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SHAMELESS
Playboys in Love #1
Gina L. Maxwell
Releasing May 30th, 2016
Entangled: Scorched
People say I’m shameless. They’re
right.
I like my work dirty and my sex even
dirtier. It takes a hell of a lot to tilt my moral compass, and dancing as a
private stripper for horny suburbanites doesn’t even register. Neither does
hooking up with them afterward whenever the mood strikes—it’s one of the
bennies of the job—but it’s always a one-and-done. I don’t do repeat
performances. Ever.
Until I meet the one girl in all of
Chicago not interested in dry humping my junk. She’s all I can think about, and
that’s a problem, because I made sure she wants nothing to do with me. But I’ve
seen her deepest secrets, her darkest fantasies, and they match mine to a
fucking T.
I want her. Bad.
Now I need to show her how good it
can feel…to be shameless.
BUY NOW
Chapter One
Jane
If such a thing as a Landlords of
Chicago Convention existed, and said convention had an award for Worst Landlord
of a Multi-Unit Building, mine would win by a landslide. A freaking landlord
landslide.
Cursing his name for the umpteenth
time in the last half hour, I wrap a Band-Aid around the cut in my thumb I’d
acquired trying to unclog the pipes under my bathroom sink. God forbid Walter
would actually do his job and call a plumber for me.
Since I’d moved into my small
apartment in the South Shore area, my hot water heater, oven, and window A/C
unit had all taken a crap at one point or another—just a few of the perks of
living in a building so old that it predates the invention of the elevator—and
each time it had taken Walter weeks to get them fixed.
But I’m nothing if not independent and
self-reliant—traits born of being the child of workaholic parents. I’d managed
to repair my garbage disposal and replace the tank assembly in my toilet by
browsing the almighty Google and ignoring all my girly squeamishness at the ick
factor of both. Neither instance had been pretty, but it wasn’t anything a hot
shower and the satisfaction of a job well done couldn’t wash away.
Unfortunately, my stupid bathroom sink
pipes aren’t going to be added to that list of accomplishments anytime soon. I
don’t know if the slip nuts (thank you, Google Images) had been screwed on by
the Incredible Hulk or fused in place by the lesser known supervillain Rust
Man. Either way, those suckers aren’t budging for a mortal female with minimal
experience handling a pipe wrench. (Feel free to insert dirty joke here.)
I glare at the standing water in the
sink, hands on my hips, willing it to magically go down. I’m so focused on
trying to Jedi-mind-trick the bastard into submission that I jump when my phone
rings. Jogging into the living room, I snatch up the cell and answer as I plop
onto the couch.
“Hey, you,” I say, greeting my best
friend Addison Paige. “Aren’t you supposed to be burning the midnight oil?”
“It’s only seven p.m., but I’m sure
I’ll still be here when midnight rolls around,” Addison says wryly. “You
writing your paper?”
I laugh. Calling my masters thesis on
social work a paper was like calling the Taj Mahal a chapel. I’ve been working
on it for two years, and I’m almost—almost—done. Turning it in is the last step
in getting my dual degree. Then I can finally get a job in my field and start
making some real money instead of the piddly-ass wages I make as an intern and
part-time waitress. (And then move.)
“Surprisingly, no,” I say. “I’m still
trying to fix the clog in my bathroom sink, but all I’ve managed to do is pinch
my thumb. Luckily, I managed to staunch the flow before I bled out all over the
floor.”
“Damn good thing, because if you die
before I get my fun friend back, I’ll kill you myself.”
“You know what I love about you?” I
ask, laying the sarcasm on thick. “It’s that you make complete sense when you
threaten me. I think it’s what makes you the best lawyer ever.”
“And I love that you love that about
me. And also that you repeatedly tell me I’m the best lawyer ever instead of
acknowledging my pathetic peon status. This boys club of a law firm isn’t going
to give me my own cases anytime soon.”
“Nonsense. It’s only a matter of time
before they see your brilliance and make you a partner,” I say with confidence.
“Wait—since when am I not your ‘fun’ friend? I’m fun.”
“Seriously? When was the last time you
went out? For fun. Not for school or work or any other life-sucking activity.
Like, to a dance club or a bar or a fucking baseball game? I don’t
know…anything.”
I open my mouth to respond with a list
of all the things I’d done recently that qualified—because surely there is a
list—but came up with nothing. I honestly can’t remember the last time I’d gone
out to be social. I’ve hung out with Addison, but that was more lunch dates and
Netflix than clubbing and cavorting.
“Um…”
“Exactly,” Addison crows.
Okay, so she’s not wrong. It’s been a
while since I’ve had a social life and an even longer while since I’ve had a
sex life, which makes me grateful she didn’t bring that particular nugget up.
My recent hermit status may have slipped my notice, but I’m painfully aware of
how long it’s been (for-freaking-ever) since I’ve been satisfied by someone
other than myself.
Completing my masters coursework in
two years instead of three, and then replacing school hours with work hours,
doesn’t leave me with any time to invest in a relationship. I’m all for casual
flings or even one-night stands, but the handful of forays hadn’t been worth
shaving, much less the Brazilians I’d splurged on. After my last underwhelming
sexual rendezvous, I decided that I wouldn’t drop trou for anyone else unless
I’m positive it’ll be worth the pain of getting my pubic hair ripped out by the
roots by a sadistic woman armed with strips of hot wax. If you’ve ever
subjected yourself to that particular brand of cosmetic torture, you know
that’s setting the bar for sexual excellence pretty high.
So while I wait for Mr.
Mind-Blowing-In-The-Sack, I bought a Hitachi Magic Wand—God bless the misguided
man who thought he designed a great neck massager—and became a frequent
purveyor of internet porn.
That’s right. I’m a closet porn
addict.
Don’t judge me. It gets the job done.
With the right video, I can be turned on in minutes. Then, depending on my
mood, I’ll either watch several to build the anticipation, or simply dive right
in and get myself off in what I call an “express O.” Bing, bam, boom, done.
But like I said, it’s not something
I’m ready to share with the class. Not even with Addison. Not because I think
she’ll judge me—that girl is all for owning your freak flag and letting it
fly—but because I’d inevitably have to answer questions about how often do I
watch it (several times a week), and what kind do I like (the rougher, the
better), and do I have a favorite porn star (hands down, James Deen). I’d just
rather not get into the gory details of how I take the edge off my sexual
frustrations, thank you very much.
“What’s it called when the lawyer is
being an obnoxious asshat?” I ask my best friend. “Is it contempt? I find you
in contempt of court, and I object. Your argument is erroneous. I don’t need a
good time right now, I just need someone to fix my pipes.”
“Yeah, your lady pipes,” she jokes.
“Things are probably just as rusted shut down there as they are under your
sink.”
Actually, since I don’t use a dildo of
any kind, it’s highly likely. “Okay, that’s it,” I say, laughing in spite of
myself, “I’m hanging up. You need to get back to work, and I need to do
anything other than talk to you at the moment.”
Sighing dramatically, Addison acquiesces.
“Fine, killjoy. Does this mean you don’t want the number of a handyman who came
highly recommended to me?”
I sit up a little straighter, perking
up at the words “highly recommended.” Growing up in the digital age as I have,
you’d think that I would trust online reviews of products and services. But
things on the internet can be bought or faked. I’d much rather take the word of
someone I know, and I’m ready to cry “uncle” and be done with this whole
situation. “Who recommended him?”
“Rebecca, one of our paralegals. She
said he’s worth every cent and more. I believe her exact words were ‘the best
ever.’”
That sounds promising, so I grab the
pen and pad of paper from the side table. “Okay, what’s the number? I’ll give
him a call tomorrow.”
“One sec, I’ve got another call coming
in. Hang on.” And with a click the line went silent.
I lean back on the couch, staring at
the spidery ceiling paint, following the bigger cracks and admiring how they
fan out with reckless abandon. Of course, they probably knew what I knew: no
way was I standing on a ladder and painting upside down to fix them. When
Addison clicks back over, I tell her, “All right. I’m ready for the number of
my miracle plumber.”
“No need,” she replies. “I just called
and paid in advance. Consider it an early birthday present. He’ll be there in
about an hour.”
“What? It’s too late for anyone to be
making house calls on a Friday night.”
“Riiiiight. Because everyone’s shit
only breaks between the hours of eight and five on weekdays.” Addison is just
as fond of sarcasm as I am. It’s one of the reasons we make such great friends.
“Point taken, but you still shouldn’t
have called.” I hate it when she tries to pay for things. Peon or not, she
makes a good living as a lawyer and likes to make up dumb reasons why I should
let her pick up the tab on stuff. “My birthday’s not even for another six
months.”
“So then it’s a half birthday present.
Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to look a gift-friend in the mouth? Have some
wine, read a book, tweeze your eyebrows. I don’t care, as long as you let the
man do what he’s hired for when he gets there, okay?”
“Yes, Mother,” I say with the tone of
an audible eye roll. But then I add a sincere, “Thanks, Addie.”
“You’re welcome, babe. Oh, and make
sure you call me tomorrow and tell me all the juicy details. Ciao!”
Before I can comment on the
ridiculousness of anything involving a middle-aged man with plumber’s crack
being “juicy,” she hangs up. Belatedly, I realize I never even got the name of
the guy or his business. I almost call her back to ask, but figure it’s not a
big deal. The odds of someone showing up coincidentally under false pretenses
as a handyman in disguise are pretty much nil.
It’s been a long week, and that glass
of wine Addison mentioned is suddenly calling my name.
Blowing out a deep breath, I stand and
head to the kitchen where I have an open bottle of red. For once, I’m going to
take my friend’s advice: enjoy a glass of wine and a book while I wait for the
“best ever handyman” to arrive and do his thing. Now that I know help is on the
way, I’m really looking forward to getting my pipes fixed.
Gina L.
Maxwell is a full-time writer, wife, and mother living in the upper Midwest,
despite her scathing hatred of snow and cold weather. An avid romance novel
addict, she began writing as an alternate way of enjoying the romance stories
she loves to read. Her debut novel, Seducing Cinderella, hit both the USA Today
and New York Times bestseller lists in less than four weeks, and she’s been
living her newfound dream ever since.
When she’s
not reading or writing steamy romance novels, she spends her time losing at
Scrabble (and every other game) to her high school sweetheart, doing her best
to hang out with their teenagers before they fly the coop, and dreaming about
her move to sunny Florida once they do.
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