A Billionaire's Heart (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  Something had changed inside her, without her ever knowing. She needed to help, to fix this. She didn't have a single clue how she could, but if anyone could do it, then it would be her.

  She turned a corner, and there he was, a massive thing. Mason stood beside him, unphased as a chair smacked through his ghostly form. She wasn't sure what he was doing until the hulking mass of man shouted "Get out of my head!"

  Could he see Mason? What did that mean? She pushed the questions away. If she made it through this, she could try to figure it out. But right now was important. Mason looked at her as she walked in.

  "Good, you've arrived." His voice sounded strained, as if he were struggling to maintain a grip on…something. "Are you ready?"

  Misty pursed her lips, braced for whatever was going to come, and nodded.

  "Okay, here goes nothing."

  Nothing happened. Misty wasn't sure what she had expected, but something grand. After a hundred ghosts pop into a room in the middle of sex with someone you only met a few days before, somehow it seemed like being a psychic was going to have…special effects, or something?

  Then Vladimir Solomonov turned. She could see his face clearly, and it could have been him, she thought. Or at least, his brother. There were differences, of course. This man could have crushed Solomonov's skull with one hand. But the lines were right. And then, he smiled.

  "Women," he said softly, and started moving towards them.

  Misty realized in a moment what he wanted, and she started to move away. Grace had already started running. She looked like she was better suited to a photo shoot than a sprint, but she made impressive time. Solomonov took a few long, powerful strides, and had made it down the hall, grabbing Grace mid-stride by her shirt. Misty could hear the seams rip with the force of his grasp.

  He turned and dragged Grace back with him. He dropped his shoulder and wrapped an arm around Misty's waist, lifting her up onto his shoulder like a fireman. It was terrifying and part of her wanted to be gone.

  Another part, deep down, wanted to stay. She knew where this was going, and her heart pounded with terror, but even more she could feel the need inside her. He carried the two women in his arms, through long halls, until he reached the front room. A pair of long sofas sat across from each other, the room having been spared the carnage that filled much of the rest of the house.

  "You're pretty," he said softly. Misty wasn't sure which of them he spoke to, or if he spoke to both. He set them both down gently on a sofa, but that was the end of his sudden gentleness.

  His massive hands each took a fistful of Grace's skirt and pulled hard downward. A button popped off and skittered across the floor, and the skirt came down her legs. She apparently decided that rather than letting her sweater be destroyed she would rather take care of it herself, and pulled her shirt over her head.

  Misty watched, transfixed, as the assistant's breasts fell free. She could practically feel her own mouth watering. Her enjoyment was short lived, however. She felt, to her surprise, the same thick fingers that had just pulled off Grace's skirt, working the button on her own jeans before finally getting it to pop free. The jeans came down her thighs in a single powerful tug, before being discarded on the other side of the room in a pile.

  Her thin shirt came next; she wasn't as quick to strip as Grace had been, and it seemed that Solomonov, or the behemoth that he'd become, had no patience for her to do it on her own. He hooked two fingers between in the neck, between her breasts, and yanked. For a moment Misty thought she might be thrown along with the shirt, and her feet came up off the ground. Then with a loud RIP, the fabric tore and pulled free from her body, releasing her own breasts.

  Grace pressed her nude body against the giant and craned her neck to look at his face. "Please, Vova, just take me. This girl's done nothing—"

  He cradled her in his arms and pulled her lips up to his, silencing any complaint with his lips. Letting the arm holding her head up drop, Solomonov took Misty's hand and pressed it pointedly into his crotch. His cock wasn't big, she thought. It was massive. She wondered if it would even fit inside her. With a shiver that she wasn't sure came from fear or arousal, she knew that she was going to find out.

  Misty dropped to her knees and started fiddling with the button on his own pants. They were made for a much smaller man, and the fabric strained to encompass the enormous size that Vladimir had grown to. With a great deal of effort, she managed to pull the pants free of the button holding them together, and peeled the cloth away from his skin.

  "Suck it," he said softly. She looked up at him, uncertain, only to see that he had moved his hand down Grace's body, and his thumb played at the place where her legs met. She groaned in pleasure and writhed, trying at the same time to pull away and to get closer. Looking back down, Misty wasn't sure that she could fit it in her mouth. His cock was massive, nearly as thick as her wrist and at least eight inches long. She imagined that there were horses less endowed.

  Fearing what would happen to the both of them if he fell out of his sexual haze and returned to his destructive self, Misty realized, she didn't have time to think it over. Either she did it or she let the both of them die together. She took a deep breath and, careful of her teeth, tried to take his massive cock in her mouth.

  As the head passed through her mouth, her teeth only lightly grazing the sensitive flesh, she thought she could manage. Then he hit the back of her throat, and she had only taken half of his massive cock. She gagged, but managed to keep her composure, bobbing her head as much as she could along his shaft, trying to relax her throat. This was beyond anything she had ever heard of before—but it wasn't the first big cock she'd taken, either.

  As she moved, more and more of it came back, and before long she had managed to relax her throat, and took it deeper and deeper. From the feeling of the fingers digging into her hair, she knew that Solomonov was enjoying her ministrations. She closed her eyes and redoubled her efforts.

  He pulled her off after a long time, his cock coming free of her lips with a soft pop. He laid Grace back on the sofa and pulled her hips back towards him so that she was hanging over the edge, and knelt down just enough to line his cock up with her moist lips before pushing inside. For all the savagery he'd caused around the house, he was surprisingly gentle with her as he pushed in.

  Grace's eyes clenched as he pushed inside, the stretching obviously causing some pain. Then, suddenly, her eyes shot open, and she let out a long, loud moan. He pushed in until their hips met.

  Solomonov's face relaxed for a moment in bliss, and then he turned to look at Misty, who was sitting on the ground trying to catch her breath. "Lay down. Next to her."

  She stood on wobbly legs and dropped into the sofa beside Grace, whose fingers dug into the fabric, trying to find purchase on something, anything that would help relax the feeling of such a massive thing inside her. He pulled out, and she relaxed, her eyes losing their focus and rolling around the room. Misty thought for a moment that she must have gone blind, until their eyes met.

  As their eyes locked, Vladimir pushed back inside with a long, hard thrust. Grace let out a long, shrill squeal, but Misty was transfixed by the way her breasts moved, rocking as he used her like a doll. She leaned down and pulled a large, coppery nipple into her mouth. The taste was salty and sweet, and she wanted more. She sucked hard.

  Misty felt something probing her, down below, and let Grace's nipple out of her mouth long enough to look and see Solomonov's finger, rubbing up and down her aroused womanhood. She was afraid, she thought. Very afraid. But she needed to know what it felt like, needed to experience the delirious pleasure that floated across Grace's face. She could feel Grace, not moving any more, just letting out mewls of pleasure as Solomonov pulled her body on and off his cock.

  "Please fuck me," she heard herself say. Vladimir's finger moved inside her, and then he added another, and stretched her lips as best he could. She would need it, to accommodate him. "Oh, God, please."

 
She watched him pull out of Grace, who laid on the sofa and let out a contented sigh as he pulled out. Her eyes watched the ceiling, and a vacant smile lay on her face. Then Vladimir grasped Misty's hips and lifted them up into the air, leaving her head hanging inches off the couch. She wasn't going to be Vladimir Solomonov's lover, she knew. She was his toy, a hole to be used by someone who she couldn't have stopped if she had wanted to. A shiver went down her spine again. Good.

  She wasn't ready for it when it happened, though. What had seemed gentle and slow when she had seen him entering Grace, she realized, had been as quickly as he could go. She felt herself stretching, her body trying to force the intrusion out. He pushed inside, even still, and already Misty could feel her mind going blank.

  Finally, his head moved past her entrance and he moved in the rest of the way easily. She could almost feel her stomach stretching out to accommodate, but when she tried to look at the place where they met, she found her vision blurred, her eyes swimming. He moved out of her like heroin in her veins and moved back into her.

  He pulled out again, pushed in, and by that point she had completely lost herself in the fucking. She needed it, whatever he could give her, and he gave it gladly. Her vision swam, fading in and out as he took what he wanted from her. She couldn't have stopped him, she knew. But if she'd been able to, she wouldn't. She wanted him to take it. What he gave her in return was too much to deny.

  She didn't feel him cum, too strung out on the pleasure and pain he had been inflicting. When her vision cleared, Grace was leaning on her side, lines of worrying marring her perfect face, watching her.

  "Are you okay?"

  Misty could feel the smile on her face, though she couldn't control it. "Ye," she managed to get out, before laying her head back down. She woke again later, a shirt having been pulled onto her frame, her head in Grace's lap. She looked relieved when Misty sat up, rubbing her head.

  "You're awake," Grace said softly.

  "Of course," Misty answered her. "What happened after I…you know, went away?"

  Grace put a finger to her own lips and pointed with her eyes. Vladimir Solomonov, now looking a perfectly normal size, lay on his side, sleeping like he were dead. Only when Misty saw his chest moving, slowly, was she certain that he hadn't died right there.

  "When I came around, Vova was like that. Asleep. I couldn't wake him at first, but now I think I don't want to." She watched him with a serene look. She loved him, Misty thought. "He hasn't had more than an hour's sleep this past week, you know. He rages until a few minutes before morning, and then crawls back to bed just long enough to wake in his own bed the next morning."

  "But he's sleeping now."

  "I think he's better."

  Misty laid her head back down and stared at the ceiling. He'd cum in her, she knew. This time she was certain. Of all the days in her cycle, this was the most fertile.

  Paranormal Impregnation 3

  Safety For Her Baby In The Arms Of A Man

  Selena Savage

  Misty Reed looked down her body, at her belly. Was it bigger? She pulled up her shirt, and then pulled it back down. She tried to remember if she had been thinner than this. She didn't think she looked big, but maybe she'd put on a couple pounds? Or maybe it was all her imagination.

  She let out a long sigh. Business hadn't dried up since she'd gotten pregnant, and it kept her busy. That, she was thankful for. The problem was that more and more, it wasn't little old ladies, or women who just lost their father and wanted to hear from him 'just one last time.'

  She was getting strange clients. Vagrants, who dressed like they couldn't afford to buy new clothes when holes got torn in them, coming in with more money than she could imagine. Obviously deranged people, too.

  She didn't need to ask Mason what he thought about it to know that there were spooks involved. The sickening feeling, the one that made her stomach twist up in knots and do flips, was a niggling suspicion that it had something to do with the child growing inside her.

  At first, she hadn't been sure what to think about it. But it hadn't been long before she'd realized what she should have known the whole time. The child was a blessing, whether she had a husband or not. She wasn't about to let her position in life dictate the way she treated or thought about her baby.

  But it was harder and harder to go out during the day. Every time she went out the door, it seemed, she was being set upon by another strange person—not only men, and not only vagrants, but people of all ages and walks of life. It was like a goddamn cult, she thought.

  The only time she'd been able to get out, for nearly a week, was a little past midnight. There was a superstore across the street, open 24 hours, so it was easy to duck out for an hour or so and grab her stuff, get back home, and lock up.

  That is, it was easy.

  This time was different. She walked out into the parking lot with her armload of groceries, and only looked up just in time to see a man walking up to her. Something was wrong with him immediately, that was clear.

  He walked with a decided limp, one of his arms swinging naturally by his side; the other, though, was fixed in place, his hand pressed against the back of his thigh. To hide something, she realized. What worried Misty more than that, though, was where he walked.

  Straight towards her.

  A voice with an accent called out. "Misty Reed?"

  Misty's head snapped around to see who had called her. He had dark hair, left shaggy—as if it had been close-cropped, but he hadn't done anything with it since.

  When the man had seen that she turned, he waved. A big motion, with both hands.

  Misty broke out into a run. Both the strange men started to run, too. With a sick feeling in her stomach, Misty realized that she was slower than either of them.

  The first man, who had hobbled before, now moved excellently. Better than most, even. The knife in his hand told the entire story of his strange movement, and spurred Misty on.

  To her surprise, though, the English-accented man didn't run for her. He was going to miss her, if he didn't turn. Then she realized. He was running towards the other man. She faced forward and kicked as hard as she could. Even when she heard a grunt and scuffling, she didn't stop, and she didn't turn back.

  After another few steps, she realized that she wasn't sure who had won the fight—but she wasn't going to want either of the men catching her if she could help it. She dropped her groceries and ran, dodging honking cars as she crossed the street. The door to her apartment came open as she came up.

  Only, as the man who opened it stepped into the light, Misty realized that she didn't recognize him. No more than she had either of the other two. She turned. The dark-haired Englishman was crossing the street now, and he'd be on her at any moment. Whether he had taken it or not, she didn't see the knife that the other man had carried.

  She turned back toward her apartment. The man, standing in the door, waved for her to come, smiling silently.

  Misty hesitated, and the man in the door took a step towards her. Then another. The closer he came, the angrier he looked. And then the blonde was passing her, and the knife was in his hand.

  He ran the blade through his hand, as if to wipe off the blade. It came away bloody, and he dropped it. He rubbed his hands together and tucked his shoulder as he rammed, full speed, into the third man.

  The Englishman said several words in a language Misty didn't recognize. She guessed it might have been Spanish—she wasn't certain. The man beneath him stopped struggling.

  The man stood up, and then promptly leaned over, breathing hard. Misty watched him carefully. If he left her room to run past, then she would take it. But, as she looked, she realized there was no space. If she tried to move by him, even if he was winded, it would only be a few short steps to close the distance between them. Long before she made it inside.

  After a moment he stood up and smiled at her. It was a cocky smile. The smile of a fighter, or a gambler. Whatever concerns she'd had started to melt
immediately. The strange ones, they always seemed to be mimicking human emotions. Like robots. The smile on the Englishman's face was imminently human: a smile of confidence and victory.

  "Are you hurt?"

  He asked the question in a way that told Misty that he knew she wasn't. She took a step back and shook her head.

  "Don't run, now."

  Misty ran.

  She made it most of the way down the street before he caught her, tackling her in a gentle way that she couldn't have imagined before it happened. He pushed her with just enough pressure to set her off-balance, then turned and fell so that she landed on him, cushioning the fall with his own body.

  "I asked you not to run, Miss Reed," he gasped out between gulps of air. "I'm not here to hurt you. It'll be safer for both of us if we speak inside your apartment."

  Misty shivered hard and tried to think of a way out. There was none, she knew, but she went through the motions regardless. Then she let out a long breath. "Okay."

  The walk back was longer than she'd expected. Just how far had she run? They came back to the spot where the Englishman had dropped the man in front of her apartment, but there was nobody. Disturbed, Misty ran to the door and jammed the key into the lock and opened it as fast as she could.

  "You're alright now, darling. They're gone for a bit."

  "And you're some kind of expert?"

  She stepped through and considered trying to pull the door shut before he could follow. His hand shot out and grabbed the door, pulling it open as if he were holding it for her.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact."

  He took his coat off as they came in, tossing it folded onto the coffee table.

  "Just who the hell are you, anyways?"

  "Graham Mitchell," he said. His voice was a rich tenor, and now that she got a look at his face, he was young—no older than Misty—and more than a little bit attractive. "I trained at the Vatican as a demonologist."