by Shayla Black
Oh, yeah.
Less than thirty seconds; that’s how long it takes me to have my first boner for her. And I’m a tough customer. At thirty-three, I’m not used to adjusting my dick or embarrassing myself around a girl. That stuff happened, like, fifteen years ago.
As she deftly transitions to the second verse, I picture her naked, pretty tits pointing at the ceiling, legs in the air. In my head, she’s got a bare pussy, which I realize may not be accurate, but that’s how she looks in fantasy. Griff likes them smooth, too—about the only thing we agree on anymore.
When Keeley assures everyone in the room she would get down on her knees and do anything for whomever she’s singing to, she’s not looking at anyone in particular.
She ought to be looking at me.
But she seems lost in the song, in her passion for the music. She’s got a surprisingly smooth voice with just a hint of rasp. Another check in her plus column.
As the song winds toward the end, her oohs and aahs grow breathier and louder, higher-pitched. Shit, she’s having a choral orgasm center stage. And yeah, I squirm, fighting the urge to pry my hard dick off the teeth of my zipper. I can’t help it. I’m a guy, and Keeley Sunshine drips sex.
The old Divinyls classic ends to hearty applause. I have to agree that this vixen is a musical savant compared to last week’s squeaky screen door on repeat. At a tap of Keeley’s toe—I notice her nail polish is black—the band begins the next tune.
Old jazz, the kind you drink to, so easy it makes you smile. But they’ve modernized it with guitars and drums. Still, I know this tune well because my granddad loved it. Eddie Cantor’s 1929 classic “Makin’ Whoopee.” But she sings it like Rachel MacFarlane, smooth and vampy.
I gotta admit, I’m mesmerized. I can’t stop watching her mouth. Her lips are bee-stung and would look great wrapped around a cock. Mine, for instance.
When the jazz standard ends to even more enthusiastic applause, Keeley picks another decades-old tune. I suspect she’s got an old soul. It fits her slightly retro vibe.
After a sexy, rhythmic intro, she drags in a deep breath, nearly kissing the mic, and uses her breathy voice to say that she put a spell on me because I’m hers. Right now, I can’t argue, especially when her words sparkle brighter than glitter.
Listening to her, I get chills.
Britta leans closer, lips near my ear. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
I shoot her a quelling glance, but she’s right. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait for Keeley Sunshine’s set to end, buy her a strong drink, and sweet-talk my way into her panties for the night. But right now the needs of my business outweigh the needs of my dick.
If Griff could see this woman, especially if I cleaned her up a bit, he’d be all over her. In fact, that’s a great idea. I need to figure out how to hook the two of them up—fast—so he stops thinking about the Stowe estate with all those beachfront views.
Still, I can’t suggest that to Britta without upsetting her.
“Blow me,” I murmur instead.
Britta scoffs. “No, thanks. You’re an asshole.”
“I am.” That’s something I’m proud of. Best way to get ahead in business.
“It runs in the Reed family.”
She’s right. My old man is an impeccable textbook example of a puckered anus, too. From him, I learned well. Vaguely, I wonder which pretty young thing he’s banging in his office while my mom buries her head in some all-talk/no-action ladies’ function, but they’ve moved to San Diego. It’s no longer my problem. I’m only irritated they took my younger sister but didn’t persuade Griff to shove off with them. He’s a total sphincter.
Keeley hits and holds a growly high note that demands my attention. Her voice sneaks behind my fly and wraps around my cock. Her puffy lips are mobile and soft. Her dress exaggerates the womanly curve of her hips, which she swings as she roars out the last note.
I might have thought I wouldn’t look at her twice, but that’s bullshit. I could definitely listen to her for hours. And I think I could do her all night long.
As her final note trails off, the applause is even louder, like the audience has realized she’s pretty damn amazing.
She blushes as she laughs off our reaction. Her smile quickly proves to be the most beautiful thing about her. White, blinding, real. She’s enjoying the crowd and yet seems almost surprised by their enthusiasm.
With a swing of her long pink hair, her curls catch the light, then fall gracefully over her shoulders. She shrugs at her guitar player, an old man who looks impressed.
“This will be our last song for the set. If you have requests, write them down and leave them in the jar.” She points to the clear vessel at her feet. “We’ll be back to play in thirty. If you have a dirty proposition, I’ll entertain them at the bar in five.” She says the words like she’s kidding.
I, however, am totally serious.
Keeley starts her next song, a more recent pop tune, in a breathy, a capella murmur. “Can’t keep my hands to myself.”
She taps her thigh in a rhythm only she can hear until the band joins during the crescendo to the chorus. Keeley bounces her way through the lyrics with a flirty smile. It’s both alluring and fun, a tease of a song.
Though I rarely smile, I find myself grinning along.
As she finishes, I glance around. There’s more than one hungry dog with a bone in this damn bar.
I didn’t get ahead in business or life by being polite or waiting my turn. She hasn’t even wrapped her vocal cords around the last note but I’m on my feet and charging across the room.
I’m the first one to reach the corner of the bar closest to the stage. I prop my elbow on the slightly sticky wood to claim my territory, then glare back at the three other men who think they should end Keeley’s supposed sex drought. They are not watering her garden, and my snarl makes that clear.
One sees my face, stops in his tracks, and immediately backs off. Smart man.
Number Two looks like a smarmy car salesman. He rakes Keeley up and down with his gaze like she’s a slab of beef, but she’s flirting my way as she tucks her mic on its stand. I smile back.
She’s not really my type, but man, I’d love to hit that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the approaching dirtbag finger his porn ‘stouche. To stake my claim, I reach out to help Keeley off the stage. She looks pleasantly surprised by my gesture as she wraps her fingers around mine.
I can be a gentleman…when it suits me.
Fuck, she’s warm and velvety, and her touch makes my cock jolt. Her second would-be one-night stand curses then slinks back to his seat.
That leaves me to fend off Number Three. He looks like a WWE reject—hulking and hit in the face too many times. If she prefers brawn over brains, I’ll have to find another D-cup distraction for Griff.
That would truly suck. My gut tells me Keeley is perfect for the job.
Would it be really awful if I slept with her before I introduced her to my brother?
DISCOVER THE WORLD OF 1001 DARK NIGHTS
Collection One
Collection Two
Collection Three
Collection Four
Collection Five
Bundles
Discovery Authors
Blue Box Specials
Rising Storm
Liliana Hart's MacKenzie Family
Lexi Blake's Crossover Collection
Kristen Proby's Crossover Collection
ON BEHALF OF 1001 DARK NIGHTS,
Liz Berry and M.J. Rose would like to thank ~
Steve Berry
Doug Scofield
Kim Guidroz
Jillian Stein
InkSlinger PR
Dan Slater
Asha Hossain
Chris Graham
Fedora Chen
Kasi Alexander
Jessica Johns
Dylan Stockton
Richard Blake
and Simon Lipskar
Table of Contents
BOOK DESCRIPTION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
