Big Rock by Lauren Blakely
ABOUT
It's not just the motion of the ocean, ladies. It's definitely the SIZE of the boat too.
And I've got both firing on all cylinders. In fact, I have ALL the right assets. Looks, brains, my own money, and a big cock.
You might think I'm an *. I sound like one, don’t I? I'm hot as sin, rich as heaven, smart as hell and hung like a horse.
Guess what? You haven't heard my story before. Sure, I might be a playboy, like the NY gossip rags call me. But I’m the playboy who’s actually a great guy. Which makes me one of a kind.
The only trouble is, my dad needs me to cool it for a bit. With conservative investors in town wanting to buy his flagship Fifth Avenue jewelry store, he needs me not only to zip it up, but to look the part of the committed guy. Fine. I can do this for Dad. After all, I’ve got him to thank for the family jewels. So I ask my best friend and business partner to be my fiancée for the next week. Charlotte’s up for it. She has her own reasons for saying yes to wearing this big rock.
And pretty soon all this playing pretend in public leads to no pretending whatsoever in the bedroom, because she just can’t fake the kind of toe-curling, window-shattering orgasmic cries she makes as I take her to new heights between the sheets.
But I can’t seem to fake that I might be feeling something real for her.
What the f*ck have I gotten myself into with this…big rock?
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Helen Williams because of the day I messaged you and asked if you could make an R look like a C. You nailed that, Helen, and that’s why this book exists. And, as always, to my dear friend Cynthia.
PROLOGUE
My dick is f*cking awesome.
But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.
First, let’s start with the obvious one.
Size.
Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.
You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.
Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s ever had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”
No woman has ever had to ask me that.
You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may f*ck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.
But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s f*cking bigger.
Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherf*cking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.
But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.
Performance.
Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter… Her world rock.
How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.
That’s why it f*cking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.
CHAPTER ONE
Men don’t understand women.
That’s just a fact of life.
Like that guy.
The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t I casual and cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with square red glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.
Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean “nice” in the sense that they could occupy their own zip code.
But c’mon, man.
Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them, or the lady is going to walk.
I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.
“This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.
“Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here, who depend on tips, will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.
As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse, and heads for the exit.