My brother would have to fuck up badly. And he never does. Well, almost never…unless there’s a gorgeous woman involved. Unlike me, he has a bad habit of allowing his dick to distract him. Always has. That’s how he started fooling around with Britta at the office once upon a time. Too bad he’s not having a torrid fuckfest with someone high maintenance now—at least not according to my spies. A good hourglass-shaped distraction in Griff’s bed would sure help my cause.

  As the waitress sets down our drinks, the lights dim. Everyone turns to the stage at one end of the cramped sports bar. Ah, the live entertainment. After the tragic act last week, I was hoping we would miss the show.

  But then I see her.

  Crooked smile. Pink hair. Winged black liner over laughing blue eyes. Vivid red lipstick. Tacky cheetah-print dress. Tiny waist. Sleek legs. Chunky black heels that have seen better days. I don’t think I would have looked at her twice normally, but she’s got two things going for her: an obvious zest for life and a great rack.

  Griff can’t resist either.

  I turn in my chair to watch as she grabs the microphone with deft confidence. She’s comfortable on stage.

  “Aloha, Lahaina. I’m Keeley Sunshine. I’m going to sing you some of my favorite songs, and since I’m a single girl in the middle of a long drought, they’ll probably all be about sex. You can buy me drinks after the set if you’d like to change that.” She winks.

  She’s got a certain charm. Griff values that, along with a sense of humor.

  “I’d be more than happy to end her drought,” Rob whispers in my ear as the small band nods at one another.

  Keeley Sunshine—clearly not her real name—closes her eyes as the primal beat of the music rises to a quirky old tune. It’s familiar. I know I’ve heard the song but I’m having trouble placing it, until the chorus. Then, while she sways her hips to the beat, she’s belting out that she doesn’t want anybody else. She just thinks about me and touches herself.

  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

  Collection Six

  Bundles

  Discovery Authors

  Blue Box Press

  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, M.J. Rose, and Jillian Stein would like to thank ~

  Steve Berry

  Doug Scofield

  Benjamin Stein

  Kim Guidroz

  InkSlinger PR

  Dan Slater

  Asha Hossain

  Chris Graham

  Chelle Olson

  Kasi Alexander

  Jessica Johns

  Dylan Stockton

  Richard Blake

  and Simon Lipskar

 

 

  Shayla Black, More Than Pleasure You

 

 

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