Joy Ride
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Copyright
Also By Lauren Blakely
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
This book is dedicated to Rob Kinnan, who made me laugh with that hilarious email, who tirelessly checked car facts, who solved problems like a good mechanic, and who taught me about lime gold.
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Blakely
* * *
Cover Design by Helen Williams. Photo credit © Rob Lang
* * *
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, hilarious romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also By Lauren Blakely
The Caught Up in Love Series
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Stars in Their Eyes
* * *
Standalone books
BIG ROCK
Mister O
Well Hung
The Sexy One
Full Package
The Hot One
Joy Ride
The Wild One (July 2017)
Most Valuable Playboy (August 2017)
Hard Wood (November 2017)
CockTail (January 2018)
The Rich One (March 2018)
Satisfaction Guaranteed (2018)
Far Too Tempting
21 Stolen Kisses
Playing With Her Heart
Out of Bounds
The Only One
Stud Finder (Sept 2017)
* * *
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
* * *
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
* * *
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
* * *
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
* * *
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
Prologue
Here’s something I want to know. Why the fuck does the term guilty pleasure even exist? If something brings you pleasure, don’t feel guilty.
Case closed.
But let’s be perfectly clear—I’m not talking about stuff a dude should feel ten tons of remorse about, like being a dick to your boss or cheating on your woman. If that kind of shit brings you pleasure, may all the guilt from the skies rain down on you, along with golf-ball-sized hail and toads, too.
What I don’t get is why people feel bad about enjoying the good stuff in life. Buying that pool table just because it looks fucking awesome in your living room. Or drinking eighteen-year-old Scotch after a long day fixing an engine on a Mustang, instead of waiting for a special occasion to crack open the bottle.
Life is short. Savor it now.
Hell, if it floats your boat to sink into a steaming hot bubble bath every so often, turn the water up high and toss a bath bomb into the claw-foot tub.
Not that I do that. Hell, I barely even know what a bath bomb is. And I absolutely, positively did not use the zingy lemongrass-scented one the other night. The type that fizzes. I don’t have a clue why it’s missing from the cabinet.
In any case, I say indulge. Yeah, my pool table rocks, and so does the Scotch. But hands down, my favorite indulgence is the one-night stand.
What? Like that’s such a crime? Nothing wrong with a night of round-the-clock fun of the X-rated variety. Besides, when I take a woman home for a one-and-done fiesta of five-star fucking, I’m honest about my intentions. I never promise more than I can deliver. But what I do serve up—in extra large quantities, thank you very much—is a fantastic time between the sheets with no strings attached when the sun comes up.
I’ve never felt guilty about this pleasure either, and that’s because I maintain a few key guidelines when it comes to my favorite horizontal hobby.
Don’t be an asshole.
Always be a gentleman.
And never sleep with the enemy.
Now, about that last rule . . . don’t break it. Don’t bend it. Don’t even dip your toe on the other side.
Trust me on this.
I went on to shatter that last policy in spectacular fashion, leaving me wanting a helluva lot more than one time with a certain sexy brunette. That’s how I wound up on the side of the road with a new tattoo, a wrecked electric-blue roadster, and a pet monkey t
o show for it.
Yes, I said pet monkey.
And that’s a big fucking problem for the King of Pleasure.
1
Cars are like ice cream.
There’s a flavor for everyone.
Some auto enthusiasts opt for vanilla. For them, a basic sports car will do just fine.
Others want a sundae with everything on it, from the badass paint job to the jacked-up wheels to the sound system that registers on the Richter scale.
Then, you’ve got the car buffs who gravitate toward a dark chocolate gelato, forking over big bucks for a sleek Aston Martin outfitted with an engine that kills it on the autobahn.
Every now and then, though, you’ll encounter the fellow who doesn’t know what he likes so he goes for rainbow sprinkles, bananas, chopped nuts, and a cherry on top. Like this guy I’m talking to right now at a custom car show just outside Manhattan.
The bespectacled man strokes his chin then asks in a smooth, sophisticated voice, “Could you make an armored car?”
That’s the latest question from this thirty-something guy in tailored slacks and a crisp, white button-down. Wire-rimmed glasses slide to the bridge of his nose as he gestures to an emerald-green, fully customized sports car that holds center stage.
“Armored cars are in my arsenal,” I say, since I’ve made a few beasts designed to outlast a zombie apocalypse, courtesy of some survivalist clients.
He arches an eyebrow. “Could you add in some sleek tail fins?”
Ah, tail fins. I have a hunch where he’s going now, and it’s not to the land of the undead. “I can do that, too.”
“And maybe it can even ride low and respond to commands?”
I stifle a laugh, since I have his number for sure now, and I fucking love the enthusiasm of the newbies. “Absolutely. I assume you’d want it in black?”
His blue eyes light up. “Yes. Black would be perfect.”
For the Batmobile. Because that’s what the dude just described. I’m not knocking him or the Batmobile. That vehicle is absolutely at the top of my bucket list, too. What self-respecting gearhead wouldn’t want to tool around town in a superhero’s tricked-out ride?
This guy’s nowhere near done, though, as he peppers me with a new set of questions. “Would you be able to make a car that—just for the sake of argument—can jump incredibly far distances?”
I don’t need precognition to know where he’s going with this new scenario. “Would you want it to play a little song when you hit the horn?”
His eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s a nice feature indeed.”
I wonder where I came up with that idea. Could it be my vast knowledge of the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard?
The guy is rolling through the greatest hits of cars on TV or film. And you know what? There’s not a damn thing wrong with that. If he learns about cars from the tube or the screen, so be it. Maybe he’ll ask me to make a VW Bug that talks. My sister has begged for that for years, and if I ever figure out how, I’m delivering it to her first.
“What about wings for doors?” he asks.
“Like a DeLorean?”
He nods in excitement. “I love that car so much.”
“I haven’t met a DeLorean I didn’t want to marry, either. That’s the reason I got into this business in the first place.”
“Are you a Back to the Future fan, too?”
I hold up a fist for knocking. “You know it.”
“Any chance you could put a flux capacitor in it for me?”
“Absolutely. And I promise it’ll hit 1.21 gigawatts when you crank the gas,” I say, and as we laugh, the click clack of many pairs of high heels against asphalt surrounds us. This show is swarming with women in heels, working the booths, posing seductively on hoods or beside doors. Can’t say that bothers me. Nope, I definitely can’t say I’m annoyed by the proliferation of female flesh one bit.
Cars and chicks—that’s all I need for sustenance.
But now’s not the time for checking out the scenery, because business always comes first. I extend a hand to the Back to the Future fan. “Max Summers of Summers Custom Autos.”
He shakes with me. “David Winters. And I know this may shock you, but—confession—I know nothing about cars.”
“Nothing wrong with that, since I know a ton.”
He smiles and shrugs sheepishly. “Excellent. I’m looking for a builder who can make the best. Like this one, I presume?” he asks, pointing to the sleek green beauty I’m keeping watch over at the show. I’m here with a client. I customized this baby for Wagner Boost—an NFL lineman who’s off signing autographs somewhere nearby. Wagner is a mammoth man. At six foot eight and 350 pounds—that’s his morning weight, since he jokes that he shoots up to 360 after breakfast—he needed a car tailored to fit his frame. I made it for him, and he likes to show it off.
“Let me tell you something,” I say, patting the hood of Wagner’s prized possession. “If you can dream it, I can damn near make it. If you want aftermarket tires, a new engine, or custom upholstery, I’ll take care of it. If you want to marry parts from a roadster you’ve seen in a gangster flick with a futuristic prototype, I’ll find a way. I’ll deliver on your vision because that’s what I do.”
The tap tap of stiletto heels sounds closer now, like someone is approaching, as David fires off another question. “Can you—?”
A woman’s voice interrupts. “Can you paint a badass tiger on the door?”
No. Fucking. Way.
That voice. That sexy purr. Like honey, like whiskey. Like dirty dreams.
Everything in me goes still. I haven’t heard that voice in years. I don’t even have to turn around because one more click, then another, and here she is, standing in front of me. Looking hotter than she ever did before.
Long brown hair. Dark chocolate eyes. Legs that go on forever.
Henley Rose Marlowe.
Fuck me senseless.
It’s her.
The woman who drove me crazy.
I’m momentarily speechless as I take her in, because she’s not twenty-one anymore. She’s five years older and twenty-five times hotter. Yes, her hotness has squared with the years.
But I’m not about to let a potential deal slide through my fingers. I never let women get in the way of work, especially not one who’s inserting herself into the middle of a conversation with a fucking tiger comment.
I get around her interruption by going along with it.
“The tiger can even be roaring,” I suggest, as if she’s just some random car lover who’s keen on chitchatting, not a girl who used to work under the hood in my shop.
“Maybe even breathing fire,” Henley offers, like we’ve got this wordplay down pat, Who’s on first? style.
David gets into the action, too, emitting a rawr as he holds up his hands as if they’re claws.
Henley flashes him the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen, and in less than a second, the fire-breathing tiger inhabits me. Because I’m jealous as hell. For no good reason.
David smiles back at her.
Okay, maybe for that reason.
Which is not an acceptable reason at all. I shake off the useless emotion as David speaks again. “That’s it. I’ve officially decided I want a tiger on the door of a DeLorean. Painted in green, like the color of money.”
Yep, he’s rainbow-sprinkles all the way, and I focus on the sprinkles, not the flirty grins exchanged between this guy and a woman who was never mine, not even for one night.
“You can have it in royal purple, in emerald green, in sapphire blue,” I tell him. “You can have it with a flag on the hood, a pinstripe on the door, and the sweetest stick shift you’ve ever felt in your hands.”
“Purple and a sweet stick? I’m sold.” He clasps my hand in a good-bye shake. “I’ll be in touch.” He takes a step to go then stops. “Is purple too crazy a color? What do you think?” he asks the woman who’d make any red-blooded man gawk.
Perfect figure. Pouty lip
s. Tight waist. Gravity-defying tits. If God created an ideal woman to sell anything to any red-blooded man, he’d make her just like Henley.
Not sure he’d intend her to have such a smartass mouth, though.
She licks her lips. “Purple is hot as sin,” she says to David, like the words are for his ears only. She presses her fingertip to her tongue then touches the hood of the car as if it burns her. She raises her hand, letting the imaginary flame fly high.
David eats up her show, laughing and grinning.
“That’s an excellent selling point for purple. What about you, Max? Favorite color?” He holds up one hand as a stop sign. “Wait. Let me guess. Gold? Silver? Red? Blue?”
I shake my head. “Black.”
Then David says good-bye and heads off, and I’m left with this vexing vixen who hates me. She stares at me like a cat that won’t look away till you give her your hamburger. I don’t break her showdown, nor do I offer her a bite.
“Black,” she repeats, tapping the toe of her red suede pump as she glares with dark brown eyes full of fury. “Like your heart.”
Have I mentioned the last time I saw her she marched out of my shop in a blaze of angry glory?
Might be because I fired her sexy ass five years ago.
Yeah, there’s some bad blood between us.
2
Henley Rose and a hot car go together like peaches and cream, like fine Scotch and a long, dirty night. Which means working with her was like walking into the Garden of Eden every single day. It was a test of willpower because the woman could craft a car as if it were an erotic dance.
Not a striptease.
Not an in-your-face pelvis thrust.
But a beautiful fucking ballet of a woman seducing a machine. Those hands, the way she wielded tools, the intensity in her focus—it was sensual, and it was sinful, and it was this man’s fantasy made flesh.
Imagine what it was like working with her for one, hard-on year.
Joy Ride Page 1
