Read The Pretend Boyfriend 2 (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance) for Free Online Page B

both like it.
    He sinks into the sofa seat next to the redhead and takes the drink she proffers. It’s more bourbon.
    “Bottoms up,” he says, clinking glasses with her. “Here’s to laundry.”
    “To laundry,” she agrees.
    “May your stains always be washed away by the detergent gods,” he adds. He has to restrain himself very hard from making more quips with other types of stains.
    She finishes her drink, straight up, and slams her glass down on the table. Her cheeks are lightly flushed.
    He grins and does the same to his.
    “Now, how do we go about this?” he says.
    He leans over. His mouth closes in on hers. She tastes of vodka and clean lipstick. His hands roam down the silky expanse of her bathrobe. His bathrobe. He cups her breasts beneath the silk. Her nipples are pointed and hard.
    His cock grows hard – ready for action as it always is. He always did have a healthy libido, one he can summon at will. She kisses him back – sensual and raw and needy.
    Is it just him or is the room spinning a little? Sam’s pretty face with its upturned nose comes back to his semi-glazed vision. Let’s see. What did he take tonight? Two glasses of bourbon. He didn’t order anything at the bar of the Galois, did he? He could always hold his liquor. It’s his trademark.
    He blinks to clear the daze and kisses her with climbing fervor. His hands grow bolder. He gropes her waist, her buttocks, her thighs. He doesn’t come up for air as his tongue probes her mouth.
    He feels her hands go around his head, gripping bunches of his hair, and then down his back.
    The rest of the evening spirals away into blackness. A blackness that he will try very hard to remember for a long time . . . but can’t.

11
     
    There’s a pounding in his head that he can’t get away from. Someone is hammering nails into the base of his skull. A splitting headache like a hundred hangovers rolled into one comes charging through the noise, breaking through the barriers of murkiness and haze and dreams filled with shadowy figures that are wraiths and yet not wraiths.
    He claws through the murk and tries to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. Shapes swim into being. A vivid red and gold pattern assails his vision, and he realizes that he is face down on his own lounge carpet. To be precise, his one hundred thousand Persian weave. The house-warming present from his billionaire uncle’s wife.
    He raises his head. There is a persistent knocking on his front door. He groans. His body feels as though a steamroller has flattened it. He raises himself to his elbows.
    The door bursts open and feet clatter into his apartment. Black boots, regulation style.
    “Mr. Morton?” says an unfamiliar voice.
    Brian squints into the light, dazed. Outside, the sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows. He holds a hand up to block out the light. He thought he had drawn the fucking curtains.
    “Yes?”
    “You are under arrest.”
    The rest of his Miranda rights are lost in the drone of the officer’s voice as hands jerk his naked body up, and his wrists are cuffed behind his back. Brian stares in horror at the ruins of the evening. Broken glass coffee table. Scattered shards of glass everywhere. Smashed three thousand dollar lampstand. Torn curtains.
    His clothes strewn all over the floor.
    And a torn silken bathrobe crumpled in a heap beside them.
    What? What? What? What? A ship is plowing through the mists of his brain – a flotsam of memories struggling to come to the surface, like a shipwreck victim clawing for air. And failing miserably to ascend.
    Something cuts through his bare feet. He lifts his right leg up and stares at his sole.
    Blood.
    Embedded glass fragments.
    And that’s not the only damage to his body. The bloody trails of four fingernails have been raked and imprinted upon his chest.
    What the fuck happened here?

12
     
    Brian is fucking her, gazing into her eyes oh so deeply and murmuring, “I love you, I love you, I love you” as