Shameless
Playboys in Love #1
Playboys in Love #1
By: Gina L. Maxwell
Releasing
May 30th, 2016
Entangled: Scorched
Entangled: Scorched
People say I’m shameless. They’re right.
I like my
work dirty and my sex even dirtier. It takes a hell of a lot to tilt my moral
compass, and dancing as a private stripper for horny suburbanites doesn’t even
register. Neither does hooking up with them afterward whenever the mood
strikes—it’s one of the bennies of the job—but it’s always a one-and-done. I
don’t do repeat performances. Ever.
Until I meet
the one girl in all of Chicago not interested in dry humping my junk. She’s all
I can think about, and that’s a problem, because I made sure she wants nothing
to do with me. But I’ve seen her deepest secrets, her darkest fantasies, and
they match mine to a fucking T.
I want her.
Bad.
Now I need
to show her how good it can feel…to be shameless.
Jane
Wendall was an independent girl, well she has had to be with work obsessed
parents and trying to complete her Masters in Social work in 2 years rather
than 3! But what she doesn't need is her pipes in her bathroom not to work. But
when her friend Addison gives her a surprise of paying for a handyman to come
fix her pipes, what she got was something so unexpected.
Chance
Danvers is frustrated that the city has tied his hand with red tape where it
comes to completing his construction contracts and is now behind and it's
bleeding over into his other job as a stripper! But as he turn up to perform
his hand man special he get the surprise of his life...a client who actually
wants him to fix something instead of dance, but after seeing what Jane is
really like, from her laptop; Chance gives her exactly what she needs.
Jane
and Chance enter into a no-strings but exclusive friends with benefits bargain.
But it's not long until the no-strings part goes out the window. But then
Chance puts his foot in it and walks away from Jane. When he realizes his
mistake it hits him like a ton of bricks, can he actually get Jane back or has
he destroyed the greatest thing in his life and lost the one person that has
ever loved him for him.
So
I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I picked up a copy of Shameless. But
what I didn't expect was an amazing love story with a touch of some of the
hottest sex I have ever read about!
I
loved all of the characters in this book and cannot wait to read the next story
in this series! I also hope that Addison gets her own story!oh boy, she makes
me chuckle.
The
plot was interesting and gripping and I very quickly became addicted. The
writing was smooth and in parts steamy.
I
give Shameless 5 stars!
Chapter One
Jane
If such a
thing as a Landlords of Chicago Convention existed, and said convention had an
award for Worst Landlord of a Multi-Unit Building, mine would win by a
landslide. A freaking landlord landslide.
Cursing his
name for the umpteenth time in the last half hour, I wrap a Band-Aid around the
cut in my thumb I’d acquired trying to unclog the pipes under my bathroom sink.
God forbid Walter would actually do his job and call a plumber for me.
Since I’d
moved into my small apartment in the South Shore area, my hot water heater,
oven, and window A/C unit had all taken a crap at one point or another—just a
few of the perks of living in a building so old that it predates the invention
of the elevator—and each time it had taken Walter weeks to get them fixed.
But I’m
nothing if not independent and self-reliant—traits born of being the child of
workaholic parents. I’d managed to repair my garbage disposal and replace the
tank assembly in my toilet by browsing the almighty Google and ignoring all my
girly squeamishness at the ick factor of both. Neither instance had been
pretty, but it wasn’t anything a hot shower and the satisfaction of a job well
done couldn’t wash away.
Unfortunately,
my stupid bathroom sink pipes aren’t going to be added to that list of
accomplishments anytime soon. I don’t know if the slip nuts (thank you, Google
Images) had been screwed on by the Incredible Hulk or fused in place by the
lesser known supervillain Rust Man. Either way, those suckers aren’t budging
for a mortal female with minimal experience handling a pipe wrench. (Feel free
to insert dirty joke here.)
I glare at
the standing water in the sink, hands on my hips, willing it to magically go
down. I’m so focused on trying to Jedi-mind-trick the bastard into submission
that I jump when my phone rings. Jogging into the living room, I snatch up the
cell and answer as I plop onto the couch.
“Hey, you,”
I say, greeting my best friend Addison Paige. “Aren’t you supposed to be
burning the midnight oil?”
“It’s only
seven p.m., but I’m sure I’ll still be here when midnight rolls around,”
Addison says wryly. “You writing your paper?”
I laugh. Calling
my masters thesis on social work a paper was like calling the Taj Mahal a
chapel. I’ve been working on it for two years, and I’m almost—almost—done.
Turning it in is the last step in getting my dual degree. Then I can finally
get a job in my field and start making some real money instead of the
piddly-ass wages I make as an intern and part-time waitress. (And then move.)
“Surprisingly,
no,” I say. “I’m still trying to fix the clog in my bathroom sink, but all I’ve
managed to do is pinch my thumb. Luckily, I managed to staunch the flow before
I bled out all over the floor.”
“Damn good
thing, because if you die before I get my fun friend back, I’ll kill you
myself.”
“You know
what I love about you?” I ask, laying the sarcasm on thick. “It’s that you make
complete sense when you threaten me. I think it’s what makes you the best
lawyer ever.”
“And I love
that you love that about me. And also that you repeatedly tell me I’m the best
lawyer ever instead of acknowledging my pathetic peon status. This boys club of
a law firm isn’t going to give me my own cases anytime soon.”
“Nonsense.
It’s only a matter of time before they see your brilliance and make you a
partner,” I say with confidence. “Wait—since when am I not your ‘fun’ friend?
I’m fun.”
“Seriously?
When was the last time you went out? For fun. Not for school or work or any
other life-sucking activity. Like, to a dance club or a bar or a fucking
baseball game? I don’t know…anything.”
I open my
mouth to respond with a list of all the things I’d done recently that
qualified—because surely there is a list—but came up with nothing. I honestly
can’t remember the last time I’d gone out to be social. I’ve hung out with
Addison, but that was more lunch dates and Netflix than clubbing and cavorting.
“Um…”
“Exactly,”
Addison crows.
Okay, so
she’s not wrong. It’s been a while since I’ve had a social life and an even
longer while since I’ve had a sex life, which makes me grateful she didn’t
bring that particular nugget up. My recent hermit status may have slipped my
notice, but I’m painfully aware of how long it’s been (for-freaking-ever) since
I’ve been satisfied by someone other than myself.
Completing
my masters coursework in two years instead of three, and then replacing school
hours with work hours, doesn’t leave me with any time to invest in a
relationship. I’m all for casual flings or even one-night stands, but the
handful of forays hadn’t been worth shaving, much less the Brazilians I’d
splurged on. After my last underwhelming sexual rendezvous, I decided that I
wouldn’t drop trou for anyone else unless I’m positive it’ll be worth the pain
of getting my pubic hair ripped out by the roots by a sadistic woman armed with
strips of hot wax. If you’ve ever subjected yourself to that particular brand
of cosmetic torture, you know that’s setting the bar for sexual excellence
pretty high.
So while I
wait for Mr. Mind-Blowing-In-The-Sack, I bought a Hitachi Magic Wand—God bless
the misguided man who thought he designed a great neck massager—and became a
frequent purveyor of internet porn.
That’s
right. I’m a closet porn addict.
Don’t judge
me. It gets the job done. With the right video, I can be turned on in minutes.
Then, depending on my mood, I’ll either watch several to build the
anticipation, or simply dive right in and get myself off in what I call an
“express O.” Bing, bam, boom, done.
But like I
said, it’s not something I’m ready to share with the class. Not even with
Addison. Not because I think she’ll judge me—that girl is all for owning your
freak flag and letting it fly—but because I’d inevitably have to answer
questions about how often do I watch it (several times a week), and what kind
do I like (the rougher, the better), and do I have a favorite porn star (hands
down, James Deen). I’d just rather not get into the gory details of how I take
the edge off my sexual frustrations, thank you very much.
“What’s it
called when the lawyer is being an obnoxious asshat?” I ask my best friend. “Is
it contempt? I find you in contempt of court, and I object. Your argument is
erroneous. I don’t need a good time right now, I just need someone to fix my
pipes.”
“Yeah, your
lady pipes,” she jokes. “Things are probably just as rusted shut down there as
they are under your sink.”
Actually,
since I don’t use a dildo of any kind, it’s highly likely. “Okay, that’s it,” I
say, laughing in spite of myself, “I’m hanging up. You need to get back to
work, and I need to do anything other than talk to you at the moment.”
Sighing
dramatically, Addison acquiesces. “Fine, killjoy. Does this mean you don’t want
the number of a handyman who came highly recommended to me?”
I sit up a
little straighter, perking up at the words “highly recommended.” Growing up in
the digital age as I have, you’d think that I would trust online reviews of
products and services. But things on the internet can be bought or faked. I’d
much rather take the word of someone I know, and I’m ready to cry “uncle” and
be done with this whole situation. “Who recommended him?”
“Rebecca,
one of our paralegals. She said he’s worth every cent and more. I believe her
exact words were ‘the best ever.’”
That sounds
promising, so I grab the pen and pad of paper from the side table. “Okay,
what’s the number? I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“One sec,
I’ve got another call coming in. Hang on.” And with a click the line went
silent.
I lean back
on the couch, staring at the spidery ceiling paint, following the bigger cracks
and admiring how they fan out with reckless abandon. Of course, they probably knew
what I knew: no way was I standing on a ladder and painting upside down to fix
them. When Addison clicks back over, I tell her, “All right. I’m ready for the
number of my miracle plumber.”
“No need,”
she replies. “I just called and paid in advance. Consider it an early birthday
present. He’ll be there in about an hour.”
“What? It’s
too late for anyone to be making house calls on a Friday night.”
“Riiiiight.
Because everyone’s shit only breaks between the hours of eight and five on
weekdays.” Addison is just as fond of sarcasm as I am. It’s one of the reasons
we make such great friends.
“Point
taken, but you still shouldn’t have called.” I hate it when she tries to pay
for things. Peon or not, she makes a good living as a lawyer and likes to make
up dumb reasons why I should let her pick up the tab on stuff. “My birthday’s
not even for another six months.”
“So then
it’s a half birthday present. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to look a
gift-friend in the mouth? Have some wine, read a book, tweeze your eyebrows. I
don’t care, as long as you let the man do what he’s hired for when he gets
there, okay?”
“Yes,
Mother,” I say with the tone of an audible eye roll. But then I add a sincere,
“Thanks, Addie.”
“You’re
welcome, babe. Oh, and make sure you call me tomorrow and tell me all the juicy
details. Ciao!”
Before I
can comment on the ridiculousness of anything involving a middle-aged man with
plumber’s crack being “juicy,” she hangs up. Belatedly, I realize I never even
got the name of the guy or his business. I almost call her back to ask, but
figure it’s not a big deal. The odds of someone showing up coincidentally under
false pretenses as a handyman in disguise are pretty much nil.
It’s been a
long week, and that glass of wine Addison mentioned is suddenly calling my
name.
Blowing out
a deep breath, I stand and head to the kitchen where I have an open bottle of
red. For once, I’m going to take my friend’s advice: enjoy a glass of wine and
a book while I wait for the “best ever handyman” to arrive and do his thing.
Now that I know help is on the way, I’m really looking forward to getting my
pipes fixed.
Gina L. Maxwell is a full-time writer, wife, and mother living in the upper Midwest, despite her scathing hatred of snow and cold weather. An avid romance novel addict, she began writing as an alternate way of enjoying the romance stories she loves to read. Her debut novel, Seducing Cinderella, hit both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists in less than four weeks, and she’s been living her newfound dream ever since.
When she’s not reading or writing
steamy romance novels, she spends her time losing at Scrabble (and every other
game) to her high school sweetheart, doing her best to hang out with their
teenagers before they fly the coop, and dreaming about her move to sunny
Florida once they do.
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