The Cuddler

by Liv Kingstown

  I look at Delaney. She’s gritting her teeth with a frown. I look at Lee’s father. He’s shrugging his shoulders. When I look back at Lee, my heart breaks. She doesn’t look happy.

  I play stupid. “It’s a dress.”

  She cocks her head. “It looks like a wedding dress.”

  Kevin puts both paws up on the counter to sniff at the object that might turn into the source of an argument. But Lee’s father and I have already prepared for this. He’s given me loads of advice on being with a married woman. It’s the exact opposite of trying to pick up a woman at the club. Instead of being confident and having any lines ready, whenever Lee’s upset, I need to keep my mouth shut and just play dumb.

  The problem is I can’t absolutely be sure if Lee is upset or not. I believe she is, but I think I should find out for sure. “Are you mad?”

  She scratches the back of her head. Her hair has filled in but it’s still very short. She’s stunning and truth be told, I’m a little glad Delaney isn’t going to be able to mess with it too much being as short as it is. I saw the wig Delaney bought and fixed for Lee and I completely understood why Lee wouldn’t wear the thing. Delaney had died pink and purple streaks into permanent tight curls between loose hanging straight strands as if she intended to put Lee in an eighties video.

  Mr. Hart interrupts Lee’s pondering silence. “Why don’t you try it on, honey?”

  “Yeah, try it on,” repeats Delaney.

  Lee fumbles with the rock on her finger, then eyeballs me, picking up the box. “If it doesn’t fit, you’re taking it back.”

  I nod with a flat grin.

  It seems nearly a half hour has passed before Delaney decides to check on Lee and when she does, there’s a scream!

  Both Lee’s father and I rush to the bedroom where we see Lee standing in front of her full-length mirror. Lee has been crying. Her cheeks are wet and red and her lips are plump and pouting, but she’s still gorgeous. She’s as beautiful as the first time I laid eyes on her, except it breaks my heart to see her so upset.

  “I’ll take it back,” I say right away.

  “No!” shouts Delaney with a grimace. “Why would you do that?” Delaney bends down to the ground, fluffing the dress out. “It’s a perfect fit.”

  “Look,” Lee smiles, although more tears flow. “I even have a little bit of boobs.” She manages to laugh with her hand over her mouth.

  “You look beautiful, baby.” Mr. Hart gives Lee one more look over before he pats me on the shoulder and heads to the kitchen to finish putting away the groceries.

  I walk up to Lee from behind. “Delaney, can I speak to Lee alone for a minute?”

  Delaney turns her head with narrowing eyes, but she gets up. “Sure, but don’t take too long, I need to take some pictures so I can create her perfect makeup palette and plan for accessories.”

  Delaney is nice enough to close the door behind her and I plant my chin on Lee’s shoulder from behind. “So, you like the dress?”

  She smiles. “I do.”

  “You’re not supposed to say that just yet until you pick a date.”

  Her head folds forward and I pick it up so she can see us in the mirror together.

  “I love you, Lee. I need you to pick a date.”

  More tears flow from Lee’s eyes but she manages to collect herself, to stare me down through the mirror. “What about Blue Dress?” she blurts.

  “What?” I cock my head back with a raised brow.

  Lee squints at me through the mirror. Neither the mirror nor her squinty eyes can hide the anger I see. “Red Dress. Yellow Dress. Purple Dress,” she barks. “It’s like you still can’t get enough. I saw your phone the other day. Someone sent you a message and she was wearing a blue dress this time.”

  My head falls back as a smile spreads wide across my face. I want to laugh so badly. “Lee, that was from my client. That’s the model they plan to use for the photo shoot they’re doing with my logo in a new commercial. I’ve built some trust with these people. They wanted my opinion.” I snake my arm around Lee’s waist and yank her with one forceful pull to land flush against me. I put my chin back over her shoulder and capture her gaze in the mirror. “There’s only one girl I want and that’s the girl in the white dress.” I kiss the top of her shoulder. “Do you want to wear the white dress? In a church? With your father? Until he hands you over? To me?”

  She fumbles with the rock on her finger as she looks at herself in the mirror. “It does fit perfectly,” she admits.

  Wrangling Lee by the arms, I spin her to face me as I cradle her head in my hands. I plant a kiss on her plump lips and she melts against me. “Pick a date, Lee. I picked you and you picked me. Now, pick a date.”

  Her brows furrow. “You picked me, you say? No, I don’t think so. I picked you first.”

  “Oh! The first?” I joke. “You want to get married on the first? Well, that’s only... I don’t know... That’s less than a week away.”

  She wrestles against my grip with a laugh. “That’s not what I said. A week is too soon.”

  “Then the following month on the first. Do you want to get married, Lee? I want to be married to you. Mrs. Masters has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “I prefer Hart-Masters and I want to be married, but...” She tilts her chin down, “Don’t you want to have children? I can’t have kids, Kevin.”

  My brows knit. “Listen, Master of My Heart, we can have children. We’ll find a way to grow a family, but you need to marry me first, so we can get our own place and the dog can have his own bed. Maybe even his own room.”

  Lee bats her eyes with a purse of her lips. “Okay. I’ll pick a date.” She pops me with a firm kiss. “Now, send in Delaney.”

  “Delaney? Are you going to let Delaney help you decide?”

  “Well... yeah,” she shrugs.

  I’m a little peeved. “And how does Delaney get a say in this?”

  “Oh, you know... Because,” she looks up at the ceiling.

  “Because what?”

  “Decisions like this always go more smoothly when discussed in a threesome.”

  I laugh at Lee’s little devious grin and I kiss her forehead. “I love you.”

  She sways. “Yes, I know. You did pick me.”

  “Yes, I did, and I will forever. Pick. You.”

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  * * *

  Coming next,

  April 2019

  * * *

  The Kisser

  * * *

  Keep scrolling for a preview.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Dearest Reader, for sharing in my special brand of crazy. I write in multiple romance genres and this was the first book in a series of standalones in which I decided to venture into contemporary romance while maintaining the raw intimacy and angst I like to put in my fantasy and dark romance novels. In truth, this book (and subsequent books in this series) is the result of feedback I received over the previous year from my readers via surveys, emails, and reviews.

  So, thank you for helping me bring The Cuddler to life.

  To my DARC Team, my editor, and my nerd herd at home, thank you so much for your support! I couldn’t do this without you.

  About the Author

  Hi! Liv Kingstown is the pen name for the author/creator of Babe Fuel Books. Everything you’d like to know about me can be found at BabeFuelBooks.com/about. But if you want a quick run-down—I like to sip on coffee, chai, southern sweet tea, and pretty much anything that promotes sugar and caffeine in a rich candied combo while I’m reading. I love to read.

  Come find me! Follow at…

  Amazon - https://author.to/kingstown

  BookBub - http://bit.ly/2GKToUH

  Facebook - http://bit.ly/2GeHaDI

  Kingstown Newsletter - http://bit.ly/2Le5moq

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  * * *

  The Kisser

  A Meet Your Man Novel

  Sample

  by Liv Kingstown

  Prologue

  Taylor

  The first time I recall seeing myself dancing, I was just a boy looking through a wall-sized mirror. My toes were curled instead of pointed, my ballet shoes were a size too big, and my bare round belly poked out so far beyond the waistline of my loose black leggings, I saw drool collecting over the hump of my naked stomach.

  I was three years old.

  I pulled my toe to my knee—it took a few tries not to stumble—and I performed a sort-of spin. The fingers of each hand should have touched together above my head, but my right hand was more interested at digging around my belly button at the same time while I was attempting a pirouette.

  “Good job!” My young mother clapped her hands together with a smile so big I was surprised she was pleased.

  Even at that age, I knew what I’d done was total crap.

  “Wonderful,” a photographer exclaimed. “Now, pick him up and let’s take a few close-ups of mother and son.”

  Swiftly, my mother made her way across the worn wooden floors covering the Vander Rose Conservatory of Dance studio.

  My family’s studio.

  My family’s legacy.

  My mother’s tiny feet wrapped snug in pink toe point shoes sprinted speedily but lightly towards me. The loose chiffon skirt of her pale pink leotard floated up behind her, which made her look like she had wings at her back.

  And she tripped.

  The photographer was more perplexed than I was, which made me laugh to myself. As beautiful as my mother was, I remember thinking how silly she looked, like a clumsy girl.

  She collected herself, picking me up, and then squeezed and nuzzled her nose into my neck. The tickling made me squirm and I laughed louder, attempting to pull at her slicked chocolate brown hair—a darker chocolate than mine—tucked tight into a bun at the back of her head.

  Gripping my hand, she pulled my claws free from loosening tendrils and stuck my chubby feelers into her slobbering mouth. I remember the feeling was gross, but also fun. I squealed in delight as my mother gnawed playfully on my fingers.

  “That’s good,” the photographer interrupted. “But let’s get a few of the two of you dancing.”

  “Do you want to dance?” my mother asked, her blue eyes as big as the sky outside of the studio blinked with a need for me to comply.

  I didn’t want to dance. The camera lens looking at me with its monstrous glassy eye had interrupted our silly moment, making me uncomfortable. There always seemed to be cameras around and I didn’t like it. Beyond the camera, I knew what was waiting—the source of our fortune—an audience. At three years old, I already understood the concept of fortune and where it came from.

  From the spectators.

  From our fans.

  Sometimes I’d wish I could have my mother to myself and that moment was one of those times, so I squirmed, upset that, as usual, everything revolved around the stage, which served no purpose but to please our fans watching.

  “Come now, Taylor.” My mother’s voice was unusually shaky but sweet. “Dance with Mommy. Nothing makes me happier than when I see you dance. Let the cameraman take a few pictures. The world wants to see you move, too. Let them see you.”

  The expectation infuriated me. There were always too many expectations and not just of me, but of my mother as well. As a little boy, I’d already felt it—the expectancy of following through on doing everything I was told to do.

  I was expected to be seen.

  I was expected to let people watch.

  I was expected to be legendary.

  I thought I was smart. I thought I knew better. Like any kid feeling restricted, I resisted and pushed on my mother harder.

  Flying my head back and bouncing in my mother’s arms, I gave a hoot, howling loudly through pursed lips like a hungry little wolf, hoping my mother would set me free from this obligation of stillness and pictures and posing.

  My mother was perfection. A prima ballerina. I could see why people wanted to photograph her regularly. She was so young and beautiful, but she was incredibly fragile. Her thin frame seemed easily breakable.

  “Taylor, please,” she begged, trying to get a grip on me, but it only made me kick and punch.

  The cameraman gurgled something under his breath, frustrated. It made my mother sigh.

  She was thoroughly disappointed at that point. I could see it in her face. Perhaps she was even embarrassed. Embarrassed of me! I bounced heavier in her arms, forcing my body, my will, to dominate the moment and let my chest, my arms, and head fly higher.

  “Taylor, don’t do that!” My mother pleaded. “Please, I don’t want to drop you and I don’t want to fall. A dancer never lets his partner fall, remember?”

  With one arm my mother tried to coddle me as she wiped her other arm across her forehead of beading sweat. I recall I paused when I noticed her face was glistening and paling. The pink of her cheeks was dissipating. It was not like her at all and for a second, I was afraid of the woman carrying me.

  So, I did something horrible.

  I kicked my mother in the gut causing the most unthinkable thing to happen...

  We fell.

  She dropped me and we both went down, each landing flat on our backs.

  I didn’t cry or feel bad right away. The throbbing bruise forming on my tailbone took a backseat to the triumph I was feeling. I had succeeded in my attempt to kick expectation in the ass.

  My triumph was short-lived, of course. It took several minutes before I started to cry, watching the photographer run out of the studio to get help while leaving me alone with my mother sprawled flat across the floor but flexed in the most awkward position.

  And lifeless.

  Death, with its cold fingers, spread its icy prickle over my shoulders. I was so young but I knew—felt—what it was and I would never forget the feeling.

  Or, the scent of the room that enveloped from my mother. Decorated with hundreds of bouquets from the previous night’s finale, the studio was draped in roses—odes to my mother’s greatest performance the previous night. To this day, I cannot let go of the smell that engulfed my nose. In fact, it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive nowadays—whenever I smell roses.

  “Remember” was the last word I would ever hear my mother speak because it was the last time I saw her alive.

  For years, that’s all I did was remember because I forced myself to. The event of kicking—killing—my own mom replayed in mind every day of my life. The vivid memory ate at me, at my young heart, my childish and stupid foolish soul.

  One day, I was finally old enough to understand the mistake I’d made and do something about it.

  I made a vow.

  I vowed that no matter what the task, I would always do what my family expected of me and I would never let anyone I ever cared about fall again.

  Taylor

  “I. Don’t. Care.”

  “Then meet me,” she says.

  “Pfft.” I flap my lips. “There’s no way I’m going to meet up with you after what you did yesterday. Posting pictures of us? In bed? All over social media for the world to see? And not to mention, the lies I heard you wrote in the text.”

  I hang up on Diamond. I haven’t seen the images she took while I was naked and asleep on the one night we were in bed together a few months back. Diamond is hot—thick, long, shiny raven black hair and plump plum lips with soft, pale skin on a perfectly fit frame, a ballerina’s frame, except with tits.

  She’s gorgeous and she’s been my dance partner for nearly a year. Naturally, I thought the chemistry we had together as dancers would translate into the bedroom and we ended up in bed together for one night.

  Big mistake.

  “You shouldn’t have slept with her,” says Dirk, removing his sweatshirt.

  Now he tells
me.

  “You don’t seem upset over what she did. Have you seen the pictures of you she posted?” Dirk slips off his sweat pants.

  “Nope.” I also slip off my clothes.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t care.” And I really don’t. I’ve already slept with at least a dozen chicks since Diamond.

  “You should care. The second your grandmother finds out—”

  “When Penny finds out?” I laugh, grabbing the bundle of flowers out of my sack that I was asked to pick up this morning. “Trust me, Penny already knows.”

  Dirk and I leave our stuff piled in a corner of the studio classroom and tiptoe through the mess of teen dancers sprawled out in the hall waiting to get into their next scheduled class. Each girl gives off a little feminine gasp when she realizes who’s just stepped over her backpack stuffed with leg warmers and tap shoes for later.

  “Oh, excuse me,” I say as I accidentally step on a teeny bopper’s toe feeling her tiny little bones crumble beneath my feet. Surely, that’s got to hurt although the teenager doesn’t show it. The little dreamer smiles instead as if she’s been blessed to have been crushed by me.

  Poor little dreamers, I think.

  Each and every one of them is hoping to be the next prima ballerina, hoping to get a chance to dance with me—be my partner—one day.

  Sometimes I feel bad for ‘em. Not one of these young ladies stands a chance. It doesn’t matter how hard we train them, how many toes they break, or how many nasty blisters and ingrown toenails they acquire over their lifetime, a girl will never be prima unless she’s willing to die for it.

  And these girls? They’re all a little too starry-eyed, distracted by hope, plagued by silly dreams, and way too easily amused by testosterone.

  Even Dirk gets a few flirty nods, which I always find odd. Every woman here young and old knows my best friend is gay. They stand less of a chance hooking up with him than they do with me. It’s just more proof these girls won’t get to “make it big” one day.