Sean Rourke is Bad Boyfriends A-lister escort. Mike Douglas is silent partner at the escort service and head honcho at a training center for athletes and gym rats alike. They’ve eyed each other for some time, but it takes a special project requiring both their unique skill sets to finally light a fire that’s been simmering for far too long.
Coming soon, book #2 in the Bad Boyfriends series: Pumping Iron.
Sunday’s snippet: Their demanding client, known fondly as Junior, is proving as difficult to entertain as a five year old…
Back at the house, I made the call guaranteed to disappoint one party of four while Sean helped our pervie with his shower and a generous dousing with aloe. I tried to ignore the moans of pleasure coming from Junior’s room, instead concentrating on the conundrum that was our joint project.
I had a feeling nothing was what it seemed, and a niggling suspicion that the law firm of Lovett, Lovett and Wells might have misled us about Junior’s particular peccadillos. I trusted lawyers about as far as I could throw them, which wasn’t a fair measure since I had a better than average throwing arm.
When Sean came downstairs, we sat in the kitchen and sipped iced teas, mulling over the coming evening. I asked, “You smelling a rat here?”
“More like a pigsty.”
We sipped and stared off into space for a few minutes. “Guess we need to pay attention at dinner. Maybe something will pop.”
He grinned. I loved when he grinned, loved even more when he said, “That’s not all that’s popped.”
“We have a couple hours. Any suggestions, Rourke?”
He stood, took the glasses to the sink, rinsed them out and added them to the neatly stacked pile. I sighed with contentment.
With that devil in his eye, he smirked and asked, “Wanna work out?”
“Here or in the cottage?”
“Cottage.” He grabbed my wrist and pinched. “Wanna make it interesting?” I squinted at him. “Winner gets a blow job?”
I nodded and he took off like a shot. I sat and stared at my fingernails for a heartbeat or two, then stood, shoved the stools carefully against the counter, and sauntered out the door.
There’s a sore loser…
…and then there’s a satisfied loser.
I planned on being very satisfied.