Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  And too many people overlook it because she’s also determination and grit and honesty. But it’s all driven by that heart that she puts into everything.

  She pushes me onto my back and straddles me. “Have I told you how much I love my rings?” she whispers, because yep, she got more than one.

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure you hate them and you’re just humoring us.”

  She laughs. “You’re absolutely correct. But since they come with Tucker, I guess I’ll keep them.” Her hair tickles my cheeks as she bends to kiss me, and I thread my fingers through the soft, curly locks while I tease her tongue with mine.

  Her phone buzzes on the floor next to us, but we both ignore it. Her fingers are trailing over the vacation stubble on my jaw, and there’s nothing I love more than her touch on my face.

  Except maybe the way she’s rocking her pussy over my rapidly hardening cock.

  That’s pretty fucking amazing too.

  Especially knowing how hard she’s worked to get so much strength and range of motion back in her leg.

  Anytime Beck gives me shit for sleeping with his sister, I point out how much I’ve improved her flexibility.

  Her phone buzzes again. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “Couldn’t help myself. I posted a picture of my rings on Twitter.”

  “So you do like them.”

  “Maybe a little.” Her eyes sparkle while she dips her head to press a kiss to my neck. I slide my hands under her shirt, and—“Dammit, Ellie, I hate your sports bras.”

  She laughs while she straightens and pulls off both her shirt and the stupidly tight rubber band with straps that require flexibility and acrobatics to pull off.

  I don’t mind the show, but it looks like wearing it would hurt.

  Though I do like the way her breasts just somehow fall right into my waiting palms while she’s still wrangling the thing over her head.

  So soft. And those gorgeous pink tips that harden immediately under my thumbs are making my cock ache. I lean up to take one in my mouth, and she gasps and grips my shoulders. “Wyatt.”

  “Mmm,” I hum against her nipple, and her breath catches again while she arches into me.

  Her phone erupts in a series of buzzes, and she laughs breathlessly. “I should shut that off.”

  “Ignore it,” I reply, shifting my focus to her other breast while I roll her wet nipple between my thumb and finger.

  “Oh, god, Wyatt, what if Tucker gets up again?” she whispers.

  “I’ll hear him.”

  “Like last time?”

  “Ellie. He’s passed out cold.” I blow on her nipple, and it works.

  She moans and grabs my face and kisses me hard, then orders me to lose my shirt too.

  I’m happily obliging when her phone blows up.

  Not like kitchen-fire-level blowing up, but a steady stream of buzzes that just don’t stop.

  At all.

  She huffs and leans over to grab it. “Stupid pho—oh.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  Then wider.

  Her mouth follows suit.

  “Wyatt,” she whispers.

  That raging hard ache in my cock disappears, because something’s wrong.

  Something’s seriously wrong.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Beck—” she starts.

  My veins freeze over. For all the shit I’ve given him, if something happened to Beck—

  “No, no,” she says quickly. “He’s okay. He’s okay. But—the jokes. The pranks. His mouth. He—”

  She cuts herself off and holds her phone in front of my face.

  I read the first text from Monica.

  Another from her mom.

  One’s come in from Levi, and I realize if I had my phone on me, it would probably be blowing up too, but my phone’s upstairs.

  And then there’s the picture.

  The picture of a tweet.

  Sent by Beck.

  Looks like something he’d say to Ellie, but he most definitely did not send that Tweet to his sister.

  “He’s so dead,” I say, my own eyeballs like saucers.

  “His career is,” she whispers back.

  We make eye contact.

  “Surprise engagement party tomorrow night at home,” I croak out. “He’s coming.”

  She’s off me in a heartbeat, putting her phone to her ear, undoubtedly calling the dumbass. “He’s home?” she asks me while I hear his voicemail pick up.

  “Flying in overnight.”

  I’m on my feet now too.

  I don’t care how much shit he gives me for dating his sister—or how many other pranks he’s pulled on me this past year alone—he’s my brother.

  And he just made the mistake of his life.

  “I’ll start packing,” I say while I throw on my shirt.

  She leaves her sports bra on the ground and struggles into her tank top. “I’m calling Mom and Dad.”

  “Tucker can sleep in the car.”

  She winces. “But the festival—”

  “Ellie.”

  She studies me a minute, then nods.

  Would I rather spend the night making her moan my name?

  Fuck, yes.

  But family comes first. And if the way Ellie’s phone is blowing up all over again is any indication, family needs her right now.

  And me.

  And every last one of the guys from the neighborhood.

  For what Beck just did, he’s going to need all the support he can get.

  “Ellie?” I say softly while I trail her up the stairs.

  “What?”

  “You know this isn’t because we got engaged, right? We don’t actually cause disasters.”

  She pauses to look at me, and then we both laugh. Except neither one of us actually thinks it’s funny.

  We’re loading up the car before she says any more about it. Tucker’s objecting to being strapped into his booster seat in the middle of the night, and Ellie’s about to climb in to sit next to him and snuggle him as best she can in the car when she turns to look at me.

  “We really are cursed,” she says slowly, but then a smile pops out. “But there’s no one in the world I’d rather be cursed with.”

  * * *

  Hey, awesome reader! Ellie Ryder here with the best news ever—my brother, Beck, has his own book! It's called America’s Geekheart, and oooooh, is it fun to watch him get tortured in the name of love. You'll ADORE it! Plus, you’re totally gonna find out exactly what stupid thing he just did. Click HERE to go right to America’s Geekheart on Amazon.

  P.S. If you want to see a couple bonus short scenes from my and Wyatt's happily ever after, click HERE to go right to where you can download them. You'll also get the option of signing up for THE PIPSTER REPORT, a weekly newsletter that's hilariously awesome and occasionally features cameos from yours truly.

  About the Author

  Pippa Grant is a stay-at-home mom and housewife who loves to escape into sexy, funny stories way more than she likes perpetually cleaning toothpaste out of sinks and off toilet handles. When she’s not reading, writing, sleeping, or trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be productive members of society, she’s fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies.

  Keep in touch with Pippa Grant!

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  For more information, visit Pippa’s website:

  www.pippagrant.com

  Want more from Pippa? Read on for:

  1.Sneak peek of The Bro Code series, book #2: America’s Geekheart.

  2.Pippa’s Booklist

  America’s Geekheart Sneak Peek

  If you love hot, sexy Hollywood men, Tweets gone terribly wrong, and charmingly adorable h
eroines looking for where they fit in the world, read on for an uncorrected early excerpt of Beck Ryder’s story, America’s Geekheart!

  Beckett Ryder, aka a man completely oblivious that he’s just mistweeted his way to being public enemy number one

  Life is pretty fucking perfect.

  Weather’s a glorious seventy-five degrees and sunny on this brilliant June morning. My new jogging shoes fit like I’m running on a cloud. The green leafy canopy over Reynolds Park is hitting that perfect level of shade, and I’ve got my tunes dialed up and nowhere to be until my sister’s engagement party tonight.

  Ten solid hours of doing whatever the hell I want.

  I’m grinning to myself as I run the familiar pathway through the city park, so glad to be back in Copper Valley. Love my job, but there is no place in the world like home.

  I nod to a woman pushing a jogging stroller going the other way, and she scowls and flips me off.

  Odd.

  Crazies are normal when I’m in LA, or sometimes in Europe, but here?

  My hometown loves me.

  I dial down the volume on my tunes and double-check my shirt.

  Nope, nothing offensive about a Fireballs T-shirt. They might be the biggest losers in baseball, but they’re lovable losers.

  I glance lower, and—yep, remembered to put pants on today. Shorts, really. My brand, naturally, but not because they’re my brand. More because I picked them to be in my RYDE fashion line because they’re really comfortable.

  I might’ve been singing along to Levi’s latest hit, but I’m not that bad. Sure, I was the eye candy in the boy band Bro Code back in the day, but I can still carry a tune.

  She must’ve mistaken me for someone else. Or her fingers are stuck that way. Resting bitch face knows no boundaries and can happen to even the most innocent victims. Probably not her fault.

  I keep on truckin’, and an elderly woman on a bench shakes her cane at me and says something I don’t catch while her dog yaps along. I pop out one earbud.

  “You’re a disgrace to good men everywhere,” she crows.

  I slow and face her, jogging in place. “Ma’am?”

  “Your poor momma must be ashamed.”

  Ah. The underwear police. Not so unusual. While Levi went on to be a pop sensation when we called it quits as Bro Code, Cash took off for Hollywood, Tripp hung up his fame and settled down, and Davis went into hiding, I took my own route.

  My post-boy-band career choices have been known to raise a few eyebrows.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s horrified. Y’all have a nice day now.” I salute her and head back down the path toward the fountain at the center of the park.

  In the years since I modeled my first pair of briefs for Giovanni & Valentino, before I branched out into creating a fashion empire of my own, I’ve had my share of haters. Goes with the business.

  But my momma isn’t ashamed of me.

  No more than she was during my boy band days.

  If anything, she’s amused. Resigned sometimes, but amused.

  Ellie—my sister—gives me trouble. So do all the guys we grew up with.

  That’s why I love them.

  They keep me grounded.

  Hell, half of them needed the grounding themselves.

  The path curves, and there she is.

  My fountain.

  Okay, fine, she’s not mine. But she’s on the city’s crest, and she says home to me.

  I love home, but running the Beck Ryder fashion empire—yeah, go ahead and snort, it’s funny—keeps me away a lot.

  I burst out into the sunshine and make the loop around the curved sidewalk, feet pounding the concrete, mist brushing my face, the five stone dolphins around the fountain joyfully spitting water into the stone mermaids’ buckets on the second tier while a circle of seahorses blows water horns.

  The early summer breeze rustles the birch and sugar maple leaves shimmering in the sunlight. The air’s clear. The sky’s my favorite blue. Flowers explode in reds and yellows and purples in the carefully cultivated landscaping that masks the downtown skyscrapers and mutes the noise of the city.

  It’s my own private welcome home party from nature.

  Can’t wait to be here more often.

  Soon. So soon.

  I circle the fountain and head back toward the path that leads to Schuler Tower and my penthouse at the edge of the park. Tomorrow, I have to get back to work—there’s always work when you’re running an empire and launching a new foundation—but today, my staff has the day off, my phone’s still on airplane mode, and the whole Copper Valley metro area is my oyster.

  No phone, no work, no responsibilities.

  Maybe I’ll leave the city behind and head up into the Blue Ridge mountains for a hike. Nap up there in the fresh air. Eat. Eat some more. Get back in time for Ellie and Wyatt’s surprise engagement party.

  Rumor has it they’re serving barbecue.

  I haven’t had good barbecue in months.

  I’m so busy drooling over the thought of real Southern pulled pork that I almost miss the yoga class.

  By itself, a yoga class on the lawn by the fountain isn’t unusual. But this yoga class seems less into the Namaste and more into hurtling their yoga bricks.

  Specifically, at me.

  They charge me as a group, a yoga-pants-clad mob racing over the hilly green grass, shouting obscenities and shaking fists. One lady has her mat rolled into a cylinder and is leading the pack Braveheart style.

  “Creep!”

  “Jerk!”

  “You go home and get your own damn apron!”

  My pulse amps into sprint territory.

  “Hey, hey.” I hold my hands up in surrender while I jog backwards, because seriously, what the hell? “Y’all know I love you. What’s—”

  A shoe hurtles at my face. Another yoga brick clips my shoulder.

  “Get him, ladies,” the Braveheart lady yelled.

  Oh, shit.

  They want blood.

  I don’t have a clue what I did, but these ladies want blood. My blood.

  My run morphs into a sprint, but for once, my brain’s spinning faster than my legs.

  The mother and her stroller and her middle finger. The grandmother and her cane. And now a yoga class.

  I’m outnumbered.

  Probably outsmarted and outmaneuvered too.

  Another yoga brick.

  And I’m still too far from safety.

  “Shut up and let your underwear do the talking!” A clump of—oh, man, that’s disgusting. Flying horse poop. Awesome.

  I pump my legs harder. Knees higher. Like I’m gonna beat Usain Bolt. Running. Sprinting. Away from a mob of angry women.

  This is new.

  As is having a mob of angry women gaining on me.

  The ladies usually love me. Or if not, at least they tolerate me with patient smiles.

  Maybe a run wasn’t the best cure for jetlag.

  But how was I supposed to know today’s International Beck Ryder Is The Enemy Day?

  “I’ll show you where you belong,” one of the women screeches.

  I don’t have a clue where she thinks I belong, or why she thinks I belong there, but I know one thing.

  I am totally screwed.

  ~END SNEAK PEEK~

  Click here to get AMERICA’S GEEKHEART today!

  Other books by Pippa Grant

  The Bro Code Series

  Flirting with the Frenemy

  America’s Geekheart

  Master Baker (Bro Code Spin-Off)

  Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire

  The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

  Copper Valley Fireballs Series

  Jock Blocked

  Real Fake Love

  For a full and up-to-date book list, CLICK HERE

  Arrogant Devil

  R.S. Grey

  A full-length STANDALONE romantic comedy from USA TODAY bestselling author R.S. Grey.

  Everyone in Cedar Creek, Texas, knows Jack McNight
is an arrogant devil. Physically, I get it: he’s tan and fit, with coal-black hair that’s clearly been scorched by hellfire. Oh, and his personality? It burns just as hot.

  When I show up on the doorstep of Blue Stone Ranch, I’m run-down and rockin’ my last pair of underwear. I’m hoping for a savior, but instead, I find him.

  My opinion of Jack is marred by a dismal first impression, but his opinion of me is tainted even before I arrive. He’s heard I’m a spoiled princess there to take advantage of his goodwill. To him, I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

  Our button-pushing banter should get under my skin. His arrogance should be a major turn-off. Problem is, devils are known to offer their own form of temptation.

  Every one of his steely glares sends a shiver down my spine.

  Every steamy encounter leaves me reeling.

  Sure, it could be the Texas heat messing with my head, but there’s no way I’ll survive the summer without silencing him with a kiss and wrestling him out of those Wranglers.

  Who knows…going to bed with the devil might just be the salvation I’ve been looking for all along.

  1

  Meredith

  I left my husband last night. There’s something so nice about the past tense—left. He’s still in California. Meanwhile, I’m standing in a gas station in Middle-of-Nowhere, Texas. I have no money, no car. I pawned a gaudy diamond tennis bracelet to purchase a plane ticket to San Antonio, and to its credit, the bracelet also paid for the taxi currently fueling up at the pump outside. However, my cash has run out and my stomach is growling.

  I eyeball the shelves lined with an array of sugary junk food. It’s the good stuff: half-dozen packs of white powdered donuts that are messier than glitter bombs and stacks of sad, deflated honey buns. It all seems like what aliens would come up with if tasked with recreating human food. In spite of this, my mouth waters just looking at it all. I want to tear open a bag of Doritos and waterfall the chips straight into my mouth. I want to double-fist the ancient, desiccated hot dogs destined to forever spin on greasy rollers—that’s how hungry I am.