Love Unbound: A Valentine's Day Romance Anthology

by Dee, Cassandra

Those brown eyes turned to look at me then, impossibly beautiful, wide and pained.

  “Well, I guess, it’s just not what I was hoping to hear,” she began.

  Not what she was hoping to hear? A billionaire alpha has just confessed his love for you, and that’s not what you’re hoping to hear? What the fuck? Did she want my soul, my brain, my liver, and kidneys too? Hell, take it all.

  “Well what do you want then, sweetheart?”

  The brunette bit her lip for a moment.

  “I guess I just want to hear that it’s real,” she said. “None of this ‘I’m getting over bad habits,’ ‘I have a thing for anonymous fucks,’ and ‘You’re so lucky that I never used birth control with you.’ I just want to hear what every woman does,” she shrugged, looking off into the corner. “You know, that this is real, that you’re coming to me with an open heart.”

  I goggled at her, eyes practically crossing. I mean, what the fuck, hadn’t I just bared my soul? Hadn’t I just done all that? What the hell, did she want me to walk on coals with bare feet before she’d believe? And reading my mind, Rachel sighed then.

  “The thing is, Donovan,” she said quietly. “You make it sound like I’m so lucky to have you. That you were looking for something else entirely, that you actually want sleek, slinky girls with no faces, and it’s only by some random stroke of luck that I landed you. That your ‘regular self’ still prefers strange pussy, still prefers going on-line to meet your desires.”

  I cut her off then.

  “I haven’t been on-line since I met you,” I bit out harshly. “That profile might be deactivated for all I know.”

  “I know,” the brunette nodded softly. “Me too. I haven’t been on Discreet Encounters since I met you either. But this is just weird, don’t you get it? You’ve been a tomcat for thirty years, and what’s the likelihood that I’ve really changed you, so to say? How could two weeks with me suddenly reform Donovan Jones, renowned asshole and international playboy?”

  That stopped me short. The little girl was smart, much more than I gave her credit for, and her insights only made my chest swell with pride. Because Rachel was no pushover. Even if she was eighteen, the brunette wasn’t some airhead who’d believe anything and everything she was told. My baby has a brain on those shoulders, and it’s a big brain too, one that’s intelligent, with a nuanced understanding of tricky situations. So inhaling deeply, I turned her chin towards mine, looking into the big browns, seizing them with my deep blue.

  “Honey, I can’t prove it, you’re right,” I ground out insistently. Shit, so much rode on this, I had to persuade the female to give me another chance, to at least keep the door open and not slam it shut. “I can’t prove anything, not right now, right here,” I acknowledged. “But with time, you’ll see. I’m a changed man, and baby, you did that to me. Everything about you has changed me,” I said, my voice almost breaking with need. “And I want it this way. I want to be a better man, a new man, just for you. The old Donovan was an asshole sure, and the new Donovan will probably still be an asshole. But honey, I’m your asshole. I’m yours, if you want it,” I said again, chest tight, eyes intense. “Just let me try, baby, let me try.”

  The female cocked her head at me, that sweet pout so close and yet so far. Oh god, what if Rachel said no? What if Rachel was one and done already, and I was too late?

  But instead, she nodded somberly, just a small gesture with her chin.

  “Okay,” the brunette said softly, the sweet breeze of her breath like the most fragrant perfume. “Okay, we’ll try. Together.”

  And with that, I swept her into my arms, her curvy form pressed close to my broad chest. Because that was all I needed to hear. Despite my garbled explanation that didn’t come out too good, despite the fact that I’d been condescending even as I desperately wanted to win her over, it had worked. The brunette was giving me another chance to catch the brass ring. And as an alpha who capitalizes on every opportunity? I was gonna make the woman mine … for keeps.

  EPILOGUE

  Rachel

  “Oh,” I moaned lustily, creaming around his fingers. “Oh, oh.”

  Because Donovan and I were re-living our first encounter. Oh yeah, we were in a public place, the opera this time, and Donovan was touching me from behind, slowly stroking my wet folds before worming his fingers into my vaginal passage.

  “Unnh!” I shrieked. “Unnh!”

  “Shhh,” he rasped behind me. “We don’t want to ruin the performance for our fellow concertgoers.”

  And fortunately, the soprano’s voice rose right then to cover my ecstatic shrieks, the cries that I couldn’t help but let out. I almost keeled over, but the ledge saved me, hands gripping with white knuckles, shivering with ecstasy.

  Because oh yeah, the Billionaires Club keeps a box at the opera, one for members to use whenever they want. And right now, Donovan and I were dressed in formalwear, my alpha impossibly handsome in a tux, that huge form dark and imposing, the perfectly-cut material emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs.

  And I was clad in an evening gown to match, a perfectly normal, sexy red column with a sweetheart neckline and a slit up one leg. But oh yeah, that slit. What the rest of the audience couldn’t see was how Donovan worked that thigh high slit because what seemed reasonable when I was standing up gave my lover perfect access to my pussy in the confines of the box. Oh yeah, he had that slit pulled open all the way to my waist, the folds of the fabric obscenely draped around my hips as those fingers pushed hotly into my vaginal canal.

  “Unnh god!” I moaned again, head dropping just as the music crescendoed, boobs almost popping out my cleavage. Oh fuck, it felt so good and I didn’t even care if I gave the audience an eyeful of breastflesh now, I was beyond the point of no return, absolutely soaring in heaven. “Ohhh!”

  But Donovan chuckled nastily.

  “Naw baby girl, I’ve only got three fingers in, and we agreed fisting this time, remember? So open wider sweetheart, Daddy’s still got two digits to go.”

  And my entire body shivered with his words, cream running from my hole, literally gushing around his hand. Because this is the new “us.” Donovan wants danger in his life, I get it, and somehow, some way, I am the embodiment of that danger. The difference is that the alpha’s got a partner now, and the danger runs ten times deeper, ten times more hazardous. Because no, Donovan still never uses protection, he’s still creaming into me again and again, giving me multiple doses of that semen. But it’s different this time, because I’m on board and aware.

  And our adventure at the opera is just another example of our joint quest for danger. Because yeah, fingerfucking in public is too tame now, Donovan made me promise to let him fist me, to stuff his entire hand into my pussy in plain sight of other audience members.

  “I don’t get it,” I’d gasped, brown eyes wide as I stared at him. We’d been discussing it on the couch in the Avalon, Donovan having moved me out of my old, worn-down shack within twenty-four hours.

  “Don’t get what?” he drawled lazily, one big finger trailing against my nether lips, making me shiver involuntarily. “You think this pussy can’t stretch?”

  I shook my head disbelievingly.

  “I mean it can Daddy, it can, but your entire hand? All five fingers, plus your palm? And your hand’s big too,” I whispered pointedly, looking down at where his fingers grazed my twat.

  Donovan chuckled deep in his chest, male form hard and tense, immense ridge already evident within his trousers, tenting them like a flagstaff. Oh god, I wanted to suck, but even more, I wanted to feel. But Donovan wanted me a certain way, and I was gonna get it.

  “Trust me baby, you can do it,” he rasped throatily, gazing at my bare pussy hungrily. “And Daddy will help you through the exercise, Daddy will absolutely get you so hot that you thank me afterwards, this little pussy will drip buckets of lust.”

  And now here, at the opera, my lover was true to his words. Because as I parted my thighs wider, he slipped
another finger into my pussy, four now in total, prying me open, and making me feel oh-so-full.

  “Oh god Daddy,” I moaned, throwing my head back, reaching forward to stroke the ridge of that fat cock through his pants. “Oh god.”

  Donovan’s eyes were such an intense blue that I could see them even in the dark of the theater. But he pushed my hand away because this time was all about me, and my lover was gonna bring me to a shattering finish, audience and music be damned.

  “Almost there,” he rumbled soothingly, that blazing blue gaze never leaving my secret flesh. “Almost there.”

  And with one more twist of his wrist, a clever jerk and then a deep slide, it happened. Donovan slipped all five fingers in, the stretch incredible, my pussy so fucked. I looked down with shock, almost unable to breathe. It was so obscene, so unbelievably disgusting, and yet so good. Because only Donovan’s wrist protruded from my vaginal hole, creamy thighs spread wide. There was so much pussy juice, so much female nectar that his arm was absolutely drenched, rivulets dripping off onto the floor.

  “Oh fuck yeah,” he groaned, moving his fingers experimentally in me. “Oh fuck yeah.”

  I mewled helplessly then, throwing my head back. Oh god, was this really happening? This was danger personified, shit, I didn’t know how we could get more risky than this. Because if someone noticed, how could he pull his fingers out in time? The alpha was stuck so far in my body that it would take at least twenty minutes just to exit the way he’d come, finger by finger, slowly pulling out of my puss.

  But for now, I just wanted to feel.

  “Yeah Daddy,” I panted. “Ohhh, god, yesss.”

  And with that, the billionaire began to fuck me. Right there, at the opera, my dress pulled open and legs spread obscenely wide, he began running his entire fist in and out of my pussy, only his wrist showing as he rampaged my hot folds. Oh god, I was so fucked inside, slutty cunt gushing heavily, gripping him, stretched to the max.

  “Oh god,” I moaned again. “Oh god god god.”

  And with that, my snatch burst. Literally juices flew out three feet in the air, spattering his tux, getting on my beautiful red dress, staining the ornate furniture. There was so much that it literally bubbled up around his wrist as my folds clenched and spasmed, squeezing his hand like a python, pulsing with ecstasy.

  “Ahhh!” I cried out, throwing my head back, one big boobie popping out from my dress now, my lust impossible to contain. “Ahh!”

  But Donovan was quick. In a flash, the big man reached around my torso and covered the pendulous flesh with his hand.

  “Oh yeah, baby girl,” he ground out, squeezing hard before flicking a nip. “Oh yeah, Daddy’s got you.”

  And that’s the story of my life now. Daddy’s got me, and I’ve got him. We’re together through the good times and bad, riding storms in one boat, oars paddling in sync. Sure, we began in the most illicit of ways, as an anonymous finger fuck after meeting on-line, but it’s become something real now. Because we live together, Donovan moved us both into the condo in the sky, and it’s good. Better than good. We make love all the time yeah, but we also cook, shower, and talk non-stop, blabbing about big and small.

  So no, I didn’t expect this. I was Rachel Smith, virgin librarian, a shy, plump brunette with a sweet smile and a longing to explore and see the world. And he was Donovan Jones, billionaire alpha with a penchant for the dirty, using females like disposable goods. But we’ve both changed. Now that we have each other, the past is the past, it formed us, but it’s not us anymore. Because we’re living our present now, and with bright eyes, I have high hopes for the future.

  Because Donovan has a desire for danger, yes. Was I afraid I couldn’t satisfy him, that I was too boring? Was I afraid I couldn’t meet his expectations? Absolutely. After all, virgin Rachel wasn’t so long ago, only a matter of weeks in fact. But slowly, as we’ve grown closer, our relationship has deepened and matured, and I’ve become more confident, more sure of myself. My body and mind are the ultimate drugs for my man, and yes, I’ve realized I can fulfill the alpha’s desire for danger. I can go to the Billionaires Club and play any game with him, I can take him to the opera and let him fist me in public, pushing that huge hand right up into my sweet, pulsing twat.

  And this is our life. This is our life, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. By no means is it perfect, we’re not Ken and Barbie by a long shot, living a bland, plastic life with a house in the burbs. But Donovan is my man, and the love that soars between us, that binds us tight, is one hundred percent real. So what else can a girl ask for? After all, this was an anonymous encounter that became something much, much more … and it’s mine for keeps.

  THE END

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  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.”

&nbs
p; 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.