Tiny leaps to his feet. She blinks and watches him, mouth open as he prances over to her. For a big dog, he can be very graceful and purposeful when he has his sights set on something. Before she can move, he rears up. Gio screams, and her eyes bug out. Tiny snatches the bottle of champagne from her hands, tips the bottle down his gullet, and plants his paws on the floor next to Gio in one smooth move. He releases the empty champagne bottle, which rolls away, then brushes past her. The momentum makes her stagger back. Her heels catch in a crack in the wooden floor, and she begins to tip over. She yells out, throws up her hands, and her handbag goes flying. Before she can hit the floor, Rick is there. He catches her around the waist.
For a second, Gio is plastered from back to hip to thigh against Rick’s front. Her gaze widens, and color flushes her cheek. She pulls free from Rick, then spins around and raises her hand. "How dare you touch me, you oaf."
To find out what happens next read Gio and Rick’s story HERE.
Read an excerpt:
Giorgina
"On your knees. Mouth open. Tongue out." He wraps his fingers around my throat and leans in until his breath raises the fine hair on my forehead. "You’re such a good girl. You take everything I give you so beautifully."
My breath hitches. My belly flutters. When Shane East says 'good girl' I’d do anything he wants, even if it causes pain. Especially, if it causes pain. He can train my holes anytime.
A-n-d… Don’t you dare tell my friends I’m listening to The Billionaire’s Fake Wife by L. Steele, instead of How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. After all, as everyone knows, I only listen to motivational speakers and only read self-help books. And… I have my life organized by the minute—if not, the second, which I would if I could, and I have tried, but it’s counterproductive. Managing by the half-hour works a lot better. It allows me to deliver on my tasks, so everything is perfect. Just how I like it. Which reminds me, I have precisely thirty minutes to get this shindig over with. The only reason I’m here is because my friend Abby invited me and I couldn’t say no. I flounce into the room, hitch my Hermès bag over my shoulder and declare, "Hello, everyone, sorry I’m late."
Silence descends, broken only by Shane’s baritone in my ear which growls, "Come for me now. Right now." Oopsie, best to shut off my audiobook for the time I’m here. I slide out my phone from my handbag, stop the audio, then pull out my earphones and drop them into my bag.
When I look up, my gaze arrows in on the man hulking by the bar. He’s six-foot-six—no kidding—the tallest, hunkiest man I’ve ever met—outside of my spicy novels, though I’ll never tell him that—with shoulders that fill my vision. And that chest of his, clad in a black T-shirt which is threadbare and outlines every single ridge and divot of his pecs, and that throat—OMG, that gorgeous, sinewed throat, with veins that pop in relief for he’s pissed.
Of course, he’s pissed, as evidenced by the set of his jaw, the nerve that flexes at his temple, and those dark brows drawn down over his eyes. Blue eyes. Icy and frosted, and downright glacial, they chill me to the bone even as the sight of his luscious, pouty, lower lip makes me want to dig my teeth in and draw blood. Argh. These conflicting emotions where Rick Mitchell is concerned always give me whiplash. How can you hate a man and yet, be attracted to him so much? His gaze intensifies.
He raises a bottle of water to his mouth. His biceps bulge, the veins on his forearms stand out in relief, and my mouth waters. Ugh, why does he have the most deliciously sculpted arms? And that narrow waist, lean hips, and thick, powerful thighs that contract as he walks, and between them, that bulge —which indicates he’s packing something mean and big and— He widens his stance, and I jerk my head up. His lips curl, and oh, my word, that smirk. It’s hot and mean and so very annoying.
So, he caught the staring. Big deal. It’s a free country, last time I checked. So what, if this city is dull and grey and the rain gets on my nerves? I’m not one to complain. I’m going to work with the cards I’ve been dealt. My life has been nothing if not preparation for me to meet challenges head on. It doesn’t stop heat from flushing my cheeks, though.
His grin widens, then he wraps those succulent lips around the bottle of water and guzzles from it.
I will not stare at his throat as he swallows. Will not allow myself to salivate at the thought of licking my way up that hard column and tasting the salt on his skin. Will not.
He raises the glass in my direction. Caught again. Twice in two minutes. What a disaster. I toss my hair over my shoulder, pop out my hip—clad in the latest Max-Mara creation, by the way and tip up my chin, then force myself to tear my gaze away from that gorgeous, irritating hunk of a man.
"Hope I’m not interrupting." I arch an eyebrow at the room in general and spot the bottle of champagne Cade—my friend, Abby’s husband—holds in his hand.
"Aha, so you’re the guardian of the bubbles?" I say brightly. Guardian of the bubbles? What. The. Hell? Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time in the company of Hollywood personalities. Couldn’t come up with anything better? Also, to hell with that. I’m funny and charming, and outgoing. Stay positive. Fake it till you make it, remember? I strut toward him, procure a flute from the bar, and taking the bottle from him, check out the label. "Dom Pérignon, excellent. I think I might have found my tribe after all, I—"
Suddenly, a pony—no, it’s a dog, a massive mutt, a Great Dane, by the looks of it—leaps up to his feet. He must have been crouched down by Rick’s legs, and I didn’t notice him because, of course, I was focused on the man to the exclusion of everything else.
Seriously though, am I that taken in by this man that I missed this…this… Enormous beast who now prowls toward me? There’s a glint in his eyes, as he takes me in—like I’m his next meal. The hair on the nape of my neck rises. His jowls shiver. He opens his jaws, and drool drips from them. His teeth are so sharp. I swallow. He’s moving toward me with such intent. Is he going to bite off my head, or maybe, a hand? Doesn't anybody else see this? Why isn't anyone stopping him?
My pulse rate spikes. Ohmigod. I should cry out for help. I should. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He draws closer, and every cell in my body seems to freeze. He gathers speed as he nears, then rears up, and believe me when I say, he's taller than I am.
I whimper. That's right—brave, confident, takes-no-prisoners Giorgina whimpers. My heart fights to escape my ribcage. The blood pounds at my temples. He snatches the bottle of champagne from my hands, upturns it so the contents empty down his gullet, then plants his paws back on the floor, drops the bottle, and pushes past me to the sound of several voices yelling in unison, "Tiny!"
Seriously? Tiny?
I stumble back. The six-inch high heels of my Louboutin's catch in a crack in the wooden floors. Oh, no, no, no. I begin to tip over.
I throw up my hands to try to find my balance, and my handbag goes flying. This is it. Death by Great Dane. Ugh! That's not the kind of headline I want to make. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, only something strong and hard bands around my waist. The breath whooshes out of me. The next second, I’m hauled to an upright position. I know who it is before I sense the heat that leaps off of him and lassoes around me. I know who it is before that scent of fresh snow and cut grass teases my nostrils. I know who it is because I’m plastered from back to hip to thigh against his front and his sizable thickness stabs into the curve of my butt. I know who it is because no one but he could sport such arousal so big, it feels like a hockey stick has slapped me in the rear.