“Fuck, this is gonna feel goooooood.”
And then it hit me—first his white T-shirt, square in the face, before landing atop the Henley—and second, the realization that he was messing with me.
I scrambled back into the closet.
That asshole knows I’m here. He’s playing a game.
It was chicken—just like we used to play in my backyard pool, only with even less clothing. Well, if he thought I was going to give myself up just because he threatened to get naked, he could think again. I could do this all day.
I peeked out again.
Oh. My. God.
My mouth fell open. There he was—shirtless, jeans undone, posing in front of the mirror. Flexing his biceps. His pecs. His abs.
Every curve and line was perfection—the muscular thighs, the round ass, the narrow waist, the sculpted arms. Not that I was surprised. He’d quit modeling months ago, but he still worked out every day like it was his job. Then there were the gifts he was given—the things he didn’t even have to work for. The brain-melting blue eyes, the unforgivable symmetry of his features, the angle of his jaw, the flawless skin.
After dropping a kiss onto each of his biceps—for fuck’s sake, seriously?—he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then left it there while the other slid down his rippled abdomen and into the front of his underwear.
My breath caught.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Would he really go that far?
I was sweating, my entire body on edge. At least my hiccups were gone.
But what should I do? Give myself up?
A good person would, said my conscience.
Was I a good person?
You’re a drunk peeping Tom. All signs point to no.
So then I might as well see it through, right? After all, I’d made it this far. If I gave up now, he’d have something on me.And he’d have the upper hand. So maybe I’d call his bluff—see how far he’d actually go.
Great, now you’re a perv as well as a snoop.
Maybe I was, because when he moved behind the half-open bathroom door and turned the water on, I crawled out a little bit farther to try for a better look. Could I catch his reflection in the mirror? Or see him through the crack?
Suddenly his jeans came sailing out, landing with a dull thump right in front of me.
And then his blue boxer briefs.
But I had no time to freak out, because the door opened wide and Quinn appeared, holding his hands over his crotch like a fucking fig leaf.
I gasped.
“So,” he said, those blue eyes dancing. “Now what?”
Oh my fucking god.
The game of chicken…suddenly involved a cock.
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Acknowledgments
To Las Vegas, where you really can be fake kidnapped, married, and fucked in a janitor's closet in just 24 hours. I don't recommend it, though.
To all the writers and bloggers who shared their own convention experiences with me, when I'd never attended one before.
To all the wonderful people I met in Las Vegas at RT2016. It was a brief visit, but long enough to confirm that you're all as warm and beautiful in real life as you are online. And you're all very raunchy, too. That was confirmed as well.
To Julian at the Genius Bar, for saving my computer and this book. I know there are some images you can never unsee, and for that, I am sorry.
About the Author
Combining her love of writing, sex and well-fitted suits, Lila Monroe wrote her first serial, The Billionaire Bargain, in 2015. She weaves sex, humor and romance into tales about hard-headed men and the strong and sassy women who try to tame...love...tame them. Her books are extensions of her own fantasy life and take readers from the boardroom to the Berkshire Mountains, with keen character development, unique plot lines, and fanciful romance.
Lila is the author of The Billionaire Game, Billionaire with a Twist, Snowed In and Rugged. She enjoys writing, as it gives her a flexible schedule to spend time with her kids and a wonderful excuse to avoid them. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, who strips out of his well-fitted suits nightly.