Hot Stuff

by Kim Karr

  I blinked in surprise when a spotlight bounced overhead and then directly landed on me, illuminating me to the crowd of cheering of fans.

  What the what?

  The announcer’s crisp, clean voice came over the speakers. “Miss Whitney,” he boomed, “Lucas Carrington would like you to join him on the field.”

  My mouth gaped open and heat shot to my cheeks. And then the entire stadium quieted, and I found myself shaking.

  What was going on?

  Aiden strode over and nudged me. “You better get moving.”

  I glared at him.

  “Now,” he grinned.

  Somehow I found myself walking on shaky legs toward Lucas and my father.

  As soon as I had gotten about five feet away, Lucas removed his helmet and tossed it to the ground. Our gazes locked, and with his blue-eyed stare fixed on me, I put one foot in front of the other. When I reached him, I felt like I couldn’t feel my legs. I was that nervous.

  “I was wrong,” my father whispered when I was close enough.

  I gave him a confused look.

  “A guy can play ball and have a life.”

  I blinked at him. But then the spotlight found the three of us, and as soon as it did, I saw my father slip Lucas a small velvet box.

  Once it was in Lucas’s big palm, he dropped down onto one knee.

  This couldn’t be happening!

  I felt like I was in a dream.

  The lights.

  The confetti.

  The cheers.

  There was no way this was real.

  He looked up at me and smiled, slow and sexy, his eyes knowing. I gave him a tender smile, but my pulse was racing.

  Around us, flashes went off and people yelled. There was cheering from the fans and sneering from the women who didn’t want him off the market. Didn’t they realize he had been for a very long time? It didn’t matter.

  I knew he was mine.

  The crowd applauded as he opened the box. “I love you, Gillian Whitney. Will you marry me?” he asked in a husky voice.

  I shut out the noise all around us and I dropped to my knees in front of him. I stared at the gorgeous diamond ring in awe. It sparkled and caught the lights from above, dazzling me with its brilliance, the same way Lucas had the first time I saw him on the field.

  Leaning forward, I cupped his face in my hands. “Yes, Lucas, I’ll marry you,” I breathed, my voice shaky and filled with emotion.

  That easy smile spread across his lips as he slipped the glittering diamond onto my ring finger.

  The crowd erupted all around us, but the only person I was looking at was him. I wasn’t expecting this. We hadn’t talked about marriage. But sometimes unexpected, was best.

  Lucas pulled me into his embrace, his mouth hard and fierce over mine. I clung to this Super Bowl champion just as fiercely.

  Our journey was far from over, but we had been gifted with the greatest page turning script in life . . . each other.

  And we were going to give that gift the most perfect ending . . . together.

  KEEP POSSESSION

  Gillian

  I’D FINALLY MADE it, and I’m not going to lie, I was giddy about it.

  Since I was a little girl, I had dreamed about coming to this city. Strolling along the curve of the Seine, walking through the Arc de Triomphe, and yes, albeit cliché, eating croissants near the Champs-Élysées.

  From our hotel room, the sleek metal bars of the Eiffel Tower crisscrossed in the distance in such a way that I imagined I could slide my wrists through the openings.

  “What are you doing?” Lucas asked, his voice husky, deep, intoxicating.

  I glanced over my shoulder, and when I did, the white silk fabric of my nightgown ruffled as the cool air cascaded beneath it and wrapped around my naked body.

  I didn’t care.

  The sleepy sight before me was magnificent—tall, dark, and handsome. Sexy as hell with his mussed up hair and low hanging sweat pants, he was shirtless. And I swore I could see every inch of the muscled lines and the contours of his body.

  I bit my lip and turned back around. “Come over here, and I’ll show you.”

  Lucas stood beside me and I caught his gaze just as he looked over at me with those penetrating eyes.

  “Watch,” I said, and I held my thumb and forefinger up with one hand, and this time pretended to pinch the Eiffel Tower.

  He tossed me that easy grin that I could look at for a thousand lifetimes, and then he lifted his hand to mimic mine.

  I smiled back at him. With his recently acquired Super Bowl ring on one hand and his wedding ring on the other, he too pretended to pinch the Eiffel Tower.

  “See,” I said, placing my free hand beneath the one extended, “it’s like it fits in the palm of your hand.”

  With a chuckle, he shook his head. He always found me so curious. I loved that about him. Then again, I loved everything about my new husband.

  The Eiffel Tower might have been looming impressively before us, but that didn’t stop me from leaning over to kiss Lucas.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  And I guess neither could he because he abandoned our play and pulled me close to him. His cock was in a state of semi-arousal. Long and thick between his legs, it was rising from his pants very quickly.

  I panted, wet and needy, into his mouth.

  Manhandling me, he gripped my thighs, wrapping my legs around his hips so he could grind his erection into me.

  Clinging to him, I tried to remember why I had gotten out of bed at all. But it was difficult enough to breathe, let alone think, as he thrust his hips between my legs.

  There had been a chill in the air, but with his warm hard body pressed up tight against mine, I no longer felt it. Lost to him, I tossed my head back as his lips dropped to my throat.

  He peppered kisses down my throat. “I don’t like waking up and not seeing you beside me.”

  My hands slid up his back so my fingers could curl in his hair. “I’ll try to remember that, but honestly, I think I like it when you miss me.”

  His mouth made its way down to the silk garment that covered my breasts and I relaxed into his touch with a groan. “Vixen,” he breathed.

  I laughed, but then suddenly stopped as arousal took control of my body. Last night we’d made love for hours, and yet my chest still fluttered at the thought of having him inside me right now.

  I was crazy hot for this man, and he was mine.

  Mine.

  I still couldn’t believe it.

  The thin spaghetti strap over my shoulder fell to the side, allowing him to easily suck on one of my nipples. I tossed my head back as his touch sent electricity pulsing through my body, and I drew my nails down his back in anticipation.

  All the while this was taking place, his erection was pulsing hot between our bellies. His chest heaved and each exhale was ragged and erotic. I loved it. I loved him.

  Soon, he started moving, and then we were inside and I was on the bed looking up at him as he stood before me. “Stay right where you are,” I told him.

  I never could get enough of his body, so while I had the opportunity, I began tracing every line of his six-pack, and then I used my tongue to trace a similar pattern.

  Every muscle in his body coiled tightly, and he quivered under my touch. I glanced up at him and when I did, I found his gaze locked on me. Lust and desire blazed in it, and I knew what I had to do.

  I lowered my mouth to the waistband of his sweats and teased him a little. A long hiss escaped his lips when I started to pull it down, but just then the alarm on my phone started to chirp, and I remembered why I’d gotten up early.

  “Should I turn that off,” he said with a groan.

  “Yes, and we have to hurry. We have to meet our families for breakfast,” I managed to say. My voice cracking as arousal overtook me.

  Lucas jerked away from the bed. “Shit, your father is going to be waiting for us.” He took my hand. “Come on, hurry up, w
e can’t be late.”

  I yanked him back toward me, and circled my lips with my tongue. “We can be a little late. I was just getting started.”

  He shook his head.

  “Lucas,” I said, but he was already halfway to the shower.

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Some things were never going to change, and one of them would be that my father, his father-in-law, would always be Coach to my husband.

  Lucas and I had gotten married yesterday, right here in Paris.

  It had been only four weeks since the Bears’ Super Bowl win, and our engagement, but Lucas insisted we tie the knot before the next season started up.

  Elopement seemed to be the only option, but then he suggested Paris, and of course I swooned.

  My father and his wife of two years, Mallory Harlow, flew to France with us. Turned out my father was sneaking around with the cheerleading coach while I was sneaking around with my now new husband. He told Lucas and I about his relationship with Mallory shortly after Lucas and I got back together.

  Lucas used his own version of the coined phrase, “Like daughter, like father,” that he loved to use. He taunted me with it as soon we found out, but refrained from saying a word to my father.

  In truth, he was still a little afraid of the man.

  That was never going to change, no matter how many meals we shared or holidays we spent together.

  Nick, his wife, and six kids, also came to witness the event. Believe it or not, Lucas even invited his father. He seemed to have come to terms with who his father was, and to accept him.

  And then, of course, Thor and Dallas wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and they all flew in too.

  The wedding took place on the Le Bretagne—a luxury yacht that offered a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower while we said our vows.

  It was everything I could have ever imagined and more.

  It was perfect.

  And what else was there to say . . . other than we were going to live happily-ever-after.

  The End

  Look for these two stories in the Sexy Jerk World

  Sexy Jerk

  When a Chicago playboy agrees to help babysit his best friend’s son, he knows he won’t be doing it alone. Unfortunately, the other half of the babysitting duo is completely oblivious. And there’s only one small problem with that—she thinks Nick Carrington is a jerk.

  AND

  Big Shot

  Jace Bennett was the type of man you would love forever. Tall, dark, and brooding, there was just something about him that drew you in and captured your heart. It might have been that slow, sexy smile or his filthy, dirty mouth. Or it might have just been him.

  What I didn’t know back then was that although I’d love him forever, I wouldn’t be the one sharing his bed, the one having his children, or the one he adored.

  But then—that was because of me—not him.

  Wasn’t it?

  And Now: A sneak peek into SEXY JERK

  Tess Winters

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, it doesn’t look like much. The sign is a bit tarnished. The brick façade is slightly crumbling. And the large picture window is coated in soot.

  Still, I am sure beauty is hiding beneath all the dirt and dust.

  Opening the old heavy door, I step inside and try to ignore the musty smell. As I glance around, I begin to imagine the possibilities.

  Each click of my high heels echoes as I walk. Slowly, I move through the large, open space examining every square inch.

  Pristine white walls.

  Nice touch.

  Old dark wooden floors.

  Charming.

  Looking up, I flinch at the chaos of the recessed lighting and black painted ceiling. Tapping my chin, I consider my options. Perhaps I will hang a crystal chandelier from one of those wooden beams some day soon, but if I do, it will only be because I want it.

  However, there absolutely will never be Chateaubriand or Cognac served here. There will be no JACKETS REQUIRED sign posted on the front door, either. And there absolutely will not be a star chef, whose name appears on the awning, cooking in a gourmet-style kitchen, barking orders and demanding attention.

  Even though I’m more than uncertain this is the right place, I know it has to be. It is the one that can work. No, it is the one I have to make work. Truth be told, it is the only one left on the market in this area I can afford.

  Armed with this potent knowledge, I glance around once again. This time as my eyes access the imperfect condition of the property with displeasure, I know I have to clear the current state from my mind.

  So there are a few cracks in the walls. Uneven floors. And water spots on the ceiling.

  Those can all be fixed.

  With a little of my own persuasion, I reassure myself it doesn’t matter that this isn’t a posh landmark Park Avenue building in New York City. It doesn’t matter that there will not be valet parking. Or a wait staff. Or reservations. All that matters is that this old accounting office on West Kinzie Street in Chicago will be mine.

  And mine alone.

  The space isn’t big enough for a state-of-the-art kitchen. However, there is plenty of room for the finest of espresso machines, a stove, an oven, and a glistening pastry case. The case can display chocolate croissants, muffins, miniature pastel meringues, and maybe even madeleines—that is if I can find a baker who knows how to make them.

  The café can also serve savory offerings like roasted butternut squash soup and a pork club sandwich with pickled eggs, tomatoes, and spicy mayo on sourdough. Hopefully this will encourage the morning crowd to come back for lunch.

  There will be no liquor license granted, that I already know because of the location. Although, the realtor tells me I might be able to swing a wine and beer permit. Selling organic wines and craft beers with large molasses cookies in the evening could be fun.

  There will be no fine linens or candlelit dinners, but that doesn’t mean the place isn’t going to be romantic in its own way.

  Still, it will never be restaurant royalty.

  It will never earn a Michelin star.

  It will never be Gaspard—the restaurant I had helped build from the ground up.

  And Ansel Gaspard will not be a part of it, nor will he be a part of my life any longer.

  And I am okay with that.

  One hundred and one days after it all came crashing down, I am finally okay with that.

  More than okay with that.

  This will be mine.

  All mine.

  Who knows, maybe someday I’ll even offer live music in the evenings. Kind of a Central Perk-like place from the television show Friends.

  The figure moving behind me jolts me out of my daze. My realtor has walked over to where I had stopped to look out the window. “Do you have any questions, Miss Winters?” he asks.

  I glance over my shoulder at him and slide my cold hands into my coat pockets. “It’s Tess,” I say with a smile as I turn. “And I have just one.”

  Derrick Williams, the realtor, who is a friend of a friend of a friend, beams at me. “What is it?”

  “How soon can you write up the paperwork?”

  His brows lift in surprise. “Just like that?”

  “Yes, just like that. When can I take occupancy?”

  Derrick rushes to pull his iPhone from his breast pocket. “Give me just a minute.”

  I nod.

  After tapping a few buttons, he looks up. “My client can meet you here the day after tomorrow with the lease. I just need to gather some information, if that’s all right.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Great,” he says and then exchanges his iPhone for a small notebook. “Will you be using this location as office space or for retail?”

  “Neither. I am going to open a gourmet café.”

  Derrick puckers his lips as if uncertain of my answer. “When you asked about the wine and beer, I just assumed you were looking to open some sort of food store.”<
br />
  “Is a café a problem?” I ask.

  “No, no, it shouldn’t be.”

  I furrow my brows. “Shouldn’t be?”

  “I mean no, not that I am aware of,” he responds.

  “Okay,” I answer skeptically.

  He asks me a few more questions, and then finally puts his notebook away. “I just need your driver’s license number for the background check.”

  “Not a problem, but it’s from New York.”

  “That’s fine, and if you can provide the first and last months rent at the time of the lease signing, you can take occupancy as soon as March first,” he adds.

  March first?

  March first!

  That is so much sooner than I had expected.

  That is less than three days from now, not the more than three weeks or three months I had anticipated. I have so much to do. Planning. Permits. Equipment. Fixtures. Contractors. Furniture. Suppliers. Vendors. Décor. Staff. Menus. My mind feels like it’s flying.

  “Miss Winters? Is everything okay?” Derrick asks.

  Taking my hands from my pockets to fish my wallet from my purse, I put a giant smile on my face. “Everything is perfect.”

  More than perfect.

  Tess

  AS TWILIGHT HOVERS over the Chicago skyline, the color of the sky reminds me of his eyes—stormy gray. My small car can’t accelerate fast enough for me to erase the image from my mind. I concentrate on moving through the traffic on Clark Street, changing lanes when I can, in an effort to think of anything else because he will not capture anymore of my attention.

  After all, I have spent the last six years of my life with him, and thought it would be forever. Boy, was I wrong.

  As crazy as it sounds, when Ansel Gaspard and I met, I just knew we were going to hit it off.

  That day is a day I’ll never forget.

  It was my first day at the Culinary Institute in New York City. I had recently transferred from the University of Chicago to complete my final year of studying restaurant management at the elite establishment. It was also Ansel’s first day. He had moved from France to finish his advanced culinary arts training in the city where he had decided he wanted to live.