What happens when your neighbor hires you a stripper?
It starts one hell of a prank war. A war that involves goats, phallic chandeliers, stolen kisses in the rain, strawgasms, and eating out on the kitchen counter.
A war that could damn well involve two hearts and a plan. Her plan doesn’t involve falling in love. His life doesn’t involve plans.
This could be a problem.
“You want a sweatshirt?”
“Or one of your flannels, I guess. I, uh, don’t usually stay in these clothes once I get home. I can just nip home and get one.” She frowns at her wine before setting it back on the counter. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll just go home and change.”
“No, no that’s…” That’s fucking hot. She wants to wander around my house in one of my sweatshirts. I want to see that. Besides, if she goes home, there’s no guarantee she won’t think better of coming back. And I don’t think going after her and carrying her back in a fireman’s hold is going to do either of us any favors. “Jesus, Chloe. That’s sexy as fuck.”
“I don’t know about that.” She buries a nervous laugh in her drink.
“You don’t know if making yourself comfortable in my home, in my clothes, is sexy? Or you don’t know if you are?”
“Does it matter?” She takes another quick swig of her wine while the tops of her ears turn pink.
I steal her drink from her and tangle my fingers with hers while I put the glass down. “You are sexy as fuck.”
“As fuck?” Canting her head to the side, she raises an eyebrow. “What does that even mean? You can’t just add ‘as fuck’ to the end of a sentence.”
I draw her to me, bring her right up against me, our hands locked between us. My free hand goes to her hair so I can pull some of those pins free. “I’ve wanted to do this since you got out of your car.”
Her hair tumbles out of its neat ’do, and I run my hands through the shiny strands. They feel like silk on my fingers.
“You’ve wanted to mess up my hair?” She tries to sound indignant but fails. Her tits rise and fall inside her serious little blouse, and there’s a fine shake in her balance, as though I’m making her weak at the knees. Staring up at me with parted lips, she watches me, waiting.
“No. Not just that.” I take a strand of her hair between my fingers, follow the length of it behind her ear and along her jaw to her cheek. Cupping it, I lean in. Lean in so close I can feel her breath on my face, smell the wine mixed with her scent. A little closer still until her breath hitches and she can no longer look at anything but my lips. Her fingers are tight around mine, squeezing the bones together. “I want to mess up all of you. I want to put wrinkles in your solemn little skirt, make your skin flush. And, yeah, I want to make your hair fluff up from my hands in it.”
She wets her lips, uses her tongue and her teeth to try to ease the anticipation. But it’s been there all along.
Misti Murphy & Tami Lund They live on opposite sides of the world, but an eighteen-hour time difference doesn't stop these two obsessed authors. They write, they debate over storylines, they thoroughly enjoy the process of gazing at hot men while trying to come up with cover ideas, they fall in and out of love with their characters, and at the end of the day (which day is anybody's guess), they create sexy bad books for your reading pleasure.