Marley sets the computer over my lap, and I take it. A dirty grin breaks out over my face as I take in what’s in front of me.
“Hot damn.”
Marley Jackson
Life With My Man
The sexual life and times of a dedicated girlfriend.
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The one and only subject: Wyatt James (e.g. My man!)
Quantity and Variety: My man and I have had many, amazing, mind bending, beautiful encounters. An assortment of positions are always utilized to ensure maximum and equal pleasure. (I blame his good looks and huge heart for enticing me into wanting more!) Fortunately, I never have to fake the big O because he cares enough that I have one. His body is definitely up to par, and I’m happy to report that none of his man parts are lacking. Even in my inexperience, I’m well aware that he is far superior to any other male on this planet. Every part of me understands that, with Wyatt in my life, things will just keep getting better!
Positives: He is tenacious once things get going—and he keeps it up all night long. He expends said tenacious energy on trying to work whatever position best pleasures me. Can you say selfless?! I knew this was the start to a beautiful love affair from the first night he took me to his place.
Negatives: There are moments we are actually not joined at the hips.
On a scale of one to ten (one being a mental plea for my virginity), I give my man a thousand and five. Wyatt James is totally aware of how vitally he has mastered the art of lovemaking. It’s beautiful to think he can make a career of making love, and, fortunately, his lovemaking will strictly be relegated to me. I plan to keep him gainfully employed.
“I just reworded things a little. You know, a little tweak here and there until it had a ring of truth. I was going to plaster this all over Whitney Briggs but decided it’s probably best if this is for your eyes only.” She snuggles into me.
“Agreed.” I press a hot kiss to her forehead and linger.
Marley looks up with those sky-dusted eyes. “I used to think love was for other people—that I was cursed in that department. I’m happy to say you’ve proven me wrong. Thank you for that.”
“I used to have the same frame of mind. Thank you.” I place the laptop down and pull Marley into my arms. I hold a grape before her, and she clasps it between her teeth. “You own me.” I growl it out, desperate, like a prayer. There is no bigger truth.
“Those are beautiful words. But I might need you to repeat them on a daily basis. At least for the first twenty years.” She winks, reaching for the ice cream. Her mouth falls open as she reads the label. “Chocolate with vanilla and peanut butter swirls? I think we just went from someone loves me to someone is gunning for a goodtime.”
“There’s a reason I didn’t bring any spoons,” I warn, slipping my hand between her thighs.
“Good.” She takes off the lid and smears the cool peanut butter swirl over my chest. “We won’t be needing any.”
I take the carton, and we douse each other with the icy contents.
She screams through a laugh, and I cover her mouth with mine.
Marley and I both thought we didn’t deserve love—that it was something reserved for other people. We each believed we were cursed in that arena. It turns out we not only deserve love, but found it with each other. There was no curse, just a rocky course to get to the right person.
Together we’re more than right.
It feels incredible like this, perfect, the way it should be—just Marley and me.
Acknowledgments
There are so many wonderful people to say thank you to. First and foremost to my dedicated readers who have given me so much wonderful feedback and support regarding the 3:AM Kisses Series. I hope you enjoyed Marley and Wyatt’s story as much as the others if not more. A very heartfelt thank you to my amazing street team, Addison’s Angels! You have no idea what it means to me that you work tirelessly to support my novels. There simply aren’t enough words to express my gratitude. I heart you all!
Rachel Tsoumbakos you really outshined yourself this time! Thank you for your spectacular x-ray, proofreading vision. I’m forever in your debt. Christina Kendler, thank you for putting up with all of my crazy! Please don’t pull your precious hair out because of me. I’m not worthy! To Kathryn Jacoby my right hand gal! You are a force to be reckoned with! I’m so glad to have you on my side! A million thank yous would never be enough.
Tabby Coots I can’t thank you enough for all of your enthusiasm! You are amazingly kind and insightful. Thank you for being such a sweet friend! To Rachel Dicks, thank you for taking the time to read the manuscript and give me your thoughts! They are always good ones! And a special thank you to Lisa Markson for all of your incredible support and generosity. I feel so lucky to know you!
To the fabulous Sarah Freese, thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me crucial pieces of advice that helped make Marley and Wyatt’s story a special one. Hugs to you girl! I feel so blessed to get to work with you!
And last, but never least, thank you to Him who sits on the throne. Worthy is the Lamb. Glory and honor and power are yours. I owe you everything.
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover Design: Gaffey Media
Hollis Thatcher Press, Ltd
Copyright © 2016 by Addison Moore
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This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved.
This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * *
Copyright © 2016 by Addison Moore
ISBN: 978-1-62430-040-0
Created with Vellum
Prologue
Cassidy
They say that every person on the planet has a thorn in their side, something that can make even the meekest human wail until their throat bleeds raw. My thorn just so happens to be an auburn evening sky. It’s what I remember most about that awful day. I was hardly six the night my mother ran into the bathroom with convulsive sobs while my father jumped into his beat-up Thunderbird and peeled out of the driveway.
My father wasn’t perfect, but, at that tender age, he was close to a living god— tall, manly, holding an undeniable air of authority that at the time I was unaware of the fact it came from the bottom of a bottle. I remember very few details that followed as I chased him down the street, his roaring words—they would be the last I would hear from him—fly away home, little girl. I can smell the smoke from his tires dusting up the blood red sky, taste the salt of my tears as I screamed out after him. Soon, his Thunderbird had dissolved into the murky night, and for as long as I live, I will never forget the stillness of that moment—how alarmingly lonely this world had suddenly become. But then, the dirt thumped around me, the wind shook with fury, inviting me to a new terror. An entire herd of growls grew in ferocity like a hellish choir ready to greet me. I turned my head and saw them for less than a blink of a moment—first the neighbor’s dog, then behind him a demonic pack of beasts bounding on his heels, all of them accelerating toward me at an alarming pace. Their salivating mouths dripped with savagery. I was a feast for the taking, a mere morsel in their hungry eyes. Suddenly, I was nothing anyone wanted, so very alone in this dangerous world. I wish I could say I felt fear in that moment, but, in truth, I was still basking in the rejection doled out by my father. I had already surrendered my weary soul before they took their first bite. Then, the wor
ld fell to black, and I’ve spent the rest of my life reliving the pain both physical and emotional. And now when strangers on the street look in horror at what’s left of me—I feel the sting of my father’s rejection all over again. Death could have easily taken me that day, but that would have been too easy. Instead, here I am, living a life of irony, dying a thousand deaths and counting.
But not tonight. Tonight I lie with a sculpted deity by my side—both his last name and features strike a startling resemblance to that of my best friend, as they should. He’s her brother.
Cade James’s effigy is what the Italian sculptors long to carve into marble. Cade deserves to be venerated based on his physical perfection alone. The idea that this god would ever want me for anything aside from some quick and dirty fun is laughable. But here we are, together, just one breath away without a single stitch of clothing between us. Something quick and dirty, something beautiful is about to happen, and I’ll be the last to stop it.
The Seduction
Cassidy
According to my sister, there are two types of women in this world: those who choose to devour and those who get devoured—lucky for the men of this world, she’s both.
I examine her a moment, mostly for traces of sanity since I’m more than familiar with her features, seeing that we’re identical twins, albeit she wears her scars on the inside, where I have them out in the open for all to see, gawk at, judge—taking up precious real estate on the left side of my face. I may as well have a line drawn down the center of my body, my right half unadulterated, unblemished, dare I say, beautiful. The left side—an entire road map of anger and despair, chewed up and spit out, unwanted, twisted vines of pain creating unnatural ridges and divots from the corner of my lip clear up to my brow. I missed losing an eye by a single millimeter. My grandmother says fate was looking after me that day, but I like to say it forgot me altogether. My features alone can attest to that.
The Black Bear Saloon is teeming with bodies—mostly students from Whitney Briggs University, where the spring semester has just taken off on its icy tracks. January in the mountains of Hollow Brook should be banished of all living creatures, with the exception of billy goats and mountain climbers equipped with ice picks. North Carolina in general has been reduced to frozen tundra.
“And to whom do I owe this Pop Tart psychiatry to?” I quip to my lookalike sister without bothering to actually get my proverbial feathers ruffled. I’ve known since we were in utero she likes to get her point across, be it with an elbow, the sharp corner of her knee, or simply her barbed tongue. “The great Caila Jace? Or perhaps the peach schnapps you’re nursing?” Caila Jace. I almost want to smirk at the fact she’s hijacked her Christian name to use as a stage name at the strip club where she rakes in her six-figure income. Unlike me, she didn’t opt for the scholastic route. Instead, she bypassed go and collected a hell of a lot more than two hundred dollars at that penis farm where she makes a killing night after night. Although, to be fair, Caila doesn’t consider herself a stripper, rather an adult “entertainer”—which, in my opinion, sounds far more salacious and tawdry by a teasing-taking-off-your-clothes-to-porn-music mile.
She flexes her cheek in lieu of a smile. That’s my sister’s signature move once she’s irritated. Caila Jace Clayton gives exactly zero shits about anything, with the tiny, precious exception of her three-year-old daughter, Jacey. I love that little peanut princess like she were my own, and according to that carbon copy face of her momma’s—mine by proxy—she very well could be.
“What do you care?” She pulls the cherry from my daiquiri and bites down over it with her paper white teeth, twisting the stem into submission as if her life depended on it. Ten guys in the vicinity just sat up and took notice. Not surprising—cherry stem withstanding. Not only is Caila drop-dead gorgeous, but she works hard to polish herself to perfection daily with the aid of the cosmetics industry. Caila undergoes a grueling beauty routine that in some civilized nations might actually qualify as torture techniques. The low-cut top and suicide heels she’s donned help somewhat in drawing attention her way. There’s not a person who can’t help but look at Caila when she’s in the room. I’ve always admired that about her. “You never listen to a damn thing I say.”
“Honey, after you replaced salt for sugar in that snickerdoodle recipe and fed it to me for kicks—it’s been hard to believe you’re human, save for that face. The things that you say? I take them with a grain of salt.” I gift her a hard wink right along with my well-seasoned rebuttal. True as God, that girl laughed her little hiney off after trying to do me in with sodium chloride. God forbid our grandma Mimi actually ate the condiment-laced confection—she would have stroked herself into eternity.
My sister waves her favorite finger at me with a laugh.
Caila is tough as nails, has more self-confidence than an entire high school of girls will ever need in one lifetime—not to mention, she’s damn beautiful, and she knows it. That’s where her deepest irony lies, her beauty. It’s hard to believe someone so well put together, big blue doe eyes, porcelain skin, long blonde bone-straight hair—dyed trailer park platinum and heavily ironed into submission—can be so ever-loving crude. Caila can make a sailor blush with that brash mouth of hers, but she’s stunning enough to make him beg for more.
I guess it’s odd venerating my twin’s beauty, but after nearly having half of my face chewed off, I stopped seeing us as doubles long ago. From that point on, I’ve seen her as perfection, as what could have been, and me as the twisted Brothers Grimm nightmare gone awry. My spirit broke and shattered that day right along with my features, while Caila soared to new, untouchable heights since the time of my father. I bore the curse of our family. She bore the beauty. I’ve often wondered where my life would be today if I hadn’t met up with a pack of hungry carnivores who saw me as a walking T-bone. I probably would have laughed at Whitney Briggs University and would be honing my twerking moves right alongside my sister.
A frat boy over at the table to our right winks at me before startling to attention. I can feel the searing heat of his unwelcomed lust-riddled gaze as it whistles through me like a nuclear wind. He belches and licks his lips as if those very acts were enough to land me on his inebriated lap. And, trust me, if I were an equally inebriated sorority girl, it just might be. If it’s one thing I noticed, there’s not a whole lot of coital discretion going on at Whitney Briggs—not that I’m complaining. In fact, I plan on getting in on some of this non-discretionary coital affection sooner than later myself, just not with the belching douchebag who’s currently running his tongue along the rim of his glass and nodding me over with a greasy smile.
Caila follows my gaze and grunts, “Tell me this isn’t happening.”
“Please. Are you aware of this den of depravity we’ve seated ourselves in? It was destined to happen.” I flick the tiny red straw peering out of her drink. “Watch the master.”
I give a little wave to the derelict in training and turn my face just enough for him to see my not-so good side. You can practically see his budding hard-on already rising to take a peek of me itself. Then, in a moment, his demeanor shifts. His eyes, though glossy with intoxication, round out with a slight look of horror. His brows narrow at me a moment as if to get a better look before he gives a slight wave and heads deeper into the establishment. But, it’s that brief look of pity he offers as he glances back that knifes me just as much as it amuses me—my face had sobered him up, pulled him out of his alcohol-laden sexual stupor just enough for him to realize he didn’t want any part of this action.
Caila leans in hard, her violently straight vanilla hair falls over her face in pieces like twin curtains. I keep meaning to try that middle part. It looks so sultry on her, but then, sultry is her business.
“Would you stop with that barbaric pit maneuver of yours?” she hisses before checking her phone for the tenth time.
“What you call a ‘pit maneuver,’ I call effective communication skills.”
“Look, I don’t have time to debate your questionable communication skills. I need to haul my ass to work.” She smirks at the idea before pulling my hand across the table. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why she’s smirking. Caila averages $800 to a $1000 on a bad night. She’s not merely a seasoned pro at the pole, she’s teaching future stripper hopefuls, and hausfraus alike how to shimmy and shake with the best of them at an hourly rate that could be better spent toward designer shoes. She gives my hand a tug in an effort to gain my full attention. “Would you please stop?”
“No,” I flatline without even the intention of bothering to ask what it is she’d like for me to cease because, well, I already know.
“Stop using your face as a weapon, honey.” Her voice sweetens. Her faux party lashes bat up at me like trembling butterfly wings. “There are more effective ways to ditch the unwanted jackasses of the world. Just please stop using your pretty face.” She leans in, her lids are hooded and pleading in a quasi-sexual manner. Caila can’t help it. She’s been hardwired at an early age to do just about everything in a quasi-sexual manner. It’s just a side effect of growing up bombshell. “God gave you a finger that adequately communicates exactly what you wanted to say to that frat brat, and far more effectively might I add. Go ahead and try it next time.” She averts her eyes. “Never mind next time. What you need is to get laid—tonight.”
“Ugh,” I grunt, scooting my seat back in an effort to remove myself from the conversation. “I’m positive I don’t need that, and would you please mind laying off the expletives? You’re burning a hole in my skull.” I press my hands to my ears a moment to exemplify the fact.
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