Page 3 of Curvy Girl for the New Year

My mind floods with vivid images of her—the seductive sway of her hips, the bounce of her full breasts barely contained by that low-cut dress, those plump lips parting with a gasp as I claimed her mouth. I imagine pinning her curvy body beneath mine, kissing and nipping a trail down her neck to her heaving cleavage. I picture burying my face between her thick thighs,lapping at her sweet honey pot until she's writhing and begging for more.

I pump my cock faster, squeezing and twisting on each upstroke. I roll my palm over the swollen head, smearing the copious precum that leaks from the slit. My balls draw up tight and my abs clench as the climax builds at the base of my spine. With a hoarse shout, I erupt in powerful spurts, my seed splattering across my fist and designer suit.

But even as the aftershocks fade, the desire still rages through my veins, unsatisfied. One taste could never be enough. I'm consumed by a visceral need to track her down, to unravel the mystery of my Cinderella and make her mine. The wanting pulses through me like a second heartbeat.

Who is this woman who ran away with my heart? I will scour the city until I find her. And when I do, I'll lay her out on my Egyptian cotton sheets and worship every inch of her luscious body until she's screaming my name.

I will possess her, body and soul. I always get what I want. And what I want is her.

My fist clenches as frustration builds. How can one woman, whose name I don't even know, have such a hold on me? I'm Adam Prescott, a man who has everything and fears nothing. Yet here I am, unraveled by a pair of alluring eyes and luscious lips that branded my soul.

I stalk to the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of colors. She's out there somewhere, taunting me with her absence. I run a hand through my hair, a plan forming in my mind. I have the power to move mountains, to bend the world to my will. Finding one woman should be child's play.

Snatching up my phone, I dial a familiar number. "John, I need a favor."

"Anything, Mr. Prescott," my publicist responds without hesitation.

"Put out an announcement, citywide. I have something belonging to a woman I met, and I want to return it. She must tell me what it is to get it back." My voice is low, intense.

"Understood, sir. Any specifics?"

"No," I growl impatiently. "Just do it."

If he thinks I’ve lost my mind, he knows better than to make any indication of it.

Ending the call, I toss the phone aside and resume my pacing. My blood thrums with anticipation, the thrill of the hunt coursing through my veins. One way or another, I will find her. And when I do, I'll uncover every secret, explore every inch of her tempting curvy body until she's mine completely.

And then I’ll spoil her rotten.

The next day, the city is in chaos. Throngs of women descend upon my towering skyscraper, each one more desperate than the last to claim the nonexistent object they "lost." The foyer is a sea of high heels and fur coats, as gold diggers and socialites alike jostle for a chance at the attention of New York's most eligible bachelor.

I watch from my office, a sense of hopelessness overtaking me. They're all as predictable as the next, and I’m starting to think this is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. But I'm not here for them. No, my gaze scans the crowd, searching for a flash of auburn hair or a pair of emerald green eyes that haunt my dreams.

But I don’t see her.

I slam my fists against my desk and hang my head, mind swirling with what to do.

How to find her.

four

. . .

Kaitlyn

I frantically searchthrough my desk drawers, scattering papers and pens. My heart pounds as I grow more desperate to find the delicate silver bracelet, the last tangible connection to my parents.

"It has to be here somewhere," I mutter, blinking back tears. The bracelet was the final gift they gave me, on my twenty-first birthday just weeks before the accident that took their lives. That was only two years ago. The loss is still way too fresh, and losing the bracelet feels like losing a piece of them all over again.

My best friend Megan bursts into my apartment, her curly hair bouncing. "Kaitlyn, did you hear the announcement?"

My brow furrows. “No, and I’m sorry, Megan, but I really don’t care about whatever it is. I have to find my?—”

“I know,” Megan interjects, “but what if it’s the bracelet?”

I pause my frantic search, hope and flaring in my chest. I shake my head. “Okay, so what exactly are you talking about?”

Megan fills me in on the announcement that has gone viral. Apparently, some billionaire named Adam Prescott sent out a cryptic message that has taken all the women of the city by storm. He has an item that belongs to a mystery woman, but he won’t tell what it is cause only she will know it. He wants to return it, but she has to identify it and, consequently, herself.

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