Mister X
All-American Kings Book 1
Shae Sullivan
Contents
Dear Reader,
Mister X
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
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Also by Shae Sullivan
About the Author
Dear Reader,
Hello there! I'm Shae (Sullivan) and I'm so excited that you're reading my book today! I've been a fan of ménage and reverse harem romance for years. I read everything from rockstar to billionaire to cowboys and everything in between! Six months ago, I finally took the plunge and wrote my first book and since have written five or six more. And I’m hoping that you LOVE THEM! Stick around, because I will have lots of awesome, and devilishly sexy reads coming your way. Plus, I'm building my ARC team and looking for some loyal fans to share this journey with me!
You can join in the fun here: Join Shae’s Wicked Readers!
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XOXO
Shae
Mister X
All-American Kings (Book One)
A Contemporary Sports Romance
Chapter 1
Alyssa
With a huge sigh, I throw my arms in the air and stretch. It’s only ten-thirty at night – usually the time when I get my best work done – but for some reason, right now, I can’t concentrate worth a damn.
I get up from my couch and pace back and forth in my small living room. Dozens of floors below my condo, the Vegas strip is filled with action and people having fun. When I first moved here, I took this apartment because of the killer view – one entire wall of my living room is glass, and I thought it would be fun to sit up here, working, and watching people party and lose their hard-earned cash.
But to be honest, I think it’s made me a little resentful. Not that I envy them – despite living in Vegas, I have no idea how to do much more than anything beyond pull the lever on a slot machine. I’ve only been to casinos for work functions, and in the past six months, I’ve barely left my apartment.
It all started when I first got the idea for AngelDate – a service that only women can use, to rank bars and casinos and restaurants for safety, how hot the guys are, and their general experiences. Even though I went to school for programming, something like this is way out of my league ... so I enlisted my best friend, Caro, to help out.
And in the last six months, we’ve barely been able to get anything done. The frustrating part is, if I don’t start working faster, someone else is going to beat me to the punch and put this thing on the market.
I’m so screwed if I can’t get over this programmer’s block, or whatever is it that I’m dealing with.
But try telling that to a blank screen and a headache.
Maybe I just need some fresh air, or a break or something, I think as I continue to pace the room. I walk into the kitchen, flip on the lights, shoo my cat off the island, and open the fridge. Inside, there’s little but condiments and a six-pack of beer. After a second of hesitation, I reach for one.
Maybe this will help, instead, I think as I twist the cap off and take a long sip. Besides, going out would require too much effort – I’m in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, and the last thing I want is to go out on the Strip looking like a bag lady. I didn’t use to care so much, but after a month ago when I went to grab a cheeseburger in a similar outfit, someone actually offered me their change.
Vegas is a weird place, but that’s part of its charm. I’m not old enough to remember back in the nineties, when they were pushing their whole “family-friendly vacation” atmosphere, but things have certainly changed since then. Now, it’s like you can barely walk two blocks without getting a glossy promo card advertising nude dancers or having some guy in full makeup leap in front of your face and offer to take a photo ... for the low price of five dollars.
It’s not for everyone, but I do love it.
When I hear the sound of a knock at my door, I take another sip of beer and
“rub my eyes before padding into the living room and opening it. Caro’s standing on the other side, holding a brown paper bag and wearing an outfit much similar to mine.
“It’s like you read my mind,” I tell her as I step back and let her inside my condo. Caro groans.
“I’ve been trying for hours to come up with an interface for the home page,” she complains as she sets the bag down on my living room table. “It’s like, we need something that’s appealing and cute, but not patronizing.”
I nod firmly. “I know exactly what you mean,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “So, you’re stuck, too?”
I nod again. I go into the kitchen and grab another beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off before handing it over to my best friend. Caro looks at me warily for a second before accepting.
“You know what they say,” she teases. “Never code drunk.”
“That would involve like, actually coding,” I reply drily. “Which I haven’t done in days. All I’ve been able to do is stare at my computer and wonder why I come up with such good ideas if I’m never able to execute them.”
Caro taps her fingernail against the side of the beer bottle. “I know, right?” She says. “We should have like, gone into advertising or something. We could have made a fortune.”
“But then we’d be working for other people,” I say as I sit down on the couch.
Caro rolls her eyes. “And god, don’t remind me how much you hate taking orders,” she says. “If I have to hear about that one more time ...”
I throw a pillow at her and sit down in my favorite chair, crossing my legs underneath me.
“Hey,” Caro teases. “Take a joke, will you?” Her smile fades when she sees my face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie.
Caro stares at me as she takes a long pull from her bottle of beer. “Yeah, right,” she says. “I can read you like a book, Lyss. I know there’s something else bothering you.”
With a long sigh, I look down at my hands. My fingernails could definitely use a trim and a polish – I used to care so much about not looking like a total slob, but over the last few months my life has been so utterly consumed with work – and lack of progress – that I’ve totally let everything go. Reaching up, I find that even my hair is greasy and unkempt.
“I’m waiting,” Caro teases. “Come on. Out with it, girl.”
“It really is nothing,” I tell her. “It’s just, sometimes I honestly think I’d be happier if I could work with other people.”
“You are working with other people,” Caro replies. “You’re working with me, remember?”
For a moment, I don’t say anything – I don’t want to make my best friend feel bad. Caro and I have been thick as thieves ever since we met in high school and decided to go to the same college. She helped me through some really rough periods in my life, and I hope that I’ve done the same for her. But in a way, it’s almost like being friends with her limited my other social options. We’re so close that we practically speak our own language – I can’t imagine having that kind of freedom or connection with anyone else, and I wouldn’t trade it for
the world, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to feel normal. Like, most people get up in the mornings, wash their faces, and go off to work where they chitchat with their coworkers about their families and their lives at home. Most people take a lunch – go to that salad place on the corner and get a half salad, half sandwich. Most people wistfully stare out the window of their giant, mega-corporate offices and wish they could be doing exactly what I do.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly so unhappy – I feel like such a brat. I have a life that most people would kill for. Maybe it’s just the lack of success that I’ve had with my current project.
“I know,” I tell her finally. “It’s just different, that’s all. Sometimes, I don’t really feel like I’m actually doing anything useful.”
Caro gives me a weird look. “Like, you’d rather be working in an office somewhere?” She mimes gagging.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just wonder if sometimes, the choices I made kept me out of the running to be like, a successful person in the real world.”
There’s no reply, and Caro looks thoughtful for a long time.
“You know what?” She asks. “This is entirely too serious. You know what day it is, right?”
“Just one of many days where I haven’t been able to get anything done,” I tell her.
“No,” Caro says. She shakes her head. “It’s Halloween.”
“It is?” I cock my head to the side. “Are you sure? You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” Caro says again. She gets up and walks over to my massive windowed wall. “See all those people down there? They’re all dressed up and stuff.”
“Yeah,” I say very seriously. “It’s Vegas. That’s like, every day.”
“Caro groans. “We should go out,” she muses, still staring out the window. “There are probably some great parties happening on the strip.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you kidding? We have like, so much work to do.”
Caro’s still looking out the window, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Look,” she says. “You’re never going to get anything done just sitting in here, and I think you know that. We should go out, get really bombed, and then deal with our hangovers tomorrow over brunch at Capo’s. We can talk shop then. But I think some time away from work for a night isn’t going to kill you.”
When I don’t reply, she turns to me and cocks her head to the side. “In fact, I know it’ll be good for you, Lyss.”
I swallow. The idea of leaving my work – my baby – to go out and party makes me feel so guilty that I’m almost sick to my stomach. Normally, I wouldn’t let Caro even entertain ideas like this – going out and partying is how people lose out on things, not gain them.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say finally. “We should really be concentrating. Hey, let’s put on Hocus Pocus or something and order food, and we can work in the living room.”
“Like, instead of your office? Gee, that sounds so fun,” Caro says sarcastically. “You realize that you should like an old woman, right? Like, some old lady babysitting a teenager who wants to go to a party and she tries to justify keeping the kid home with making fudge or some shit.”
“I’ve made fudge before,” I tell her crossly. “It was delicious.”
“Alyssa!” Caro practically shrieks my name. “Why the hell are you being so stubborn? Don’t you realize that you’re going to get burned out?”
“I can’t get burned out if I don’t do any work,” I hurl back. “And right now, you’re totally not helping!”
“You’re twenty-five and you sound like you’ve already just given up,” Caro says.
I frown at her and turn back to my beer. The bottle is almost warm in my hands but I take a sip anyway, swallowing hard.
“Look,” Caro says finally. “You want to help women, right? Make sure that they’re going to safe places, places where they’re not going to literally be attacked by men?”
“Of course, I do,” I snap. “Why else would we be working on this?”
“Well, maybe you need to get out there,” Caro says. She walks over to the couch and sits down, still looking at me. “I mean, it’s great that you want to help and you think the best way to do that is to lock yourself up until this project is done. But we haven’t been out in months. What if things have totally changed?”
I want to fight back, I want to tell her that she’s being crazy. But in truth, her words strike a chord in me.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’ve been totally concerned with burying my head in work and ignoring the real world.
Maybe I could even learn something.
“You know I’m right,” Caro says smugly. She raises an eyebrow at me and tilts her beer bottle to her lips, draining the last of it.
“I ... I guess,” I mumble.
“You know I am,” she says, nodding slowly. “Now, go take a shower. You look like you crawled out of someone’s basement.”
I flush hotly. “I don’t have anything to wear,” I say helplessly, holding my hands up in the air. “It’s Halloween, right?”
“It’s Halloween in Vegas,” Caro says. “I’m sure we can think of something.”
Chapter 2
Logan
“Well?” The girl bats her lashes at me and simpers. “Did you have fun?”
She’s pulling on her clothes and she turns away from me as she wiggles into a tight dress that barely hides her ... assets before fluffing her hair with both hands and raising her eyebrows. I don’t reply as she crosses the large hotel suite and peers at herself in the mirror. She takes out a clutch and fixes her makeup, lightly covers a dark hickey on her neck.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Yeah. It was fine.”
She turns to me and frowns. “That doesn’t sound very convincing,” she says. “I don’t usually hear that.”
I don’t know what to say–what the fuck do I even say?
That I thought she was one of the most boring lays I’ve ever had? That despite being in Vegas, I may as well be back home in Indiana, fucking girls at the college bar and then letting them pass out in my bed, reeking of wine coolers?
She leaves without another word. As soon as she’s gone, I sit down on the bed and groan, putting my face in my hands. There’s a soft knock on the door and it opens to reveal Peter. Peter, although he calls himself my assistant, isn’t really much more than a glorified handler.
Because I, Logan Hart, am apparently in terrible need of handling.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask as Peter steps closer and walks over to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a small bottle of champagne and pops it open with an expert touch, pouring the fizzy liquid into two glasses. At the sound of my words – and my tone – his smile fades.
“What?” Peter asks. “You didn’t like her?”
“You told me this one would be a real submissive. Someone who would want to be dominated as much as I want to dominate,” I say. The words make me sound like a petulant child, which most people probably think I am. I’m thirty fucking years old, and yet I’m treated constantly like I’m some boy-king.
You’d think one of the most popular quarterbacks in the NFL would have an easier time of it.
But I don’t.
Sometimes, I feel like it’s my fault. If only I didn’t have this hidden dark side, this side that wants to tie women up and tease them and play with them until they’re screaming with anticipation. It’s not that I want to hurt anyone.
But I have a deep, desperate need to always be in control when I’m having sex. I want a woman to enjoy herself, but I want to control her. I want to be in charge.
I have to be in charge.
“Yeah, well, the agency told me that she was one of their most popular girls,” Peter says. “There was nothing wrong with her – I saw her, man! She was smoking hot.”
I frown deeply. Peter hands me a glass of champagne but I don’t take a drink. Instead, I stare cynically down at the liquid, watching bubbles slo
wly make their way to the surface.
“I heard from your manager,” Peter says brightly, and I can tell he’s all too eager to change the subject. “She thinks that your screen test for The Bachelor was a win. Can you picture it?” He spreads his hands flamboyantly in the air. “Mr. America – Logan Hart!”
Inwardly, I groan. The shitty thing is, I can picture it all too well. My picture plastered on billboards around the country, my blonde hair expertly coiffed by some stylist friend of Peter’s and my skin perfectly brushed free of any trace of blemish. A crowd of thirty eligible women clustered around me, begging me for attention and roses and kisses and a night in the Fantasy Suite.
Jesus, it’s enough to make me sick.
This isn’t the life I want – not by a long shot.
If I had my way, I wouldn’t be doing any of this shit. I would’ve taken my money and retired from the NFL five years ago, back when I was twenty-five and still young and stupid. I’d have some penthouse somewhere with a pleasure room ... and an endless string of young women, eager to submit and please, coming by each and every single night.
But no, apparently that wasn’t in the cards. I’m stuck being Mr. America, and apparently it’s catching up with me: both my father and my handler think I’m too old to stay single.
So, The Bachelor it is.
No one can ever find out about my true life and desires, and that’s just one of many reasons why I don’t want to do this stupid fucking show. I want to be left alone. I can all but guarantee that those women are nothing but vanilla in bed – hell, the kinkiest they’ve ever gotten is maybe a bottle of whipped cream and a jar of maraschino cherries, carefully placed over their nipples and in their belly button. As if picturing it, a sweet taste floods my mouth and I grimace as I set the glass of champagne down.
Mister X Page 1
