by Tara Sivec
“It was our honeymoon. We had a lot of sex. Even tried some new things,” I inform the officer with a smile.
“Christ,” Vincent mutters again as I continue.
“Did you know that more than twenty percent of women between the ages of twenty and thirty-nine reported having anal sex in the last year?” I ask.
Vincent growls, and the officer chokes, trying to cover it up with a cough. He quickly grabs a glass of water from his desk and chugs it.
“The same goes for men. If you’re curious about it, you should give it a try. It’s very erotic when you’re with the right person. I could send you some articles. It’s important to know the facts and how to stay safe before you dive in,” I tell him, laughing at my pun.
“I think we’re finished,” the officer says, setting his empty glass down on the desk and quickly standing up.
“Oh, shit. Did I blow it?” I laugh again thinking about the blow job I gave Vincent on the way here to calm his nerves, even though I know I shouldn’t be laughing right now, but come on! I’m seriously punny today.
It’s not my fault everything makes me think of sex right now. My dad, bless his heart, moved in with us a few weeks ago, and it’s not exactly fun trying to have sex when he’s across the hall, so we’ve had to get creative.
My dad sold his home and is going to marry PJ’s mom, Luanne, next month. In preparation, they bought a condo together, so they could start their new life off right. My dad planned on living there until Luanne’s house sold, but the week he moved in, a pipe burst, and the condo is in the process of being gutted and renovated. I suddenly have a lot more appreciation for my dad and how nerve-wracking it was for him while I was living under his roof. I don’t know how many times I’ve caught him sneaking in at all hours of the morning, smelling like Luanne’s perfume, with a giddy smile on his face. Or the times I stayed up entirely too late, pacing back and forth in the living room when he said he would be home at eleven and didn’t waltz through the door until 2 a.m. Raising a defiant parent is such a struggle.
“Vincent Adams, your application to become a citizen of the United States is hereby approved. Please make sure your wife doesn’t send me any articles on anal sex,” the officer says, coming around the desk to shake both of our hands and congratulate us before quickly exiting the room.
I jump up from my chair as Vincent stands, launching myself into his arms.
“We did it! We passed the test! I told you it would be fine,” I tell him, wrapping my legs around Vincent’s waist as he lifts me higher in his arms and shakes his head at me.
“What am I going to do with you?” he laughs.
“Take me home so we can have sex in the library. Wait. Never mind. My dad is home. Let’s just go to my library, close it down for a few hours, and have sex in the stacks,” I tell him with a wag of my eyebrows.
“Have I told you lately that I’m glad I kidnapped you, forced you to live with me, and asked you to marry me?” Vincent asks.
“HA! See? You totally did kidnap me. But no. No you have not told me that lately. Not since at least breakfast. It’s been like, six hours. We’ve been married for five months, and you’re already turning into a boring, unromantic husband,” I sigh.
“Do you think they’d revoke my citizenship if I fuck you on this guy’s desk right now?” Vincent asks.
“As lovely as that sounds, we probably shouldn’t chance it. You’ve become entirely too grumpy for Canada to ever take you back,” I tell him with a smile. “I’m so glad I got in bed with the beast.”
Vincent reaches up and presses one of his hands against my cheek.
“And I’m so glad I fell in love with a shy, nerdy librarian who rocks my world.”
Ariel
Ten months later . . .
“Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?” I grumble, staring into the giant fish tank in the living room of our yacht. “When I agreed to buy a yacht with you and cohabitate nine months ago, I did not agree to you messing around with my fish!”
Eric laughs from over on the couch as I pull a chair over and dip my hand down into the water of the humungous tank that takes up half the wall of the living room. I know a relationship is all about compromise, and it really didn’t make sense to have ten fish tanks taking up counter space, but I still don’t think the Flounders like their new home. Especially when I come home every day to find that Eric has put in another stupid, kitschy fish-tank decoration, like this dumb treasure chest nestled in the rocks.
I pull the ceramic box out of the tank and turn around in the chair, shaking the water off of my arm to find Eric down on one knee at the base of the chair.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” I shout as he grabs the treasure chest out of my hand and removes the lid.
Inside the little box is the most beautiful, princess-cut diamond surrounded by emeralds. Eric takes out the ring, tosses the box to the side, and grabs my hand.
“Ariel, the mouthiest woman I’ve ever met. I knew from the moment you told me to fuck off that I wanted to marry you. But you’re a stubborn little shit, and I knew I had to bide my time until you fell madly in love with me,” he says with a smirk which makes me roll my eyes even though they’re filling with tears. “I want to spend the rest of my life pissing you off and having outstanding make-up sex. I want to take you to goat yoga and flea markets and keep filling this yacht with antiques until we can’t even move around the place.”
I glance around the interior of our yacht, knowing we’re already getting close to that point. Not only are all of my antiques that Eric bought back from auction covering every available surface, so are over fifty ceramic busts that look like Eric that he had commissioned after the first one he bought me was smashed by his mother. They’re completely ridiculous and their eyes follow me wherever I go, but I love them, almost as much as I love the real Eric.
“Marry me, you sexy, hot-as-fuck woman.”
“Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”
“This will be the one and only time I will ever order you to do something because I love my balls and don’t want you to cut them off. Marry me. I’ll even take your last name if you want. I wouldn’t mind being Mr. Triton. Your dad and I can get matching T-shirts,” he says with a wink.
As much as I love being a strong, independent woman, I am not his mother, nor do I want to be. Their relationship is still pretty rocky, but at least she apologized to both of us a few months after the board meeting. It was a forced apology, and you could tell she hated every minute of it, but it was a start. I still can’t stand that woman and get rage-y every time I think about what she did to us, but I also still don’t want to be the person that comes between her and Eric. I’m hoping that eventually, she’ll realize how happy I make him and she’ll warm up to me. We’ve got plenty of time. We’ve got the rest of our lives for her to realize I’m a fucking delight.
And honestly, the satisfaction of knowing Sebastian got screwed over gives me enough joy every day that the problems with Eric’s mother don’t even bother me. His “wealthy fiancée” realized what a douchebag he was right before she said “I do.” Literally. They were in the middle of the ceremony when she announced to the entire church that she couldn’t marry him, took off down the aisle, and left his pathetic ass behind so she could elope to Barbados with her personal trainer. I heard Sebastian now works at Taco Bell and lives in his parent’s basement. Dreams really do come true.
“Okay. I’ll marry you. But I’d much rather be Mrs. Sailor. You and my dad don’t need something else to giggle like little girls about. It’s bad enough you dressed up like a yacht captain and did a commercial with him. I will never get the words ‘It’s not always better, down where it’s wetter! Come over to Triton Motors and check out our land boats!’ out of my head,” I tell him with a roll of my eyes as he stands up and pulls me down from the chair, sliding the ring on my finger and then wrapping me in his arms.
“Question for you: Look over my shoulder. Is Derri
ck Alfredo on the counter, licking his balls while he looks at us?”
I glance over Eric’s shoulder, and sure enough, that little shit is licking his nuts staring right at us.
“Yep.” I nod with a sigh.
“Excellent. I can kiss the girl now.” He smiles, bending his head and kissing the hell out of me.
* * *
One year later . . .
The Daily Chronicle
Sunday Business Edition
*Pictured in the photo above from left to right, business owners Cynthia Charming, Isabelle Adams, and Ariel Sailor.
The Naughty Princess Club has become a household name in recent months, thanks in part to business owners Cindy, Belle, and Ariel. Their unique idea of starting a home-stripping business, where the strippers come to you, became one of the first start-up businesses in the area with no outside capital that more than tripled its earnings in the first quarter. The three best friends never imagined the little idea they came up with as a way to make ends meet when they were struggling in their personal lives would turn into what it has today. With the help of their business manager, Ariel’s husband, Eric, the Naughty Princess Club is now a franchise located in seven states, with many more in the works. The Naughty Princess Club has turned into much more than a home-stripping business, though. They also offer sexy cocktail-waitress services for your party needs, and even provide stripping lessons for anyone looking to spice up their relationship. Franchise applications can be found on their website, but please note, the women have some very specific requirements for franchise owners and anyone looking to work for one of the Naughty Princess Club branches, according to Cynthia Charming.
“We started this business because we hit rock bottom. But it became a success because at the end of the day, no matter what’s going on in our lives, we’re best friends. We support one another, we build one another up, and we do whatever it takes to make sure that each of us succeeds. If you want to work for the Naughty Princess Club, be prepared to make friends. The women who currently work for us, each branch is its own family. Its own built-in support system. In this day and age, it’s a beautiful thing to see women working together instead of trying to tear each other down.”
The owners of the Naughty Princess Club will be at the town library this Saturday night for a special cocktail hour from 6 to 9 p.m., where they will answer all your questions about three princesses who saved themselves, while slaying in stilettos.
About the Author
Author photograph © Tina Redinger
Tara Sivec is a USA Today bestselling author, wife, mother, chauffeur, maid, short-order cook, babysitter, and sarcasm expert. She lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and looks forward to the day when all three of them become adults and move out.
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Also by Tara Sivec
At the Stroke of Midnight
In Bed with the Beast
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1: Fantastic Fish Female
Chapter 2: No One Uses Their Phone for That
Chapter 3: Gattaca!
Chapter 4: NOOOOOOOOOOO, My Precious!
Chapter 5: Fuck, Marry, Kill
Chapter 6: Love Thy Neighbor
Chapter 7: Panty Dropper
Chapter 8: Derrick Alfredo
Chapter 9: Princess Sassy Pants
Chapter 10: Hashtag Poop Dance
Chapter 11: Kiss the Girl
Chapter 12: Fucking Perfect
Chapter 13: Laffy Taffy
Chapter 14: Ball Licker
Chapter 15: C King
Chapter 16: Cat Scratch Fever
Chapter 17: I Want the Fucking Fairy Tale
Chapter 18: Tiny House Angry
Chapter 19: I’m Crying in a Goddamn Mall
Chapter 20: Gang Bang, Party of Me
Chapter 21: Show Them Your Wide Open Spaces
Chapter 22: Dickless, Spineless Pieces of Shit
Chapter 23: Am I in the Fucking Twilight Zone?
Chapter 24: Fuck You, Combat Boot
Chapter 25: Tomorrow Is Going to Suck
Chapter 26: You Are Goals, Dude
Chapter 27: I Just Want Him to Piddle His Pants
Chapter 28: Murder House
Chapter 29: Pick the Penis Out of Her Hair
Chapter 30: Can I Kiss the Girl?
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Tara Sivec
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
KISS THE GIRL. Copyright © 2018 by Tara Sivec. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Danielle Mazzella di Bosco
Cover photographs: texture © djgis/Shutterstock.com; beach © Lidiya Oleandra/Shutterstock.com; guy © kiuikson/Shutterstock.com; girl © Roman Samborskyi/Shutterstock.com
ISBN 978-1-250-13722-7 (ebook)
First Edition: September 2018
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