedding.

  “Remember the good times, Becky-beans,” Dan pleads from the elevator.

  “Fuck that,” Becky spits at him. “I don’t even want to remember you exist. I’m going to forget everything, Dan. Every single fucking thing about you—and you can just fucking wallow in obscurity.”

  “Becky-beans, please!” Dan wails, but it’s too late.

  She’s already flung that million-dollar engagement ring at him and the elevator doors close up right behind it.

  Becky Brooks.

  She’s bubbly
, bright and—even I have to admit—more beautiful than any man deserves. Green eyes like an Irish morning and an ass so tight, you could bounce fifty pence off of it.

  When she turns to me, I open my arms to her. She might have put on a brave face before Dan the Man and his goons and his whores, but there’s no shame in crying now.

  She nestles her pretty little red head against my broad, muscled shoulder while she sobs.

  “There there, love,” I say, stroking her fiery, silken hair. “Let it out.”

  “No, fuck that.” Becky sniffles, burrowing her face deeper in my chest. “I’ve given up everything for Dan. He’s…he’s…”

  “An arsehole so great, gaping and wide that even a Clydesdale’s dick could find wiggle room,” I suggest.

  “Yeah,” Becky agrees. “That.”

  “Why don’t I order you up some room service, love?” I say, even though I don’t want to part myself from her for a moment. But this isn’t the right time—the poor kitten has just had her heart broken, though the idea of Dan the Man breaking anyone’s heart is absurd to me. “You and your bridesmaids should still enjoy your night.”

  “No,” Becky protests, pulling away. “I want to do something crazy, Liam. Something…something that would piss Dan the Man off.”

  “Like crowd surfing at a Celine Dion concert?”

  Becky’s eyes narrow with wickedness. “That’s a start.”

  This is a pretty high-profile cock-up, even for Dan “The Man”. For a bloke who bills himself as so fucking boring, he’s as dodgy as they come. If I’d been across the pond when Becky Brooks agreed to marry the bugger, I would have told her then and there: this man is not the kind of chap you want to marry.

  My only regret is that I didn’t get a ring on this perfect, saucy little creature’s finger first…

  Which isn’t to say that I won’t.

  After all, anything can happen in Vegas…

  And we’ve got all night to forget.

  Becky

  10:01 AM THURSDAY

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

  When I wake up, it takes all the pluck and determination of a Bob the Builder crowbar to get my stupid fucking eyes open.

  When I come to, I immediately decide it wasn’t worth the effort.

  The Royale Casino, Viva Las Vegas.

  Maybe you’ve heard of it? Opulence out the ass. Costs an arm and a leg to book a standard room. Fancy ordering room service? Hope you’re prepared to sign away your firstborn.

  And my fiancé, Dan the Man? He booked me the bridal suite. His brother—sorry, step-brother—owns the place. Family discount, I guess. They let him keep his good arm.

  So. Here I am, hungover as fuck in the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, a city known for money, sex, and sin.

  But I’m not here to sin.

  I’m here to get married. Hitched. I’m here to tie the knot, settle down, and make an honest woman of myself once and for all.

  So when I open my eyes on the first morning of my three-day bachelorette party in Vegas, I ought to be thinking about bride stuff. Roses. Hors d’oeuvres.

  I should be peeling off an organic cucumber-placenta facial rejuvenation mask, gently fretting about whether there will be enough beluga caviar at the wedding reception and ruminating on how fucking much I love my husband-to-be.

  When I actually open my eyes, what really happens is I peel my tongue off the roof of my dry-mouth and realize that Dan is not getting his fucking deposit back.

  Broken bottles. Shattered glass. Smoke. Feathers. Whipped cream. And that noise—an incessant vibrating that strikes fear in my loins and sends a pang of guilt shooting through my very soul, though I know not why.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

  A bedazzled rogue vibrator chugs across the floor of the lounge. It smears blue raspberry lube behind it like a snail trail until it jams up, sputters and dies tangled in the shag of the white lounge rug.

  The smell hits me next, so dark and pungent that I’m not entirely sure I’m not having a stroke. It’s eau de burnt condoms and splattered wine, with maybe a hint of breakfast. There’s no use crying over spilled Merlot, but I almost shed a tear when I realize it’s been splashed across the Banksy mural in the foyer.

  I’m vaguely aware that something’s on fire, but when I try to muster up the courage to go grab an extinguisher, I can’t.

  Hangovers, man.

  What the fuck did I do last night?

  The late-morning sun pours in from the patio. It’s like getting LASIK from a flamethrower. I whimper pathetically from the place where I must have passed out last night: naked, upside down and reeking of tequila on a white velvet sofa worth more than my parents’ mortgage.

  I squint, still a little drunk, and raise my hand to shield my eyes. But before I can, something moves in front me, eclipsing the light.

  A thigh. A thick, muscular thigh with blonde hairs that glisten, back-lit by sunshine, like spun gold. Naked. Bulging with sinew.

  In awe, I follow the line of that thigh up to a hip. A manly fucking hip. A hip which has no doubt powered thrusts that have facilitated a thousand orgasms.

  Oh.

  Make that a million orgasms.

  Because let’s slide the fuck across that hip, shall we?

  I know I shouldn’t look, but it’s right fucking there. Beckoning my gaze. Begging to be seen.

  Thick.

  Half-hard, long as my forearm and still. Fucking. Growing.

  Uncut. Like turning your porn settings over from US to UK.

  A pearl of pre-cum trembling at its engorged, fat, rose-pink tip.

  Hung.

  And hanging right over my fucking face.

  Total dream, right? Perfect way to wake up in the morning. Forget hangover cures. Forget hair of the dog.

  The most beautiful dick my formerly-slutty eyes have ever ogled is dangling within licking distance of my suddenly drooling mouth, and I wanna ride that bad boy like a bitch in heat.

  There’s just one problem. There always is, isn’t there?

  Remember Dan? Dan “Dan the Man” Hardbottom, that almost-handsome, totally kind, and caring fiancé who booked me into this sweet-ass room that I’m probably burning to the ground literally as we speak?

  Yeah…

  That’s definitely not his cock.

  “Morning, love,” Very Much Not Dan says, passing me a giant mug of coffee.

  I accept the mug gratefully as I twist myself upright. I find myself blinking at Not Dan in a slow, disbelieving daze. Every time I close my eyes, I’m certain he’s going to be gone when I open them again.

  Every time I open them, he’s still fucking there.

  Alright. Let’s talk specifics here, hmm? He’s in his late twenties. Early thirties at the most. 6’2”, probably more like 6’3” if you get him in dress shoes.

  What we’re dealing with here is a man who seems to be constructed mostly of muscle, sex appeal, and my own wet dreams.

  He’s got dark blonde stubble that you just know will tickle your cheeks when he kisses you. The kind of lips that make you wonder how that stubble will feel against your inner thighs.

  My heart says no, but my pussy says I want to ride his scruffy face like a jockey on Kentucky Derby day.

  Blue eyes, bright and pale and flecked with gold. Like sunlight on the ocean. Or like the Royale’s $500,000 poker chips scattered across the baby blue felt of a roulette table.

  A jawline that looks like it was formed with a chisel and a chest that makes me feel like if God were real, he’s either gay or female.

  It’s like I dropped acid last night and accidentally hallucinated a naked Charlie Hunnam into my bridal suite.

  “How did you sleep, darling?” he asks me. “I made brekky.”

  Oh god. Did I mention it gets worse? Because it gets worse.

  He’s British.

  “Uhh,” I say, fluently. Because apparently, as I stare at the Union Jack flag he has tattooed on a bulging pectoral—right over his heart—I’ve for
gotten how to speak English.

  His eyes narrow with the hint of an amused smile.

  “Drink your coffee, love.”

  My breath sticks in my chest as he reaches past the mug I’m holding in my two trembling hands and pinches one of my nipples between his index finger and his thumb.

  “Cheeky,” he says with a roguish wink. “Fancy a quickie before you eat? Let me know.”

  I stare at his ass as he goes. You wouldn’t fucking blame me, either.

  Look, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. I really fucking do.

  This man is perfect. Delectable. Gloriously delicious in every single way. He’s got the looks of a notorious bad boy tempered with a dash of English charm. The body of a Greek sculpture, the tattoos of a rock star, and the cock of dildo model.

  And he called me cheeky, for fucks sake. Tip me over, and I would drown in my own pussy juice right now.

  But he’s not my fiancé.

  He’s not Dan.

  Of course he’s not Dan. That much’s pretty fucking clear.

  He makes better coffee, for one.

  I take a sip, if only because in my hungover state, I’m pretty solid at following orders. It’s warm and rich, brewed perfectly. Light roast, the way I like it. One sugar. Full fat milk. And the pièce de résistance: a pack of instant hot chocolate dumped on top of it—because while I do my best to be classy, I’m not a fucking saint. It’s like a mocha-flavored orgasm in my mouth.

  How the fuck does Not Dan know how I like my morning cup of joe?

  Actually—speaking of orgasms in my mouth—

  “Um,” I say nervously.

  Oh, bravo, Becky. We’re off to a great start.

  “Excuse me,” I try again, “But last night, did we, uh—”

  Not Dan looks up at me from his station in the kitchen where he’s currently poaching eggs. He stops swirling water round the pot just long enough to make a rude gesture with his hands.

  Not Dan has thick fingers. Long, thick, well-practiced fingers. He works two of them in and out of a tight little hole he’s formed with the index finger and thumb of his other hand in a way that makes my pussy do a back flip and find religion.