ARROGANT PLAYBOY

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Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

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ARROGANT PLAYBOY

WINTER RENSHAW

COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations

EDITING: J.J. Mayflower

PROOFREADING: Janice Owen and Carey Sullivan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

BOOKS BY WINTER RENSHAW

Never Kiss a Stranger (Never Series #1)

Never Is a Promise (Never Series #2)

Never Say Never (Never Series #3)

Arrogant Bastard (Arrogant Series #1)

Arrogant Master (Arrogant Series #2)

Arrogant Playboy (Arrogant Series #3)

Coming Soon!

Bitter Rivals (part of the POSSESS anthology) – November 9, 2015

Dark Paradise – December 2015

DESCRIPTION

PLAYBOY. Noun. A moneyed man who spends his time enjoying himself, especially one who acts irresponsibly or is sexually promiscuous. Synonyms: ladies man, philanderer, womanizer. See Also: Beckham King.

BECKHAM KING. Noun. Synonyms: None.

Vanity wrapped in arrogance and tied with a wicked-intentioned bow.

Obnoxiously attractive.

Wildly talented in the sack.

Everything a girl could want in a one-night stand.

Don’t ask him to commit.

Don’t expect a phone call.

You only get one night.

And God forbid you’re the one girl deemed worthy of a reprise…

Because you won’t stand a chance.

When an arrogant playboy’s mind is set, there’s abso-f*cking-lutely no changing it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EXCERPT – BITTER RIVALS

BONUS!

ARROGANT BASTARD

ARROGANT MASTER

Chapter One

BECKHAM

I’m spent, balls deep inside an auburn beauty with shapely runner’s legs that wrap around my hips and pin us together.

Our bodies meld.

Each rise and fall of her chest brings the peaks of her budded nipples against my chest. The glowing beauty’s forearm rests across her eyes, and her swollen lips relax into an exhausted, exuberant smile.

I love that smile.

I live for that smile.

Not on her but on every woman I spend the night with.

Fucking women is a pass/fail endeavor and that smile tells me I made the grade.

The promise of warm sunlight fills the space around us. My sleepless night will catch up with me around three o’clock this afternoon, but she was so fucking worth it. I don’t move, opting to reside inside her a moment longer, both of us basking in our respective euphoric states a few more seconds.

Her arm goes limp, falling to the pillow behind her head, and our eyes meet for the first time since we stumbled over each other in a drunken rush to dive headfirst between the sheets of my king-sized bed.

And this is where it gets awkward.

This is where she’s supposed to sigh and give me that far off gaze, the one that makes me think she believes something amazing just happened between us. This is where she flashes a smile and grabs the sheet and covers up and combs her hair out of her face like she’s all of a sudden self-conscious around me.

They all do it. It’s like they’re reading off some kind of twenty-five-year-old single girl script.

First they’re sexy, bold, and brazen.

Then they’re cute, coy, and bashful.

Bait and switch. Every fucking time.

At least I know how it works now. I’m not some twenty-one year old, fuck-anything-with-a-vagina pencil dick who falls for it anymore.

One step ahead of them now.

After this radiant vixen plays modest church mouse for a while, she’s going to say she had fun and if I ever want to hang out again – hang out code for screwing her until neither one of us can walk straight – to give her a call.

That’ll be my cue to say something like, “Absolutely!” or “Hell yeah.” A little something to put a pep in her step during her imminent walk of shame.

The auburn girl below, whose name escapes me at the moment, flashes a two-second smile.

Here we go.

Three…

Two…

One…

“You can get off me now.” Her hands press against my biceps, and her post-orgasmic smile fades. “We’re done here, right?”

Wait, what?

I strategically maneuver myself out of her, making sure the condom is still intact, and move to the side. The girl doesn’t grab a sheet or slip into shy-mode. She tiptoes to the bathroom, her peach-shaped ass swaying, and comes out a few minutes later, brushing her teeth with her finger and apparently some borrowed toothpaste.

She leans over, spitting into the sink, the long muscles down the side of her leg flexing as she rises on her toes. When she emerges, she snaps a black elastic between her fingers.

“Found a hair tie in your bathroom,” she says, pointing to her hair as she finger-combs it into a messy pile on top of her head. Her breasts lift, round and proud. She has no shame – not that she needs any. She’s her own brand of gorgeous, and she owns it. There’s not an ounce of insecurity anywhere on this woman.

The sunlight climbing over the cityscape outside my penthouse starts to fill the shadowy room, bathing her in warmth and illuminating every curve.

“You just going to stand there with your mouth hanging? Be a lamb and find my bra, will you?”

I climb off the bed, stepping into my crumpled boxers and digging through the mess of clothes on the floor until I pull out a black bra with see-through lace cups and some clear, plastic strap across the back.

I hand it over, a half-smirk on my face.

She takes it from me and slips the straps over her creamy shoulders before adjusting it into place and securing the back. I grab her dress from last night, the tight black number with the low back that initially caught my eye, and hold it out for her.

“Thanks.” She steps into it, pulling it up and over her curves. Her eyelids are rimmed with smudged black makeup but it’s quickly overridden by a confident glimmer in her round eyes. The girl glances around the room. “What time is it?”

“Six.” I eye the blue-numbered alarm clock over her shoulder before getting up to grab some mouthwash. “Quarter after actually.”

“Perfect.”

I follow her out my bedroom, down the hall, and toward the foyer where her heels rest on their sides in front of my private elevator. This girl’s in such a hurry that I almost feel used.

Almost.

Maybe it’s karma for all those times I’ve gone home with a woman and dashed out before the sun came up.

She spins on her heels, checking out her reflection in a wall-hung mirror, licking her finger, and wiping a streak of black mascara under her eye.

“So…” I feel the need to fill the silence with something, but nothing comes to mind because my brain is too busy trying to figure out the anomaly standing before me.

This girl has game. She may even have more game than me.

Her gaze darts around the room, scanning the marble buffet table and elaborate floral arrangement and zipping across the chessboard tile. Most women fawn and ooh and aah over my foyer but not her. She couldn’t care less.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“My bag.”

She breezes past me, her heels clicking against the marble tile, and heads into my kitchen. I scratch my temple.

Did I take her in the kitchen last night?

A smile crawls across my lips as faded fragments of our evening return to my memory.

Oh, yeah. I took her in the kitchen last night. And the dining room. And the balcony.

“Stop,” she says, returning with a black satin clutch under her left arm.

“Excuse me?”

“Stop gloating.”

Who is this woman?

My palm rakes my five o’clock shadow. This girl with the dark, fiery hair is something else. I bite my tongue, biding my time before she steps on the elevator. At least I’m spared the whole awkward exchange where I pretend like I fully intend on tapping that ass again in the near future.

“Ugh.” She rifles through her unfastened clutch. “Where’s my phone? Why isn’t it in here?”

This woman wants nothing more than to leave my place, and the universe wants nothing more than for her to stay. I’m caught somewhere in between, still standing here in my silk boxers, mildly entertained but mostly confused.

“So. Thanks for last night.” I widen my stance and fold my arms across my bare chest, refusing to let myself cringe. I never fucking do this.

I’m not that guy. I’m not the lame ass who goes from sex-on-fire to grateful chump as soon as morning comes.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She glances up from the shallow depths of her bag and rolls her eyes. “Did you seriously just thank me for fucking you?”

We fucked not once, not twice, not even three times. Four times.

“I appreciate a girl who can go the distance. Rare to meet someone who can keep up with me.”

She bites away a grin. Pretty sure she’s fucking laughing at me.

“Something funny…” My mind goes blank as I rack it in search of her name.

Odette? No.

Tessa? Nope.

Olivia…

“You don’t remember my name, do you?” Her full lips pull wide, showcasing a mouthful of perfect, white teeth. Her entire face lights, followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Classy.”

“We had a lot to drink.” Everything happened so goddamned fast.

“Yours is Beckham,” she says. “Like the soccer player. Beckham King. Truth be told, that’s all I know about you. I picked you because you were hot. I came home with you because I felt sorry for you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I cup my chin, cocking my head. “You felt sorry for me?”

She lifts a single shoulder.

Odessa. That’s it.

“Odessa,” I say, fighting the smug twitch in my mouth. “Odessa Russo.”

I halfway remember her bragging about her Greek-Italian heritage, and I fully recall appreciating her Greek ass and the exotic Italian angles of her pretty face.

“Oh, wow.” Odessa’s brows lift, her lips puckering as she sarcastically accepts defeat.

“You came home with me because you felt sorry for me?” I refuse to let it go.

“Yep.”

Green. Her eyes are a radiant green. Lit from the inside. Hypnotic.

“I watched you hit on about four or five women before I had to come in and save the day.”

She’s lying. She’s got to be lying. I have a three strike rule, and I’ve yet to need to enforce it.

I love sex.

Correction: I love casual sex.

Carefree, uninhibited, never-see-you-again sex.

It’s what I do. It’s the way it has to be.

Page Six stopped calling me one of New York’s most eligible bachelors years ago after a failed engagement with a pedigreed hotel heiress, and they quickly rebranded me as an arrogant playboy. But I don’t mind. It’s who I am, and I make no apologies for it.

I’m the guy women fantasize about changing; the one they dream about falling hopelessly in love with.

The only thing I’m hopelessly in love with is my life – exactly the way it is. It hasn’t always been this way, but I’ll be damned if I ever go back.

“Help me find my phone,” she orders, striding into my living room. I stand back as she slips her hand between the cushions of my overstuffed leather sofa.

Did we fuck there last night too?

She retrieves a white phone, inspecting it like there’s a chance it belongs to a former conquest.

“Ugh. Battery’s dead.” She stuffs it in her clutch and snaps the little bag shut.

Guess there’ll be no exchanging of numbers.

Woe is me.

Our eyes lock, and Odessa tugs the hem of her dress into place though it’s barely long enough to hit the middle of her long thighs.

“All right, then.” She walks past me, grazing my shoulder, and heads for the elevator, hips swaying with the subtle bounces in her steps. Her fingertips reach back, smoothing loose auburn tendrils that have fallen around her nape.

My eyes trace down her back until it finds the dip just above her perfect ass and those hips I’d held onto all night.

I don’t do repeats. I don’t do booty calls or the whole fuck-buddy thing. I’m a one and done kind of man, but damn, if this sexy little spitfire doesn’t make me want a reprise.

Odessa presses the call button on the elevator and the doors part. She steps inside, our eyes meeting one last time.

This is it.

Once those doors close, I’ll never see her again.

Which is exactly the way it’s supposed to be…

I suck in a quick breath. “Wait.”

I never chase after women. I send them packing with a post-orgasmic glow and sometimes an awkward, morning-after hug. The second they close I’m never going to see this woman again. Any other time I’d be perfectly okay with that. But I can’t let her walk out of my place lugging every ounce of power from this entire exchange.

It’s not the way it’s supposed to go, and I can’t allow it.

Her brows arch, and the right corner of her fuckable pink lips pull up. I can’t let her leave with the upper hand. I can’t be left in the dust like some pathetic pity fuck.

The doors ding and slide, but I stop them, climbing onto the elevator next to her.

“What are you doing?” She backs herself into a corner, literally.

The only way to reset the power balance is to get her to want me. I need her to leave this place thinking she’d just had the best sex of her entire life, and I want her to silently plead for more with those glossy emerald eyes of hers.

And after that?

I want her calling me every night for a week, begging to come over if only so I get the satisfaction of telling her “no.”

I reach for her, sliding my palm against her jaw and cupping my fingers around her soft neck before lowering my mouth to hers. Without saying a word, I steal a tender kiss. My free hand hooks the curve above her hip, and her body melts against me for the few, short seconds my mouth claims hers.

That’s how it’s done.

Kiss them until they’re weak in the knees.

I pull away like some sensual Casanova and cock a satisfied smile.

Her wild green eyes soften for a millisecond before her brows twist.

“Why did you do that?” she asks.

I step back, two steps actually, and run the side of my finger against the warmth of my lower lip. Her spearmint taste settles on my tongue.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Odessa.” I step off the elevator, wicked gratification sinking into my bones, and send her off with a signature ambiguous nod.

Only the last thing I see in the moments before the door slams shut is her middle finger pointed straight up.

I slam the call button over and over. I need the elevator to stop now, but the clunk-clunk and whoosh tells me it’s too late.

I scramble to my room, tugging on last night’s slacks and pulling a white button-down over my tight shoulders as I make a mad dash for the emergency stairway. I’m not sure if I can beat her to the ground level, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

Two steps at a time, the whole way down. Ten flights. I’m glazed in a coat of sweat by the time I get to the bottom and my shirt clings, but I catch the backside view of her as she slips past the doorman and heads west down twenty-sixth street.

“Odessa.” I call out the second I hit the pavement behind her. She stops dead but doesn’t turn around until I get closer.

Her arms fold. “Seriously?”

“What the hell was that?” This is not my finest hour, but this woman brings out insecurities I never knew I had.

“The kiss.” Her head tilts. “It was rude. I didn’t want it.”

It’s still early enough that the streets haven’t filled with Friday morning commuters.

“You’re a piece of work.” My gaze narrows. I refuse to release her from my stare. “I can’t thank you... I can’t kiss you...Women like you are the reason I don’t date.”

Well, one of the many, many, many reasons.

“Give it a rest. God, what’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” I ask.

“I went home with you. I fucked you. I wanted to leave. You had to take the perfectly nice, no-strings-attached thing we had and make it all about you and your little bruised ego.” Her head shakes. “I had higher expectations for you.”

I’m dreaming.

That’s got to be it.

This is some strange dreamland where up is down and left is right. Yes means no. North is south. This never happens in real life. I don’t chase women. Shit like this doesn’t bother me. I love ‘em and leave ‘em and pray to God I don’t run into them around the city in the foreseeable future.

“Everything about you screams manwhore.” Her right fist clenches before releasing. “All I wanted was a night of fun. That’s it. And you said back at the bar that you could give it to me.”

I’m sure I said a lot of things back at the bar.

“I thought you went home with me because you felt sorry for me?”

“That too.” She lifts her chin, shoulders squaring. “You have sad eyes.”

“I do not have sad eyes.” Fuck. I need to check the mirror when I get back upstairs.

“You do. You look lonely.”

That’s it.

“You know what, Odessa? You don’t know me. We’re done here.”

Xavier warned me about redheads, claiming they don’t just screw your body, they screw your mind too. I’m not even sure how I ended up with her anyway. My cock tends to prefer women of the carefree, blithe variety. Everything about Odessa is clear as mud. She’s as opaque as they come.

She shrugs, eyebrows lifted. “Okay. Bye.”

I turn and walk through the doors to my building, past the doorman, and toward the elevator bay.

I’m not sure what the fuck just happened, but I want to scrub it from my memory with a healthy combination of bleach and rubbing alcohol, and hope to God I don’t run into her ever again.

Chapter Two

ODESSA

Bad idea. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

I shake my head at myself because someone needs to. I’m hunched over my bathroom counter, wiping away what remains of last night’s face with a Pond’s makeup wipe.

Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, going home with a handsome stranger from some uptown Manhattan cocktail lounge takes the cake. I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Men that attractive are always too good to be true.

Hunched over his drink last night and wearing a black suit jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, I had to step closer to get a better look. And when I stood next to him to order my drink, that’s when I saw his profile: perfectly straight nose, the promise of a dimple in his right cheek, strong jaw, thick hair the color of my impure thoughts.

The striking stranger possessed a raw, unapologetic virility, radiating sex appeal like a nuclear bomb that dispatched a quiver down my spine and stopped at my weakened knees.

And then he turned my way. Noticed me. It was all over from there. My night’s destiny was sealed with one wicked smile and the mischievous glint in his eye.

Sigh.

There was also the fact that he was everything Jeremiah wasn’t, and God knows I needed a palette cleanser.

My debaucherous evening went so well, too, until he had to go all psycho-jealous-boyfriend on me. I’m not sure why he felt the need to kiss me in the elevator or chase me down twenty-sixth street, but I’ll let that serve as a reminder that people are never what they seem.

Nothing about Beckham is sad or lonely. Aloof perhaps. Arrogant for sure. Too good looking and well dressed? Yeah. Sad and lonely? Not at all.

I am lonely, and that’s the sad truth.

My gaze falls on my deserted engagement ring, which rests in a ceramic ring tray on my bathroom vanity. I’m not sure how many carats it is or if it’s platinum or palladium. I was too excited to care when Jeremiah popped the question after six years of dating.

Six months ago, I said yes.

Two weeks ago, he asked to take a break.

I told him I understood, and I removed the ring without making a big fuss like some other women might do. My southern Jeremiah wouldn’t know what to do if I unraveled anyway. Women where he’s from are strong as hell. They care more about leaving impressions than making them. They’re grace and strength even in their ugliest moments.

My insides are currently glued together with two parts hope and one part dandelion wishes. I’m not sure if Jeremiah and I will get back together, but nothing’s off the table for now. We’re stuck in this gray area until he decides what he wants to do.

A buzz from my phone on the counter notifies me it’s now fully charged. Not only was I an idiot for going home with a stranger, I foolishly did so without a full charge on my phone.

Looks like haste and excitement got the best of my common sense last night.

I leave it plugged in a little while longer and peel last night’s shameless, fuck-me-now dress from my sticky curves before stepping into a steamy shower. Two hours from now, I’m to report to Townsend Energy Holdings on Park Avenue for some PR consulting. Apparently the Chief Branding Officer is in dire need of a right hand and since the last firm I worked for closed up shop two months ago, I’m officially freelancing.

The water rinses remaining remnants of the night before clean off, swirling down the drain along with any shame that may have consumed me on my walk home this morning.

Last night loneliness struck me across the side of the head as I hummed along with the microwave that heated my Lean Cuisine. After polishing off two Lifetime movies and a pint of tiramisu gelato, my wallowing morphed into determination.

If Jeremiah wasn’t tossing and turning all night, staying in eating frozen dinners, then I shouldn’t either.

Jeremiah was living it up, surfing the wave of his newfound celebrity status. It was as if someone had given him some special key and he had to go around and stick it in every lock he could find to see how many doors would open for him.

Once upon a time Jeremiah used to be a self-proclaimed foodie. At first it was a cute little hobby of his. We’d try new restaurants and food stands. He’d blog about it for his twenty-eight followers. That was that. After two years of late nights and long hours, helping him learn his DSLR camera, and utilizing every PR strategy known to man, Jeremiah’s food blog took off and his ad revenue hit somewhere in the tens of thousands per month.

That’s when the book deals came and the TV network executives approached him. It took a year, but a cable TV deal was hatched out, making Jeremiah the star of his own show, EAT ME, JEREMIAH!

Then everything changed.

My college sweetheart fiancé morphed into an overnight celebrity complete with a dentist-bleached smile, sprayed-on tan, and highlighted tips of thick, sandy blond hair. I stifled giggles from behind the director the first time he filmed. He looked like a glammed up country music star, and the deep-woods, Georgian accent didn’t help. Jeremiah went from downhome boy next door to gracing the pages of Us Weekly in the blink of an eye.

Sometimes I wish he’d never started that damn blog. One taste of celebrity was all it took for him to become addicted.

I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a fluffy white robe and checking the time. I’m good. And lucky. Going out on a Thursday night when I should’ve been hitting the sack early and mentally preparing myself for my new job was grossly and uncharacteristically irresponsible of me.

Without looking, I reach for my toothbrush, dropping it the second I realize I grabbed Jeremiah’s royal blue Oral-B. He left without taking a thing. I’m not sure if he thought he’d be back soon enough or if he figured he had enough money to replace it all, but everything about him still lives in my apartment.

Everything but him.

My stomach sickened in that moment, and any excitement I held for his future – for our future – vaporized. I wanted it all back, but it was too late. All that was left was my hope that underneath his exciting, new façade, the old Jeremiah still remained.

I want to believe we can get us back.

I pick up my sparkly ring. “He’s never coming back, is he?”

A groan passes through my lips. If I’m talking to inanimate objects now, next thing I know I’ll be a bag lady feeding Central Park pigeons.

I’m not that person.

It ends today.

If Jeremiah comes back? Great. Fine. We’ll figure everything out and go from there. If he doesn’t come back? He doesn’t deserve me.

I comb my hair into a neat bun, slip on some black-framed glasses, a lacy cream blouse and chic, gray pencil pants that stop just above my ankle.

Today I’m refined.

Professional.

Today I’m not the girl who screwed an obnoxiously attractive man from sundown to sun up last night.

Four different times.

Today I’m not the girl teetering between missing her ex and resenting him for abandoning the good thing they had.

Today I’m a ball-busting public relations consultant. I’ll take no shit, and I’ll make no apologies.

I transfer my fully charged phone into a new bag and check my wallet before dashing out the door. The sky holds a brighter shade of blue in it, depositing the sun on a downy soft pillow. An April morning chill bites into my bones though I hardly feel it with all the anticipation coursing through my veins.

Here’s to the future, whatever it holds.

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