Thrill Seeker (Sinful in Seattle Book 1)

by Taryn Quinn

  Hmm.

  I did like a challenge.

  “So tell me, Miss Kane, is that seriously your name?”

  She pressed her glossy red lips together so tightly a white line glowed from her skin.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes. And that you get asked that a lot. I don’t like being boring, so I’ll just move on.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Based on the name of your company, and your last name—unless it’s a family thing, which I understand completely—I’m guessing the elf costume isn’t your usual attire?”

  Her nostrils flared.

  I grinned. Yeah, she really wanted to tell me off. “By my powers of deduction, and being an intuitive man—”

  She let out a snort. Her lips did that white line thing again. I much preferred the lush red. She’d worn the same shade last night and I’d dreamed of kissing the red away. I’d also dreamed of my cock wearing that same shade when she took me in her mouth. I wasn’t picky.

  Of course, that was a dream and my reality was a little trickier.

  I raised a brow. “As I was saying, being an intuitive man, and catching the scent of panic in the air, I’m betting you’re about to give me some bad news.”

  “My Santa eloped with my elf.”

  It was my turn to press my lips together. “Of all the scenarios in my head, that wasn’t one of them.”

  “Welcome to my life. And now there are forty-seven kids arriving at your annual party, with no Santa.”

  “You don’t have a backup?”

  She tilted her head. “You do realize it’s the twenty-third of December at approximately four in the afternoon.”

  “Contingencies always need to be made, Miss Kane.”

  “Yes, well this is my final party of the season. And I’ve had two parties a day for the last ten days. I’m all out of Santas and contingencies. Not to mention I normally don’t have to worry about this particular Santa.”

  “Had him in your pocket?” When she blanched, I laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “No,” she said stiffly. “He was simply my most requested Santa. He’s very good with children, as well as adults.”

  “And now, really good with elves. Just how good?”

  “Mr. Murdock, I don’t believe that’s an appropriate question.”

  “Maybe. But the question’s already out there.”

  “I do not fraternize with my employees. He was simply very good at his job. I chose him because I thought I could count on him. And now…”

  “Now, no Santa and you’re filling in as the elf.”

  She curled her fingers into a fist. “Yes.”

  This conversation was so ridiculous, I couldn’t help but laugh. “And you think my assistant is going to find you a Santa?”

  “I was hoping he might have an idea of who to ask. You’re a department store. Perhaps you have a Santa?”

  “We do. From the first of the month through the twentieth. After that, the store is simply too busy to support a Santa. People are rushing around to find gifts, not taking snapshots with babies and puppies.”

  “You do pictures with puppies?” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Not the point.” She swallowed thickly. “I’ve called every contact I have. I offered double their normal salary. Even triple. Because I know that part of my contract was to supply food and entertainment—aka Santa—for the party.”

  “And if you default your contract, we don’t have to pay you.”

  Her other hand curled into a fist. “Yes.”

  I grinned again. All my teeth must have been out like a shark by the way she paled. “Works for me.”

  She lifted her chin. “This contract will see that all my employees will be paid through the summer, Mr. Murdock.”

  “Guess you should have had a contingency plan for that Santa, huh?”

  “Believe me, I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “Doesn’t help me or my employees, now does it?”

  “And yet, you’re smiling like a—”

  I closed the door and leaned against it, crossing my arms. “Don’t censor yourself on my account.”

  Her eyes darted to the door, then to me.

  “My brother will return momentarily. Perhaps there will be a Hail Mary in there for you. Except I know my brother and my assistant. Jordan shudders at the idea of sticky kid fingers. Pretty sure you’re not going to find a Santa in him.”

  “He just has to pass out gifts. Surely he could do that. If not him, perhaps you—I mean we…” She growled. “Me. I could speak with a few of your employees to see who would like to earn a nice bonus for an hour’s work?”

  “My employees are here to have a good time, Miss Kane. They are not here to work.”

  She twisted her fingers. “I would wear the Santa suit if I could get away with it.” She scrubbed her palm against her skirt. “You know what? I could probably do it. I’ll just send Mel back to my headquarters for one of the smaller suits. I can make this work.” She pulled out her phone and paced the length of my brother’s office.

  There was no way I should be attracted to a woman dressed like she was a cross between an elf and a man’s wet dream. I was going to fantasize about her endless legs wrapped around my damn neck for days.

  Just what I needed when I went to my cabin.

  It was in the middle of nowhere. I could possibly find someone to fill the hours with in the small ski resort town, but I generally didn’t bother.

  Maybe I needed to pick up another bottle of Bushmills on my way out of town.

  I dropped into my brother’s large executive chair behind his desk and swung from side to side as Miss Kane wore a tread into the Aubusson rug. She was tenacious, I had to give her that. She made three phone calls before wrapping her hand around her cell phone and tapping it to her forehead in frustration.

  She checked the slim gold watch on her wrist and tipped her head back.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the readout. Jordan.

  Her phone made a similar pulse. Her face relaxed. “Thank God.”

  I checked my message.

  Jordan: You know I don’t play Santa right? Not even for Gigi Hadid.

  I laughed.

  “What? Did Jordan find someone?” She rushed over to my brother’s desk.

  “Didn’t you just get a text too?”

  “Yes. He just said he was coming upstairs to speak with me.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but there’s no Santa coming to save you.” My phone buzzed along the desk. I lifted it and my smile slid away.

  Parker: You still have the Santa suit don’t you?

  No way was I putting that on.

  Hell no.

  Fuck no.

  She twisted her fingers. “What? Is there news?”

  Those damn blue eyes. Fuck.

  No.

  Absolutely not. I had a flight to catch to a cabin that didn’t have a stitch of Christmas attached to it. I was out of here.

  “I’ll do anything. Pay whatever I have in my savings account to get someone to be my Santa.”

  “Anything?”

  She nodded. “Anything.”

  My phone pulsed again.

  Parker: I know you have that suit. Don’t be an asshole.

  Once upon a time I’d have gladly donned my suit. Not now. Not even for a pair of legs up to her damn neck. There was no way in hell.

  She put her palms on the desk and leaned into me. “Pride has left the building, Mr. Murdock. I need a Santa to save my company and this party.”

  My spine heated.

  There was nothing sexy about the bulky sweater she was wearing. Save for the fact that she had a belt cinched around her narrow waist which emphasized her curves. The same curves that had made me insane the night before, and were doing a really good job of keeping me in the same state right now.

  I steepled my fingers together. “What would you say if I said I have a Santa suit in the building?”

 
; “Would it fit me?”

  I raised one brow. “Who would be your helper elf?”

  “Mel. I’m sure I…” She swallowed. “I can make it work.”

  “The suit is cut to fit me.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”

  “That is not a story we’re going to get into. Suffice it to say, I don’t wear the suit for anyone.”

  Her eyebrows snapped down. “Not even for those kids downstairs?”

  “Not my problem.”

  She stood up straight. “That’s unconscionable.”

  “I don’t do Christmas, Miss Kane. Not even when you give me that look.”

  “What do you mean you ‘don’t do Christmas’?”

  I stood up and circled the desk to stand in front of her. “Call me Scrooge. I’m okay with it.”

  “But there’s innocent children who believe in Santa. They believe that someone is out there to—”

  “Give them gifts? Yeah, I know. I see the greed and the tantrums in my store. Yesterday, I watched a man punch out another man just to get the last drone in our display. Christmas spirit is everywhere.”

  “What happened to you?” she whispered.

  I tucked my thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans. “Not relevant.”

  “It’s very relevant. Surely there’s some way for us to come to a compromise.”

  “You don’t have anything to offer.”

  “Nothing?”

  The innocent hope in her expression didn’t help the precarious state of my libido. I wanted to bend her over my brother’s desk. But exceptional pussy wasn’t enough to make me face all that laughter and light. My cock’s reaction to her certainly seemed to state otherwise, but I was not ruled by my dick.

  Maybe if I lost myself in her sweet body for a few days I’d even out enough to get through the holiday. But a few hours wouldn’t suffice.

  Not if I had to put on that damn Santa suit.

  “Not sure you’re prepared to put that sort of chip on the table, Miss Kane.” My voice was husky and low to my own ears. The flush in her cheeks made my cock throb.

  I watched the realization hit her.

  She stumbled back a step.

  I caught her before she tripped on the edge of the rug. Her sweater was soft over her narrow back. She gripped the front of my shirt.

  “Just what would you do to get me to play Santa, Miss Kane?”

  Would you like to read more?

  Oh, and pssst. Filthy Scrooge is a Kindle Unlimited title.

  Buy or Borrow Me

  Are dirty hot rockstars more your speed?

  ROCKSTAR DADDY

  Never trust a cold condom.

  Wait, let me back up. I'm Kellan McGuire, and I'm a rockstar in hiding, at least for the weekend. Enter Maggie Kelly, the famed Kelly virgin - AKA my small hometown's favorite good girl.

  Did I mention she's really good? And I'm so...not.

  Except Maggie isn't a virgin any longer. She actually just went through a rough breakup due to her ex's penchant for strippers.

  And I don't want to be a rockstar this weekend. Not with her.

  I just want to be Kellan, the wolf to her Little Red Riding Hood. The guy who shows her all the dark, dirty things she never dared to dream.

  In return, she gave me something I never dared to dream about either - a baby.

  A family.

  Our family, if I can convince her I'm worth the risk.

  Author's note: this book may be called Rockstar Daddy, but the emphasis is on lots of babymaking practice, laughter, a few tears, and a serious case of insta-love.

  BUY or BORROW

  Read on for an excerpt…

  Chapter 1

  Kellan

  Fucking blizzard.

  Again.

  Why was I even surprised?

  I was the jackass who had grown up on the outskirts of Turnbull, New York, snow capital of the northeast, and had escaped to sunny LA only to return.

  Voluntarily.

  No one had held a gun to my head or shackled my wrists. Nope, I’d strapped my surfboard to the roof of my SUV and made the trek home to buy property on the very edge of town. Outside of town, truth be told. Because the icy tundra in the city proper—ha ha—wasn’t enough for me. Might as well build a damn shack with my own two hands and surround it with pine trees and solitude.

  So much freaking solitude.

  True, it was just my vacation home. Cue more laughter. My place to escape from the rigors of being a famous rockstar.

  At least the rockstar part was right. In my head if nowhere else. The famous? Working on that. Wilder Mind’s first single was due to drop just after the holidays, and our manager, Lila Crandall, was prepping us for the big time. A lot of that was smoke and mirrors designed to build us up into being the showmen we weren’t quite yet, but under her bluster, there was a kernel of truth.

  Wilder Mind was poised to take on the world.

  Me? I was poised to chop some wood so I could hole up in my cabin and spend New Year’s Eve soaking up the silence.

  No other company. No other voices. Especially no incessant interview questions or even the shrill scream of fans. Not that we’d dealt with much of that yet. Only a taste. A hint of things to come if we were lucky enough to make it big.

  In the meantime, it would be just me and my old Taylor acoustic, a roaring fire, and a case of Coors.

  Hey, I never said I had highbrow tastes. So sue me.

  Blowing out a breath, I heaved the ax through the chilly air, savoring the pleasant burn in my muscles. I was chopping way more wood than I’d need for a weekend at the cabin. If I was lucky, I’d make it back to Turnbull a few times over the winter. With the single dropping, we’d be branching out. Spreading out to do shows some distance from LA, which meant all the press that went with that. I’d be talking myself hoarse before I was expected to go up and bleed out onstage for the price of a ticket.

  That was my role. My new role. The one I’d craved since I was a kid with a cheap thrift store guitar, a joint in my back pocket, and the requisite amount of teenage angst that made me think I could be a great songwriter.

  Now I was getting my shot, and the battered composition notebook I’d been lugging around for years—first in backpacks, then in briefcases during my brief stint working at Ripper Records—was definitely getting a workout.

  Just like my arms. I slammed the axe into the snowpack and threw back my head. Shit. The chill seared my lungs, yanking out my breath in icy puffs. And I still wasn’t smart enough to go inside.

  Nope, I kept splitting logs, continuing on until the overcast afternoon turned into dusk. The foggy dark hung in ribbons of mist around my forest, and I didn’t stop until the distant cry of a lonely coyote made me think maybe it was time for that fire.

  We didn’t get a lot of coyotes out this way, but we had some. In this much dense forestation, you got quite the range of creatures. Even the occasional black bear. My mom had told stories about one coming up to the back door and rattling the knob of her folks’ old ramshackle place, but I had to think that was bullshit.

  Maybe I just hoped it. If a frigging bear couldn’t just break down a door, fuck the rest of us who rued being so goddamn polite all the time.

  Still, much as I lobbied for the rights of bears and coyotes, I wasn’t stupid enough to be whaling on logs after dark. Not when I had a twelve-pack and a hot shower waiting for my sore ass.

  “Getting soft,” I muttered after stowing the axe and piling up the wood to haul inside.

  I grunted as I made my way around the side of the cabin in the knee-deep snow, part of a cord of wood in my arms. Obviously, I needed to hit the gym harder before Wilder Mind went out on tour. My body freaking hurt. I was covered in sweat. Probably looked like a frigging maniac with snow sticking to my beardy face.

  I jumped around night after night onstage in closet-sized clubs and bars, but I wasn’t as hardy as when I’d lived in good old Turnbull full-time. Back when I’d worked on c
ars and picked up odd construction jobs to get by.

  It had been blind luck and a dose of small town friendliness that had even gotten my ass out to LA. Lila’s mom and pop ran the local orchard, and my mom had gotten to talking to Lila’s mother one day about how I didn’t want to be stuck working construction for the rest of my life. One thing led to another and under six months later, I’d been on a place out to LA to meet with Donovan Lewis, the head of the record label Lila worked for. We hit it off and though I didn’t know shit about selling anything that didn’t come in a bucket or wrapped in cellophane, I’d ended up as an account rep.

  Representing artists. Me. The guy who’d barely graduated high school but could schmooze a quart a milk out of a cow. Or so my mom had claimed to Lila’s mother.

  Because a way with cows surely meant a way with egotistical, often drugged out musicians. Right.

  Somehow it had worked though. Lila said I had a knack. Donovan had given me raises. A bunch of them, in short succession. The mogul some jokingly referred to as Lord Lewis didn’t shortchange his talent, and he’d seen something in me. I owed him and Lila a shit-ton of gratitude. First, for hiring me to represent some of their musical acts, and then for trusting me to front a band.

  The band part I had more familiarity with. I’d been stroking an acoustic long before I’d stroked my first girl. Let’s just say I’d done my share of touching both, and leave it at that.

  One more thing about Turnbull? They had some damn fine women, but it was hard to see them clearly under all the layers of outerwear when it snowed for what felt like half the freaking year. I preferred California women anyway. They seemed more good-natured as a rule. Maybe all the sunshine and hot temperatures put them in a better mood.

  And goddammit, I loved me a woman in a bikini.

  When I reached the front of my property and heard the squeal of tires, I didn’t react fast enough. Put the image of a half-naked, tanned woman in the mind of a man who’d nearly frozen his nuts off and who wouldn’t miss a car fishtailing off the road?