Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  Man Candy

  Melanie Harlow

  MH Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Meet the Muse

  Don’t miss out!

  Are you an aspiring author?

  About the Author

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  Sneak peek of PLAY MAKER, by Katie McCoy!

  Copyright © 2016 by Melanie Harlow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Letitia Hasser, Romantic Book Affairs

  http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/

  Cover Model: Dima Gornovskyi

  http://dimagornovskyi.com/

  Cover Photography: Kaspar Jack

  http://www.kasparjackphotography.com/

  Editing: Bethany Hagen, Nancy Smay

  https://nancysmay.wordpress.com/

  Publicity: Social Butterfly PR

  http://www.socialbutterflypr.net/

  Proofreading: Laura Foster Franks, Amanda Maria, Angie Owens

  To Jenn, Kayti, Laurelin, and Sierra, for knowing the title of this book before I did and for understanding my need to touch the stove even after you’ve told me it’s hot.

  To the PQs…Crimson, Dena, Jaime, Laura, LeAnn, Margaret, Melanie, Melissa, and Rachel, for friendship, laughs, and delicious inspiration every day.

  To my Harlots, who appreciate a nice piece of man candy.

  And to Dima, for being so sweet.

  One ne voit bien

  qu’avec le coeur.

  L’essentiel

  est invisible

  pour les yeux.

  Antoine de Saint Exupery

  One

  JAIME

  I was in the closet.

  That’s not a metaphor, by the way—I was literally, physically trapped in a closet. It wasn’t even my closet; it was his. And it had that guy-closet smell, you know? Leather and cologne up front, base notes of sweat and testosterone lingering beneath. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Actually, it was kind of hot in its uniquely masculine way, but I was in no mood and certainly no position to be turned on, crouched like a frog on top of some sneakers. My thighs were aching, I’d failed at pulling the hinged bi-fold doors all the way shut so I was totally visible through the crack, and I had the hiccups.

  Did I mention I was drunk?

  Oh, Jesus. I’d set my wine glass down somewhere, hadn’t I? What the hell had I been thinking? And why on earth had I gone for the fucking closet instead of the back door when he came in? I could have easily climbed the back steps to my balcony by now or even snuck around and come in the front door like I was just getting home from work or something. He didn’t know I took the day off.

  God, I was so dumb.

  And it’s not like I’d learned anything that interesting for all my sleuthing, except that there were two condoms missing from the twelve-count box of Trojans (size XL, if you’re interested) in his nightstand drawer. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d used those since he’d moved in two weeks ago. I lived in the upper flat, so my bedroom was right above his, and I hadn’t heard any sex noises coming through the floor, but then again, I worked all day long and sometimes well into the night…maybe he was the afternoon delight type.

  He looked like that type. A meal you could enjoy morning, noon, or night. Like pigs in a blanket from The Pancake House.

  Jealousy surged in me as I imagined him sticking his pig in some gorgeous blonde’s blanket, whispering dirty things in her ear, making the bedsprings creak while the grown-ups of the world, the ones with real jobs, were hard at work.

  Stop it. You have way bigger problems than who he fucks while you’re at the office. Like how you’re going to get out of here.

  Hiccup!

  Oh, God. If he came into the bedroom, I was busted for sure.

  Why was he home this early anyway? I happened to know he had a late class on Thursdays. Had it been canceled because of the weather? Did he skip it because he didn’t want to drive in the snow? What a pansy. We were only supposed to get, like, nine or ten inches. Practically nothing in Michigan! California must have softened him.

  Hiccup!

  Oh, fuck. Here he comes.

  I heard him enter the room, and I tried to scoot back from the crack a little but fell onto his shoes and my foot bumped the door. Shit! Had he heard it? I held my breath as he walked past the closet and into the bathroom. A moment later I heard a belt being unbuckled. A zipper being lowered.

  I rolled my eyes. Jesus. Who doesn’t shut the door when they pee? Men are such pigs.

  The toilet flushed, and I heard the faucet run. At least he washes his hands.

  “So. How about a hot shower, gorgeous?”

  His voice startled me and I gasped, my heart whacking against my ribs. Was someone else here? Jesus, the only thing worse than being discovered by Quinn Rusek alone would be getting caught in his closet in front of some girl he’d brought home to fork in the shower. But I hadn’t seen anyone else—was he talking to me?

  Hiccup!

  I clapped a hand over my mouth, frantically trying to think of an excuse for myself. My older brother Alex owned the house, and I was sort of the manager of the two apartments in it, so it wasn’t totally unreasonable that I would be there. If only there were some kind of problem…

  My brother asked me to check on the…um—

  The heat. It’s going to get really cold tonight.

  The fridge. Is it still making that humming noise?

  The plumbing. My sink is draining slowly.

  Yeah, that was it. The plumbing thing.

  And I heard someone come in, and I knew you had a late class so it scared me. I ran into the closet, completely freaked out!

  Even better. Then he’d feel bad for scaring me. He was Alex’s friend, though, so I could get caught in this lie if I wasn’t careful. I’d have to call Alex right away. And I needed to get rid of these fucking hiccups.

  “Yeah,” Quinn went on. “I think getting hot, naked, and wet right now sounds like a good plan for a cold afternoon.”

  Smothering the squeal threatening to escape the back of my throat, I got on my hands and knees and poked my head out, solely for the purpose of ascertaining when it would be safe to make my escape, not because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of bare chest. Chiseled abs. XL dick.

  Suddenly the navy blue Henley he’d been wearing flew out of the bathroom and landed on the floor in front of me. What the fuck? Was he getting undressed? He’d shut the bathroom door if he was going to get naked, right?

  I leaned out farther.

  “Fuck, this is gonna feel goooooood.”

  And then it hit me—first his w
hite T-shirt, square in the face, before landing atop the Henley—and second, the realization that he was messing with me.

  I scrambled back into the closet.

  That asshole knows I’m here. He’s playing a game.

  It was chicken—just like we used to play in my backyard pool, only with even less clothing. Well, if he thought I was going to give myself up just because he threatened to get naked, he could think again. I could do this all day.

  I peeked out.

  Oh. My. God.

  My mouth fell open. There he was—shirtless, jeans undone, posing in front of the mirror. Flexing his biceps. His pecs. His abs.

  Every curve and line was perfection—the muscular thighs, the round ass, the narrow waist, the sculpted arms. Not that I was surprised. He’d quit modeling months ago, but he still worked out every day like it was his job. Then there were the gifts he was given—the things he didn’t even have to work for. The brain-melting blue eyes, the unforgivable symmetry of his features, the angle of his jaw, the flawless skin.

  After dropping a kiss onto each of his biceps—for fuck’s sake, seriously?—he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then left it there while the other slid down his rippled abdomen and into the front of his underwear.

  My breath caught.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Would he really go that far?

  I was sweating, my entire body on edge. (At least my hiccups were gone.)

  But what should I do? Give myself up?

  A good person would, said my conscience.

  Was I a good person?

  You’re a drunk peeping Tom. All signs point to no.

  So then I might as well see it through, right? After all, I’d made it this far. If I gave up now, he’d have something on me. And he’d have the upper hand. So maybe I’d call his bluff—see how far he’d actually go.

  Great, now you’re a perv as well as a snoop.

  Maybe I was, because when he moved behind the half-open bathroom door and turned the water on, I crawled out a little bit farther to try for a better look. Could I catch his reflection in the mirror? Or see him through the crack?

  Suddenly his jeans came sailing out, landing with a dull thump right in front of me.

  And then his blue boxer briefs.

  But I had no time to freak out, because the door opened wide and Quinn appeared, holding his hands over his crotch like a fucking fig leaf.

  I gasped.

  “So,” he said, those blue eyes dancing. “Now what?”

  Oh my fucking god.

  The game of chicken…suddenly involved a cock.

  Two

  JAIME

  You might wonder how a perfectly sane, well-educated, completely logical woman such as myself ended up trapped in a man’s closet.

  I can explain.

  When my brother Alex called and said he needed a favor, I thought he meant something for his upcoming nuptials, or as he liked to call it, “my big fat gay wedding.” He’s sort of like me in that he doesn’t like a lot of fuss or fanfare, but his boyfriend Nolan had his heart set on a huge, splashy spring affair, so that’s what they were having, come April fifth. (My brother is a much nicer person than I am.)

  “What can I do for you?” My breath escaped my lips in silvery puffs as I crossed the frigid parking garage after work. It was about five o’clock, the earliest I’d left the office in two solid weeks, but it had been a long day and all I could think about was taking off my heels and pouring some wine. I still had work to do, but I could work from home. “Don’t tell me—Nolan wants drone photography.”

  Alex laughed. “No.”

  “A pair of llamas?” I switched my cell to the other hand and unlocked my car. “A hot tub? Ariana Grande?”

  “Why, can you get Ariana Grande?”

  “If I can, does that mean I don’t have to make a toast at the reception?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then no, I can’t.” I slid behind the wheel and shut the door. “But if you’d like any celebrities of the automotive industry to make an appearance, I’m your girl.”

  Actually the marketing firm I worked for handled all kinds of clients, but since we were located in Detroit, many of them were businesses related to the auto industry. Was it the most glam job in the world? Not by a long shot, but I’d take grit over glitter any day.

  “No, thanks. And anyway, it’s not about the wedding. It’s about the house.”

  “Oh?” I backed out of my spot and began the wide spiral down to the exit.

  “Yeah. I might have a tenant, if you’re OK with it.”

  “Of course I am. Sorry I haven’t been more help with that. I know it stinks not to have rent coming in for downstairs. I was just so busy over the holidays, and then I had that huge presentation last week.”

  “That’s OK. We’re all busy, and eventually I will need your help, since this solution is really only temporary.”

  “Why’s that?” I swiped my pass at the gate and eased onto the street, frowning as someone jaywalked right in front of me.

  “Because he only needs a place to stay for a month while his condo is being finished. He wasn’t supposed to move in until March first, but he leased his L.A. house starting first of the year. He’s been living in a hotel downtown for two weeks, but he’s sick of hotel living, hates the food and noise and how much it costs. Plus I think he’s kind of lonely. I’d have him stay with us, but with the wedding and everything, it’s really hectic at our house. And since the lower flat is already furnished, it seems like a perfect fit.”

  Lonely? “Wait, do you know this guy?”

  “Yeah. It’s…” He cleared his throat. Never a good sign. “It’s Quinn.”

  I groaned.

  “I know, I know, he’s not your favorite, for whatever reason—”

  “The reason is that he was a cocky, condescending asshole to me. Other than that, he’s adorable.”

  “Come on, it’s been ten years since the thing.”

  My eyelid twitched. Did he have to bring it up?

  “Look, I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it.”

  “You haven’t. I can’t even believe he told you.”

  “He felt like he had to. He knew you were upset and felt bad. He also wanted me to know he hadn’t done anything to encourage it and never touched you. Mom and Dad were paying half his college tuition—what was he supposed to do?”

  Kiss me back, dammit. Love me back.

  Cringing, I recalled the way I had attempted to seduce my brother’s closest friend at their joint graduation party at our house. The horrible details rushed into my mind as if a dam had burst…the wine I drank from a red Solo cup as I worked up the nerve to act on my crush. The artless way I shoved him into the downstairs bathroom and shut the door. The sound of my pounding heart as I pressed my bikini-clad body against him, lifting my lips toward his.

  That awkward moment when I realized he wasn’t into it.

  Instead, he laughed.

  That asshole laughed at me.

  “Jaime, what the hell are you doing?” He turned on the light and stared at me, a look of bemused embarrassment on his face. His eyes were so beautiful—the kind of blue that made you shiver.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Bravely, I put my hand on his crotch and felt his dick stir beneath the nylon of his damp swimsuit.

  “Jesus. Stop it.” More nervous laughter as he swatted my hand away.

  “Why? You don’t want this?” I blinked in confusion. Did he not feel the same pull I did when we were together? For months he’d been looking at me differently, teasing me more than usual, flirting with me in front of other people. Just an hour ago, he’d gotten handsy with me during a game of chicken in the pool—I was positive I’d felt his fingers graze my ass multiple times. Had I misread him?

  He looked uncomfortable as he adjusted himself. “Look, you’re like my little sister, and—”

  “I’m only a year younger than you,” I said, trying to sidle closer again. “And I’m d
efinitely not your sister.”

  Backing away from me, he ran a hand through his dark blond hair, still a little wet from the pool. “Yeah, but…I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  And that’s when I said it.

  (Brace yourself.)

  “But I love you.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I’m in love with you, Quinn.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, during which neither of us blinked, he burst out laughing.

  Shame and humiliation coursed through me. “Oh, God. Just forget it. Forget this ever happened.” Without another word, I yanked the door open and ran from the bathroom straight to my bedroom, hot tears burning my eyes. How could I ever face him again?

  Lucky for me, I never had to. I didn’t know whether he’d avoided the house (me) on purpose, or whether he was just busy getting ready to leave for school, but a month after that, he left for UNC Chapel Hill without ever showing his face again.

  But he hadn’t even lasted a year there, because some model scout “discovered” him—every time I think of it, I roll my eyes—and plastered his stupid perfect face and hot body in catalogs and magazine ads and on shopping bags in stores that ripped off teenagers with overpriced clothes made in China. And he didn’t even wear the clothes in all the pictures! Half the time he was nearly naked—it was ridiculous! (Didn’t stop me from hoarding every one of those catalogs under my bed.)

  Eventually, after I went to school and studied marketing, I realized that those pictures weren’t necessarily meant to sell the clothes—they were selling an idea. A lifestyle. A brand.

  That was also about the time I learned not to trust anything or anyone that looks too good to be true. Everyone is selling something—and if you’re not selling, you’re buying.

  I’d bought enough assholery in my life already.

  “Jaims, you there?” Alex sounded a little impatient.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “Sorry.”