Dirty Words (A MFM Ménage Romance) (The Dirty Series Book 4), page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Free Story Offer
Dirty Words
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
A Note from Tara
About Tara Crescent
Also by Tara Crescent
Dirty Words (A MFM Menage Romance)
Tara Crescent
Contents
Free Story Offer
Dirty Words
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
Epilogue
A Note from Tara
About Tara Crescent
Also by Tara Crescent
Text copyright © 2017 Tara Crescent
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
My editor Jim takes the comma-filled words that emerge from my keyboard and shapes it into a story worth reading. As always, my undying gratitude.
Additional thanks for Miranda’s laser-sharp eyes.
Cover Design by Kaylea Ehm
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Boyfriend by the Hour
This steamy, romantic story contains a dominant hero who’s pretending to be an escort, and a sassy heroine who’s given up on real relationships.
Sadie:
I can’t believe I have the hots for an escort.
Cole Mitchell is ripped, bearded, sexy and dominant. When he moves next door to me, I find it impossible to resist sampling the wares.
But Cole’s not a one-woman kind of guy, and I won’t share.
Cole:
She thinks I’m an escort. I’m not.
I thought I’d do anything to sleep with Sadie. Then I realized I want more. I want Sadie. Forever.
I’m not the escort she thinks I am.
Now, I just have to make sure she never finds out.
Dirty Words
If you’re going to write dirty stories about your neighbors, don’t give them tiny cocks.
Love thy neighbors? No way. Never going to happen.
Ethan Burke and Lars Johansen are chiseled male perfection, with their cocky smiles, bulging biceps and washboard abs.
They're also rich, arrogant jerks. Ugh.
I’m supposed to swoon over their panty-melting smiles, but I refuse to get the memo. After we feud over a parking spot, I write them into a dirty story.
And, when it comes to describing their, ahem, equipment, I get very stingy. How stingy? Think two inches.
Bad author.
Unfortunately for me, they find the story.
And they make me read it to them. While showing me how wrong I was. One deliciously long inch at a time.
For the record - they’re very well endowed.
I’ve never been happier to write a retraction.
1
Maggie:
The red Lamborghini is in my parking spot again.
Evidently, if you own a fancy car, you don’t have to act like a civilized human being.
I’m ready to lose my shit. Stupid, self-centered, entitled, smug billionaires, I mutter to myself, irritated beyond belief. My new neighbors, Ethan Burke and Lars Johansen might be easy on the eyes, but no amount of hotness is going to stop me from getting the overpriced Italian sports car towed.
Life Rule Number 45: Don’t park in a spot that’s marked Reserved, unless it’s actually reserved for you.
Look, I’m not a jerk. The first day the car was in my spot, I rolled my eyes and parked in the large lot two blocks down from the restaurant. Maybe they didn’t see the sign that said ‘Reserved for China Garden,' I thought charitably. Don’t make a big deal of it, Maggie.
My patience slipped the second time around, but I’d gritted my teeth and left a tersely worded note under the wiper blades.
You’re in my parking space. The sign that says ‘Reserved’ isn’t a suggestion. Might I suggest brushing up on your reading comprehension skills?
Okay, fine. The note was cranky, but can you really blame me? Just because the two billionaires are getting their parking lot resurfaced doesn’t give them the right to highhandedly park in my space. They could have done the neighborly thing by asking for permission, but of course, they didn’t. They’ve assumed that because they’re richer than God, they can just do whatever they want.
Not this time, dickwads.
My arms are laden with groceries, and to add insult to injury, it’s raining. The cold, damp drizzle gets under my skin and chills my bones. It’s supposed to be spring, but the weather doesn’t seem to get the memo. By the time I get back into my apartment, my clothes are soaked, I’m shivering with cold, and I’m fuming. Normally, I’m not a confrontational person, but today, I’m calling parking enforcement, and I’m getting the Lamborghini towed.
I dial Joe Laramie’s number. “Joe,” I tell the cop when he picks up his phone, “The billionaires’ obnoxious sports car is in my parking spot.” My voice rises with frustration. “I had to park in the downtown overflow lot again. I’m cold, I’m miserable, and I want to throw a rock through the windshield. Do something.”
Joe chuckles good-naturedly. The big, burly policeman went to high school with me and is one of my best friends. We even went to prom together one year, though when we kissed at the end of the night, it had felt like kissing my brother. Ick. After that, our relationship has remained friendly and warm but strictly platonic. “No need to damage property, tiger cat,” he says, amusement in his voice. “I’ll be right there.”
Ethan Burke and Lars Johansen are New Summit’s newest residents, and ever since they moved in a month ago, everyone in town has been breathless with curiosity about the two men.
According to Google, they founded a cutting-edge media company while they were still in college. Last year, they sold it to a large California tech giant for three billion dollars, leaving both men with roughly a billion dollars each, and the Internet is rife with speculation about what the men are planning to do next.
At first, I’d been excited about the prospect of new neighbors, especially neighbors with enough money to restore the crumbling brick building opposite me to its former glory. The Morris-Stanton building is an eyesore, with broken windows, peeling paint and a general air of neglect. Scores of prospective tenants have toured the place, but they’ve all been scared off by the extensive renovations required to render the long-vacant hotel habitable. So when the building was sold last year, and crews descended on the place to fix it up, I was thrilled.
When it became apparent that my new neighbors were very pretty eye-candy, and I had a clear view of their main living space from my bedroom opposite the street, I was even more delighted.
Of course, I should have known that it was all too good to be true. You don’t become a billionaire by the time you’re thirty by being nice. You do it by riding roughshod over everyone else, and by paying no attention to rules and regulations. Including signs about reserved parking spots.
So much for your dirty fantasies, Maggie.
I shower quickly, turning the handle to scalding and soaking in the warmth. I’m feeling much better by the time I head downstairs. While I was in the shower, it’s stopped raining, and the sun’s come out after three days of non-stop drizzle. I’m almost tempted to tell a grinning Joe Laramie that I don’t care about the stupid Lamborghini.
One of the billionaires is outside as well, talking on the phone, a frown on his face. Joe nods in his direction. “You could just go tell him to move his car, Mags,” he says peaceably.
“It’s not his car,” I reply shortly. “Ethan drives a Land Rover. This is Lars’ car.”
Joe’s eyebrows rise. “Lars, is it?” he drawls teasingly. “Maggie May, allow me to give you a bit of friendly guy advice. If you want to hit on a guy, don’t get his car towed. Men can get a little bit obsessive about their wheels.” He gives the cherry red sports car that’s currently in my parking spot an appreciative look. “Especially one as beautiful as this baby.”
From across the street, Ethan’s eyes flicker over to the two of us. Joe lifts up his hand in a friendly wave, and Ethan nods curtly.
Life Rule Number 3: Don’t lust after jerks.
Asshole. Probably thinks he’s too good for this town. My resolve hardens at the dismissive gesture. “I’m not interested in either of them,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I think they’re inconsiderate jerks, and this car is definitely parked in my spot. I want it towed.”
Joe shakes his head but pulls out his phone. “Alright,” he says, “On your head be it. I’ll call Tom. But Mags, these guys are your neighbors. Do you really want to be at war with them?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a sodden piece of paper under the wiper blade of Lars Johansen’s sports car. It’s my note. The jerk hasn’t even bothered reading it.
It’s time for war.
“Tow it,” I say flatly.
2
Lars:
After a year of being one of the idle rich, I’m going out of my mind with boredom, and more than ready to start a new venture. This time, in publishing.
ReadStream’s idea is simple. We want to create stories with the depth of a book, and the interactive experience of a really good video game. I’m convinced that the next wave of innovation in the publishing world will involve books with enhanced reading experiences, and the Big Five are too busy protecting their existing business that they’re unwilling to embrace change. New York is stagnant, desperate, and dying.
Which brings me to today’s meeting with Helena Wu. Helena’s an agent representing Cara Sandoval-Nez, who’s written a beautiful, lush fantasy novel set in an alternate America, one undiscovered by Christopher Columbus.
Renee, my Editorial Director, has been pushing hard for us to acquire this novel to be our first project, and she’s right. Now, I just have to convince the skeptical agent that we’re the best house for her client’s novel.
I’m expecting it to be something of an uphill battle—we’re an upstart publisher, and word on the street is that three New York publishers are bidding hard for the book.
Sure enough, Helena’s opening statement is not encouraging. “Mr. Johansen,” she says, giving me a piercing look through her black-rimmed glasses, “do you know how many new publishing companies fail?”
Across from me, Ethan bites back a grin. I thought Helena’s first question would be a softball; Ethan predicted that the longtime agent would go for the jugular. I owe him fifty bucks.
“Ninety percent of them fail in the first two years,” I reply. “I’ve done my research, Ms. Wu. Let me tell you why ReadStream is different, and why I believe we’re the best publisher for ‘A Land Filled with Raven Song.’”
We’re well on our way to making our case when Ethan’s phone rings. He glances at the display and leaves the room with a muttered apology. Which means the call’s from Ethan’s crazy ex-wife, Catalina.
Sighing inwardly, I return to the pitch. Catalina pushed hard for the divorce two years ago, but the moment the company was sold for billions, she’s taken to phoning Ethan every other day. I’ve told my best friend to block her number a million times, but Ethan has one weak spot, and that’s his supermodel ex-wife.
After forty-five minutes of discussion, I think we’ve nailed it. Renee and I have convinced Helena of ReadSteam’s value proposition, and let’s be honest, the half-a-million dollar advance we’re willing to offer Cara Sandoval-Nez doesn’t hurt.
“I’ll take your offer to Cara,” Helena promises us. “Of course, she’ll be making the final decision, but I’m sure she’ll be impressed by what ReadStream is offering.”
We’re just getting up and shaking hands when Ethan reenters the room. “You did clear it with the Chinese restaurant opposite the street that you’re parking there, right?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I reply, puzzled. “You were there when I chatted with Dominic last week. We spent almost an hour talking about cars. Why?”
Ethan’s eyes dance with glee. “Because they’re towing the Lambo,” he replies. “I think you should go rescue your baby, Lars.”
Ethan:
Okay, fine. I admit I’m a little too amused by this situation, but honestly, Lars is such a baby about his collection of Lamborghinis that I can’t resist. Two days ago, he got snippy with me because I ate a French fry in his car. One fucking French fry. I don’t understand this kind of obsessiveness. I drive a Land Rover that will take all the abuse I can throw at it. As far as I’m concerned, a car is a tool to get you from Point A to Point B.
Besides, it serves Lars right for ignoring that note.
I told my buddy to get the misunderstanding sorted out right away. Yes, Dominic Zhang told him it was okay to park there, but as far as I can tell, the young man doesn’t live on site, his older sister Maggie does.
After yet another long bitch-fest from Catalina, this time lasting forty-five fucking minutes, I’m in need of some cheering up, so I follow Lars downstairs, ready to watch the circus unfold. The tow-truck has pulled up in front of the restaurant, and a big guy is slipping a pair of dollies under the front wheels of Lars’ pride and joy.
This is going to be good.
“What the heck are you doing?” Lars bolts across the street, his voice rising in panic. “Are you trying to destroy my transmission?”
The tow truck driver stops what he’s doing, and shrugs helplessly. He seems a little relieved not to have to tow the car. “Not too many Lamborghini's in this town,” he says. “I’m doing the best I can.”
To Lars’ credit, he’s not a total dick, so he doesn’t vent at the tow truck driver. He turns, instead, to the cop. “I’m Lars Johansen,” he introduces himself. “This is my car. Can you tell me what the problem is?”
When I was downstairs earlier, listening to Catalina complain about something or the other, I saw Maggie Zhang talk to the cop, but now, when she steps out of the doorway, I notice her for the first time.
She’s absolutely gorgeous.
I’ve stopped by the China Garden for takeout before; I’ve seen Maggie there, her hair pinned back in a neat bun, her body enveloped in a white chef’s apron. Sometimes she works in the front, and other times, she’s in the kitchen, but I’ve never paid her much attention. She’s always been part of the scenery.
I’m a fool.
Her hair hangs loose down her shoulders, damp tendrils curling around her face. Her lips are soft and pink, her face scrubbed free of makeup. She’s clearly not wearing a bra underneath her gray t-shirt, and I swear I can see the outline of her nipples against the thin fabric.
“The problem,” she says, marching up to Lars, her chin tilted up and her eyes flashing with irritation, “is that you’re in my parking spot for the third time in four days.”
Lars gives her an incredulous look. “I live across the street from you,” he bites out. “You couldn’t come knock on the door and ask me to move it? You called a tow truck instead?”
She folds her hands over her chest, and the movement pushes her perky little breasts up. I’m aware that I’m staring at them like a teenage boy, but I can’t help myself. How the heck did I not notice how beautifully lush Maggie Zhang is?
“It’s not my responsibility to ensure that you’re following parking restrictions, Mr. Johansen,” she snaps.
Lars gets on his knees and carefully examines his car. “My paint is scratched,” he says, running his fingers down the side of his car. He glares at Maggie. “I should send you the bill.”
“You can try,” she snarls. “And I’ll treat it the same way you treated my note.”
As entertaining as this is, it’s time for me to intervene. I cross the street and stick out my hand in greeting. “I’m Ethan Burke.” I give Maggie my best charming smile. “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”
Up close, Maggie’s even prettier than she was from across the street, and even more irritated. “The only misunderstanding I can see,” she says coldly, “is that you think that being rich gives you the license to do whatever you want, without regard for the consequences.”
