Michael
She takes my fucking breath away.
And not just because she has me by the fucking balls either.
Her hair is as blonde as the website promised, and her eyes are as just as blue. Her hips are wide. Her tits are perky. Her legs are so long I’m surprised to find that she’s not wearing heels.
In fact, save for a diamond necklace and a few packing peanuts that cling to her skin with static electricity, she’s not wearing anything at all.
It’s not every day that a gorgeous, naked woman rolls into my living room combat style and grabs me by the crotch.
For a man like me, it happens once or twice a week, tops.
Still, it’s not something that you ever really get used to.
No other woman I’ve been with has been able to handle me. They couldn’t take my cock. They couldn’t keep up with my libido.
They weren’t cut out for being my bride.
Those women weren’t mine.
The moment she grabs my balls, though, I know for certain that this woman could never be anything but mine.
I fall in love with her then and there. No hesitation. Not a second fucking thought.
It lasts for about as long as it takes her to open her mouth.
“Who’s the blyad now?!”
Blyad? What the fuck is that?
She glares at me and squeezes harder. At the end of her delicate, beautiful hands are talons that are threatening to give me the vasectomy I never wanted. Now I’m fucking feeling pain instead of pleasure.
Christ, is she trying to castrate me?
I’m tempted to smack her hand away, but I’m nothing if not a gentleman. I would never hit a lady…at least, not in a way she wouldn’t enjoy.
Plus, the way she’s holding on, like a pit bull with lockjaw, I’m not going to chance it.
It’s painstaking work, peeling her fingers off one by one until my balls are finally free. Good thing I’m a skilled doctor.
I step back before she can grab me again. I don’t need a repeat of that.
“You’re…not Russian,” she says, sounding kind of disappointed about that.
She doesn’t take her eyes off my crotch either. She looks a little in awe of it.
I raise a brow. “Should I be?”
“Ideally, no. But then…who the fuck are you?” she demands, rising to her feet.
She rests her hand confidently on her hip like it doesn’t bother her that she’s bare-ass naked…or like she’s already forgotten she doesn’t have a lick of clothes on.
I gotta give her credit. Spunk, she’s got it in spades. But I’m not really into this haughty princess attitude. This isn’t the happy, eager-to-please wife I’d ordered.
I knew that shit was a scam.
“I’m Michael Kirkwood,” I say. “I ordered you.” Then, I add for good measure, “And now, I’m sending you back. Never thought you’d actually show up.”
It’s the truth. I was ready to kiss that $1 million goodbye. Actually forgot she was coming until she was rolling out of the box in all her naked, ball-grabbing glory.
“You ordered me? What are you, a pervert?”
Now she’s really getting on my nerves. “Yes, I ordered you. Filled out a survey and everything for the perfect mail-order bride. Gotta say, feeling a little disappointed here.”
“Bride?! Hold up there, Mr. Pervert! Why would I marry you?”
“That’s Doctor Pervert to you. And trust me—in terms of marriage, right now the feeling is mutual. Which begs the question of why you crawled into that box to come here in the first place.”
“Um, hello! I was kidnapped! I went to a damn party after the Moscow Fashion Show to lose my V-card and ended up here. Ta-freakin’-da!”
Moscow Fashion Show? V-card? Kidnapped?! I feel like I stepped into some damned soap opera drama.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Kidnapped, no. I ordered you. As in I paid for you. You didn’t come cheap either—so I presumed you were, well…willing.”
“Of course I’m not fucking cheap, you asshole!” She throws a handful of packing peanuts at me. “Do you even know who I am?!” Her voice raises an octave and starts grating on my last nerve.
“You’re a real fucking headache, that’s what you are.”
I drag my hand over my face. I’m fucking tired after completing a seven-hour surgery, and now I gotta deal with this bullshit? At this point, I’m thinking I should’ve left her in the damn box and went to bed instead.
“You’re a bad man, Doctor Pervert. I hope you know that.”
“Maybe I am. But I didn’t fucking kidnap you—let’s get that straight right now. Do I look like the type of guy that needs any help in landing women?”
“This coming from the guy who paid out the ass for me.”
Well, fuck. Touché.
All I want is one goddamn minute to put my thoughts together. But does she shut up? No.
She even sneers at me. “Why are you wearing a lab coat, anyway? Are you one of those freaks who buy women to experiment on them?”
Is this chick for real?
“It’s not a lab coat. It’s a doctor’s coat. I’m a doctor. A surgeon, actually.”
“Well, aren’t you all high and mighty.”
Christ. This is going nowhere fast.
She’s beautiful, no doubt about it. I could have real fun with her. After I break her in of course.
But that mouth? Better have a roll of duct tape handy—better yet, I could just shove my cock in it.
That thought momentarily distracts me, and I’m suddenly drawn to those lush lips. Could it in there?
Before that happens, though, I have to get to the bottom of this. Kidnapping?
Not my kink; not my forte. I prefer my women willing—exclusively.
She chooses that moment to look at me. I mean really look at me.
Her eyes drag down my body, stopping at my pelvis before moving back up to lock eyes with me. It’s not an unusual reaction, and it’s one that I see quite often.
And of course, I’m fully clothed. She’s still stark naked. As much as I want to enjoy the view and show her the unbelievable amount of pleasure she could experience with me, it’s painfully clear that something’s just not right here.
I remove my coat, and her eyes widen. She looks at me as though she’s anticipating more. This ain’t the time for that, sweetheart.
I drape the coat over her shoulders, taking care not to let my eyes wander. Her voluptuous curves and perky nipples really make it hard, though.
Yet I can see the disappointment on her face clear as day as I step away.