Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Table of Contents
The Other Brother
Dedication
Description
More From the Authors
Table of Contents Instructions
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad
Double Feature
Double Dealing
Caught On Tape
Taste
Painting Her
The Other Brother
By Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn
Copyright 2018 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
Daphne Dawn
Natalie Knight
Dedication
To Jess - never basic, always fabulous!
Description
Getting lucky in Vegas has never been harder…
To remember.
Becky Brooks. Reformed party girl.
Sex on a stick. My every fantasy come true.
Oh, did I mention?
She’s also my brother’s fiancée.
He doesn’t deserve this perfect angel.
And proves it the first night of her wedding trip to Vegas.
But I have a plan.
A night in Sin City should do the trick.
Celine’s sex dungeon, a rogue vibrator,
An all-male strip club—the Post Office,
Where they deliver the biggest packages—mine.
Oh yeah, one more thing.
Getting married to Elvis in the Chapel O’ Love…
To the other brother.
More From the Authors
Natalie Knight
Taste
Painting Her
Caught on Tape
Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad
Daphne Dawn
Goldicox
Double Stuffed
Triple Taught
3 Men of the House
Double Dealing
Double Feature
Table of Contents Instructions
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Natalie Knight & Daphne Dawn
Prologue
Liam
7:51 PM WEDNESDAY
If there’s but one universal truth in this wild world we live in, it’s this:
Hearing your fiancée yell out, “Hey, fucker!” while you’re shuffling into an elevator full of Russian prostitutes with your manhood cupped in your hands is generally a bad sign.
I know what you’re thinking—but let’s get one thing straight here and now.
That’s not me shuffling into the elevator with the saucy Russian whores.
No, that’s my idiot step-brother, along with his three best friends and half a dozen women of questionable moral values.
The whores, I can approve of. The cheating? I just can’t.
My mother married Dan’s father when we were both just lads. It was the worst fucking mistake of her life, and I’ve hated my shitty American step-brother ever since. If he’d been calling himself Dan the Man back across the pond in London where I grew up, he would have been punched so hard in the fucking mouth that he would have shat his own teeth for a week.
Instead, Dan the Man grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and a stiff steel rod up his arse. Being boring as sin never seemed to warrant his nickname, no matter how much money his bastard of a father left him.
But that’s Dan the Man’s secret, really. He’s so fucking dull, no one would ever imagine his voracious appetite for Soviet bloc hookers or Colombian cocaine. Even I bought the charade for a while—until the first time he called begging for me to bring money to Tijuana, or else his coke dealer Alfonso was going to murder him.
When I see the way he’s made his poor, gorgeous fiancée cry, I almost wish I would have left him with the drug lord.
Becky Brooks, the woman Dan the Man somehow—against all odds—convinced to be his wife.
It’s three days before the wedding, and from the way she’s holding the million-dollar engagement ring he bought for her in his fist, I think they might need to cancel the caterer.
“You bastard,” Becky snarls. “You cheating fucking bastard. You are dead to me.”
“B-becky-beans,” Dan the Man stutters, and I cringe.
Oh fuck. That is not an attractive nickname.
I know the reason that Dan the Man was able to afford such an expensive wedding band, and it’s not through anything good he’s done of his own. No, his father left him a fortune and left me nothing. After all, I’m not a Hardbottom of the illustrious Hardbottom family like Dan is—I’m Liam fucking Black, an actual bastard. All my father left me was his last name—and he hardly even left me that.
I used to be a little bitt
er about it. But now that we’re older, bitterness has been washed away by success.
I made a fortune out of nothing—out of counting cards and being so damn good at it, now I own my own casino: the Royale.
And here Dan the Man is, standing in the Royale’s elevator dripping with lube and begging his fiancée not to kill him—or at least not to cancel the wedding.
“Remember the good times, Becky-beans,” Dan pleads from the elevator.
“Fuck that,” Becky spits at him. “I don’t even want to remember you exist. I’m going to forget everything, Dan. Every single fucking thing about you—and you can just fucking wallow in obscurity.”
“Becky-beans, please!” Dan wails, but it’s too late.
She’s already flung that million-dollar engagement ring at him and the elevator doors close up right behind it.
Becky Brooks.
She’s bubbly, bright and—even I have to admit—more beautiful than any man deserves. Green eyes like an Irish morning and an ass so tight, you could bounce fifty pence off of it.
When she turns to me, I open my arms to her. She might have put on a brave face before Dan the Man and his goons and his whores, but there’s no shame in crying now.
She nestles her pretty little red head against my broad, muscled shoulder while she sobs.
“There there, love,” I say, stroking her fiery, silken hair. “Let it out.”
“No, fuck that.” Becky sniffles, burrowing her face deeper in my chest. “I’ve given up everything for Dan. He’s…he’s…”
“An arsehole so great, gaping and wide that even a Clydesdale’s dick could find wiggle room,” I suggest.
“Yeah,” Becky agrees. “That.”
“Why don’t I order you up some room service, love?” I say, even though I don’t want to part myself from her for a moment. But this isn’t the right time—the poor kitten has just had her heart broken, though the idea of Dan the Man breaking anyone’s heart is absurd to me. “You and your bridesmaids should still enjoy your night.”
“No,” Becky protests, pulling away. “I want to do something crazy, Liam. Something…something that would piss Dan the Man off.”
“Like crowd surfing at a Celine Dion concert?”
Becky’s eyes narrow with wickedness. “That’s a start.”
This is a pretty high-profile cock-up, even for Dan “The Man”. For a bloke who bills himself as so fucking boring, he’s as dodgy as they come. If I’d been across the pond when Becky Brooks agreed to marry the bugger, I would have told her then and there: this man is not the kind of chap you want to marry.
My only regret is that I didn’t get a ring on this perfect, saucy little creature’s finger first…
Which isn’t to say that I won’t.
After all, anything can happen in Vegas…
And we’ve got all night to forget.
Chapter 1
Becky
10:01 AM THURSDAY
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!
When I wake up, it takes all the pluck and determination of a Bob the Builder crowbar to get my stupid fucking eyes open.
When I come to, I immediately decide it wasn’t worth the effort.
The Royale Casino, Viva Las Vegas.
Maybe you’ve heard of it? Opulence out the ass. Costs an arm and a leg to book a standard room. Fancy ordering room service? Hope you’re prepared to sign away your firstborn.
And my fiancé, Dan the Man? He booked me the bridal suite. His brother—sorry, step-brother—owns the place. Family discount, I guess. They let him keep his good arm.
So. Here I am, hungover as fuck in the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, a city known for money, sex, and sin.
But I’m not here to sin.
I’m here to get married. Hitched. I’m here to tie the knot, settle down, and make an honest woman of myself once and for all.
So when I open my eyes on the first morning of my three-day bachelorette party in Vegas, I ought to be thinking about bride stuff. Roses. Hors d’oeuvres.
I should be peeling off an organic cucumber-placenta facial rejuvenation mask, gently fretting about whether there will be enough beluga caviar at the wedding reception and ruminating on how fucking much I love my husband-to-be.
When I actually open my eyes, what really happens is I peel my tongue off the roof of my dry-mouth and realize that Dan is not getting his fucking deposit back.
Broken bottles. Shattered glass. Smoke. Feathers. Whipped cream. And that noise—an incessant vibrating that strikes fear in my loins and sends a pang of guilt shooting through my very soul, though I know not why.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!
A bedazzled rogue vibrator chugs across the floor of the lounge. It smears blue raspberry lube behind it like a snail trail until it jams up, sputters and dies tangled in the shag of the white lounge rug.
The smell hits me next, so dark and pungent that I’m not entirely sure I’m not having a stroke. It’s eau de burnt condoms and splattered wine, with maybe a hint of breakfast. There’s no use crying over spilled Merlot, but I almost shed a tear when I realize it’s been splashed across the Banksy mural in the foyer.
I’m vaguely aware that something’s on fire, but when I try to muster up the courage to go grab an extinguisher, I can’t.
Hangovers, man.
What the fuck did I do last night?
The late-morning sun pours in from the patio. It’s like getting LASIK from a flamethrower. I whimper pathetically from the place where I must have passed out last night: naked, upside down and reeking of tequila on a white velvet sofa worth more than my parents’ mortgage.
I squint, still a little drunk, and raise my hand to shield my eyes. But before I can, something moves in front me, eclipsing the light.
A thigh. A thick, muscular thigh with blonde hairs that glisten, back-lit by sunshine, like spun gold. Naked. Bulging with sinew.
In awe, I follow the line of that thigh up to a hip. A manly fucking hip. A hip which has no doubt powered thrusts that have facilitated a thousand orgasms.
Oh.
Make that a million orgasms.
Because let’s slide the fuck across that hip, shall we?
I know I shouldn’t look, but it’s right fucking there. Beckoning my gaze. Begging to be seen.
Thick.
Half-hard, long as my forearm and still. Fucking. Growing.
Uncut. Like turning your porn settings over from US to UK.
A pearl of pre-cum trembling at its engorged, fat, rose-pink tip.
Hung.
And hanging right over my fucking face.
Total dream, right? Perfect way to wake up in the morning. Forget hangover cures. Forget hair of the dog.
The most beautiful dick my formerly-slutty eyes have ever ogled is dangling within licking distance of my suddenly drooling mouth, and I wanna ride that bad boy like a bitch in heat.
There’s just one problem. There always is, isn’t there?
Remember Dan? Dan “Dan the Man” Hardbottom, that almost-handsome, totally kind, and caring fiancé who booked me into this sweet-ass room that I’m probably burning to the ground literally as we speak?
Yeah…
That’s definitely not his cock.
“Morning, love,” Very Much Not Dan says, passing me a giant mug of coffee.
I accept the mug gratefully as I twist myself upright. I find myself blinking at Not Dan in a slow, disbelieving daze. Every time I close my eyes, I’m certain he’s going to be gone when I open them again.
Every time I open them, he’s still fucking there.
Alright. Let’s talk specifics here, hmm? He’s in his late twenties. Early thirties at the most. 6’2”, probably more like 6’3” if you get him in dress shoes.
What we’re dealing with here is a man who seems to be constructed mostly of muscle, sex appeal, and my own wet dreams.
He’s got dark blonde stubble that you just know will tickle your
cheeks when he kisses you. The kind of lips that make you wonder how that stubble will feel against your inner thighs.
My heart says no, but my pussy says I want to ride his scruffy face like a jockey on Kentucky Derby day.
Blue eyes, bright and pale and flecked with gold. Like sunlight on the ocean. Or like the Royale’s $500,000 poker chips scattered across the baby blue felt of a roulette table.
A jawline that looks like it was formed with a chisel and a chest that makes me feel like if God were real, he’s either gay or female.
It’s like I dropped acid last night and accidentally hallucinated a naked Charlie Hunnam into my bridal suite.
“How did you sleep, darling?” he asks me. “I made brekky.”
Oh god. Did I mention it gets worse? Because it gets worse.
He’s British.
“Uhh,” I say, fluently. Because apparently, as I stare at the Union Jack flag he has tattooed on a bulging pectoral—right over his heart—I’ve forgotten how to speak English.
His eyes narrow with the hint of an amused smile.
“Drink your coffee, love.”
My breath sticks in my chest as he reaches past the mug I’m holding in my two trembling hands and pinches one of my nipples between his index finger and his thumb.
“Cheeky,” he says with a roguish wink. “Fancy a quickie before you eat? Let me know.”
I stare at his ass as he goes. You wouldn’t fucking blame me, either.
Look, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. I really fucking do.
This man is perfect. Delectable. Gloriously delicious in every single way. He’s got the looks of a notorious bad boy tempered with a dash of English charm. The body of a Greek sculpture, the tattoos of a rock star, and the cock of dildo model.
And he called me cheeky, for fucks sake. Tip me over, and I would drown in my own pussy juice right now.
But he’s not my fiancé.
He’s not Dan.
Of course he’s not Dan. That much’s pretty fucking clear.
He makes better coffee, for one.
I take a sip, if only because in my hungover state, I’m pretty solid at following orders. It’s warm and rich, brewed perfectly. Light roast, the way I like it. One sugar. Full fat milk. And the pièce de résistance: a pack of instant hot chocolate dumped on top of it—because while I do my best to be classy, I’m not a fucking saint. It’s like a mocha-flavored orgasm in my mouth.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 1