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Claiming His Virgin
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I’m a rock hard, massively hung, billionaire stallion.
But I wasn’t born this way.
But there’s no rewinding the clock.
Jane’s a ballerina and the most innocent girl I’ve ever met.
And when I’m finished, she’s going to be utterly mine.
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Jane peers at her willowy reflection in the mirror, then standing on her tiptoes, pliés around for good measure. She halts, when she notices a run in her tights going straight up the back of her leg.
“Oh shoot,” she curses. “Everything is falling apart these days. What next?”
A loud and intense knock sounds at the door, interrupting her musing. It startles her for two reasons. One, no one ever knocks that loudly, because two, no one ever comes to her door.
Squinting through the peep hole, she sees Paulo the landlord. His dark, greasy hair and large face—now sweaty from climbing three flights of stairs—make him look even meaner than usual.
Jane freezes, hoping he will just go away.
He knocks again, even louder than before.
Oh, not today. Just go away, Jane thinks to herself, trying desperately not to make a sound.
“Jane Bryden, I know you’re in there. I am officially delivering your final notice to pay your rent. If you don’t pay me by next week then you are evicted from your apartment. You hear me?”
He slides a piece of paper under the door before walking away, the loud thunk of his shoes emphasizing that this is his place and his rules.
Jane’s breath returns to normal when she knows for sure he is gone.
“Uggghhh, for real?” she groans. “When will the universe give me a break? I’m trying my best and it’s just never enough.”
As she moves to reach for the paper, she stubs her toe against the tiled floor, a feat, it seems that only she could manage. She cries out in painful frustration.
“Why did I have to move to New York, anyway? For a childish dream of ballet? Where has that got me? Absolutely nowhere. Literally, nowhere. I’m, like, days away from being homeless. This city is dirty. The people are mean. The other ballerinas don’t like me,” Jane says out loud, starting to sob. “I will never fit in here.”
On her coffee table is a greeting card her grandmother sent her. It has a brightly colored butterfly surrounded by tiny, reflecting sparkles. She moves to pick it up and reread it another time.
Never give up on your dreams—you were born to fly.
It is her grandmother’s message of love, written in her most beautiful handwriting.
Jane sighs, trying to muster the gall to keep internalizing her grandma’s message when everything around her is speaking to the contrary.
“Oh Grandma, I really hope so. I’m about ready to give up.”
Jane goes back into her room and flops down flat on her back on the twin size bed, grabbing her teddy bear.
“You’re the only one who gets me, Fluffy. You’re the only one I have in my life.”
Her soft, long, dirty blonde hair spread over the pillow, she reaches over to the other side of the bed and wishes someone was there for her. She’s never had a boyfriend. There were guys interested in her, but her mother warned her to stay away from them, saying they would just mess with her head and make her forget all about her dreams and who she is.
She hasn’t even made out with a guy. She kissed Brian, a coworker, in the wine cellar of the restaurant where she worked part-time, but then she found out he had a girlfriend. Jane was crushed and ashamed for letting herself be duped so easily, and vowed never to do something like that again unless she absolutely, positively knows the guy and where he is in his life.
The loneliness is so deep though, and she has no idea when all this bad luck will end. What will change everything? When will she get to feel good again? What is her lesson? What is she not getting?
She touches her breasts, stroking them and pushing them up to see her cleavage. She feels tingles going through her body, and thinks she can take her mind off of all of this. Closing her eyes, she imagines herself in a sexy, black negligée, and someone rubbing her body with his hands. She knows she is somewhat attractive, and that her tits are appealing, even though they are only a B cup.
What I would do right now if I knew someone wanted me. I hate always being the good girl.
She imagines a man reaching his hands down her cleavage and rubbing over the top of her nipples, making them hard, then stroking her flat stomach and tickling her belly button while she giggles out loud, then twists and turns under his teasing touch. Reaching down to the hemline of the lingerie, he puts his fingers along the inside of her thigh, reaching in to touch her pussy and feel the dampness there.
Thunck, thunck, thunck.
“Oh, fudge! It’s the damn landlord again.”
The knock snaps her out of her fantasy. Her body freezes and she breathes lightly again.