Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I hated Vance Morgan, my arrogant office mate, more than anyone in the world. And yet, there I was, on a Paris-bound flight, cramped in the small space by his six-foot-four, arrogant frame.
And why?
Because after the sexy, thieving bastard stole my dream assignment, I found out he had a Lonely Fans page. One dedicated to pictures of his man-meat stick in front of world monuments. So, I did what any rational woman in my situation would do.
I blackmailed his hot, article-swindling ass. The problem was, he blackmailed me right back. And thanks to him and his can’t- lose-attitude, we ended up stuck together, Traveling around Europe while coming up with tips and tricks on how to survive vacationing with someone you hate. Easy. Like I said, I despised the man. Or at least I thought I did...
After a few days of tiny hotel rooms and steamy tension, everything between us came to a head—a really big, massive, enticing head.
Now the only tip I’m desperately seeking is how to survive falling for my used-to-be enemy.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“A man who has never made a woman angry is a failure in life.”
- Christopher Morley
Chapter One
VANCE
A lot of guys thought their dick was amazing, but mine… Mine had the likes to prove it. Over two million, to be exact.
No, I wasn’t a porn star. Just a lowly travel journalist who’d woken up the first day of the new year to a hangover from hell, a black eye, and the notifications on my phone going batshit crazy.
Morning sunshine streamed through my apartment window as I sat in my bed, staring in horror at the picture I’d posted to InstaPic at midnight—a picture of my dick with a frowny face squiggled over its head. The lights of Times Square and the ball drop were nothing but a blur in the background because, from the looks of it, I’d slapped the camera on portrait mode and snapped a photo of my dick like it was the Grand-fucking-Canyon, put a preset filter on it, and captioned it: #balldrop #hapPEENnewyear #justadickwithoutahome #sayhellotomylittlefriend #Paul.
Because Paul was an appropriate name for a cock?
A grainy memory of the prior night’s events slowly formed. One of me staggering onto my tiny Manhattan apartment balcony, whipping out my dick, then doing the helicopter. Sure, in my drunken state, doing the helicopter seemed an appropriate fuck you to the impending new year, but this… Paul? HapPEEN New Year?
“Fuck…” I dropped my head against the headboard on a groan. The internet was for-fucking-ever, and the likes and shares kept ticking up like a telethon donation box collecting money to save the humpback whale.
Two point five million likes… seriously? As a travel journalist, posting on social media was part of my job. Hell, clickbait was part of my job and I’d never seen likes, shares, and comments like this. Granted, the post I’d made of me in a shark cage nearly shitting myself while Jaws’s great-grandson circled the bars managed close to three thousand laughing emojis, but still… A night of Jack Daniels, a shit-ass poor decision, and #TheBestCockIsPaul was trending on InstaPic.
Another string of likes filtered through. When I noticed one username as my high school chemistry teacher, I chucked the phone to the end of the bed.
Point five seconds of heart-stopping shock rippled through me. I’d grown up in the small town of Casperville, Alabama, where everyone knew everyone’s business. If my grandma found out… I envisioned her forming a prayer group at her church in my honor. She’d probably send me a one-way ticket back to Alabama, demanding I get baptized for a third time. The woman was about to lose her house. She definitely didn’t need any crap like this.
The clatter of beer cans came from the living room, followed by the heavy footfalls of my roommate, Theo, staggering down the hallway. “Holy shit, man!”
My bedroom door cracked against the wall seconds before Theo stumbled into my room, his blond hair sticking up like he’d shoved his hand into an electric toaster. He held up his cell phone. “Have you seen—” The ridiculous grin on his face fell fast when his gaze met mine. “Man, who gave you a black eye?”
Ah, the black eye… that was compliments of Blake Brentley. My sexy, dark-headed coworker I’d had a thing for since I’d started at Wanderlust Media a few months back. Hot and quirky with curves for damn days and a right hook that had laid my ass out.
Theo shook his head. “Forget the black eye. Your fucking dick is famous!”
“God, I’ve got to delete this shit.” I reached for my phone, then swiped over the screen in search of the settings.
“Hell no, man.” Theo launched himself across the room and snatched my phone from me. “Are you crazy?” He clutched the device to his chest like some valuable artifact.
“It’s a picture. Of my dick. On social media.”
The notifications kept going off. I went to grab my phone, but Theo shot off the bed. “Come on, Theo. If work sees that shit, I’ll lose my job.”
“Screw your nine-to-five, fuckface. You’ve got to start a Lonely Fans. Now.” He grabbed my laptop from the dresser and tossed it to the crumpled sheets at the foot of my bed. “Paul’s about to make you a rich bastard.” When I didn’t make an immediate move for the computer, Theo snapped his fingers. “Time is of the essence.”
I stared at my idiot roommate as the notifications kept coming.
“Every second you stall is money lost.”
Theo had a Lonely Fans account, but I knew Theo was not someone I should take advice from. He would videotape himself fucking a cantaloupe if it made him five bucks. “I’m not about to—”
“Every one of those dings—” he shook the phone at me—“is cash money. And if you post a link to a Lonely Fans page before InstaPic takes down that post of Paul—because it will—you’ll be raking it in. Subscribers out the ass…” He tossed imaginary money into the sky, then flopped back on the floor, pretending to swim in it.