by Kim Karr
BEDWRECKER
Copyright © 2016 by Kim Karr
ISBN-10: 0-9976194-2-2
ISBN-13: 978-0-9976194-2-3
Edited by:
Ellie McLove, Love N. Books
Copy Edited by:
Lisa Wolff
Cover Designer:
Shanoff Formats
Cover Model:
Robson Alexandre Costa Rosa
Photographer: Wong Sim
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Publicity by:
Social Butterfly PR
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Bedwrecker
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
Epilogue
Author Note
Sneak Peek at No Pants Required
AND NOW: A Look Inside Crush
Books by New York Times bestselling author Kim Karr
About the Author
Connect with Kim
“I look at you and see the rest of my life in your eyes.” ~Unknown
To: Jody and Serena,
Your never-ending support means the world to me.
Maggie
For over a decade Taylor Swift has been waging a war against love—with her music, that is. Even if you only have a casual knowledge of her, you have to admit it—she does have a way with words. There must be like seven or eight people left on the planet that can’t sing at least some of the lyrics to “Shake It Off.”
Yes, I’m a big fan, and not only because people say I look similar to her, just a blonder, longer-haired version. Looks aside, we actually have a lot in common.
Men.
Men.
And more men.
There it is—we’re both boy crazy, fall in love easily, prefer not to label our relationships, and fall out of love just as fast as we fall in. Then again, I’m not sure you’d call it love. I don’t really believe in that particular four-letter word. Perhaps lust is a better one.
As “Bad Blood” fills the small space of the bathroom, I sing along, trying to figure out exactly what the lyrics mean. Is the couple breaking up? Getting back together? On hold?
With a sigh, I give up and finish washing my hands. Sometimes, it’s just really hard to tell.
Smoothing my palms down my tight-fitting, very short, silver-sequined dress, I pop open the stall door and march out in my sky-high platform heels.
They’re booties, actually. Jeffrey Campbell. And adorable.
Turning the corner of this super-chic ladies lounge, I catch sight of the gleam of something silver. “What’s that?” I approach Makayla from behind in a cloud of perfume and dig my chin into her shoulder.
She closes the box so fast I can’t see what’s in it and then slips it back into her purse before I can blink. “A gift for Cam,” she answers as if that is the end of that.
“What kind of gift?” I eye my straitlaced best friend suspiciously in the mirror.
She swivels on the pointed toe of her kitten heel and steps quickly as if attempting to make a getaway. “Just a gift.”
“Wait one minute.”
She turns around before pulling the handle to one of the stall doors.
With my arms crossed, I stick my leg out and start bouncing it like a hooker waiting for her john to pay up. “Come back here right now.”
“I have to pee. Hold on.”
Yeah, right. Like I believe that.
Leaning against the vanity, I decide to give her three minutes, and then I’m going in and snatching that adorable little pearl purse that matches that cute black Audrey Hepburn–like dress of hers perfectly.
Seriously though, Makayla Alexander has style with a capital S.
We couldn’t be more different, which I suppose is why we get along so very well. She’s a jewelry designer and lives next door to me back in Laguna Beach, with her boyfriend, Camden Waters. She and I met not long after I moved to New York City from California more than fifteen years ago.
We bonded over our hate for cheerleaders, love of lip gloss, and yes, eventually even Taylor Swift.
After Makayla’s mother died, she moved in with my mother and me. We’re like sisters. And although she didn’t leave the city three years ago when I did, she followed me to California soon enough. And like all lived-to-be-told love stories, while living with me she fell madly in love with the boy next door.
Sounds like the basis for a love song, but it’s true.
She moved in with Cam around Thanksgiving, and Cam’s roommate, Brooklyn James, moved in with me.
As strange as it sounds, we did a little roommate swap.
You can lower your brows right now. There is nothing romantic between Brooklyn and me; he is so not my type. He’s a board-short-wearing playboy, a manwhore, an ex–reality TV star, and a screenwriter wannabe. And I prefer men in suits.
And yes, he knows this.
But now I think all this pretending for the sake of matchmaking and shutting up about it has led him to have a crush on me.
Still, we’re just friends.
Just.
Friends.
Get it?
Good.
Now is probably not the best time to tell you he’s my date for the night, then. Just hold on. Listen. You see, Cam is from the city, and he decided it would be fun for the four of us to come to New York to see the ball drop in Times Square.
Happy New Year!
The two of them have been trying to match-make the two of us for what seems like forever.
Not happening.
Anyway, while Cam and Makayla have been making googly eyes at each other all night, Brooklyn and I have been on the prowl for new dates.
Shhh . . . don’t tell.
The bathroom door swings open and Makayla stumbles out. I think she’s already had a little too much to drink and it’s only been midnight for like half a minute, or thirty minutes tops.
P.S. I kissed Brooklyn when the clock struck twelve, outside under all the confetti while the sky lit up with fireworks, and the ball dropped . . . and felt nothing.
End of our love story.
I already got the “so you and Brooklyn” look from Makayla. I’ll
break her heart tomorrow. Why bother tonight?
Right?
She really wants me to have what she has—love.
Pfffttt . . . so not interested.
Leaning against the counter, I curl my finger to beckon her my way. “Now what’s in the box, Makayla?”
“Nothing.” Her voice is low in the most suspicious manner.
I raise a brow. “Something dirty? Come on, you have to share. I feel like lately I’m living vicariously through you.”
Her cheeks turn a fantastic shade of red. I think it almost matches her nail polish. “Okay, you know that book Cam and I read together last summer?” she asks.
My lips twist in thought. “Winter’s Men?”
She groans good-naturedly. “No, Summer’s Ménage.”
“Right, the smutty one about the threesome. From what you told me, it sounded pretty hot.” I throw my head back in laughter.
“It was—” she pauses as if to contemplate completing her sentence, but then goes for it—“a beautiful love story.”
Laughter bubbles up my throat.
She eyes me with one of those looks I taught her.
It’s scary.
Still giggling, I cover my lips with my hand. “Too much champagne, I think.”
“Anyway, I thought it would be fun to try out something we read about.”
“Something—” I let the word hang.
“It’s a cock ring,” she blurts out.
I clasp my hands over my ears, wondering if I can bleach the words away. Cam might be her boyfriend, but as of January 2, he’s my new boss, and, well, I cannot, just cannot even go there.
Honestly, I feel like our roles are reversing.
I used to be the sexpot.
Now Makayla is.
Oh how I long for the good old days.
Standing up straight, I wrap my arm around hers. “Come on then, whore. Let’s get back to the party so you can give Cam your naughty little gift. And please, I beg of you, no details afterward.”
The White Lotus Club is fourteen thousand square feet of all-black everything silhouetted in purple neon lights. And the best part, The Out Hotel is right downstairs. I can stumble back to my room without setting foot in the record-low temperatures of New York City again tonight.
Boy, I don’t miss the snow one bit.
We swing open the door, and the heavy thumping of the bass is enough to pound my pulse in my wrists and throat.
Flashing lasers bisect the multiple dance floors. Everything flashes in different shades of purple as the lights hit it. Mirrors are everywhere. The room looks like one giant disco ball.
It’s fantastic.
Cam is waiting for us just at the end of the hall. “Let’s go get another drink!” he shouts over the music.
Anxious, he holds out his hand for Makayla, and she grabs it, then she holds out her hand for me, and I grab it. We make a chain through the crowd toward one of the many bars set up around the club’s outer walls and squeeze our way in.
Cam had already ordered before coming to retrieve his maiden, and he hands Makayla and me each a shot of something orange and fizzy looking. “Happy New Year!” he cheers.
“Happy New Year.” I sip mine. “Oof, what is this?”
“They’re called Fuzzy Fucks,” says Cam. “Jägermeister, orange juice, and peach schnapps. Drink it.”
I push it back his way. “I think I’ll have a whiskey, but thanks.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “I liked the name.”
At least he’s honest.
Cam turns and orders something different for me, and then tosses his shot back, and mine too. Makayla is nursing hers with a sour look on her face.
As soon as Cam gives me the amber liquid I asked for, I laugh and point to the small glass in Makayla’s hand. “You’re supposed to shoot it. Watch.”
I tip my head back and down all 1.5 ounces. The initial burn jolts me, but after that the taste spreads deliciously across my tongue. When my gaze returns to eye level, it lands on the most absolutely gorgeous-looking man I have ever seen, and he is headed our way.
In a simple white shirt and plain black pants, you wouldn’t think someone could be so sexy. Yet he so is. I watch his slow strides, and I swear every part of me goes on alert, and I mean every part.
As clichéd as it sounds, this man is tall, dark, and handsome as hell. Messy yet perfect dark hair, a lean build that makes him look like he could bend a woman over with ease, a wide mouth with full lips that I bet can drive a woman to her knees with one kiss, and the bluest, most glimmering eyes that must make the best magic.
Holy crap! I think he sees me staring, because his lips curve into a slow, sexy smile.
He looks naughty.
And so my type.
He’s going to say hi, and ask me to dance, and we’re going to kiss Happy New Year, and then move the party to my room. Pronto. I just know it.
Here it comes. Something like, “Hey, how are you?” Or, “Hi, where have you been all my life?” Or if I’m lucky I’ll get a “Hey, beautiful, you belong with me.”
Fingers crossed I’m lucky.
That mouth of his opens.
Here it comes. A line meant to whisk me right off my feet.
I watch everything about his lips as they begin to move.
“Cam,” he says. “How the fuck have you been?”
No.
No.
No!
That is not the line I wanted to hear.
Immediately, my head snaps to Cam.
“Keen, you made it, asshole!” Cam shouts excitedly.
Keen?
The Wall Street wolf?
Keen Masters, as in Brooklyn James’s half brother?
No.
No.
No!
This man is the man I want to take to bed tonight. He cannot be my fake date’s brother. Is that almost incestuous? I hope not. No. No, it isn’t. No, it can’t be. Never mind. Forget I said that.
The two men collapse into a flurry of backslapping and insults. Keen grabs Cam around the neck and knuckles his hair until Cam stands straight and shrugs him off.
Makayla and I give each other a look. “I guess they missed each other,” she whispers with a little hiccup.
My teeth start to worry my bottom lip. I wonder if he’s sleeping in their bed tonight. I keep that little thought to myself. I doubt Makayla is into that anyway. Then again, she did have that special book-club time with Cam last summer about the threesome. I give her the once-over, and can’t tell. No. I know better. Not my sweet Makayla. There, with that out of the way, I feel so much better now.
When the adolescent boys finish their greeting, Keen swoops in and kisses Makayla on the cheek. He whispers something in her ear that I can’t hear, and I’m not really that happy about it.
I’m about to clear my throat when Keen steps back from Makayla to fix me with an intense gaze. Now I know I fall easily, but the fire blazing in his eyes tells me so does he.
I’m so in.
Cam puts a hand on Keen’s shoulder and then a hand on mine. “Maggie, this is Keen Masters. He’s my best friend. Keen, this is Maggie May, Makayla’s best friend and my former lifeguard cohort.”
Keen’s slow grin is a heat-seeking missile that goes straight between my thighs. “Maggie May. Like as in the song?”
Sigh. The line is perfection.
Unable to help myself, I smile at the touch of flirtatiousness in his voice that screams naughty. “That depends.”
Unabashed, he blatantly scans my body. It’s quick. Socially acceptable. Not blatant. Yet, I still notice. “On what?” he asks low and slow.
Cam and Makayla have started sucking face again, and he and I for all intents and purposes are alone, for now. Taking advantage of this, I stand tall, tits out, and lean a little closer. “On if you know who sings the song?”
The look in his eyes tells me he’s never wrong. “And if I do, what do I win?”
Charmed by his sl
ickness, I smile again, holding back a laugh. “The pleasure of my company.”
First he takes a slow moment to allow his gaze to lazily lower, taking me in, and I mean taking me in, and then within seconds his hot breath gusts along my skin when he breathes, “Rod Stewart.”
We’re not quite eye level, but close enough that I can turn my face to find his ear and whisper, “You’re good.”
There’s a slight cocky nod of his head. “I am,” he murmurs, and that hot gaze of his pins me, holds me in place.
Practically letting me know just how good he is. I think I just gulped air.
After the longest intense moment, he breaks our connection and extends his hand as if to shake. When I take it, he pulls me close enough that he can whisper directly in my ear. “I bet just like the song says, you wreck every man’s bed you’re in.”
Oh.
My.
God.
That sound. Those lips. The way he moves. The way he talks. All resulting in words that blow across the sensitive skin of my neck just below my earlobe. It’s too much and I simply cannot suppress a reaction.
Already primed by the fantasy of him and me anyway, my body reacts at once. Not only do my nipples push against the fabric of my dress and outline themselves among the tiny silver sequins, but my clit pulses, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to settle the tantalizing sensation.
Oh, and as the fire courses through my veins, all I can think is that I’m so ready to get burned. Not holding back, I keep my voice low and say, “Keep playing your cards right and you just might get to find out.”
His body jerks like John Travolta in Grease when he sees Olivia Newton-John’s transformation. And like John, I swear he’s electrified, his gaze brightens that drastically. “Good thing I’m an excellent poker player.”
My breath catches and holds, until I let it hiss out between parted lips. “Just how excellent?”
Just then his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, and I feel myself getting wet somewhere else entirely. “It’s all or nothing, sweetheart. All or nothing.”
“So you’re an all in kind of guy then?”
His nod is wicked.
We’re standing very close. If I step an inch in his direction, I’ll be pressed up against him. I imagine the push and pull of the muscles in his arms if I put my hands on them. And I start imagining so much more. I dare myself to take that one step.
