Beauty and the Brute

by Nikki Winter

  Beauty and The Brute

  By

  Nikki Winter

  Copyright © 2014 by Nikki Winter

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by: Nikki Winter Publishing

  Cover Art: Bree Archer

  http://breearcher.com/

  Dedication

  This one’s for all you lovely people out there who enjoy a bit of…vulgarity.—Nikki

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  Avalon: Car manufactured and sold by Toyota Company.

  Beneath Your Beautiful: Song by Labrinth featuring Emeli Sande.

  Bob’s Burgers: Television show on the Fox network.

  Breaking Bad: Television show on the AMC network.

  Buick: Car manufactured by the Buick Company.

  Chloe: a perfume.

  Dancing With The Stars: Television show on the ABC network.

  Diamonds are a Girl’s Best-friend: Classic song performed by Marilyn Monroe in the movie “Gentlemen prefer Blondes.”

  He-Man: Classic Saturday morning cartoon.

  Instagram: Social media site.

  Loosen Up My Buttons: Song by the group The Pussycat Dolls.

  MacBook: Computer manufactured and sold by the Apple Company.

  Nike: Brand of shoes and apparel.

  Power Ranger: Classic television show.

  Squidbilly: A reference to the television show, “Squidbillies” which airs late night on Cartoon Network.

  To be Alone: A song by writer and performer Hozier from his self entitled album.

  Twitter: Social media site.

  Under Armour: A brand of apparel generally worm by athletes.

  Table of Contents

  ONE...................................................................................................................................... 6

  TWO.................................................................................................................................. 17

  THREE............................................................................................................................... 26

  FOUR................................................................................................................................. 35

  FIVE................................................................................................................................... 43

  SIX..................................................................................................................................... 52

  SEVEN................................................................................................................................ 61

  EIGHT................................................................................................................................ 71

  NINE................................................................................................................................... 80

  TEN.................................................................................................................................... 87

  ELEVEN.............................................................................................................................. 98

  TWELVE.......................................................................................................................... 107

  THIRTEEN....................................................................................................................... 116

  MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR........................................................................................... 120

  NIKKI’S OTHER WORKS................................................................................................ 121

  One

  “Who wants a lap dance?!”

  Alana Stafford snorted and quickly looked down at her drink, avoiding the startled eyes of the man she’d just been talking to. A man who was ridiculously, insanely, madly in love with the woman currently standing atop a table and inviting those around her to get molested through drunken shimmying and grinding. He did not look even slightly happy at the prospect of such a thing happening. As a matter of fact, he looked horrified. Which, once again, since he was ridiculously, insanely, madly in love with the wonderful woman offering to rub her lady parts against others…Alana wasn’t particularly shocked.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” Sansone Sultana barked as he placed his drink down on the bar and began to drive through the hordes of people milling about to reach the stripper in training. He stopped abruptly, turned back towards Alana and gave a charming smile. Oh and what a smile it was. Complete with guile, a beautiful mouth and eyes that could touch the marrow of one’s bones. She had to admit, the man’s flaws were few and the only one that concerned all that knew him, was his obsession with hair products. Although, the dark caramel strands were as lustrous as he’d vainly described them at every turn. And they did lay with an eerie perfection upon his pretty, symmetrical head. Alana enjoyed looking at that pretty, symmetrical head. Especially when she was mocking it.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Ms. Stafford. It seems that a certain someone has abandoned all decorum in light of her celebration.”

  Her brow inched up slightly and she smirked. “If I were anyone else, I may be inclined to believe that she had decorum to begin with and that you’re not rushing to get her down from that table because you’ll likely massacre everyone here if you see even one twenty stuffed down her bra in exchange for awkward, uncoordinated chair humping.”

  Sansone’s eyes narrowed just a bit. “Are you attempting to imply something, Ms. Stafford?”

  Alana smiled fully now and popped open her clutch. Taking out a bill, she handed it to the man standing before her and said, “This is a no judgment zone, Sunny. A no judgment zone…”

  He snatched the bill from her hand and stuffed it into his back pocket. “I’m taking this in lieu of firing you for being mouthy.”

  Tsking, she shook her head slowly. “You couldn’t fire me regardless. That task is left up to Stripperella and Stripperella alone.”

  “Her name is not,”—he stopped, breathed deeply and simply said, “I dislike you for your insolence and sadistic yet funny humor.” Then he turned and walked away, moving through onlookers who were still gathered around, attempting to see if that lap dance would really take place or not.

  Reaching the table that Nyssa Blackwell—the object of his affection—stood on while slowly swaying to the music, Sansone made no demands, he asked no questions and he chose not to yell. He simply reached upward, grasped Alana’s boss by the waist and threw her over his shoulder.

  “Show’s done, folks!” he shouted over disappointed groans. “You want a dance? You do like any respectable individual would, take your asses down to The Naughty Kitty during happy hour and ask for Nurse Good-Body!”

  While uproarious laughter sounded off, Sansone made his exit with Nyssa still hanging like a dear carcass that he’d brought down wit
h too much alcohol and a few bludgeons to the head.

  It was a sweet, and bizarre, way to stake his claim without really saying anything at all. Alana had to wonder when the man would open his mouth and Nyssa would shove her tongue in it. God knew the two just really needed to fuck it out already. The tension had become so thick as of late in the office that it bordered on sexual harassment. One that Alana wouldn’t complain about to H&R because one, they had a pool going on when Sansone would stuff it in her and two, it was entertaining to watch the pair dance around each other. Alana had spent many a day just watching…and gleefully enjoying their obvious genital misery.

  There was nothing more fun than the prospect of catching your employers knocking around tonsils. To some, this fascination may have made her a bit sick but…it was the little things that made her truly happy. If she could, she’d also spend time studying the brother and sister of the couple. Luciano Antonelli and Samara Blackwell were probably somewhere defiling one another at this very second; no doubt scarring whatever higher being may have been watching them. They’d left hours ago and no one had seen them since.

  Yup…entertaining.

  Alana turned to ask the barkeep for another old fashioned when she found him there. He wasn’t doing anything. Simply standing and staring. Staring at her with those goddamn eyes. Eyes that she saw entirely too frequently when she closed her own. Eyes that were…disconcerting. The color of raw honey and way too watchful, his stare was also complimented by a fringe of lashes that made her mentally bemoan the unfairness of it all. If he were a Drag queen, then perhaps she’d be less offended by the exhibition of God’s favor upon those lashes but no. He wasn’t a Drag queen. He couldn’t even be described as effeminate. Not with the width of those shoulders, the thickness of that neck or the strength in those thighs.

  “Evening,” he greeted in soft grumble that made him sound annoyed or bothered. But Alana knew better. It was simply his voice. A low, rumbling growl that rolled off his lips without rancor each time he spoke.

  She swallowed, nodding slightly. “Mr. Haddon.”

  Those lashes fanned and his mouth swept up into a grin that was startlingly, blindingly, wonderful. Goddammit! He wasn’t even pretty! Not in the traditional sense. Handsome? Yes. Striking? Sure. Imposing? Most definitely. But the only thing pretty on Noel Haddon was that smile. His features were too sharp, too masculine, to ever be confused with beautiful but the revealing of his teeth, the curve of his mouth? Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. He was what Alana secretly referred to as “sneaky hot.” It wasn’t too subtle or too obvious. The quarterback was the baby bear of good looks—just right. And it irritated the living fuck out of her. Because Alana didn’t become affected by men. She affected. Those were the rules. Those were her rules. And she had no intention of breaking them for some huge calved machine that the sports world referred to as “The Brute” with copper colored hair and a jaw covered in fur that could be used for winter boots.

  “Now, sugar,” he intoned with all the southern charm that his North Carolina upbringing allotted him. “How many times does a body have to request that you call them by their first name before you do so?”

  Not. Happening. Saying his name was simply a bad idea. Because the moment she did so, things would enter personal territories that Alana rather not venture. Nah, son. Nah.

  “Mr. Haddon—”

  “Noel.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You won’t.”

  “I work—”

  “Don’t care.”

  “And you are signed to—”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time, sugar,” the impossible male interrupted yet again as he made himself comfortable in her personal space. Leaning down slightly, he made sure he had her full attention when he announced in that voice—that fucking gravelly voice rife with promise, “I want you to say. My. Name.”

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  Oh sweet savior, what was he wearing?! What cologne was he wearing?! It was clean and crisp and woodsy and shit. More disturbingly, it made her want to nibble his face! Stand on her tip-toes, find a good spot around his mouth or nose or those lashes and just nibble!

  Abort mission! Abort mission! Do not engage target! Do you read? Do. Not. Engage. Target!

  Alana did what was innate to her. What had come natural since she’d passed try-outs with stellar marks in the eighth grade; she dug deep within her days as a track star and she ran the fuck away. She made no comments, told no lies, and kept her hands to her goddamn self.

  Running. Away. She was running away from him. Like he’d just told her that he had geriatrics in the trunk of his truck, trussed up and ready to be sacrificed to Cthulhu or that he occasionally enjoyed the fresh taste of baby soul with fava beans and a nice Chianti. It was…disheartening to say the least. Even a bit insulting if he turned himself over to the bruised sides of his ego and pouted about the fact that he seemed to have absolutely no affect on the woman he’d been shamelessly flirting with for three years now.

  Admittedly, he’d originally had his sights set on her boss; the same boss that had just been carted out for her attempts to get someone murdered by the hands of a man that loved her beyond all logic. Once Noel had realized that Sansone Sultana was ready and willing to end any career Noel could possibly have by breaking his arms and beating other people with them while he watched on in horror, he’d tucked his designs on Nyssa Blackwell away. He’d been a first round draft pick, twenty-three and feeling undeniably invincible, but not so invincible that he’d try his luck with the older man. When he’d turned his attention away from one of the fiercest sports agents that the east coast had to offer, he only found it snared again by the mouthy, emerald eyed beauty that guarded her office as furiously as he was guarded on the field.

  And yet, she showed not even an ounce of interest in him. Not only did she show not even an ounce of interest in him but she avoided him. All conversation attempts, interactions and dinner invitations were met with a swift turn on her heel and a quick escape. What he had done or said to garner that response, Noel didn’t know and she seemed to be completely against allowing him to fix it. He wanted to fix it; needed to even. Because her image was preying on his thoughts. Had been from the moment he first saw her. He couldn’t shake her, couldn’t dislodge the urge to focus on her in totality when they were near one another. It was unsettling and the sooner he managed to get her out of his system, the sooner he could get back to an everyday life that did not involve fantastical day dreams about having her lashes butterfly downwards as she swallowed him.

  Noel shifted away from the bar and shoved his hands down into the pockets of his jeans as he tracked Alana’s long legged strides through the crowd. With anyone else, she may have been able to escape but he’d spent years honing his vision so he could see anything and anyone coming or going while directing his team’s offensive play. The Delaware Blackbirds hadn’t tried to trade him once since his drafting so something told him he’d been doing an excellent job of just that.

  He was fairly certain she’d thought she’d sufficiently disappeared into the throng of people but he could see her rather clearly and what he saw, he wanted. The low lights played over her sticky toffee skin which glistened ever so slightly from her previous bout of dancing before she’d taken up a spot at the bar to talk to Sansone, no doubt teasing him about Nyssa as they all did on occasion. Alana was simply fun to watch. Her animated expressions, the deep dimples bracketing her generous mouth when she was tormenting someone she considered worth her time.

  Noel hadn’t spoken upon approach because of that reason alone. He’d stood there, waiting for her to become aware of his presence, eyeing the dress she’d chosen to wear and wondering if she’d be insulted should he ask to purchase several different shades just so he could watch the way it rose mid-thigh over the prettiest legs he’d ever seen. Those legs had been what caught him out the first time he’d strolled into Blackwell & Sultana, absently running plays over o
n his phone while wondering if he could sneak in another cheat day for one of his favorite meals. From the corner of his eye he’d glimpsed what could only be described as pure silk stretching for miles and immediately came to a halt. There were simply some things a man could not ignore, the calves of a woman wearing heels over three inches was undoubtedly one of those things. It was all in her walk. A pompous flounce made to entice everyone watching.

  She did it on purpose. Noel knew she did it on purpose because he’d caught the mischievous wink and grin she’d shot at interns who—much like him—had been lured in by the sway of her hips, the assured steps she took. It always had one clear message, “You’ll never touch but what’s so wrong about fantasizing?” He’d spent more than enough time doing so and wanted to touch. He wanted to touch until her chest heaved in exertion and her mouth was swollen. Until she was marked in every secret place she dared to show him and unable to speak. Now if he could just convince her…

  He stood straighter, staring on as she slipped towards the back of the club and headed for the restrooms. Corner her? No, he didn’t want to do that. Catch her unawares and finally get her to admit why she looked at him as though she wanted to slap him and kiss him all at once? Yes, that was a good plan. Noel was good at following through with plans, making sure his plays went along flawlessly. He had three championship rings and a MVP award to prove as much. And really, he couldn’t wait for the chance to fuck Alana up against the display case.

  She was hiding. She was hiding because she could feel him watching her. No matter how far she dug herself into the dozens of people around, Alana knew he’d kept up with every single movement. There was something to be said for that stalking gaze and she was unsettled. Noel Haddon had managed to do what hadn’t been done in years and he made her want to break her rules. But that would involve allowing him the knowledge that he made her insides twist, wouldn’t it? No, she couldn’t do that. Alana had learned to never involve herself with someone who wasn’t malleable, easily distracted. It had been a hard enough lesson taught the first time around. Hence her firm parameters about staying out of sight and out of mind when it came to people who could cause a shift in her emotions. That door had been opened once and the burn from her poor decision making had been lasting. So no. There would be no breaking of the rules. No mixing of toilets and dining and all that.