His Captive: A Revenge Marriage Romance
Table of Contents
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
EPILOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
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
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
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
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
EPILOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
His Captive
~A Revenge Marriage Romance~
© 2017
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!
© 2017 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 productions 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.
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ALSO BY CASSANDRA DEE
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MMF Romance
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The Virgin Series
The Naughty Virgin
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The Trashy Virgin
Delivering the Virgin
The Princes Series
Double Princes
Triple Princes
DEDICATION
For all the dirty girls with twisted dreams.
This book is just for you!
ABOUT THIS BOOK
His Captive: A Revenge Marriage Romance
I’m gonna break her. And she’ll scream as I’m doing it.
Anna is a slut. The redhead is a golddigger who got my brother to propose after one night.
After twenty-four hours, my stupid little bro was head over heels, worshipping at the curvy girl’s altar.
But I’m not gonna let her destroy us.
I’m not gonna let her steal our family fortune.
I’m not gonna let her walk away with everything.
So I’ve kidnapped the redhead. Yeah, I tied her up and threw her into the back of my trunk.
And now she’s locked up with no place to go.
The redhead’s in chains.
Writhing and mewling.
Crying out helplessly.
Begging me.
Because I know she w
ants it.
And do I give it to her?
HELL YEAH.
But who’s the captive now?
NOTE FROM CASSIE
Hi! Thanks so much for reading His Captive: A Revenge Marriage Romance. I hope you enjoy the steam between Anna and her man.
As a special bonus, I’ve included a short story called Transforming the Doctor into a Bimbo. It’s a smutty sci-fi romance read that you’ll love.
Enjoy!
xoxo
Cassie
TABLE OF CONTENTS
His Captive
ABOUT THIS BOOK
NOTE FROM CASSIE
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
EPILOGUE
Loving the Babysitter
The Wicked Virgin
The Naughty Virgin
Delivering the Virgin
The Trashy Virgin
The Dirty Virgin
Beg Me
**NEW! Kinky Bonus Sci-Fi Romance***
Transforming the Doctor into a Bimbo
A SNEAK PEEK
MORE BY CASSANDRA DEE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Anna
I’m so tired.
Feet plodding, I cut through the abandoned courtyard of my apartment complex. It’s not exactly nice, there are weeds coming up through the cracks in the sidewalk, the fountain long-since broken and crumbling. And then a skittery sound greets my ears. Oh no, are there rats again? Lester, our super, was supposed to call the exterminator but I guess he forgot.
Because I’m terrified of rats. The worm-like tail and pink, scrabbly feet are so disgusting, giving me the creepy crawlies. So breaking into a run, I dart towards the stairs as fast as possible, hauling myself up pronto. It’s not easy, I’m a big girl, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Fumbling in my bag, I grab my keys and pop open the door, slamming it behind me. Phew! Leaning back with a sigh of relief, I look around. Escaped the rat army again, thank god. Safe once more.
Flicking on a light in the front hall, I head towards the kitchen to find some food, still breathing hard. There’s probably a TV dinner buried in the back of the freezer, and I guess that’s my meal for tonight. Because there’s no way I have the energy to cook something up.
After digging past my emergency bottle of whiskey, a pack of freezer burned broccoli, and a few pints of my favorite ice cream, the TV dinner looks me in the face. Hmm, chicken pot pie. The picture looks amazing, steamy with a crispy golden crust, but I know it’s gonna taste like cardboard. Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers.
Tossing the cardboard box into the microwave, I lean against the kitchen counter, exhausted, taking in the small layout of the place I call home. The apartment is totally old, borderline historic, but well maintained. At least by my standards.
With its simple layout and hand-me-down furnishings, the place by no means luxurious. But it’s the best I can do on my salary as a secretary. Because I’m not exactly making the big bucks. In fact, quite the opposite, I’m definitely in little bucks land, but that’s okay. I’m grateful for what I have, and besides, it’s clean and cozy. I keep the place spotless, neat as a pin. It’s the only way, when you have such a small home.
But life’s about more than just TV dinners and armies of rats. Because as I look around, the couch beckons, a warm, cozy fleece throw draped over the back. “Anna, Anna!” it sings. “Come to me!”
Don’t you worry, I mentally assure my book boyfriends. I’m gonna get to you tonight, there are no dates lined up for a curvy girl like me, just some pretend romance.
But you know what? It’s okay, I’m dead tired and nothing sounds more relaxing than curling up with a good book and a mug of steaming tea.
Just then, the timer on the microwave dings. Removing the plastic covering completely, I wait for the food to cool. Yum, I’ve always loved eating and as a bigger girl, never shied away from it. I mean, how do those skinny chicks survive? How can they turn away from a hearty meal, something that will warm you up from the inside out? It’s a miracle those girls still have pulses, they seem to live on air only.
But it’s not my business because I’m on the bigger side with Double Ds that jiggle, popping buttons sometimes. And my ass? Holy smokes, it’s embarrassing how it bumps and grinds to an internal rhythm, like I’m always dancing the samba. So yeah, I love my full-figured shape.
But speaking of stick-thin scarecrows, my baby sister shouts from her bedroom right on cue.
“Anna, are you home?” Ann-Marie screeches. My ears hurt from that nails on chalkboard voice, the vibrations ringing painfully in my head. Taking a deep breath, I make myself reply.
“Just got back,” I call upstairs. “Making myself some dinner.”
Instead of inquiring about my day or anything remotely sisterly, her voice is shrill as she yells down the long hallway.
“Have you seen my purple dress, Anna? Did you borrow it? I swear, I saw you wear it!”
Counting to ten, I ignore her because there’s no way in hell that she could possibly think I’ve taken one of her dresses. I probably wouldn’t be able to get it past my shoulders, those scraps of nothing.
Two years younger than me, Ann-Marie is my opposite in every way imaginable. It’s a wonder we share any DNA at all. With her flaming red hair and tall, svelte frame, she’s absolutely beautiful and a real treat for the eyes. But that’s about where it ends because she’s about as shallow as a damn puddle. Her work as a model perfectly suits her, with the constant flash of lightbulbs and fawning audience.
But the attention’s also spoiled her. My sister is completely out of touch, thinking that people exist on Earth to do her bidding. And I’m partially to blame for that. Ever since our parents passed away, I feel a sense of responsibility as the older sibling. We’re each other’s only family, and as a result, I found us an apartment and work long hours to pay our bills. Her “modeling fees” usually aren’t more than a free dress and a bottle of champagne, leaving me the breadwinner.
And you’d think she’d be thankful. You’d think my baby sister would be grateful to have an older sibling looking out for her, one who’s responsible for finding a place to live and handling all the arrangements for the funeral.
But Ann-Marie is something else because this girl is an all-out diva, horrifically self-centered. The last time I heard “thank you” was probably when she was five, but then again, I think she treats everyone like that. Hopefully, it’s a phase. Oh god, I hope it’s a phase otherwise this girl is never gonna get by.
But for now, things are okay. My sister’s so gorgeous that everything goes her way. It’s like she’s a beautiful rose, and everyone bends over backwards, letting the precious flower gets its share of sunlight and water. It’s crazy sometimes. People on the street smile when they see her coming, dogs nose over to nuzzle against those twig-like legs, and of course, there’s the men. Men from the ages of ten to eighty worship Ann-Marie, they can’t see her shortcomings because she’s so goddamn gorgeous.
So sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who really knows her. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who can see inside, who knows what a spoiled, immature child the redhead is. And there’s no way out. As my only family left in the world, Ann-Marie’s all I’ve got, and I’m the only person she’s got too.
By this point, I’m eating my TV dinner standing at the kitchen counter, and whaddya know, but in the midst of my thoughts, Ann-Marie prances into the kitchen with just her bra and panties covering her willowy frame, skidding to a haughty stop in front of me.
She looks thoroughly pissed, those narrow
eyes cat-like and angry, but even that look works for her.
“Did you hear me or not?” she demands, planting her hands on her tiny waist. “Where’s my dress? I told you not to take my stuff,” she accuses.
I snort. While my figure is full and overflowing, my sister’s body is long and toned. She probably only weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, so what is it with the dress thing?
I shoot her a long look.
“I don’t have your dress, Ann-Marie. What would I be doing with it?”
She huffs, sliding me a critical glance down the bridge of her perfect nose.
“I don’t know. Explain to me why it’s missing then. Clothes don’t just grow legs and walk away, you know.”
Planting my hands against the kitchen counter, I study her for a second and heave a sigh.
“You must have misplaced it,” I offer in return. Far too tired for this petty conversation, my mind wanders to the book I’ll be reading later, filled with a gorgeous guy waiting on bended knee. Is there someone like my sister in the book? God, I hope not, it’d just ruin the night.
But Ann-Marie doesn’t let my daydream last more than a few seconds
“No, I’m pretty sure I’d know where my own clothes are,” she insists with defiance shining in her eyes. “Come on Anna, tell me where it is.”
“Look, I never touched your dress,” I say stiffly. “If I wanted something of yours, I would always ask first. Besides, it would never fit me anyways, we’re two completely different sizes, so how would I squeeze into it?”
“Last,” I huff, gathering steam, really on a roll now. “Where would I wear your purple dress? From what I remember, that thing had rhinestones and sparkles on it. Where would I be going in that?”
Ann-Marie smirks, the expression ruining her pretty face.
“You’re right,” she says breezily. “You wouldn’t fit into it, and yeah, there aren’t exactly guys asking you out on dates. But still, maybe you took it to try on. You know, to pretend you’re me.”