Delivering the Virgin: A Romance Novella Read online

  Delivering the Virgin

  A Romance Novella

  (Erotic Romance)

  © 2016

  By Cassandra Dee

  Want to hear about my newest illicit romance? Addicted to virgins and alpha males? Join my mailing list at http://eepurl.com/cgt2DD and get a FREE BOOK unavailable elsewhere!

  © 2016 Cassandra Dee

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all products of the author's imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters are represented as 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  Follow me on Facebook

  Email me at [email protected] with questions and comments.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Delivering the Virgin

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  Crazy

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  RELATED BOOKS

  DEDICATION

  To all the sexy ladies out there …

  Here’s to naughty packages!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Laurie

  I heaved the box down on the floor of my new apartment, exhausted. My back ached, my fingers were sore and I’d pulled a piece of skin off my knee when I tripped on the stairs coming up.

  Because my new place was a fifth floor walk-up, a tiny nest on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on the fringe of the city where the sidewalk was still filled with drug dealers and junkies at night.

  But I shrugged, taking a deep breath and plopped on the couch. It was all I could afford right now and I was just happy to be out of the apartment I shared with my ex, Gary. Blech, even his name made me vomit. Gary. Sad to say, but we’d only been married two days before we separated. Can you believe it? When they say starter marriage, I don’t think they meant something that lasted a blink of an eye, over before it even began.

  Because Gary had had a mistress the entire time we were dating, making my stomach churn once again. For the two years before we got married, two whole frickin’ years, Gary had been keeping a sweet blonde thing on the side, not a day over twenty-one with bolt-on boobs, a tiny waist and even tinier ass. Yeah, she was Barbie doll skinny whereas I was real girl, with a butt and hips that were wide and generous.

  So I leaned back on the couch, a hand over my eyes. God, I was so goddamned tired and exhausted, the last couple months had been an emotional drain that rivaled only a nuclear disaster, my heart pulled apart, torn to shreds and then flushed down the toilet. But at least I was out now. I’d left our penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue and was happy to have my own space now, humble as it might be.

  Sighing, I looked around. Yeah, my new place wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp, and that was including the bathroom. There was a combination living/dining space with a utility kitchen spread out against the wall, and then a narrow hall which led to a tiny bedroom in back. The whole place had been coated in a terrible pastel blue paint that was cracking and stale, but the broker had assured me it was lead-free at least.

  I stepped into my tiny bathroom, trying not to cower as my eyes were seared by the overwhelming blueness of the place, the tiles, the tub, and the sink all the same aquamarine. The color was a throwback to the eighties when electric teal and hot pink had been popular, but now it just made my head hurt, my irises imprinted with the flashy shade.

  But I was disgusting, sweaty, tired and dirty, and I could keep my eyes closed in the shower if it came to that. Sighing, I shook my head and began to strip. The baggy plaid shirt I wore fell to the floor, crumpled and used, and I popped the waistband of my jeans loose, stepping out of the hot denim with relief. Taking a deep breath for the first time in weeks, I stripped off my grimy bra and undies too, wearing nothing now but my birthday suit and some flirty pink toenail polish.

  The spray spurted on with a hiss, the boiler coming to life with a groan but at least the water was blessedly hot. I stepped into the tiny stall, so small that I could touch both sides without stretching my arms and let the spray pound me, closing my eyes, steam filling the enclosure in a matter of seconds, turning it into a sauna.

  But when my hand groped blindly at the ledge, my mistake became apparent. I’d forgotten to unpack my toiletries and there was no shampoo or soap in the stall. In fact, there was nothing whatsoever, I’d forgotten to get a towel, a razor, a loofah, and I was stuck, soaking wet with nothing to get myself clean. I thought about going with it. I could rinse myself and call it a day, but my inner self was grossed out. I’d been moving for ten hours straight, heaving loads of junk, dirty, dusty and sweaty, and mere water wasn’t enough to do the trick. I needed soap and a good scrub.

  So resignedly, I shut off the water and opened the stall door, stepping out while dripping, a big pool of water forming on the linoleum floor. Fuck, what a way to start my new life. Reaching down, I grabbed my plaid shirt and tried to use it as a towel, scrubbing the faded cotton up and down my curves, trying to soak up as much as possible. But the problem was my hair. I have curly brown locks and when they get wet, they retain a ton of water, making me into a human sponge. So even though I tried to squeeze out the curls, wring out as much excess as possible, it was useless, the plaid shirt was soaked in seconds.

  Groaning, I turned to my jeans next. Gross, these things were so dirty, the light blue torn at the knee where I’d fallen, dirt streaks and random dust covering the denim. It was almost like I’d come from a construction site, they were so filthy. But I had no choice. So wrapping the material around me in a makeshift towel, I left the bathroom, my boobs and cunny each covered by a different pant leg, my tummy bare, my ass naked.

  And my teeth chattered as I tiptoed into the living room. Eff me, it was cold and I cursed myself as I began rummaging through this box and that, frantically trying to locate my toiletries. Fuck! I scraped my hand on the cardboard edge of one container, a red welt rising on my palm even as I tried to tear open another box, futilely digging through piles and piles of random items, dishes, books, kitchen utensils mixed together haphazardly. Why oh why hadn’t I labeled my stuff instead of throwing it together in a jumble? But I knew why – I’d been in such a rush to leave Gary, get out of our joint home asap that I’d tossed everything together without any organization or planning.

  And now I was
paying the price, shivering and soaked through like a wet rat with nothing to wear and no hope of finding anything useful anytime soon. I almost cried, tears welling up in my eyes. It would be the perfect beginning to my new life if I kicked it off with a wretched case of pneumonia, my lungs clogged with fluid, a headache muffling my hearing, my sinuses clogged. Plus I’d have to stay home sick when my job was the only thing keeping me afloat, my only source of income.

  So I sat back, about to give up, when inspiration struck. I scrabbled for my cell among the junk and began scrolling furiously. There it was – an app called “NYC Concierge.” I gasped, and my fingers trembled as I logged in. A screen flashed to life and a Siri-like voice spoke, “How may we help you today?”

  I ignored the voice, instead choosing to type my request. First up was shampoo, and upon further thought, conditioner and soap too. And screw it, might as well order a bathrobe while I was at it. I typed in the brand Coeur L’Amour, figuring that since I was splurging on a concierge service, I might as well go all the way and get myself a fancy satin robe, not just some terrycloth thing that was warm and homey.

  And after I’d entered all my items, I pressed send, watching with bated breath as the program hummed, spitting out the words, “Please wait, we are thinking.” And then the screen flashed. “Thank you. Your items will be delivered in twenty minutes.”

  I let out a small yelp of relief, falling back on the couch with a gusty sigh. Saved, I was saved. A messenger would be here shortly with the things I’d ordered, I was going to be warm and toasty and clean, and I couldn’t wait.

  So I paced a bit, trying to ward off the chill by jumping up and down, my generous curves bouncing, hoping my neighbors downstairs couldn’t hear. I loved New York City and swore my allegiance to it once more. I loved how I could get anything and everything delivered at any time of the day or night, and all it cost was money. Gary wasn’t going to ruin my life, I was going to pull myself up by the bootstraps even if it killed me, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  But in the meantime, I was soaking wet with only my jeans to cover me, my curves popping out everywhere, droplets spattering as I moved around the apartment briskly to keep warm. It wasn’t ideal, but now the ticker read fifteen minutes, and my package would be arriving soon. I sighed, shuddered and forced my mouth into a grim line. What was important was that I work myself out of this mess and survive to fight another day … ex-husband be damned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tucker

  The order popped up on my terminal, the screen flashing to life. I squinted at the monitor, scrutinizing the shopping cart. Hmm, it was definitely a lady ordering this stuff or at least a dude who wanted to buy his girl some nice things. Because the soap and shampoo were fancy brands, French-milled soaps scented with lavender and the robe was a flimsy thing from an upscale boutique nearby. Well, no worries, NYC Concierge was on it.

  Because I work for a start-up, a concierge service that’s accessible through an on-line app. It’s just like an old-time concierge service but instead of calling someone and placing an order, you type your request on a phone for delivery. It’s not so different from the old days except the app streamlines things, makes the experience more efficient. Without a human person on the telephone, there aren’t any missed words, we can read your order verbatim, and we have a handy countdown clock so you know exactly when your package is arriving.

  Speaking of which, the stopwatch was already running. Heaving myself up, I stretched mightily, throwing muscled arms into the air before hopping off my stool. One of the great things about being a delivery guy is that it keeps you in shape walking all over the city, going up and down stairs, logging in hundreds of miles. So I worked out all the time, making sure I was athletic and flexible while also strong. You never knew if someone was going to order a microwave or god forbid, a refrigerator, and you were the only person on shift, manhandling that monster up a steep set of stairs. Fuck, I hated those deliveries, it was like they expected fucking Superman or something.

  But this one was gonna be easy. I pulled on my delivery jacket, a nondescript grey zip-up with the logo NYC Concierge on the sleeve, and smashed a baseball cap on my head. Yep, very much an anonymous delivery man now. Clattering down the stairs, I hopped onto a Vespa and zoomed off to my first stop, Coeur L’Amour. Mopeds are girly but uncannily useful in the City, able to wiggle through traffic jams, even jump sidewalks when need be. And pulling up in front of the boutique, I switched off the motor only to find the door swept open in welcome.

  “Mr. McGrath,” purred Amelia the salesgirl. “So good to see you.”

  Fuck, the blonde recognized me. I’d been here more than a few times to buy stuff for ex-girlfriends, women that I’d fucked, anyone who needed something to shut them up and keep them happy. And unfortunately as a high-end place, Coeur L’Amour associates made it their business to remember every high roller, even my uniform and baseball cap hadn’t been a sufficient disguise.

  So I decided to make the best of it.

  “Hey,” I grunted. “I need a robe.”

  And the blonde winked slyly.

  “I have just the thing, Mr. McGrath,” she purred again, “Let me show you.”

  And she led me to a rack in back filled with lace fripperies, silky things that were barely two inches long and three inches wide. What the fuck? This shit cost five hundred bucks, were they kidding me? Hell, I should go into the lingerie business, this was clearly a high margin industry.

  But at least the rack of robes was a little better, at least there was a decent amount of material. Amelia pulled one, then another off their hangers, a pink thing, then a purple one, the array dizzying, all sorts of colors with lace and embroidery in tasteful patterns.

  But this was a delivery and the customer could be a sixty year old crone for all I knew. So I picked one that was middle of the pack, decently long, pink satin with a tie at the waist.

  “I’ll take it,” I grunted and Amelia cooed.

  “Excellent choice, Mr. McGrath, I’ll ring it up for you. And should I gift wrap it?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. I shook my head tiredly.

  “Not this time, thanks,” I said shortly and Amelia was off, her fingers flying at the register, her long nails click-clacking on the keyboard. And finally, she folded the silk into a tiny square and deposited it in a fancy bag.

  “Here you go!” she chirped. “And here’s your receipt,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with a wink.

  I grabbed it, crumpling it in my hand. But once outside, I took a glance and the bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t the purchase price that was shocking, it was the fact that the salesgirl had drawn a heart on the receipt and added her name and phone number. What the fuck!?! Amelia had done this last time and I’d ignored it, grinding my teeth at the come-on. She was absolutely not my type, skinny, blonde, with the nails like Cruella de Ville. What the fuck, this bitch couldn’t get a clue, and I was ready to barrel right back in there and chew her out, waiting customer be damned.

  But fuck. There was no time, I needed to make my delivery. So jaw set with frustration, I got back on the bike, strapping the stuff to the back. What the fuck was wrong with females in this city? They threw themselves at me right and left, and you know what? I was over it. I was looking for curvy and round, with heft and some real weight, creamy flesh to grab and hold, and in this city of skinny minnies, it was fucking hard to find. Fuck me, this fucking sucked. Can you believe it? In this city of fifteen million, I couldn’t find a sassy, curvy girl to meet my needs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tucker

  I pulled up in front of a dilapidated tenement building, the kind of thing that hadn’t been renovated in seventy years, the window frames sagging, the interior hallway dirty and ragged with years of caked-on dirt, a sad row of metal mailboxes lined up against the side. Seeing that the lingerie and soaps had cost a pretty penny, I was surprised to be dropping them off at such a down-and-out location. But then again, New Yorkers are
a weird bunch. It’s such an expensive city that people splurge on the little things to make life more bearable – expensive shampoo, smokes for a deep drag, shit even cocaine sometimes. That’s the beauty and the downfall of the city. There’s something for everyone but it might cost an arm and a leg.

  But it wasn’t my place to judge, I’m just the delivery guy. So I bolted up the five flights, stopping at a run-down landing which showcased three doors. Looking at the address, I knocked on 5A, the one furthest to the left, the paint on the door peeling, scratches on the wall the product of long nights and too many moves.

  I was expecting some middle-aged lady or some dude with a live-in girlfriend, some frat boy making his apologies. But instead, the girl who answered the door took my breath away because she was delicious. The door cracked open and a pair of big brown eyes peeped out, topped by a mass of curls swept in a messy topknot.

  “Hi,” came a breathy voice as an arm extended awkwardly around the door. “Can you just hand it to me?”

  “Sure,” I said, my senses on alert. If I wasn’t mistaken, the girl’s awkward attempts to hide herself were because she was naked. I could see that the arm was attached to a bare shoulder, and the way she cowered behind the wood slab was pretty telling body language in and of itself.

  “But ma’am,” I said wryly. “I’m gonna need your signature.”

  And the girl sighed, a gusty breath from behind the door.

  “Can you just forge my signature for me?” she said, exasperated. “Please?”

  I shook my head, almost laughing. Honestly, if she’d said, “Could you sign for me?” or “Please draw an X on my behalf,” I would have been happy to. Sometimes people aren’t in a position where they can sign because of epilepsy or some medical disorder and I’ve signed for other folks more than once. But the way Ms. Holmes had phrased it, “Can you forge my signature?” basically made it impossible. Nah, I didn’t want to go to jail and besides, I was curious.