by Monroe, Max
The instant Dave showed me that diamond, I knew it was the one.
And once I secured Bruce Willis’s approval, I set the wheels of my proposal into motion.
Next month, we’re going to head to Austin for a four-day weekend, and I’ve already convinced Taylor McHough to give Maybe the time off.
She’s going to think it’s a last-minute Fuse business trip.
But I know better.
And so does Evan.
Less than thirty days and she’ll be my fiancée.
And then, she’ll be my wife.
I shoot Dave a quick email, thanking him for his help, and let him know I’ll see him Monday.
Just before I dive into the next order of business, making sure my assistant Clara finalized all of our Austin trip plans, the sounds of footsteps moving down the hall give me pause.
I look up from my laptop to find Maybe standing in the doorway, completely bare, and on primal fucking instinct, my eyes turn hungry. Greedy. Damn ravenous for her.
I can’t help it. When it comes to Maybe, I’m certain I’ll never stop craving her.
She tiptoes into my office, walks around my desk, and I turn my chair to meet her.
She stops when her knees barely brush mine.
Her long brown locks hang past her full, pert breasts, and her eyes are so damn sweet and doe-like, they might as well be a live wire to my cock.
Fuck. She is sexy.
“Milo,” she whispers my name, and I don’t miss the way her teeth bite into her bottom lip or the way her thighs tremble as she fidgets underneath my gaze.
“What do you need, kid?” I ask her, but she doesn’t respond.
She just looks at me with those big brown eyes of hers and traps me in their never-ending depths.
“Maybe?” I prompt again. “What do you need?”
“You.” One word. Three letters. And powerful enough to make my cock harden and twitch beneath my boxer briefs. “Right now.”
Déjà vu hits me like a fucking freight train, and it’s like my fantasies have come to life.
And just like my dreams, I don’t hesitate to give her what she wants.
Between one breath and the next, I’m on my feet and she’s in my arms with her legs wrapped my waist.
My lips to hers, I kiss her deep as I walk out of my office, down the hall, and into our bedroom.
“I need you, Milo,” she whispers into my ear. “I can’t wait any longer. I need you inside me.”
Fuck.
Before I know it, we’re on my bed, Maybe beneath me and my boxer briefs a distant fucking memory on the floor.
My cock is at her entrance, the tip sliding through her wetness, and I groan at the painfully delicious feel of it.
God, I love her. I want her. I fucking need her too.
“Please,” she begs. “Please make love to me.” Her hips gyrate from side to side, and that movement pushes the head of my cock inside her.
She is so soft. So warm. So wet. So tight. So perfect.
She moans, and a deep guttural groan escapes my lungs.
The urge to push my cock in deeper is so strong, it makes my thighs shake, but I force a breath into my lungs instead. This is her first time. This needs to be slow. She needs time to adjust to my size.
“Yes. More. Please,” she pleads, and her fingers slide into my hair, tugging on the strands with frustration. “I can’t wait any longer to know what it feels like to have you inside me. Please, please, please, Milo. Make love to me.”
Fuck. I’m done for. Powerless against her.
“I need to put on a condom,” I whisper against her lips, but she starts shaking her head.
“No,” she refutes and gently bites her teeth into my bottom lip. “No condom. Just you. Just you and me with nothing in between us.”
My cock twitches at her words, but that bastard needs to wait.
I search the depths of her eyes. “Baby, are you sure?”
“I’m on birth control.” She nods and wraps her legs tighter around my waist as her hips start up a rhythm again. “Please, Milo. Slide inside me.”
I can’t resist her anymore. Not for even a second longer.
I’m going to slide inside her and make her mine.
I’m going to make love to her.
Slowly, so slowly, I had no idea I had it in me, I slide my cock inside the perfect heat of her tight pussy. Inch by inch, stopping every so often to let her adjust to me.
When my cock is halfway inside her, a little whimper leaves her lips and a wrinkle forms between her brows. Fuck. I don’t want to hurt her.
I start to pull back out, but she refuses, wrapping her legs around my waist again.
“More,” she whispers, and her tongue sneaks out to lick across her bottom lip. “It’s so intense, but God, it feels so good, Milo. Because it’s you. It feels so good, so perfect, because it’s you and me together.”
Fuck.
I keep going, slowly sliding more of my cock inside her, and she just keeps begging, pleading for more.
If she’s in pain, she doesn’t show it. She is still staring deep into my eyes and telling me she wants more, that she needs more.
When I’m all the way inside her, as deep as I can go, I stop and let myself feel her.
And I never move my gaze away from hers.
I savor the moment. Imprint it onto my memory.
This is the moment I made her mine.
The first time I made love to Maybe.
I will never, for the rest of my life, forget this moment.
Not the way she feels. Or the way her brown eyes deepen with need.
Not the words she says or the way her thighs tremble.
And certainly not the way I feel.
I will always remember this.
“I love you,” I whisper and brush my lips against hers. “More than anything in this world.”
“I love you too,” she whispers, and one small tear escapes her lids. “And I love making love with you.”
In this moment, I’m more certain than I’ve ever been.
More in love than I’ve ever been.
My heart is hers, and I’m going to marry this girl.
I’m going to marry her and spend the rest of my life making love to her.
THE END
A (unauthorized) Note from Caplin Hawkins:
Well, ladies…
This is it. The time we’ve all been waiting for.
I, Caplin Hawkins, man of female dreams and lawyer extraordinaire, am getting a book.
A book all about me.
Sure, Trent Turner and Milo Ives have charm and swoon-factor and a whole bunch of other boring shit, but I think we can all agree I’m the main event, right?
I have so many surprises up my sleeves, so many ways to entertain you that you can’t even fathom. I’ve trained and hydrated, and I’m ready.
It’s time to show Max and Monroe that I can’t be tamed.
I can’t wait for us to get to know one another better.
But, in the meantime, if you have some time to kill and you haven’t read anything about Trent Turner in the first stand-alone book in the Billionaire Collection, you need to get on that shit.
While the main plot of The Billionaire Boss Next Door is about my buddy Trent and his wildly funny leading lady, Greer Hudson, it’s also—and most importantly—about me.
Max and Monroe didn’t really give me enough stage time to fully spread my wings, but I think you’ll agree my role in their love story gives a substantial glimpse into my star potential.
I mean, you be the judge. Give it a read to decide.
[Click here to read The Billionaire Boss Next Door]
But if you’ve already read about Trent, don’t despair. There are a few more mediocre substitutes for me out there.
If you want to start at the beginning, grab the first book in the Billionaire Bad Boys Series and see for yourself if you can understand what all the hype is about. If nothing else, it’ll be really
clear how right you were to love me most when you read my book.
[Click here to read that kinda, sorta funny series with mediocre Cap substitutes]
Anyway, I promise it’s finally time for us to really spend some time together.
Get all kinds of up close and personal, if you know what I’m sayin’.
Yeah. Come September 12th, my beautiful ladies, we’re going to be, as little Miss Maybe would put it, friendly.
Sincerely,
The Cap-i-tain of your heart,
Cap
Love Milo and Maybe and ready for more from Max Monroe?
Well, we’ve got news for you!
More stand-alone romantic comedies are coming this year as a part of our new Billionaire Collection!
You WILL NOT believe the laughs you have coming for you!
Like that bastard Cap said, our next release is September 12th, and he has it all wrong.
Mark your calendar so you don’t miss the taming of his wild ways. ;)
Want more from Max Monroe RIGHT NOW but have already read about ALL the billionaires?
Don’t worry, girl, we’ve got you covered!
If you’re in the mood for some sweet, sexy, swoony, downright hilarious Rom Com and Sports Romance, we know just the books for you!
Our entire Mavericks Tackle Love Series is currently Free in KU, and trust us, you don’t want to miss meeting these sexy football studs if you haven’t met them already.
Start with Wildcat today!
But if you need a bit of convincing, a little excerpt to whet your reading taste buds so to speak, keep reading for a sneak peek of your next must-read!
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Wildcat Excerpt
Quinn Bailey
The New York Mavericks
#9 | Quarterback
Height: 6-6 | Weight: 228 lbs. | Age: 28
Alma Mater: Alabama
Last Season Stats: TDS: 32 | INT: 7| YDS: 4,478 | RTG: 103.1
You see all of those O’s? That’s my team, The New York Mavericks.
And that little circle in the center with the letters QB? That’s me, Quinn Bailey. I’m the quarterback, and funnily enough, my initials match my job title. Some call it coincidence, but I call it kismet. I was born to eat, sleep, and breathe Mavericks football.
Now, the X’s, well, they’re the other team. You can forget about those because they don’t fucking matter.
When I get done with them, all you’ll remember is me.
Trust me, I’ll make it good.
Are you ready to play?
My phone buzzed as I ducked my head to fit through the door on to my flight, and I glanced down to see who it was.
Instantly, pain exploded above my eye and pulsed along with my heartbeat.
“Ow. Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing at the spot I’d just knocked against the hard metal of the airplane’s exterior. Day after day of eating dirt and turf, compliments of some of the biggest guys in the world, and I was going to end up in the hospital from something as simple as boarding my flight.
“Walking and texting,” a flight attendant said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Hazardous to your health, I tell ya. Just last week, I missed a step on the sidewalk in front of Bloomingdale’s.”
“Wow,” I commiserated. “That sucks. Did you get hurt?”
His voice was somehow grave and shrill at the same time. “I spent four hundred dollars in there after I fell into the sale sign! Four hundred dollars meant for things like eating and self-maintenance. I had to skip breakfast this morning, and my eyebrows are making a bid to become one. Trust me, it’s still hurting.”
I laughed at his tale of woe and decided immediately I liked him. I glanced up again to survey his features, noting he was groomed to the nines—even his so-called overgrown eyebrows—had plump, friendly cheeks, and blue eyes that sparkled.
I wonder if he’s my brother’s type?
Taking my life into my own hands, I focused back on my phone as I navigated the short aisle to my seat in the second row.
A text from my brother sat waiting for me.
Speak of the devil.
Denver: Did you make it on to the off-brand deathtrap yet?
Kicking my bag under the seat, I settled into the leather and typed out a response.
Me: Just sat down. And there were no flights left on any of the major airlines, so it was either this, FedEx, or you don’t see me.
Denver: RoyalAir sounds like a one-guy operation with a Prince Harry complex. At least FedEx is a global corporation. They probably could have fit you into their cargo bay. They must haul oversized loads occasionally, right?
Apparently, my brother was an airline snob. You’d think he worked for Delta or something. RoyalAir was actually a pretty nice, new-to-the-scene airline. Sure, their seats could’ve been a little more accommodating for a man my size, but it wasn’t like the major airlines had La-Z-Boy recliners.
Me: Ha. Ha. I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. And to think I was going to set you up with a cute guy I just met.
Denver: My straight brother picking out men for me? Jesus take the wheel. Tell me, how big was the pool of gay men you selected him from today? Negative one?
Me: So what if he’s the only potential mate I met for you today? He could be great. You don’t know.
Denver: Right.
Me: Fine. But you’re missing out.
Denver: Sweet baby kittens. You’ve bonded with the random gay man.
Me: He’s funny!
I shifted and squirmed, trying to make room for my shoulders in the miniature-sized airplane seat and pulled my Beats headphones up from around my neck to settle on my ears. Candy bars, shampoo, even horses—all cute when you make them little. Seats that I had to be confined to for more than five minutes? Not so much.
Even the first-class seat struggled to accommodate the width of a professional football player like myself, but a few hours of discomfort was worth the end result—three blissful days with my family before the grind of the upcoming Mavericks season took over my life.
Once the season started, I never even considered flying home for fear of losing focus. It was too easy to slow down and slip into a different frame of mind when I set foot in Boone Hills. An hour and a half south of Birmingham with a population of three hundred, it put the small in small town and the simple in simple life. Frankly, it was everything I loved in life—homey, personal, completely feel-good in its eccentricities—but it wasn’t conducive to maintaining the mental focus required to lead a football team at the professional level.
My phone vibrated against my thigh.
Denver: Funny ha-ha, or funny-looking? I’m still young and beautiful. I’m not ready for someone with a “good personality” yet.
I smiled to myself and shook my head as “Rockstar” by Post Malone featuring 21 Savage pumped into my ears.
Me: Maybe you’re right. Remotely hooking you up with someone probably isn’t a good idea. You sound a lot less likable via text.
I smiled as I thought about how true that was—in person, my brother Denver was remarkably pleasant. Truth be known, he was one of my favorite people in the whole world, and I didn’t see him nearly enough. He was still in college at the University of Alabama, and my schedule with the New York Mavericks was extensive and long. My trips home were few and far between, and this would be the last one I’d be able to make for a while. Hell, I’d spent last
Christmas in a cabin in the Catskills with my coach, his family and closest friends, and several other players, so dedicated was my vow to avoid hometown comfort during the season.
“Excuse me,” I heard from my immediate right. A guy in his early thirties with a flashy suit and perfectly gelled comb-over hadn’t even made ass-to-seat contact, but he was already flagging down the flight attendant. I couldn’t see Mr. Bloomingdale’s behind the line of people still boarding the plane, but based on the snap of the stupid fuck’s fingers in impatience, I immediately felt sorry for the funny flight attendant.
Darkness enveloped me as I closed my eyes, pushed my head back into the headrest as best as I could at my height, and tried to let the music drown out everything else. 21 Savage rapped about having a twelve-car garage despite only having six cars, one of my favorite lines of the song, but the annoying hum of the guy next to me pulled me out of the moment and made me crack an eye—just barely.
“Forty percent vodka, fifty percent cranberry, ten percent lemon juice. Don’t try to cheapen it with less vodka, okay, sweetheart? Take care of me here.”
Jesus Christ. I guess it’s Merry Douche-mas in July to us today.
I closed my eyes again without looking over, not at all interested in the play-by-play of this self-acclaimed sweet talker.
But a female voice was not what I was expecting, especially one that vibrated in my chest like it was physically scraping against me. It had a delicate rasp, almost like she was losing her voice to sickness, but the end of every word came out soft and smooth like silk.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have any lemon juice on board. I’d be happy to make the cranberry and vodka for you, though.”
Simple and to the point, she did her best to remain professional, and like some kind of hypnosis, it pulled my eyes open again—both of them.
