Love Unbound: A Valentine's Day Romance Anthology

by Dee, Cassandra

  But after a screaming orgasm, the exercise loses its allure. Because I pull out right away, palm wet, interest gone. There’s no after care, no petting, no breathy whispers, no reassurances. It’s like I’m a doctor and the surgery’s over. Striding off, her name already forgotten, I’m wiping my hands on a napkin, erasing the smell of her pussy. And shit, that napkin’s balled-up right away and pitched into the trash. I don’t need any memories, it’s not like I’m gonna lay awake nights and re-live our casual encounter. Because tomorrow is another day, another twat, another finger-fucking, and that’s what I like. Take it or leave it, that’s what I’m looking for.

  So when the alpha billionaire walked up, my face was coolly unconcerned. No need to let Jared in on what I was doing.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Naw, nothing,” he replied, lowering himself into the club chair across from me.

  “How’s that little filly you got?” I asked, more as a courtesy than anything. “You know, the one that went up?”

  Abby was his wife now, and she’d practically shorted out an entire virgin auction, forcing the show to be aborted. But Jared merely grunted.

  “Yeah Abby’s good,” he said shortly. “Real good.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. His wife was the reason the sun rose and set for this dude, but at the same time, the female was a barrel of trouble. The brunette had practically gotten him excommunicated from the Club, and they’d only come back recently to test the waters, to try out some of the Club’s many rooms. Because oh yeah, this place is a myriad of fun. There are a shit ton of sex rooms filled with all sorts of machines, toys, and other depravities that you can’t even imagine.

  Well, I can imagine, I’m that kind of guy. But for the R-rated, it’s not a place you want to go. For the NC-17 rated, it’s not a place you want to go. For the Triple-X, now we’re in the ballpark, but not quite there yet. Like I said, we’re an underground lair engaged in the unspeakable, and there’s a reason why this place is a fortress and not some palace in the sky.

  So I raised an eyebrow at Jared.

  “Good to hear,” I said smoothly. “Good to hear.”

  If Abby was riding him hard, all the better. A hot twat on dick is the best kind of life to live, the best kind of mental and physical exercise.

  But Jared grunted.

  “So what’s up with you? What’s up with all these trips upstairs?”

  I looked at him blandly. Upstairs meant up to the surface of the earth, into the normal world.

  “What do you mean? Isn’t that what people do?”

  He grunted again.

  “Yo dude, you know it’s not. Most guys who come here don’t leave the complex for weeks. It’s got everything, pool, sauna, spa, bar, girls. So why are you going up all the time?”

  How to answer? Jared was right. The Club brings everything to us, from the finest food to the best entertainment. And most members make it an extended stay, barely leaving their suites sometimes, everything and anything being delivered straight to their door for their personal enjoyment. So yeah, my behavior wasn’t exactly normal, but then again, why is stepping out to see the real world so bizarre?

  “I got some business,” I said blandly. “Stuff that needs to be taken care of.”

  Jared shot me a skeptical look.

  “Oh really?” he asked. “Club business?”

  I sighed. This asshole was so into the Club and its operations. What the hell was wrong with the billionaire? But I could sense a rabbit hole in front of me and side-stepped it deftly.

  “Naw, nothing to do with the Club,” I rumbled blandly. “Just some personal business.”

  That was a hint if there ever was one to stop asking questions. Stop with the fucking questions and mind your own business. But Jared White can be one pushy mofo and shot me another curious glance.

  “Well if you see any good ones, just tell the Club,” he said, throwing a card down on the table before getting up. “You know we’re always looking for fresh twat.”

  I stared at the white square before picking it up. Shit, this guy was so annoying, why the hell was he recruiting chicks still? It wasn’t his job anymore, and now he wanted me to do the same? I’d never want to work Procurement, it’s not my thing, there could be nothing worse. I’m all about anonymous, faceless encounters. I don’t want to talk with girls, putting a female at ease to get her to loosen up, sharing details about her life and pretending to care. No fucking way. Hell no.

  But I kept my expression bland.

  “Sure, will do. Absolutely,” I nodded. Shit no, hell no, never.

  Jared merely looked me over again speculatively before striding off.

  “Alright,” he grunted. “Good to hear.”

  And finally, I was alone again. Fuck my life, that entire encounter weird as shit. Why the hell was Jared White asking me to source women? What a fucked-up mofo. But boytoy was probably whipped by his new wife, doing whatever hot pussy asks.

  I grunted, flipping my laptop open again, shaking the incident from my mind. What the hell, might as well forget the whole thing sooner rather than later, it was taking up unnecessary memory. And watching the screen avidly, I willed my newest victim to type. Sure enough, ellipses appeared indicating she was typing, and a text popped up in a few secs.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Hi, got your message.

  I grunted soundlessly. I’d picked the brunette’s profile from a site I sometimes surf, Discreet Encounters. Her pic had been blurry but overall pretty cute. Big brown eyes and curly brown hair, with a ripe, curvaceous body. Just my kind, the type that I love juicing best. My fingers had trembled when I emailed her, introducing myself as Donny.

  DONNY: Great, you up to meet tonight?

  A pause.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Well, I’m not sure. Do you want to chat more?

  DONNY: Bout what?

  Another pause.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Well, this just seems so fast. I mean, you only emailed me this morning.

  DONNY: That’s what it’s like here. It’s discreet encounters baby, we’re not going to get to know each other or anything.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Oh I get it, totally get it. I was just wondering more about you.

  DONNY: ???

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: You know, like what you like to do for fun? Where you live?

  I sat back, grunting. This girl clearly had no idea what she was doing on-line, much less on a site like Discreet Encounters. I needed to set her straight.

  DONNY: Where I live? Shit honey, that can get you shot and killed on this site. We’re all about anonymity, baby, where I live is the last question you should be asking a dude. You do that often? The moderators haven’t warned you? Did you read the Terms of Agreement when you joined?

  A pause. Was she flustered? Embarrassed? Had I gone too far? But then the ellipses appeared again.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Oh I’m sorry! I just joined yesterday and yours is the only message I’ve gotten so far. I mean, I’ve gotten other messages but they were from people whose names were … well, I can’t repeat them here.

  That made me chuckle. Can’t repeat them? I wanted her to say those filthy words, to hear them float from those sweet, pouty lips. But still, she had my curiosity piqued. There was something curiously naïve, innocent and giving that drew me like a magnet.

  DONNY: So … you wanna meet tonight?

  Another pause.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: I do, but …

  My dick twitched. What was going on? Usually a girl who ducks and covers, who plays coy and kittenish does nothing for me. Usually I’m looking for hot sluts, ones who leap on the chance to get their pussies plowed by a random stranger, some dude who was willing to do it with no questions asked, no comments, no judgement, no nothing. But somehow, my lipstick girl had charmed me. The hesitation, the naive questions about where I lived and what I liked to do were getting under my skin, pulling me in rather than turning me to ice.

  So I kept going.

  DONNY:
What’s got you holding back?

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: It’s not you, it’s not.

  I frowned. Of course it wasn’t me. I don’t have a pic up, I don’t have any stats except that I’m a forty five year-old white male, athletic, living in Vegas. Could be anyone right? There’s no reason to disclose that I’m a billionaire with a hot bod and private plane at my disposal. No need to say I own a couple islands in the Seychelles, that I like to vacation in Paris and Milan, that I’ve got a closet full of designer suits. To these ladies, I’m just a finger in the crowd.

  So I waited patiently as Lipstick typed.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: I just want to make sure that you know, you’re real.

  I almost laughed aloud at that.

  DONNY: Oh I’m real. You’ll see how real I am tonight, absolutely.

  Another pause.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: You promise?

  Again, her innocence was charming if naïve. A promise from some random dude on the internet, who hasn’t even posted his pic? I wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing, I was just a wolf, straight out. And yet the girl was willingly putting herself between my jaws, begging me to bite. All the better, I love these types of meetings the most.

  DONNY: I promise, baby girl. It’ll be good. Relax okay? Just meet me there and relax.

  Another pause.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Okay then. Great American Music Hall for the 10 p.m. showing right? Ticket’s at Will Call for me?

  DONNY: You got it.

  LIPSTICK4EVAH: Okay, I’ll be there. Bye now.

  And with that, the green light next to her name flickered off. I sat back, heart thumping despite the fact that my big frame looked relaxed. Usually I have no problem with these on-line dialogues. Most girls want to chat a little, they want to make sure I’m not some thirteen year-old adolescent boy causing trouble. They wanna make sure I’m not their high school math teacher, the one with the bad breath and big belly.

  So it’s understandable, and the concert ticket serves more than its obvious purpose. These tickets are expensive, even the ones in the back for people who stand. At two hundred bucks a pop, I’ve made an investment, I’ve shown that I have skin in the game. And does it really matter what I look like? After all, the females are getting a strange finger in the puss, and all that matters is that my digit is clean, big and thorough. I could be Kermit the Frog or James Bond, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

  So I stood, stretching, looking deceptively relaxed. For some reason, Lipstick was making my heart pound unnecessarily. What was the name she’d given again? Rebecca? Renee? I looked at my phone. Oh right, Rachel. I was supposed to leave the ticket in the name of Rachel Smith. Well, that’s a throw away name if I’ve ever heard one, probably just the moniker on her fake ID. But whatevs. I was looking forwards to meeting my little Rachel for a down and dirty tryst. And even if she never saw my face, it didn’t matter. Anonymous, discreet, and covert is how I operate and a certain female was gonna get fucked tonight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rachel

  I stepped up to Will Call.

  “Um hi, Smith?” I asked hesitantly. “Rachel Smith?”

  The cold air was chilly and I shivered in my thin jacket. But even more, I trembled because this whole thing was so nerve-wracking. I was half sure that the woman would look through her stack of tickets and come up with nothing, embarrassing me. But instead, the middle-aged hag cracked her gum loudly, before sticking out a hand.

  “Here ya go,” she said, looking bored. “Here ya go.”

  And looking down, sure enough, there was a ticket for the second tier, standing room only. People milled about around me, the crowd buzzily excited for tonight’s performance. But I was dumbstruck, all the blood draining from my body. Oh my god, was I really gonna do this? Oh my god, oh my god.

  My thoughts were cut off by the Will Call woman’s impatience.

  “Next!” she bawled loudly, already eyeing the long line behind me. “Next!”

  And with dazed steps, I moved out of the way, caught by the swell of passerby, moving with numb feet towards the door. Could this be really happening? Was I going to meet up with my unseen correspondent, this guy who called himself Donny? Why did he call himself Donny anyways? It was such a funny name, bringing to mind Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on the Block, a former boy bander from the wrong side of Boston. Was my anonymous guy the same type of Donny? Once cute but aging now, with squinty eyes and a buzz cut? Or was he something else entirely?

  And that’s why this whole thing is so crazy. Because I’m at the Great American Music Hall after chatting on-line with a virtual stranger. And it’s not like we’ve been chatting for weeks or months. We’ve only chatted once. That’s right, once, this afternoon. Other than the initial email he sent me on Discreet Encounters, we’ve only had one on-line session, and my partner in crime was completely unforthcoming then, telling me nothing about himself despite my not-so-subtle attempts to pry.

  So what the hell are you doing? screamed the voice in my brain. Rachel Smith, what in the world are you doing? Are you crazy? He’s probably some psycho stalker, some ax murderer who specializes in luring women to their deaths, you’re insane to be here!

  And of course, the voice was right. I was insane to be here. But the thing is somehow that chat entranced me. There was a way about the man, a darkness to his tone that was devastatingly sexy, a deep, knowingness that permeated his every sentence. I can’t put my finger on it, but somehow the manner in which he parried with me, answering my questions with the subtlest replies, always guiding but never forcing, made something flare inside, something hot and sensual despite my logical brain trying to tamp it down.

  So I was here now, on the steps of the Great American Music Hall. Whoever said curiosity killed the cat was probably right, because I was about to get my pussy fingered by a total stranger. Holy shit. Me, boring Rachel Smith, such a dunce that I actually gave my real name without thinking twice, is signed up for a rendezvous with a total stranger. And not just any rendezvous, but one where he’s gonna touch my sweetest spot, caressing places that no man has ever touched before.

  Because I’m a virgin and yet I’m gonna let some random guy stroke my clit and push his fingers into my interior canal. I’m gonna let him feel me until I scream, until the swell breaks and I shatter. Me, Rachel Smith, who works at the school library wearing staid button-up sweaters and boring knee-length skirts. Oh my god, I really was crazy, someone take me to the insane asylum now.

  But it was too late because the crowd swept me to the front of the line, and with unseeing eyes I presented the ticket to the usher. As she scanned it, a beep sounded, and the woman didn’t even look up, already onto the next person.

  “Level two,” she mumbled. “Staircase to the right.”

  Again, I was buffeted by the crowd, pulled by the human sea in the right direction and found myself standing at tier two sooner rather than later, stunned, the good angel on my shoulder still warning me to stop. Get a hold of yourself, she admonished. Get a hold of yourself. It’s not too late to back out. You can still turn around and leave, it’s fine.

  But the thing is that the human tide had me boxed in, and besides, I didn’t want to leave. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and you know what? I kinda like it. I kinda like being different from my usual tame persona, the kind, dependable Rachel that everyone knows. Not that I don’t want to be kind and dependable, but I want to live a little too. I want to feel sexy and crazy, I want to let my hair down and do things that no one would dream of when they see a plump girl with curly brown hair and a shy smile.

  Besides, it was too late now. The lights were dimming and I took my place at the edge of the railing, looking out over the sea of people beneath. Tier Two wasn’t too packed, there were other folks, sure, but it’s not like we were jammed in like sardines. I shot a nervous look over my shoulder, automatically scanning the crowd for anyone who could be my mystery man.

  But there was no one. No one was even
looking at me, every single person seemed to be with a date, or chatting with friends, or guzzling beer from red Solo cups.

  Stop it, the voice in my head went. He told you not to look for him. You’ll never see his face, the only thing you’ll be experiencing is touch. So don’t even look, that’s part of the deal, remember?

  Besides, it was probably better not to look because best case scenario, my Lothario was a normal, middle-aged dude, probably married, who wanted to get his rocks off while the missus was out of town. He’d put an ad up and I’d responded, and since wifey was scheduled to return to the next day, and tonight was the night. A married man? I didn’t want a part of that, so it was better not to see his face.

  Besides, the worst case scenario was so much worse. In this case, my partner was some disgusting geezer who wanted to touch pussy for fun, who liked sweet, creamy teens and wasn’t shy about putting up ads to meet one. He couldn’t get it in real life because of his zillion warts and hairs sprouting out of his chin, bent over like a gnome. Shit, if that was the case, then yeah, I was better off not looking into his eyes. That way I could at least pretend a hot alpha had come to feel my pussy, to take me to Neverland.

  Facing forwards, I fixed my eyes on the stage as the band strode out, jaw set, nerves on edge. Oh god, oh god, things were starting now and it was too late to back out. Every muscle in my body tensed, every sense on alert even as I strove to look normal, like I was another concertgoer enjoying the music.

  And just as the strains began, a deep voice sounded in my ear.

  “Relax baby girl,” it commanded. “Relax.”

  I started involuntarily, helpless already. Because this definitely wasn’t the voice of a gnome. It was dark and sexy, making me twinge unexpectedly inside, inner channel running wetly. Warm breath skated across my neck and I realized the man behind me had to be tall, over six feet at least.