When the British billionaire wants to teach the cocky athlete a brand new kind of game…
Lately, I’ve been full of questions. One hot summer night, I find all the answers when I kiss another guy for the first time. But he disappears, leaving me wondering who my mystery man was.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Even on the ball field, I’m daydreaming about his hungry hands, and the filthy things he whispered in his posh British accent.
Somehow, I still win one of the biggest games of my career, and afterward, the man surprises me with an invitation: “Meet me in a private suite.”
When I RSVP, he makes me an offer–one chance to try all the things I’ve never experienced. Then we’ll walk away.
But once will never be enough.
Soon I’m locked into an intense lessons-in-seduction game with the secretive billionaire who keeps love at a distance, all while he pushes the boundaries of my brand-new desires.
Then, I learn that all my desires come with a terrible cost, as he breaks down the walls around my heart.
A Very Filthy Game is a lessons-in-seduction, first times, forbidden MM romance between a billionaire and an athlete.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DIRTY LONGING
Rafe
The music pulses. The lights are low. The packed club radiates sex and energy.
I’ve danced my ass off for hours with my friend Theresa and one hundred of our new closest mates.
I may not know their names, but I know them. They might be strangers on paper, but I can tell you what anyone here at Edge tonight would look damn good in when they take off their trousers.
Take that all-American guy out there. He’d turn heads in a pair of my Tight, White, and Bright jocks—all boy-next-door in the front, loud-and-proud playboy in the back.
The bearded man in the corner wearing the snappy, bright red tank top? When he strips for his lover tonight, he’d give that lucky man something to ogle in my Over the Rainbow briefs.
It’s a private party game I play as I ask for a martini at the second-floor bar where I catch my breath, running a hand through my hair.
It’s been a perfect Saturday night, and perfectly inspirational. My mind swims with ideas as I wait for my drink and once more scan the crowd at the San Francisco club. Revelers fill the dance floor. Bodies bump and grind. Hands slide along arms, and legs intertwine. Hips thrust. Lips lock, and I can’t look away.
My greedy imagination gobbles up the sounds and the motion. And most of all, the touching.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Theresa, her skin aglow and flushed from dancing. She’s my very good friend, as well as my Executive VP. “I know that look,” she shouts into my ear in her familiar English accent. “You’re thinking of men’s underwear.”
I laugh aloud, though it’s drowned by the music. “Guilty as charged.”
Theresa shakes her head. “Always conjuring the newest line of sexy AF briefs.”
That’s true. Men flock to my designs, buying them in droves because of how they show off their wares. Body confidence is a beautiful thing, and I’m a proud purveyor of it. Some might say lucky me, but I’ve worked hard for this luck, and my brain never stops turning.
Theresa casts her knowing brown gaze toward the dance floor. “Don’t work the whole time. Look around. Maybe you’ll find some handsome hottie to go home with.”
“Ah, but I’m only here for inspiration,” I say.
“Maybe you’ll find some inspiring sex,” Theresa says. She’s always going on about how the world needs more sex.
She’s probably not wrong.
And I certainly wouldn’t object.
It’s been a while. Late nights, early mornings, employees to look out for—work makes it hard to find time for anything more than the daily grind.
Besides, business doesn’t break your heart.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I say drily, then I take the martini the bartender left for me and make my way to the railing overlooking the dance floor.
And holy fucking inspiration. There are some perfect models for my designs. Sweaty, muscly bodies. Greek god physiques. Mythically sexy men.
Theresa joins me to ogle the crowd below. “Happy sigh. Don’t you just love a fit athlete?” She gestures to one pack of sturdy men, laughing and dancing, clearly having a blast.
I make a low noise of approval—under the cover of the music, so Theresa won’t think I’m staring shamelessly.
But I totally fucking am.
It’s damned sexy, the way they’re enjoying themselves. Maybe that’s the inspiration I’m after—a fantastic new line of radically fun underwear.
Theresa points to the dance floor below. “I’ll be heading there.”
“Be sure to take notes,” I tease.
She taps her temple. “I’m always working, just like you.”
“Birds of a feather,” I say.
“And I’m going to fly now,” she says and departs with a wink.
I sip my martini, soaking in the colors, the lights, the sounds, imagining how they would come together in a design. Then my gaze catches on a strong, muscular man dancing with a group of friends. He grinds against a woman, then switches to the man flanking his opposite side. I watch as he switches back and forth, giving each a turn.
With him so far away and the lights low, I can’t tell what color his eyes are, but his hair is dark blond and wavy, his lips full, and his chest broad. A tight white T-shirt hugs his muscular pecs, and his jeans snuggle up against sturdy thighs.
But it’s his smile that hooks me most of all.
It’s crooked and electric, sexy and dirty.
When he looks up to the second floor, his eyes find mine. Our gazes lock, and a simmering heat whooshes down my chest, straight to my groin.
Something in his eyes says come and get it. They never leave mine as he swivels his hips, lifts his arms, and moves his body like he’s seducing me. I watch, hypnotized, as the woman in the triangle pulls him close, then pushes him toward the other man. She’s the orchestrator of this dirty dance show, and by all appearances, the guy in the white T-shirt loves it.