My precious......
I did not endure #Poopwatch for three days, defile a French fry tray, and endure countless poop jokes from every man I know between the ages of six and fifty-three (which is every man I know) to have the ring going down the sewer pipes and into the Hudson River because I was removing makeup.
The irony of that is not lost on me.
The door bursts open and Declan is standing there, completely naked, a fine and glorious specimen of a man. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorway, hot, sculpted ass propping him.
“You lied,” is all he says as my fingers work to find the ring.
“Huh?” My brain halts but those fingers are determined.
“You said you didn’t have a hand-in-the-toilet fetish. Is this a joke?” he says, laughing. “Playing a little prank? Reliving how we met?”
When he laughs, things...bounce. It’s distracting. It’s incredibly droolworthy, too. The ring I’m scrambling to grab is a symbol of his commitment to let me touch the bouncy stuff whenever I want.
C’mon ring. Don’t fail me now.
His face changes when I don’t answer and he stands up, walking to the toilet, staring down. “No phone?”
I shake my head.
“No vibrator?”
I shake my head.
“No fetal pink pig?”
I shake my head.
“Then what’s so important that you would—oh, don’t you dare tell me you dropped the Goddamn ring in there!” Declan bellows.
He really does know me a little too well.
And just then, the toilet flushes automatically.
He takes one more step and he’s looking down at my arm directly, fist in the bottom of the bowl as the water gurgles and swirls around me. The water sprays up and a thin mist of—yes—toilet water covers my makeupless face.
He mutters something under his breath in Russian, some kind of curse words. It turns me on. I really don’t want to be turned on while I have my hand in a toilet. The brain makes strange associations and I’d rather not have my erotic dreams for the next few months involve this scenario.
Again.
The flush fades and we’re left in silence, me with a disgusting, germy face and my arm still so deep in the toilet I might as well be helping a cow give birth.
“You do have the ring,” he says slowly, eyes narrowing as he crouches next to me. The light layer of dark hair all over his muscled thighs makes me want to be naked and dirty with him. I can’t help myself.
A different kind of dirty...
I slowly pull my hand out of the toilet, fist tight, and reach out within inches of his face. Unfurling my fingers one by one, his creased brow relaxes.
The light bounces off the three-carat diamond.
And the, uh, droplets of germ-filled water.
His nostrils twitch and one side of his mouth twists up in a smile as he says, “Toilet Girl.”
“Hot Guy,” I say back, eyes racing over him as he laughs. Oh, please, keep laughing. I love the view.
“You are crazy, Shannon.”
“That’s why you love me,” I say as I stand and wash my hands.
“I love you because you stick your hand down toilet bowls?”
“No, you love me because I’m willing to stick my hand down toilet bowls.”
He’s looking at me with the same expression he reserves for my mother. “Parse that one out. Does not compute.”
“Why do you love me?” I ask, throwing the question back at him.
“Why do I breathe?”
Oh, this man.
He bends over and turns on the water for the bathtub, the pounding sound filling the tiny room. The faucet is as strong as a firehose. The rich really do live different lives. They even have different plumbing.
I slide the ring back on my finger and breathe a sigh of relief.
His arms envelop me and our nude skin touches everywhere it can.
“I’m covered in toilet water,” I protest as he comes in for a kiss.
“Not the first time.” He kisses me even as I cringe. It’s not a very good kiss.
“Dec—who was that on the phone?”
“Grace.”
“Everything okay?”
“It was about your mom.”
I sigh. “What’s she done now?”
“She wants Grace to start ordering McCormick tartan plaid for the dozen kilt tuxedoes. And she’d like to commandeer Air Force One.”
I close my eyes and bite my lip, the rush of the inevitable filling my cotton-headed brain. “This is how she’s starting?” I ask in disbelief. “Ten minutes after I call her?”
“You expected less? She’ll ask Robert Kraft for Gillette Stadium for the rehearsal party next.” He bends slightly, hand in the water. His arm hooks behind my knees and I’m in his arms, then unceremoniously tossed into the half-full tub like it’s Spring Break and we’re poolside in Cancun.
I scream with laughter and shock as the water assaults me. Declan follows it, hungry hands and mouth everywhere.
Bzzzz.
“Don’t answer that!” we shout in unison.
And we don’t.
Hours later, Declan orders room service and I finally get my coffee. Caffeine deprivation leaves me wondering which is worse: the pounding in my head or the pounding in my—
On the tray there is a pot of coffee and a dozen chocolate covered strawberries, half milk chocolate, half dark.
And, oddly enough, a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels mixed with cheese curls.
Declan walks into the bathroom with the room service cart as I survey it and give him a questioning look. He drops the robe he threw on hastily and stands there, offering me a cup of coffee while my pruney toes turn the hot water back on.
Look at him.
Really look at him.
Is this bathroom aesthetically pleasing?
Oh, yeah.
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Dirty Sexy Player
Laurelin Paige
A scorching hot, enemies-to-lovers edition to the Dirty Universe.
I wasn’t supposed to want her. It was a stupid game we were playing. A way for her to get her inheritance and me to get out from under Donovan’s thumb. I didn’t even like her. I wasn’t supposed to daydream about getting her off. Or fantasize about the way she’d look riding me. Or wonder if she kissed as cruelly as she fought. I wasn’t supposed to fall for her. I was only supposed to marry her.
“Paige has done it again with another scorching, obsessive read.” -- New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent
Table of Contents
Dirty Sexy Player
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
“Nice rock,” I said, admiring the diamond ring Donovan placed on the tabletop. I picked it up and examined the stone in the dimly lit lounge of the The Grand Havana Room, the member’s-only cigar lounge we often frequented when we were together. The diamond was a big one, in a platinum setting with at least four carats between the large center jewel and the scattering of smaller diamonds surrounding it. A serious engagement ring. I wouldn’t expect anything less from one of the
world’s most successful young billionaires.
I just had no idea Donovan was even dating anyone.
Of course, we weren’t as close as we used to be. Physically, anyway. He’d been managing the Tokyo office with Cade since we’d expanded our advertising firm into that market. He rarely made it stateside, and it had been nearly a year since I’d last seen Donovan in person. When he’d shown up tonight unexpectedly asking Nate and me to meet him at the club, we’d guessed he had serious news but that it was about the business.
An engagement ring was a whole new level of serious. No wonder he wanted to do this in person.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” I asked, trying not to sound bothered that this was the first I was hearing about her. A glance at Nate said it was the first he was hearing about her too.
“You’re asking the wrong question,” Donovan said, and bit off the end of his cigar. “The question is who’s the lucky guy?”
I raised a brow, confused. But not surprised. Donovan was known to speak in riddles. I’d figure out what he was trying to tell me when he was ready to spill. Might as well play along in the meantime.
“Okay.” I pinched the ring between two fingers and lifted it toward the nearest light source so I could see the full effect of its sparkle. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
He lit the end of his cigar and puffed a couple of times before taking it out and answering. “You.”
“Oh, Donovan. You shouldn’t have.” I clutched my hand to my chest for dramatic effect. “I don’t know that we’ve ever said it, but I love you too. Still, I don’t think I’m ready for this.” I handed the ring back to him with a shake of my head.
Nate hid his smirk by taking a large swig of his imported beer.
“Very funny.” Donovan carefully placed the ring back in its box. “I’m not proposing to you, Weston. I’m proposing for you.”
“You are, are you?” I chuckled at his attempt at a joke. Inside my jacket pocket my phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out and quickly skimmed the message.
I need to see you.
Normally I’d be all up for a booty call, but my night belonged to the guys. I deleted the message without reading who it was from, silenced my phone, and put it back in my pocket.
I gave my attention back to Donovan, continuing to play along with his hoax. “Just who exactly are you proposing to for me?”
He puffed heavily on his cigar before removing it from his mouth to speak. “Her name is Elizabeth Dyson. She’s the sole inheritor of the Dyson empire. She’s twenty-five, classy though spirited, well-bred—definitely a suitable bride. Your union is going to take our business to the next level. Once you marry her, Reach, Inc. will be the biggest advertising company in Europe.”
All humor drained from my face. He was serious. Donovan never joked about business. But marriage? “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not even a little bit.”
I was beginning to regret not looking at the name before I deleted that text. I’d have loved to have a reason to bail right about then.
But it was Donovan’s first night back in town; I really couldn’t leave him now. Not to mention, I knew him. Once he got an idea in his head, it was nearly impossible to get it out. My best chance was to listen, find the weakness in his scheme, and then propose an alternate strategy.
If that failed, I’d tell him fuck, no, and that would be that.
Hopefully.
Saying fuck, no to Donovan Kincaid was often a bit harder in reality than it seemed in theory.
If I was going to stay, I was at least going to need a stiffer drink. I signaled the waiter. “Can you bring me a shot of Fireball?” Nate nudged me. “Two shots of Fireball?”
Then I turned to Donovan. “You’d better explain this from the beginning.”
He took a puff of his cigar. “It’s a short explanation. Dell Dyson, founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of Dyson Media—basically France’s version of Time Warner—died about eight months ago, leaving his daughter the sole inheritor to the bulk of his fortune. However, the will states she can’t get her hands on any of it until she’s 29—with one exception.”
“Ah, I think I’m getting the picture,” Nate said, taking a pull on his beer.
My brows remained wrinkled, my picture still unclear. “Explain it to me then,” I said, turning to Nate. “Because I’m not following.”
He set his bottle on the table and tilted his head toward me. “Daddy Dell was a traditionalist. The daughter inherits when she puts a ring on it.”
“Oh.” Understanding settled in. I screwed my face up in disgust. “That’s gross.”
“Completely terrible and misogynistic,” Donovan agreed, not sounding terribly upset at all. “But there’s nothing we can do about the unfortunate setup to her situation, and there is something we can do to get her out of it. Something that works out in our favor. So what we need to do is focus on getting Elizabeth married to our man Weston—”
I started to protest, but Donovan rose a hand to silence me. “Temporarily married—a couple of months is all we need for Elizabeth to claim her inheritance of Dyson Media. Once she does, she can push through the merger of Dyson’s advertising subsidiary with Reach, and we’ll take over as the biggest ad company in the European market.”
“Just like that,” I said, skeptically.
“Just like that.” There was no trace of doubt in Donovan’s voice.
“And what makes you think that she’d be interested in this?” I asked. “I mean why would she be interested in giving someone—giving us—part of the company? Not why would she be interested in me.” I wasn’t worried about women being into me. But I certainly wasn’t into discussing it with Donovan.
Of course he had an answer for this as well. “I’m in preliminary talks with her already. And she seemed quite interested in the whole arrangement. I didn’t specify who her groom would be but told her I had an eligible bachelor. She’s thinking about it further. Tomorrow afternoon in the office, all four of us will have a meeting to hammer out the details. I’ve already cleared your schedule.”
It was a good thing the shots arrived then. “You mean I have to have this all thought through and decided by tomorrow afternoon?”
“Oh, you’ll agree,” Donovan said, confidently.
I threw back the shot. It didn’t burn half as much as Donovan’s proposal.
I rolled my neck, easing the muscles in my shoulders. “I need a minute to think about this.”
“Take two.”
I wasn’t really considering any of it, but it was an excuse to order another drink and make Donovan pay for it.
I gestured for the waiter to bring two more shots. Then I leaned back against the plush leather upholstery of the bench seat and rubbed my hand across my forehead, pretending to weigh Donovan’s offer in my mind.
To be honest, I’d been restless recently. I enjoyed the benefits of my life—my rental apartment in Midtown, my sex life, the view from my office. But my twenty-ninth birthday was looming and that was so close to thirty. A milestone birthday, and what did I have to show for it?
Okay. I was one of five shareholders of Reach, Inc., one of the most successful ad agencies in the world, but everyone knew that was Donovan’s brainchild.
What did I have that was purely my own?
A month ago, I’d been so caught up in the desire for clarity that, on a whim, I’d asked a girl to move to New York from LA. It wasn’t the first impulsive move I’d ever made, especially not for a girl—a girl I’d been naked with all weekend, no less—but it had been the craziest.
Almost as crazy of an idea as getting married to a stranger in order to improve our business status.
Sabrina, the naked woman, had been a peer that Donovan and I had gone to Harvard with. I’d been fortunate enough to spend a magical reunion weekend with her. There was something about her—a combination of her sexy laugh, serious demeanor, and intelligent brain that struck a chord deep inside me. Our conversation h
ad made me feel warm and interesting and I wanted to capture that. Wanted to make it last.
So much so that right there on the spot, I demanded she take the position of Director of Marketing Strategy. Who cared that there was somebody else who held the position already?
She’d turned me down, wisely, but after she’d left, when the hormones calmed down, I looked into her resume anyway. Turned out she actually deserved the position, and I’d been halfheartedly working on making the transition happen legitimately ever since.
I’d spent good time thinking about making a real go at a relationship with her, too, if I got her to take the job.
I’d even told Donovan about my plans. Had he forgotten?
“But I don’t want to get married,” I reminded him now. “I want to bring Sabrina Lund to New York City and find out whether or not we fit together.”
“Sabrina Lind,” he corrected, his tone peppered with annoyance.
“Isn’t that what I said?” I was starting to feel the alcohol.
“Still bring her here,” Nate suggested, always the reasonable one. “She can take the job and settle in. By the time she gets the hang of things around here, you’ll be through your annulment and then you’re free to date her.”
“That could work, I suppose.” Still wasn’t considering it.
“If she’s interested, that is,” Donovan scowled.
“Why would she not be interested?” I asked.
“She’ll be interested,” Nate assured me. “But it is hard to move into a new city and get into a new relationship all at once. Better to take it in steps. And meanwhile, you can do this thing for the company.”
I could hear the subtext in his words. Subtext that said he thought maybe I owed the company a little more doing.
Possibly I was reading too much into it.
I slammed back my next shot and considered what other reason there might be for Nate Sinclair to take Donovan’s side. He was usually Switzerland.
“You’re just saying all that because you don’t want to be the one to get married, aren’t you?” I eyed Nate accusingly.
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