A fun, sexy new stand-alone from New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig.
He’s sexy and confident, the kind of man every woman notices. You know, the one with the to-die-for body and panty-melting smirk. And then there’s the way his designer suits drape over his broad shoulders and big…well, we’ve all heard the rumors, the ones that say he’s up for any challenge.
But I can’t see him that way. He’s my boss—technically one of the owners of the company where I work—and definitely not in my league. Men like him don’t notice women like me, and they don’t date them.
And I don’t date men like him.
Until that one time that I catch him in a compromising position when I’m also in need of a last-minute date for a wedding…and then it’s not real. It’s blackmail.
For one weekend, he’s my plus-one.
Beautiful and unobtainable.
From the moment she walked into my office with those stunning blue eyes and crazy sensual curves, she’s been on my mind. Three years and never once has she acted interested in me. Usually I flash a million-dollar smile and women fall to their knees, some literally.
Then on the occasion that I agree to let another woman do that—fall to her knees—guess who happens to catch us?
It may not be the most conventional way to get on her radar, but I didn’t get this far in business without knowing when to seize an opportunity. If this sexy little firecracker with perfectly kissable lips thinks she can blackmail me into attending her cousin’s wedding, I’m going to jump at the chance to be her plus-one.
You love her darker side. Now it’s time to meet Leatha, the lighter side of Aleatha, as she trades her renowned twists and turns for laughs and love with this sexy new stand-alone romance, PLUS ONE.
I push the thought of my mother’s call away and concentrate on my friend, Shana. As I do, the slippery napkin escapes my hold. Quickly, I slide from my seat to retrieve it.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice says as black leather loafers stop precariously close to where I’m now kneeling to rescue my napkin.
Seeing the shoes, I look up and suck in a deep breath.
Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work.
My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis.
His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. “Miss Jones.”
Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn’t just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis.
“Mr. Willis,” I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously I take a step backward. As if the moment weren’t awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels.
Swiftly, he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and steadies my footing. Though he just saved me from making an even bigger fool out of myself by falling face-first into what I can only imagine is a hard, defined chest, my mind is suddenly consumed with the electricity of his touch. The energy heats my skin as his grasp lingers.
It wasn’t the way this kind of story was supposed to go . . .
Insta-love isn’t supposed to turn into insta-hate.
But that’s exactly what happened when the hot-as-hell dreamboat I met in a bar turned out to be a lying, cheating scumbag-player-douche looking for nothing but a little side action. Jerk.
And he has the nerve to call me a liar and a “sociopath”? Assh*le.
And now, three months later, through a mind-blowing series of events I couldn’t have predicted in a million years, it turns out my boss is marrying his sister in Hawaii and I’ve got to play nice with him for an entire freaking week.
Okay, sure, I’ll put on a happy face this week and act like I’ve never even met the jerk before–did I mention his sister is marrying my boss?–but that doesn’t mean I’ll like it. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’ll stop secretly hating the cocky bastard’s guts.
Because I do.
I hate him.
I really do.
I just wish my brain would explain the situation to my body . . . because every time he flashes that panty-melting smile at me, it takes all my self-restraint not to jump the bastard’s hot-as-f*ck bones.
When Kylor Knightley, a multi-millionaire nightclub owner, is out talent-spotting at an open mic event in London’s Limehouse district, the last thing the stiff-lipped Brit expects is to fall head-over-heels for a devastatingly handsome singer ten years his junior.
Born in New York, twenty-two-year-old Eden McFadden now calls London home and has ambitions of making it big in the capital’s music scene. In the meantime, the feisty free spirit is secretly rocking it as a stripper at a gay club in Soho. But when fate brings him and Kylor together in Limehouse, it starts a chain of events that tears both of their worlds apart.
It’s going to take some serious attitude adjustment for the smart-mouthed stripper and the arrogant British gent to find common ground, but the attraction is too strong to ignore. Sometimes you have to trust in fate and see where it takes you.
Eden was so pumped about meeting the guy with the sparkling turquoise eyes that he couldn’t wait to tell someone. He wasn’t usually one to gossip, but he’d pulled up a chair alongside Blade, who was busy removing his guyliner. Eden was talking to Blade’s reflection in the mirror, relating the moment he’d looked down and seen the gorgeous guy staring back up at him.
Just then someone shouted, “Which of you is green?” and there was the stranger; standing in the doorway next to a security guard.
Eden sat gawking at his visitor and all the strength drained out of his body as if someone had pulled his plug. Blade nudged him. “Don’t just sit there. That’s your guy, isn’t it? God, he really is gorge!”
Eden slowly got to his feet, praying his knees wouldn’t give way, and shoved a shaky hand in the air. “That package is for me.”
The weak attempt at humour was his way of handling the embarrassment he felt because he knew that if the token had been black or pink the security guard wouldn’t have needed to ask whose it was. Everyone knew Stemmy’s tokens were black and Oberon’s were pink. But this was only the second time Eden had handed out a token. The last time he’d invited a guy backstage, his guest had been under the mistaken impression the token entitled him to instant sexual gratification, but Eden hadn’t been that into the guy.
The guard nodded at Eden’s visitor and left.
Still in just his pink briefs, Eden scurried back to his own station and rummaged around in his duffel bag for a clean top. The first thing to come to hand was his old Keep Calm and Carry On Funking T-shirt. He quickly pulled it on and rolled it down his sweat-dampened chest and abs. Then he stood by his dressing table, ready to greet his guest, with one hand resting on the table for support. Eden knew he shouldn’t be getting this worked up over someone he’d only just clapped eyes on. He had no idea what the guy was like. I haven’t even spoken to him yet. Maybe he’s just a good-looking asshole in a suit.
As the guy approached, Eden’s eyes widened in awe. It felt like he was watching the scene through a slow motion filter. He was entranced by the rhythmic sway of the guy’s narrow hips and everything else in the room faded to a blur. The guy’s suit jacket was unbuttoned and his left hand rested inside the trouser pocket, while his right arm hung loose by his side. It was like a breath of self-assured elegance had wafted into the room.
And then there was his hair. It was glorious. A flame-coloured shock of tumbling waves, its hue changed as the light danced over it, like an abstract of wildfire and scorched earth. It jarred with the image of the sophisticated city gent in the cool blue suit. It was hypnotising, the way the picture was so wrong and yet so right.
Eden could tell straight away this guy was no bit player on life’s stage. He had a starring role. You could tell from his arrogant swagger that the only rules he ever played by were his own. He was like a dream come true to Eden. A guy with “Fuck Me” written all over him and a seriously hot “Fuck You” attitude to compliment the looks.
Eden swallowed hard. Where have you been all my life?
Kass Barrow lives 100 miles north of London in a small town in the farming county of Lincolnshire. Despite always having lived in the same area she has seen a fair bit of the world, from the eerie innards of the King’s Chamber in the Great Pyramid, to the majestic vistas that come with snowboarding in the Rockies.
However, none of these life experiences prepared her for the emotional roller-coaster ride of penning a novel. Now she has become so accustomed to having four handsome gents in her life – her husband, her dog and her two main characters – that she can’t imagine life any other way.
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Brady Lincoln is the last person I want attention from. He’s the kind of guy my father warned me about. His play on the field is legendary and his play with the ladies, even more so. I’ve managed to stay off his radar until recently.
An author of erotic thrillers, he plans to write many more sexy, suspenseful stories.
Cam is a veteran porn star at Blue Boy Studios. Known as Mr. Nice Guy, he’s the top every newbie bottom wants to be paired with.
But in recent months his beloved hardcore scenes have dried up. Instead, he finds himself stuck with a string of monotonous foreplay scenes. He takes his frustration to his boss, and warped kind of lover, Jon Kellar, but Jon won’t bend. Cam is a commodity and will do as he’s told…in every way.
Cam’s frustration builds, but a chance meeting with a hot BMXer distracts him. Sasha Tate is gorgeous, warm and wonderful; everything Cam has ever wanted. They bond over shared interests and a sizzling mutual attraction. Cam is exhilarated and thrilled, until his chosen profession gets in the way.
Sasha pulls back, and before Cam can fix it, life comes at him from all fronts. A crisis threatens much more than his relationship with Sasha, and as his world implodes he begins to realize that life will never be the same again.
Garrett Leigh is an award-winning British writer and book designer, currently working for Dreamspinner Press, Loose Id, Riptide Publishing, and Fox Love Press.
Garrett’s debut novel, Slide, won Best Bisexual Debut at the 2014 Rainbow Book Awards, and her polyamorous novel, Misfits was a finalist in the 2016 LAMBDA awards.
When not writing, Garrett can generally be found procrastinating on Twitter, cooking up a storm, or sitting on her behind doing as little as possible, all the while shouting at her menagerie of children and animals and attempting to tame her unruly and wonderful FOX.
Garrett is also an award winning cover artist, taking the silver medal at the Benjamin Franklin Book Awards in 2016. She designs for various publishing houses and independent authors at blackjazzdesign.com, and co-owns the specialist stock site moonstockphotography.com with photographer Dan Burgess.
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