Curves For the Hitman (Steamy, Hot Older Alpha Male Younger Curvy BBW First Time Erotic Romance)

By Amber Branley

Annie:

I seriously can't sleep because I can't stop thinking about him. He's the man of my dreams. He's the guy who made me realize that love at first sight isn't just a myth. It's true. He's such an alpha, but he's also so sweet and sensitive to my needs... But I'm wondering why he wants a girl like me? He could have his pick of any woman he wanted. He's tall, muscular, and looks like a movie star. He says he loves my curves, and that makes me feel so good about myself... But there's one problem, and that's his profession - he's a hitman for hire. It seems like such a dangerous life.

 

Michael:

I can't focus on work and I can't sleep, because I can't get Annie out of my mind. She's consumed me, and she's everything I think about... Those curves, that sweet face - God, I can't think about anything except her. These feelings aren't going to stop until I have her as my own. She's going to be mine, and I'm going to protect her forever. She's everything I ever wanted, and I think she can save me from myself, and my dangerous profession. I've been looking for a way out of this business for a long time now; a reason to quit - and I think I just found my reason. I'm not going to let Annie be in any danger. As soon as I laid eyes on her, it was love at first sight.

 

CURVES FOR THE HITMAN is an instant-love, happy-ever-after steamy alpha BBW romance novella, with an older alpha male and a younger BBW. This is a standalone story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber Branley
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215348970

Book preview

Curves For The Hitman

Copyright, 2023, All Rights Reserved

Amber Branley

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people or places are completely coincidental.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Epilogue

ONE

Michael Colt wasn’t always bad. In fact, he used to be a pretty good kid. He’d been well known around the neighborhood, an upper class small cul-de-sac with big, Victorian styled homes. He delivered the mail, always held a part time job, and got good grades in school. Good was putting it a bit lightly.

Michael’s grades were the highest in class. He graduated with a full ride scholarship to both NYU and UCLA, but he took neither. Instead, eighteen year old Michael jumped head first into a life of crime after a stint in the military. For what reason, no one knew. But by the age of twenty five he had a rap sheet so long it would make your stomach crawl.

He was thirty years old. He hadn’t talked to his parents in ten years. After his days in the military, no one from his small Tennessee town ever heard from him again. On this day in particular, it was a sunny morning in mid-October. The sky was orange and the smog was minimal. Michael sniffed the air and could smell the scent of traffic growing. He could smell the scent of bagels down below, being prepared on the food cart.

Michael was perched atop a downtown Los Angeles high rise. A rifle scope was pressed against his eye. His face was calm, and very still. He was resting on his knees, with the toes of his boots firmly beneath him. He’d been sitting there for three hours.

The sun had risen an hour ago. Michael wasn’t tired at all, he was used to this. He felt like he’d only been there for five minutes. Boredom was part of the job, and if you couldn’t handle being bored then you couldn’t handle the duties. But Michael wasn’t bored. He was meditating. And when the subject suddenly came into the scope, Michael took a short breath and pulled the trigger.

The bullet bore instantly through the subject’s head, and the body dropped to the floor.

**

Michael was on the Pacific Coast Highway, driving north. He rode in a four door truck, jacked up with a three inch lift and massive tires. It was jet black and freshly washed. He waxed it every week. He was heading to his house which sat perched atop a Cliffside in Point Dume, Malibu. In Los Angeles, being extremely wealthy is nothing unfamiliar, and all of Michael’ neighbors were equally as wealthy as he; Point Dume being an exclusive neighborhood.

No one questioned his occupation, because he talked to no one. For all they knew, he worked in the film industry. The truth of the matter was that Michael was an assassin, and had been for years. He worked his way up the totem pole from the moment he got out of the army. The pay wasn’t wonderful in the beginning, but it had been enough to pay his bills in Hollywood. He’d moved up in rank over the years and was now an independent hitman. He worked for himself, and he’d built up an empire, along with a large fortune.

His house was at the end of the street. He pulled his truck into the driveway and hit the switch on the remote clamped to the truck’s sun visor. The garage door opened and Michael pulled in.

**

He ate an early lunch. It was just ten o’clock and he was hungry. Breakfast had been early, before dawn – before he’d traveled downtown to make his kill. He had already been paid the upfront money. He’d received it a week prior. Michael worked on his own time, but he guaranteed the job to be done within eight days. In this case it took seven. He mapped things out carefully, because he refused to be caught. He’d never had any close calls, and never done anything hasty. Working as a hitman was risky business, and Michael had never been questioned by the police or FBI.

He laundered his money through his one only friend. He had a lawyer he paid handsomely to help him cover his business up. He’d written a series of self-published novels that had managed to skyrocket to the top of the charts. To anyone looking to find out things about Michael Colt, they’d merely find that he was a successful writer of thrillers. That would explain the money he had, and how he was able to afford a three bedroom house in Point Dume, Malibu.

But Michael had much, much more money than the royalties he earned from his books. He kept it secret, stashed away. It was buried carefully beneath the cement flooring of his basement, and each time Michael needed a little extra cash he’d go through the rigorous process of breaking up the cement and getting the money out. Then he’d repeat the process of pouring the concrete and smoothing it, and then letting it dry.

It was easy work, that of a hitman. At least, it was easy for Michael. He was good at his job. He didn’t need friends, or family. What he did need was a wife. Hitmen aren’t aliens. Hitmen are just like the rest of us. Michael was no different, and he ached for someone to love him... He had his share of women over the years – many of them perfect tens. Tan skin, smooth complexions. Blonde hair, brown hair, black hair, even red hair. Michael liked them all – but he had a certain type of woman he liked the most.

Thick, luscious curves were something that got him hard as a rock. Michael liked curvy women, and he would seek them out quite often. It wasn’t hard for him to pick up women. He was good looking. But even if he wasn’t, it still would have been easy. Women would swoon in West Hollywood when he’d pull up to a bar for a quick drink in his flashy sports car. He’d step out and let the valet park his car, handing him a crisp hundred dollar bill before straightening the collar of his sports jacket.

He reeked of money, power, success. If only the women swooning after him knew where he’d gained that fortune. They then might not be so eager to get in bed with him. Or would they? After all, being a bad boy was considered to be something quite sexy, and Michael was more bad than them all. So getting women was no issue for him. It could be done within a minutes time, and he didn’t even have to open his mouth and speak to them.

But Michael had had enough of that. He’d been living the playboy lifestyle for years and he was ready to settle down. But how? He was a hitman for Christ’s sake, and he couldn’t expect to meet a woman and tell her about that.

But if he lied. If he lied then it would be possible. She doesn’t need to know exactly where he makes his money. He could tell her he’s an author and an investor. But Michael didn’t like lying, and he didn’t want a girl he loved to be lied to. He also didn’t want a girl who’d participate in concealing his business, because that would make her an accessory – plus, the idea of a girl who’d like him even after discovering what he did for a living somewhat disgusted him. He wanted a good girl, not a bad girl.

So Michael stayed single for quite some time. Until one night when he stopped at a bar in Santa Monica, and he saw her inside – the woman of his dreams. The woman who could solve everything and help him turn his life around. The woman he wanted to marry upon first sight.

TWO

The bar was the typical sort of place one such as Michael would frequent. He didn’t drink often, and when he did he limited it to one or two. But tonight he was feeling edgy, and decided to sit at the bar and sling back three before heading home. It was a Saturday, and he’d just completed a job. The man he’d been after was someone he didn’t know – which wasn’t unusual. Michael rarely knew who the people were that he was assigned to kill.

He liked it better that way. He was an alpha male, but he wasn’t psychotic. He still had his emotions and sensitivities. He researched them, but kept a distance. He learned nothing of their personal life. The only facts he stored in his head were those that would help him complete the mission. For instance, he learned that this man ran a law firm downtown and lived in Beverly Hills. He memorized the man’s address and layout of his house, as well as the lawn. He memorized the times the man left for work and came home.

That was all he needed to know, other than the fact that the man had a two hundred thousand dollar price tag on his head.

Michael slung back his third shot and sat at the bar. He looked around briefly, scanning faces. He didn’t know anyone, but he never did. He kept people at a distance because he had to. No one looked interesting to him, until he laid eyes on her. And when he did, he knew it was over.

She was standing there some twenty feet from him. Surrounded by four people, she looked like a gorgeous snowflake drifting from some deep realm in outer space. She was ethereal; goddess like. Her hair was soft and smooth and dark, and her complexion was ghostly pale and gorgeous. Her eyes were light blue and enormous, unusually sized compared to most. Her lips were full and colored a deep shade of red, and Michael knew he had to have her.

It wasn’t hard for him, and he knew it wouldn’t be. His heart rate stayed the same as he stood up from the bar stool and straightened his jacket. He made sure of that. He headed over toward the woman, and then stood close and admired her without trying to hide it. And yet, he didn’t interrupt the conversation. Despite being a bad boy assassin, Michael still kept hold of his manners.

The people talking to her sounded like distant beings. He paid attention to everything most of the time, but at this moment their voices just sounded like distant melodies. After a few minutes, they seemed to