Sexy Mother Faker (Hot Maine Men Book 2)

by Remy Rose

  Sexy Mother Faker

  by

  Remy Rose

  Please note: This is the 2nd book in the Hot Maine Men series and is a standalone novel - however, to have a greater appreciation for this story and characters, I suggest grabbing BIG DECK first ;). Click here to get your copy today!

  Copyright © 2017 by Remy Rose

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference with no implied endorsement.

  Cover art by Reese Inman of Bookmark Design (https://ebookcoverdesign.net)

  Dedication

  For my readers, especially those faithful and supportive souls who regularly react to my Facebook posts and who take the time to leave comments and/or reviews…I see you, I appreciate you, and I thank you from the bottom of my grateful heart.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue...1985

  chapter 1 / Damon

  chapter 2 / Delaney

  chapter 3 / Damon

  chapter 4 / Delaney

  chapter 5 / Damon

  chapter 6 / Delaney

  chapter 7 / Damon

  chapter 8 / Delaney

  chapter 9 / Damon

  chapter 10 / Delaney

  chapter 11 / Damon

  chapter 12 / Delaney

  chapter 13 / Damon

  chapter 14 / Delaney

  chapter 15 / Damon

  chapter 16 / Delaney

  chapter 17 / Damon

  chapter 18 / Delaney

  chapter 19 / Damon

  chapter 20 / Delaney

  chapter 21 / Damon

  chapter 22 / Delaney

  chapter 23 / Damon

  chapter 24 / Delaney

  chapter 25 / Damon

  chapter 26 / Delaney

  chapter 27 / Damon

  chapter 28 / Delaney

  chapter 29 / Damon

  chapter 30 / Delaney

  chapter 31 / Damon

  chapter 32 / Delaney

  chapter 33 / Damon

  chapter 34 / Delaney

  chapter 35 / Damon

  chapter 36 / Delaney

  chapter 37 / Damon

  chapter 38 / Delaney

  Epilogue...six months later

  Acknowledgments

  Contact

  Prologue...1985

  The dorm room smells faintly of male sweat, and spilled beer. All right, more than just faintly, but I don’t care, because I am with him.

  I take a quick look around. It’s what I would have expected, except with more unwashed socks. There’s a neon PBR beer sign with a couple of bulbs missing, and there are posters—AC/DC on tour, Sybil Danning in a white string bikini, a topless Monique Gabrielle from “Bachelor Party,” a woman in a thong bending over to get beer on the bottom rack of the refrigerator.

  I’ve detected two clear themes here.

  There are two beds, one on either side of the room, and I silently hope that his is the neater, made one. I see a mini-fridge in the corner, a rugby uniform in a crumpled heap on the floor, an open notebook, stack of textbooks and a gooseneck lamp on one of the desks, red Solo cups (some scattered, some stacked) on the deep windowsill.

  I feel the need to take in every little detail, because I want to remember everything about the night I lose my virginity.

  He goes to the closet, takes out a striped necktie. I watch, my heart pounding, as he opens the door and drapes the tie over the knob, flashing me a slightly embarrassed, totally adorable grin.

  He doesn’t have to tell me what that means.

  “Want something to drink?”

  I nod. I don’t even ask what he has, because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I am here, with him.

  He walks back to the closet, reaches up to the top shelf and takes down a bottle of Svedka, then gets a clean Solo cup from the stack on the windowsill and makes us both Screwdrivers with the orange juice from his mini-fridge. When he leads me over to the unmade bed to sit, I forgive him for not being the neat side because I’ve already fallen in love with him.

  He’s looking at me steadily as he finishes his drink. He has the most beautiful eyes—they were what I noticed first when we were paired together a couple months ago in our Economic Theory class. His eyes are large, dark and expressive with lashes any girl would envy...the type of eyes you could fall into and never want to come out. I noticed his mouth second—how his lips looked perfectly moisturized and supremely kissable. And then all the rest of him received a fair share of stares from me as well—his thick brown hair that always seemed adorably unruly, his broad shoulders, trim waist and muscular build.

  He takes my his empty cup and slips it inside his. It feels symbolic somehow, and I involuntarily shiver, thinking of what’s going to happen soon.

  “We’ve got to be careful about this. About people finding out.”

  “Yes, we do.” I’m well aware. Our parents would kill us.

  He looks concerned, almost troubled, and I lay my hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “We’ll just be careful. And it’s kind of exciting, being secretive.”

  I’ve said just the right thing. He lights up. I see a simmering in those dark eyes, and heated want slides into my belly.

  “God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the hair away from my face, letting the blonde strands slip through his fingers. He slides over closer, and then we are a tangle of arms and groping hands, of hot mouths and eager tongues. His lips are soft but insistent, and I am more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life, listening to him groan as we kiss.

  My blouse is off, my bra unclasped, and he carefully lays me down on his bed, taking his shirt off while keeping his gaze on me. Impulsively, I reach out to grasp the bulge in his jeans, and he groans louder. “Fuck, I want you...so much.”

  “Have me,” I whisper. “Have all of me.”

  We each wriggle out of our pants. He is so beautiful in the neon light of the beer sign. I draw in my breath at the sight of his erect penis. He has me help him put on the condom—this seems to excite him even more—and then, the intense sensation of him pressing between my legs.

  A momentary bite of pain as he slides into me, but I am very wet, and the friction soon feels amazing. I’m not quite sure what to do, but I lift my hips as he thrusts, hooking my legs around him, and he seems to appreciate this. He says my name over and over...tells me he’s almost there...and then I feel him shudder. I haven’t come yet, but after he rolls off me, he fingers me expertly, and I cry out as I climax.

  I am delirious, practically glowing. Being with him is even more wonderful than I’d fantasized.

  “That was...amazing,” he grins, shaking his head. We kiss, deeply, and I make him laugh when I tell him I want to do it again.

  “We will,” he promises. “This is only the beginning.”

  The beginning of what I hope will be my forever.

  Thirty one years later…

  chapter 1 / Damon

  There are some interns that really go above and beyond at Cavanaugh Yacht. The kind you just know will go places. And right now, our newest intern is going...down
.

  Down, like on me, underneath my desk while I’m leaning back a little in my swivel chair, tilting my pelvis toward her because Jesus, her mouth. Eva’s taking it deep with absolutely no indication I’ve tripped her gag reflex. From the way she’s working it, it’s pretty obvious she’s been in this position a few times before.

  I love watching a girl give head—seeing the way my cock slides in and out of her mouth, looking at the way her lips stretch to take it all in. She’s got just the right amount of suction, knows just how to lightly tickle my balls with her fingertips. Her college education has clearly involved more than just business classes.

  I reach down to stroke her silky black hair, brushing strands of it away so I can get a better view of her face. Her eyes are closed, and there’s a blend of concentration and tranquility in her expression, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

  There is most definitely nowhere else I want her to be right now.

  The friction of her wet, warm mouth is pushing me to the brink of coming. I give a low groan, close my eyes and let my head fall back as though I’m lying in my king-sized bed at home instead of sitting at my mahogany desk in my third floor office. The sound seems to excite her; I feel the pinch of her fingernails as she sinks them into my thighs. I’m on my way, sailing toward the sweet crescendo of the big O…

  Only, no. The office door swings open, and in blows the CEO of Cavanaugh Yacht, while I’m getting blown by Eva.

  The CEO, who also happens to be my mother.

  I jerk upright in my chair, my hands beneath the desk and cupping Eva’s face as she panics and tries to sit up, letting out a small gasp of pain as the top of her head meets the hard wood. Hard wood as in desk, not as in dick, because that has gone as limp as a hose in the sun.

  Can you say, boner kill?

  “Damon. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  Because I had the phone on silent while I was getting a BJ, Mother.

  I somehow find my voice. “Oh, sorry...I, uh, stepped out for a bit.” Careful not to squish Eva, I slide my chair closer into my desk in an attempt to shield my naked lower half from the woman who gave birth to me.

  She raises an eyebrow that’s been plucked into submission. This is a classic look for her—the I’m not buying that for one second look. It can also convey mild amusement, but don’t be fooled—most of the time, she’s really just masking major disdain. When she lifts both eyebrows in more of a how dare you defy me expression, you’re in serious, serious shit.

  Believe me, I know...I’ve been there.

  My mother is a force of nature. You have Category 4 hurricanes, and then you have Gloria Cavanaugh—a fifty-one-year-old barracuda in the business world with a fondness for Nordstorm cream-colored pantsuits, dirty martinis and hand-rolled Bolivar cigars. She’s tall for a woman—almost six feet—with chemically-coaxed blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. As long as I’ve been alive, she’s had that bun. When I was a little kid, I used to tell her she needed to let her hair breathe.

  But it isn’t just those things that make her intimidating; she’s...how do I put this delicately? Because I am, after all, her only son.

  She’s a fucking bitch.

  “You...stepped out for a bit?” She says it like I’ve committed a cardinal sin.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the latest numbers on the Sea Whisper? They’re tanking.”

  “I’d hardly call a dip of eight percent tanking, Mother.” Her expression prompts me to modify my response. “But obviously, we don’t want that trend to continue.”

  “No. We don’t. The good news is, we’re slightly above forecast in overall sales. But I’d like to see more. Rumor has it that Bellamy Marine is having some trouble. It’s no secret that I’ve wanted to explore expansion into Europe for a while now, and this could be the opportunity. I’m contacting the CEO this afternoon and calling a staff meeting for tomorrow morning—I don’t want to wait on this as I’m quite sure our competitors have gotten wind of it and are going to be circling Bellamy like hungry piranhas.”

  My bare ass is sticking uncomfortably to the leather seat. I’m really hoping my mother will leave soon so our intern can finish what she started.

  “So I’ll expect you to clear your calendar for the meeting, Damon.”

  “Absolutely, Mother.”

  Gloria gives me a frosty smile before turning and walking to my door. I’m sliding my chair back a bit to glance under my desk when my mother turns back around on her high heels.

  “Oh, and one more thing...Eva, sweetheart, make sure you brush off your knees. My son’s been known to snack at his desk, and there might be crumbs under there.” She’s looking at me in steely triumph as Eva gives a gasp from down below. I don’t know how the fuck my mother knows, but she just knows. Everything. All the time.

  And just before she heads out of my office, there’s the double-eyebrow lift.

  I’m in serious, serious shit.

  chapter 2 / Delaney

  In case anyone’s wondering, my job at Precision Machine is totally glamorous. Take today, for example. It’s not even 10 a.m., and already I’ve 1) opened the mail; 2) made a Dunkin Donuts run; 3) did the dishes in the break room sink; and 4) un-jammed the photocopier. And if that doesn’t sound convincing enough, Stu, one of my bosses, just asked me to go buy some more toilet paper.

  “But don’t get the scratchy cheap shit, Laney,” he told me. “We like the cushy stuff. Don’t we, Lou?”

  Lou wholeheartedly agreed. “Yeah. Definitely. I have some with hearts on it at home. It sounds gay, but it’s soft on the ole tush. See if you can find that.”

  So...gay toilet paper that’s soft and has hearts on it. Got it.

  At Precision Machine, I’m on the front line. I get to answer the phone and deal with pissed-off customers who want to kill someone (namely, me) because their air jet valves didn’t ship on time, or because no one has visited a job site to figure out why the turbo-charger bracket they ordered didn’t fit properly. And I get to deal with my bosses, or what I call the “Stu and Lou Show.”

  It’s quite a show, let me tell you. Stu and Lou are forty-five-year-old high school buddies who joined up as business partners to create what’s become one of the most successful machined parts companies in New England. Stu’s about six-three, two hundred and sixty pounds, bald as a cueball with a big nose and a perpetually red, perspiring face that he mops about twenty times a day with the handkerchief he drags out of his back pocket. He’s basically a heart attack waiting to happen—main food staples are burgers, fries and beer, all to excess—and I’m always cautioning him about eating less and exercising more, partly because I’m scared shitless he’ll collapse and I’ll have to give him mouth-to-mouth. His wife got him a Fitbit for Christmas a few months ago, and judging from his continuously-expanding waistline, it didn’t quite take.

  Lou is shorter, around five-ten, and in better shape—he’s recently divorced and has been hitting the gym to both exercise and scope out women who are much younger and much more attractive than him. He’s not a bad-looking guy...clean-cut, thick hair, decent features—but he doesn’t seem to get that women might not appreciate his roving eyes and raunchy sense of humor. One of his major skills is maintaining eye contact with my nipples like a boss, and I mean that both ways. I’ve been tempted to draw little up arrows on my shirt, as in, hey, Lou, my eyeballs are up here. I’m always careful not to wear cleavage-y tops and will wear bulky clothes whenever weather permits, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what lies beneath.

  So like I once told my BFF Madeline, my job basically equates to lying underneath a hairy fat guy and faking an orgasm from 9 to 5. If I haven’t been clear, I want to get the hell out of my job, and by hell, I mean fuck.

  But...there’s the money. It’s pretty good. Also, I have like a ten minute commute, and it’s not as if I’ve seen a lot of other job openings in Ellsworth, Maine. I’ve looked, believe me. So for now, I’m stuck under the
hairy fat guy.

  What I really want to do? Open my own coffee shop. It’s been a dream of mine to have my own business, and I’ve always loved the idea of having a cozy café for people to get together and relax, forget about their worries. I can picture it all: the smell of coffee brewing (one of the best scents ever) complemented by the aroma of freshly-baked muffins, the colors I’d pick to make the place warm and inviting, the comfy furniture, the music I’d play, the pretty window boxes I’d have outside, filled with purple petunias and baby’s breath...ohh, a girl can dream, right?

  I even know which building I want. Corner of Main and School Street, downtown Ellsworth. It’s so cool-looking—Mansard roof, ornate brickwork and huge, arched front windows looking out onto the street. It used to be a dress shop and just went up for sale. Which makes it almost worse, because now I know it’s available and someone is going to buy it and that someone can’t be me, because I don’t have the money. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but since my BFF happens to own a realty company, I asked her if she could show me the building. The place was even better than I expected. Hardwood floors, high tin ceilings with beautiful detail. It had this hush about it...like it was waiting, poised on the edge of a promise. Unfortunately, just not a promise for me. Maddie said she’ll keep me posted on it. She’s offered multiple times to lend me money, but I’ve staunchly refused. Like I told her, I don’t want to take something from someone, even my best friend, when I can’t give back anything in return. I’m almost hoping it goes under contract soon, because that way, I can shove it out of my mind where it belongs, keep saving what little money I can, and continue faking it at work as the DD girl (Dunkin Donuts)...picking up Boston Kremes and extra large black coffees for the Stu and Lou Show, listening to them bitch and moan about the donuts being upside down in the bag and watching Stu rip apart the brown paper and lick the chocolate frosting while sometimes winking at me.

  Did I mention that I really hate my job? Annnd now I’m off to Walmart to buy toilet paper.