How To Get Lucky
Lauren Blakely
Joe Arden
Little Dog Press
Dedication
For the readers and listeners! We couldn’t do this without you!
Lauren & Joe
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
How To Get Lucky
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
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely and Joe Arden
Cover Design by Helen Williams.
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 book is licensed for your personal use only. This book 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 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
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
The Extravagant Duet
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Boyfriend Material
Special Delivery
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
My One Week Husband
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
A sexy standalone romance written by #1 NYT Bestselling Author Lauren Blakely and Award-Winning Romance Narrator Joe Arden!
Every man knows there are lines you don't cross. Like this one -- don't bang your boss's little sister.
Too bad I didn't know sexy, clever, irresistible London is related to the guy who signs my paychecks. Would have been helpful to have that intel before I took her out on that first date, before I kissed her on the beach, before I made plans to take her home that night.
But now I know and I'm going to be so damn disciplined. I'm a good guy, after all. And good guys don't break the golden rules of the bro code. I'm going to follow the heck out of all the rules. I won't break a single damn one.
Even when London asks me to help her with a work project. One that has us working late every night, all alone, in my tiny apartment.
One that tests every ounce of willpower I have.
One that is driving me out of my ever loving mind.
But I resist.
Until the night she issues a challenge I can't refuse.
How To Get Lucky
By Lauren Blakely and Joe Arden
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Prologue
I don’t have to see something to believe it. Don’t have to experience something to know I’d like it.
I’ve never vacationed in Fiji, for instance, but I’m 100 percent confident I’d love every second in that tropical paradise.
I don’t need to have tossed out the ceremonial first pitch at Dodger Stadium to know that it would be an all-time highlight if I did.
And there’s one more thing.
I don’t need to have had great sex to know I’d love it.
I’m confident I’d absolutely completely fucking adore, worship, and revere it.
But much like zip-lining in Costa Rica or being front row at a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert, great sex is an incredible life event that I know exists. It’s just one I’ve never experienced.
Not that I haven’t had sex at all. Far from it. I just haven’t had that toe-curling, leg-shaking kind I’ve heard so much about. And I have heard about it because I listen
. But all that listening hasn’t translated into great sex.
Yet.
And that’s not due to a lack of enthusiasm on my part. I’d happily enter a booty boot camp, take a coitus crash course or a lovemaking master class, and study until I’ve got this thing dialed in.
But I haven’t had the chance.
Which is a head-scratching travesty, but it happens, okay?
Like, if you get involved in a long-term relationship with a woman who’s only into sex every other Saturday night, and who only wants missionary and only with the lights off.
That last rule of the bedroom with my ex was bumpy to navigate. Because light is awesome, what with the way it illuminates the female form and all its curves, dips, and delicious valleys.
Also, what the hell was up with the nighttime-only law? I’m sure I’d be super into afternoon delights.
Morning bangs too. My dick certainly seems interested in the a.m.
But, hey, I loved her, so I went along with the pencil-in-sex-on-the-calendar approach.
Twice a month was better than, God forbid, the Gobi Desert of once every four weeks.
Or worse, the vast arctic wasteland of once a year.
My thoughts and prayers go out to all the dudes suffering from birthday-only boinking.
But I know that sex shouldn’t be on a schedule. Not unless the schedule is part of the foreplay, like sending dirty daytime texts to your partner about what you’re going to do at ten o’clock sharp when you’re mad with desire after a full day spent apart.
That kind of planning is hella sexy.
And sex shouldn’t be in the same position every time. It should be imaginative.
It should be raw.
And I’m pretty damn sure sex should be fun.
You know what’s not fun?
Finding my girlfriend and the dog walker bringing new meaning to the phrase doggie style.
At least they weren’t using a leash. Poor guy needed his exercise, and all he was doing was chasing his tail while the ex was giving hers away.
They say good guys finish last, but I don’t believe that. When a good guy finds the right woman, they can both finish. Together. A lot.
So, here I am, twenty-eight, single AF, and ready to find that right woman. One who’ll practice with me until perfect and then practice some more—every position, kink, and dirty deed.
My luck is due for a change. And when a sexy, sweet, sarcastic brunette walks into my life, it feels like I’m holding the winning lottery ticket and all I can think is Yes, yes, yes, it’s about fucking time.
Then, I find out who she is.
And, yeah, she is sexy, sweet, and sarcastic. But she is also 100 percent forbidden.
Which means I’m back to square one.
Until the night she issues me a challenge I can’t refuse.
1
The bass pulses through the dressing room. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as a water bottle next to the mirror vibrates in time with the sound of JT promising to bring sexy back. It’s a reminder that in about one hundred twenty seconds, my ass needs to be back in the booth.
If only Stanley could make up his mind.
Heaving a sigh, he scratches his chin. “I dunno. Am I feeling ‘Hot for Teacher’ tonight, or ‘School’s Out for Summer’?”
Indecision, thy name is Stanley the Entertainer. Not his stage name.
“Can’t go wrong with ‘Hot for Teacher,’” I say. He picks that tune 66 percent of the time. I’ve done the math.
He tilts his head back and forth like he’s deeply torn. And he is. “But, T-man, I also dig the Alice Cooper tune.”
Here’s a backstage secret from Edge: the long-haired, super-jacked, inked, and bearded dancer is a mild-mannered, soft-spoken marshmallow.
WHO CANNOT PICK HIS SONGS.
“Want me to pick for you?” I ask, keeping my voice nice and calm.
His face lights up, like I’ve given him free pizza for life. “Dude, would you? That’d be so chill.”
Um, yeah, I pick every time he can’t choose. “No problem, man.”
Stanley draws a couple of deep breaths, psyching himself up before he hits the stage here as Professor Bulge. As I like to say sometimes when I intro him, his PhD stands for Pleasing Her Deeply and he graduated cum louder.
He checks the buttons on his breakaway khakis as Sam bursts through the doors. “Woo-hoo. Gentlemen, it is hot out there tonight. Brittney is turning forty, and Mama is frisky.”
He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat and oil off his chest. Sam is exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to be one of the stars every weekend at Edge. His six-foot, two-inch frame and box cutter abs scream male entertainer so loudly he’s actually on the billboard for the club’s all-male revue.
Which is a damn good thing, since that billboard draws the crowds. We’re talking about a packed joint every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. When Edge operates as a traditional dance spot the other nights of the week, I do fine, but the revue gets booked months in advance. And since I earn an hourly wage and share the tips, I’m all for the signs that display the washboards to bring in the crowds.
“How frisky?” I ask, hoping it’s a good night. “Are we talking raining ones or a downpour of twenties?”
Sam scoffs. “Carlos is still out there picking up his greenbacks. But it was like a tropical sun-shower for me, bro. I love when the weather brings in the good stuff.”
That’s typical Sam—confident but chill. When everything with Tracy and me fell apart a year ago, Sam was there for me. There for late-night burrito runs, Van Damme movie marathons, and a place to live till I found my own unit in the same building. Plus, he snagged me a gig spinning tunes here at Edge, and hell, did I ever need the job.
“What up, teach?” he booms to Stanley, bear-hugging him.
“Hey, buddy, watch the shirt.” The burly man smooths the front of his argyle cardigan. “I just had this ironed,” Stanley says in mock frustration.
Sam puts his hands on his thighs and purses his lips. “Oh, I’m very sorry, professor. Do you need to see me after class?” he chirps in a terrible imitation of a sexy coed’s voice.
“I think we both need to see you put some pants on,” I say.
Sam glances down at his yellow spandex boxer briefs, which don’t leave much to the imagination, but that’s the point. “What’s the big deal, dude? I wear the same thing around the building too.”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure the HOA doesn’t list ‘banana hammock’ as appropriate attire for communal spaces.”
Sam claps me on the shoulder. “Mrs. Morales never complains. You’re just uptight because you haven’t been laid in a year.”
“Gee. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Wait,” Stanley chimes in. “How about we get Teddy a date? I can set up a dating profile for our favorite deejay. I love doing those.”
“Not necessary,” I say, even though, my God, either of those would be fucking fantastic. A date or sex, that is, not a dating profile.
I tap my wrist to indicate the time. “On that note.”
I grab Bulge’s glasses from between the hair gel and coconut oil on the dressing room counter and toss them to Stanley. “Don’t forget the specs.”
He breathes another long sigh of relief. “Songs, glasses . . . What would I do without you, DJ Insomnia?”
“It’s a mystery to me too,” I say. I head back to the booth, my voice echoing over the loudspeakers as I turn on the mic while Carlos leaves the stage.
“And now, ladies and ladies and, yes, I see some gents too—it’s time to put your books away and sharpen those pencils because school is in session. Our next performer earned a bachelor’s degree in being a bachelor and a master’s in being your master . . . Give it up for Professor Bulge.”
And with that, Stanley pushes through the double doors, strobe light and fog hiding his face, and makes his way to the guest of honor as she hoots and hollers from a chair onstage. The dancer locks his h
ands on the back of birthday Brittney’s chair and rides her leg like he’s breaking in a prized colt.
Which is the point of his job—to make Brittney feel like the only woman in the room. And he’s damn good at it.
Even from my vantage point above the floor, Brittney looks as happy as I am when I find a fresh, new record.
Nearby, her friends cheer like they have megaphones. One of the many things I love about the women who enter Edge is how, while they don’t object to the beefcake, they’re so clearly here for the camaraderie with their friends. I don’t see many sad solo women nursing drinks in corners here.
And I do a lot of observing. Occupational hazard, you might say, but I think of it as a benefit.
I have the time to people-watch, and it’s become a favorite pastime of mine—studying human behavior—and few places are better than the fishbowl of a club.
How To Get Lucky Page 1
