Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  She smiles, a slow blush working up her cheeks. “I know,” she mouths back.

  I burst out laughing.

  Forget this being my year. I look at her and Raven.

  This is our year.

  Epilogue

  Delaney

  Few years later

  I wake up, and Maverick’s not in bed. That’s weird. It’s not quite eight in the morning and it’s the off-season, which means he gets to sleep in before training starts. Spotting the blue dress shirt he wore last night when we went out to dinner, I pick it up off the floor where I tossed it before we made love. I pull it on, pad over to the window, and look out over the Nashville skyline from our penthouse.

  I sigh contentedly. After winning the national championship with the Waylon Wildcats, Maverick went on to be drafted in the first round by the Tennessee Titans. He’s already broken two records, and they went to the Super Bowl this year. They were defeated, but like he says, it gives him something to work for.

  I look at the picture of him and me and Raven on the nightstand and smile. Somehow we managed to juggle her and classes and football our senior year, and because Maverick was so open about the reason he fought, people came out of the woodwork to help us. Mrs. Watson from Pineview herself volunteered to donate services to Raven, including riding lessons and art classes at Pineview.

  She lived with us until Maverick was drafted, and then made it clear that while she loved us, she did not want to be attached to us at the hip. So, we did some research and found her a facility nearly identical to Pineview in Nashville.

  As for me, I’m designing a line of clothing for my new Geek Girl fashion label and volunteer weekly at a local animal shelter. Maverick loves coming with me too, although I don’t think he’d ever admit it. Rescuing animals has become his charitable calling card, whether he meant it to or not.

  I hear clanging from the living room and make my way there.

  “Mav?” I call. “Where are you?”

  I make my way down the hall and into the den then come to a halt at the vision I see. Standing smack dab in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows is Maverick dressed as a…Jedi?

  I give him a careful once-over, taking in the white leggings with brown boots, the beige tunic with a utility belt, and the light saber holder. A brown overcoat is draped over the getup, and I rub my eyes. The detail is amazing and he looks professional, like something straight out of the movies.

  “Morning, gorgeous.” He strikes a pose, waving around a blue light saber that makes a whooshing sound with each movement.

  “Morning, babe. Where did you get this outfit?” I’m impressed and starting to wonder if I can get a Princess Leia one. “Are we going to a comic con somewhere?”

  “I had it made. And no, we’re staying in today. Just you and me.”

  Cool. We’ve been busy these past few weeks, and it would be great to just relax at home. Maverick swings the sword and Han darts from behind a chair, paws swatting at the light saber as he runs past.

  I giggle. “Nice moves. You’ve got Han riled up now.”

  I expect him to laugh with me, and he does flash me a brief smile, but there’s something about his expression that’s different. It’s intense, as if he’s about to head out to the most important football game of his life.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” I say, moving in closer.

  “More than okay. It’s the best day of my life,” he says as he sets the light saber on a chair and kneels down in front of me. From the coffee table, he picks up a black velvet box that I hadn’t noticed yet and pops it open. Inside is a ring with the biggest square cut solitaire diamond I’ve ever seen.

  I blink. My body flutters and I can’t breathe.

  He gazes up at me with those steel blue eyes, the ones I hold close to my heart every night when I go to sleep.

  “It feels like I’ve waited forever to do this. Delaney Renee Shaw, will you marry me and make me the happiest Jedi in the universe? I promise to always love you—and your cats—and give you everything you could ever want, body and soul.”

  Tears flood my eyes as I take him in: his pure heart, the way he fights for those he loves, the way he loves me.

  “Yes. Always. You are everything.”

  “You’re everything, Buttercup, and I couldn’t have made it without you by my side.” He stands up, cups my face, and kisses me, and I know that no matter what, he and I can do anything together.

  * * *

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal, New York Times, and USA Today bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. A former high school English teacher and elementary librarian, she adores all things Pride and Prejudice; Mr. Darcy is her ultimate hero. She loves unicorns, frothy coffee beverages, vampire books, and any book featuring sword-wielding females.

  *Please join her FB readers group, Unicorn Girls, to get the latest scoop as well as talk about books, wine, and Netflix:

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/ilsasunicorngirls/

  You can also find Ilsa at these places:

  Website:

  http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com

  News Letter:

  http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/contact

  Book + Main:

  https://bookandmainbites.com/ilsamaddenmills

  Also by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  All books are standalone stories with brand new couples and are currently FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

  Briarwood Academy Series

  Very Bad Things

  Very Wicked Beginnings

  Very Wicked Things

  Very Twisted Things

  British Bad Boys Series

  Dirty English

  Filthy English

  Spider

  Fake Fiancée

  I Dare You

  I Bet You

  I Hate You

  I Promise You

  The Revenge Pact

  Boyfriend Bargain

  Dear Ava

  Not My Romeo

  Not My Match

  The Last Guy (w/Tia Louise)

  The Right Stud (w/Tia Louise)

  Tapping the Billionaire

  Max Monroe

  New York Times & USA Today Bestseller

  New York Times & USA Today Bestselling author duo Max Monroe brings you a sexy, laugh-out-loud new series. Are you ready to meet the Billionaire Bad Boys?

  Blind dates? Online dating profiles? Been there, done that.

  Georgia Cummings has zero luck with dating, and the era of the internet is not her friend.

  No matter how fast she runs, how many corners she turns, she can’t find her way out of this weird, alternate universe where men think d*ck pics are a replacement for small talk and getting to know a girl. One more crotch selfie and she might write men off for good…

  But why can’t she stop fantasizing about him?

  Kline Brooks is the quintessential billionaire bad boy—dark, styled, short hair, muscles for days, and a panty-dropping smile.

  Except—he isn’t.

  As his employee, he won’t touch her with a ten foot pole.

  But she won’t touch him either.

  Too bad their hormones missed the memo.

  Disclaimer:

  If you’re the type of woman who prefers crotch selfies to small talk, this book isn’t for you.

  If you enjoy random men you’ve never met filling up your inbox with dirty words and p*rn—for reasons focused more towards diddling your donut than laughing at the absurdity—this book isn’t for you.

  If you HATE laughing, this book isn’t for you.

  If you want your male leads to grunt, thrust like jack rabbits, and have one-track minds that prefer a nice pair of t*ts to brains every hour of every day for the rest of forever, well, then, this book still isn’t for you.

  But.

  If you enjoy a good swoon, a hearty laugh, witty banter, and some hot as f*@% f*@%ing, then cons
ider Georgia Cummings your Girl Friday and Kline Brooks your next irresistible book boyfriend.

  This is a series of interconnected romantic comedy standalones.

  Suggested Series Reading order:

  #1 Tapping the Billionaire

  #1.5 Tapping Her

  #2 Banking the Billionaire

  #2.5 Banking Her

  #3 Scoring the Billionaire

  #3.5 Scoring Her

  Bonus novellas:

  Motherfluffer

  Sleighed It

  Dedication

  Fuck you very much, Leslie.

  You always manage to ruin everything, but you didn’t ruin this.

  Disclaimer: You are NOT the Leslie we’re talking about. No, really.

  You’re not her. We swear. It’s another Leslie. One you don’t know and have never heard of. Camp Love Yourself Scout’s honor.

  Introduction

  I’m Kline Brooks.

  Harvard graduate.

  President and CEO of Brooks Media.

  Net worth: $3.5 billion.

  Devilishly handsome. How do I know this? I was prom king two years in a row.

  Highly intelligent. Proof? I can solve any Rubik’s Cube, in front of your face, with magic fingers.

  Certified master of female orgasms. My fingers, my tongue, my cock—I can make you scream, “I’m coming!” before you even realize I’ve removed your panties with my teeth. Not the almost orgasms that spur a pathetic moan and half-ass whimper. No. I’m talking toe-curling, back-arching, earth-shattering Os that will leave your voice hoarse, your body shaking, and pack a punch so powerful you’ll be left a sliver of intensity short of unconscious.

  Am I piquing your interest?

  Should I mention my cock is the kind of cock that’s actually dick-pic worthy? I’m not talking an average six-inch shaft. I’m talking big. Thick. Smooth. And hard. Especially when there’s work to be done.

  Or maybe all I’ve done is turn you off. Are you thinking I’m like every classless man out there who’s literally a disgrace to my gender?

  The type of spineless dicks who won’t call the next day. The guys who specialize in late-night booty calls but refuse to take a woman out on an actual date. Yeah, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those idiots who have women thinking staying single for the rest of their lives is a better alternative than dealing with the bullshit that’s running rampant in the dating world.

  Well, I’m not that kind of guy.

  I say what I mean and mean what I say. I don’t kiss and tell. I call the next day. And if I’m interested in a woman, I will take her out on a date. I’ll open doors for her. I’ll pull out her chair. And I’ll never be the kind of horny bastard who texts dick pics—unless the right woman begs me for them.

  Bottom line, I’m a gentleman. I prefer monogamy to serial dating and fucking my way through New York City. I’ve spent the past few years avoiding the kind of women most would label “gold diggers” and trying out a couple of girlfriends in between. I’ve looked for the kind of woman I want, but lately, I have to admit I haven’t put in as much effort. My focus has been on my company—building it to what it is and then keeping it that way, not only for me, but for all of the people who work so hard for me.

  Until Georgia Cummings.

  She’s fiery, beautiful, has this sassy attitude that demands attention from everyone within her orbit, and is worth way more in value of character than I am in money.

  I don’t know how I missed her.

  I don’t know why it took me so long to really see her.

  Two years, right there in front of my face as my Director of Marketing.

  Maybe it’s because I need to stop drowning myself in work so much. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.

  No matter the reason, it only took one spur-of-the-minute decision for this remarkable woman to come barreling into my world.

  I wasn’t prepared for her.

  And I sure as hell had no idea she’d knock me on my fucking ass.

  Because the nice guy who believes in real love enough to build his entire fortune from a dating website?

  That’s me.

  And this story?

  Well, that’s us.

  Chapter One

  Georgia

  My eyes! Dear God, my eyes!

  There were things in life that, once seen, were damn near impossible to forget. A bleach scrub…acid straight to the retinas…three hours of perfect porn GIFs…hell, even a lobotomy wouldn’t remove those kinds of images.

  Lucky for me, I had come across not one, not two, but four day-destroying pictures. Dick pics, to be more specific. And let’s just say this latest one was not pic-worthy. Not by a long shot. Or a short shot, if I took size into consideration. This was the kind of pic that would leave any woman wondering why. Why? Why would anyone want to advertise they were the owner of this?

  It was the gremlin of male members—and the sole reason my night had taken a turn for the worse. What was supposed to be a nice evening in, watching TV with my best friend and roommate, Cassie, had turned into a nightmare of pubes, wrinkled balls, and a crown that was not fit for a king.

  I banged my fingers across the keypad with a response.

  TAPRoseNEXT (11:37PM): Is that your dick? Really? REALLY?

  TapNext was the latest and greatest dating-site-turned-app for single men and women to meet, chat, and, hopefully, find their next date. Generally speaking, it was a better alternative to nights out at a bar or club. Because, for me, those nights had the same ending—politely declining the thrilling (insert heavy sarcasm) offer of hooking up with some random dude at his apartment, one hell of a hangover, and weird guys with names like Stanley or Milton sending me texts for late-night booty calls for the next month. Which I always ignored.

  My business card said Director of Marketing, Brooks Media. It was a hefty title for someone just starting out in their career, but I had earned it. I worked harder than anyone else in my department, and it also may have helped that the man who held the position prior to me had been fired after being arrested for picking up a prostitute in one of the company cars. Why he had even been driving a company car in the city was still confusing to me. Seriously, even hookers cabbed it in New York.

  Since Brooks Media owned TapNext, it was easy to understand why I was well versed and highly invested in the app’s success. It was a requirement when hired—all single employees had to create a TapNext profile. Staff were strongly encouraged to use the app and give honest feedback about their experiences. Profile names were kept top secret and on penitentiary-style lock-down with Human Resources. And feedback stayed anonymous.

  Translation: Don’t worry, TAPRoseNEXT, your boss doesn’t know about your pervy play on words.

  At first, I’d felt it was an odd way to handle business, but after two years of working at Brooks Media, I’d found that my TapNext profile was a damn good way to do research and find promotional ideas.

  My phone pinged with the offender’s response.

  BAD_Ruck (11:38PM): …

  Did he just ellipsis me? Really?

  TAPRoseNEXT (11:38PM): Creep Threat Level MOTHERFUCKING Red.

  There was no immediate response, but the rest of my rant would not be contained.

  TAPRoseNEXT (11:39PM): Don’t any of you know how to start conversations anymore? Jesus.

  Cassie sighed beside me. “Stop slamming everything around, Wheorgiebag! I’m trying to watch American Ninja Warrior and you’re totally messing with my pumped up vibe.”

  I ignored her, still focused on finding a way to erase the offending images from my brain.

  She peeked over my shoulder before I could pull my phone away. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Is that my picture on your profile?”

  Creamy, perfect-skinned thighs on display, she was bent over with her dark brunette head peeking through the space between her open legs. Her hooch just barely escaped making an appearance.

  “Paybacks, Casshead.”

  “And what d
id I do to deserve being your pro-bono photo ho?”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to choose just one?”

  “Go ahead, give me one example. I dare ya.”

  “College. Sophomore year. I told you not to post those pictures on Facebook, but did you listen? Of course not.”

  She grinned. “Ahhhhh, yes. I remember those. I thought you looked really cute that night.”

  “My head was in the toilet.”

  “But you had those cute puppy dog eyes going on.” She glanced at my phone again, dusky gray eyes hitting the phallic bull’s eye. “Holy hell, what is that? Is that Quasimodo’s dick?”

  I stood up from the couch and began to pace in front of the TV. “Four dick pics today, Cassface. Four!”

  Cassie scrunched her face up. “And what? You were hoping for five?”

  My expression was a combination of disgusted and puzzled.

  “You know,” she explained, “one to fill all the holes and one for each hand.” Easy to interpret and equally graphic hand gestures matched her words as she spoke. “Although, I’m not sure I’d want DP from The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.” One look at my face and she coughed out a laugh. “You’re not really a prude, but right now, you’re playing one on TV.”

  I groaned and gave in, planting my ass back on the couch and burying my face in my hands. “I guess it’s because this profile is for work research. I have this unjustified sense that it should be more professional.”