Play Maker(71)

I pulled my favorite, yeah-I’m-f*cking-hot dress from the hanger. Black. Stretchy. Impossible to breathe in. Wrestled my hair into a bun and swiped some dangerously red lipstick across my lips. I smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked good.

“I think it’s time for a few practice swings.”

***

The bar was crowded. Only a short walk from my hotel, off of 6th Street, it gave me a chance to take in a little of Austin. The city was beautiful, and I passed several people walking their dogs or running, now that the sun had gone down and the heat was beginning to fade. I saw a huge variety of folks, as was expected in a town whose motto was “Keep Austin Weird.” Lots of hippies and hipsters milling around. All who smiled at me when I walked by, as if they knew me. The whole place seemed friendly and welcoming. It helped ease some of the tension of the day.

The bar was cool, all wood-paneled and dark and filled with people. As I anticipated, the booze was cheap and my dress had already gotten me two free drinks and a phone number that I was using for a coaster. Sipping my Patron on the rocks, I glanced up at the exposed brick wall and started, accidentally making eye contact with a taxidermy stag head mounted on the wall. It felt like he was looking right at me—just like him, I was stuffed and hung out to dry.

I was not interested in men tonight. I was interested in drinking until I forgot Nick’s name, Anne Marie’s name, and my own, not necessarily in that order.

I looked up at the clock. I had until midnight and then it was back to my hotel. I was a responsible drunk. I had my first meeting with Nathan at noon. Plenty of time to sleep off the alcohol and make myself presentable for him.

I was sipping a glass of halfway decent tequila when the entire bar seemed to grow quiet. I looked up and followed the wide-eyed stares until I saw him. He was tall, with a messy head of black hair and impossibly broad shoulders. Dark eyes and a wicked smile. Better looking in person than all the pictures I had seen, and I had seen a lot.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” I muttered to myself as Nathan Ryder came and took the empty seat next to mine.

Click here for the rest of Game On!

Also check out my other book, PLAY ME!





GET LUCKY by Lila Monroe



What happens when you wake up in a hotel suite next to a gorgeous naked man with absolutely no memory of the past twelve hours?

I guess it's true what they say. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Or at least I hope it stays here. The Romantic Style convention was meant to be a weekend of raucous fun with friends, sun, and enough poolside margaritas to forget about my ex. But now, instead of meeting my fans and signing books, I'm stuck with cocky divorce lawyer Nate Wexler. He's arrogant, infuriating, and I can't keep my hands off of him. Judging by the state of our hotel room, last night was wild. I just wish I could remember it.

A pair of matching tattoos. A cheap wedding veil. A half empty box of glow in the dark condoms.

What the hell just happened?





Julia




Waking up in Vegas was always a treat. But for Lola Sinclair, industrial saboteur and sexual adventurer, waking up with a rock-hard arm around her stomach and a rising erection against her back was the only way to start the day in Sin City. She was still lingering in the delicious aftereffects of a dream as his fingers trailed down her stomach to flit gently across her *.

Hmm. Flit gently. Not sure it’s the best word choice, but whatever. I can always edit later.

Lola smiled, her lips parting as Archer rolled his thumb around her clit. His finger pushed inside of her, and she was instantly wet. Hopefully, his rock-hard cock would soon follow.

Yeah. That’s good. Maybe we could have something more descriptive, like a simile? “She was instantly wet, like a St. Tropez beach at high tide.”

Eh, maybe not.

Lola groaned deep in her throat as he fingered her, his other hand tracing delicate patterns across her naked back. “Damn,” she thought, “I am going to hate to wake up from this dream. I—”

Wait a minute.

My eyes snap open. Lola Sinclair’s not the one in Vegas; I am. She’s not the one with someone waking her by saying good morning to her clit; I am. Lola Sinclair, BDSM sexpert and awesome international spy, doesn’t even exist; I just write books about her. And it’s not Archer Valmont, sadistic billionaire and champion badminton player, with his rock-hard arm around my stomach and his rising erection flush against my . . . .

What the flying f*ck? Who the hell am I in bed with?

I turn to find a stubbled, ruggedly handsome face on the other pillow. The man wakes up slowly, bedroom eyes dreamy. His dark hair is tousled from what must have been an athletic night. The smile stretched across his face slowly collapses as he takes me in, and his eyes widen with shock.

Oh God. Where the f*ck am I, and who the f*ck is this?

“What the hell?” the mystery man grunts.

I try to roll away from him, but I’m too tangled in the sheets.

So, tangled and rolling, I fall out of bed and hit the floor.





Nate




Logic is my friend.

Whenever I’m on the phone with a client, guiding him or her through the trauma of a contentious divorce, I remember I’m supposed to be the one with the level head and the ironclad plan. Whenever people sit across from me, blubbing into a packet of Kleenex while going on about how it’s over, how can it be over, I’m the man with a pitcher of ice cold drinking water and a detailed list of why they should be f*cking glad it’s over. He cheated on you. She’s looking to take full custody and half your annual salary. Why would you want to put yourself through this hell one more day? Calm, orderly thoughts lead to calm, orderly lives. No surprises means no surprising f*ck-ups.