Good Boyfriend: A Love Story (The Bad Nanny Trilogy Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  This bad nanny … makes a good boyfriend.”

  Good Boyfriend

  Good Boyfriend © C.M. Stunich 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  this book is dedicated to all the good boyfriends out there.

  you know who you are.

  Sign up for an exclusive first look at the hottest new releases, contests, and exclusives from bestselling author C.M. Stunich and get *three free* eBooks as a thank you!

  Author's Note

  Thank you so much for picking up "Good Boyfriend", the sequel to "Bad Nanny". This book acts as 1.5 in the series and should be read before picking up "Great Husband" (releases August 31st, 2017).

  When you're ready for a little more bad boy body piercer turned nanny, turn the page, read on, and enjoy!

  Love, C.M. Stunich (aka Violet Blaze)

  There's a goddess lying naked in the back seat of my shitty old Geo Metro, her hair a dark coil around her head, her shiny pink lips parted with hiccupy, gasping breaths.

  “Zayden,” she whispers as I cover her body with mine again, pressing our slick, sweaty flesh together, curling my inked fingers through her pale ones. “I seem to have lost my underwear,” she mumbles just before I press my lips to hers for another kiss.

  This goddess—twenty-two year old Brooke Overland—has the softest damn mouth I've ever had the pleasure of kissing. She smells like sugared peaches and cream, and she tastes like fucking strawberries. But if there's one thing about her that really turns me on, it's that big ass flippin' heart she has beating beneath her rib cage. Pressed together like this, I can feel my own heart thumping in response to hers, desperately trying to match that selfless rhythm.

  If Brooke is the goddess of anything, then it's heart. This girl dropped her whole life to move back to this sleepy little coastal town so she could take care of her nieces. And now, holding her in my arms, moving my body inside of hers, I feel downright blessed.

  “You didn't lose 'em, babe,” I growl against her ear, making her shiver. “I tore them in half.”

  Brooke makes this sharp, sexy gasping sound as I thrust deep, filling her up with the pierced length of my cock, sheathing myself inside her warmth. My legs are totally cramped, and my stupid fucking hairless cat is screaming from his kennel on the front passenger seat, but I'm not leaving here until Brooke Overland and I have screwed out all the emotions from the previous few days.

  Stuffed into the hot, sweaty confines of my car with Brooke, I can't believe I almost did it.

  I almost left.

  A few short hours ago, I was on my way back to Las Vegas, back to my life as a professional body piercer, Lothario, and all-around douchebag. My name is Zayden Remy Roth (yeah, I know, my middle name is totally lame) and I am a seriously stupid asshole.

  I fell in love with a girl, and then I tried to run. There's not a single excuse in my head that makes any sort of sense. I can only hope that by giving Brooke three (and counting) orgasms, that she'll truly be able to forgive me, to give this thing between us a real shot.

  My mouth drops to the rosy pink points of her nipples, kissing and sucking the pebbled flesh between my lips, making my goddess thrash and moan beneath me. Her hands struggle against mine, pressed up against the door of my beat-up compact car. There might not be a lot of room in here, but we're making it work … and work … and work, baby.

  “Zay …” Brooke starts again, but I'm not about to let her talk, not yet. I move my hips in a steady rhythm, rocking the vehicle with my movements. If there were actually any people around in this fucking town, we'd probably get the cops called on us. Would not take a genius to figure out what Brooke and I are up to in here. “Zay …”

  “Shh, Smarty-Pants, I got you,” I whisper as I bite her lower lip and suck it between my own. I have a lot of bullshit to make up for. I was such a mega a-hole last night—I cost Brooke her job with my machismo crap—that I wouldn't be surprised if, after we're done having sex, this girl tells me to get lost.

  “Zayden, I can't feel my arms,” she groans with a little wiggle of her hips, making me pause.

  We look at each other, my green eyes staring down at her brown ones, and then we both start to laugh. Doesn't last long though because even as I'm letting go of Brooke's hands, I'm turning us around so that I'm sitting on the seat and she, she's sitting on me.

  My hands cup Brooke's hips, encouraging her to ride me, to dig her fingernails into the muscles of my shoulders, that crazy long hair of hers draping down her back and teasing my bare legs. I watch her face, her shuttered lids, the way she takes her bottom lip under her teeth.

  Holy Mother of baby Jesus, sweet Mary of Bethlehem.

  The only thing I've done right in the last twenty-four hours was making that illegal u-turn on the highway (even though I got slapped with a massive ticket and had the cop lookin' at me like I was a few screws loose in the skull).

  That, and this.

  Because I am hella boss at sex.

  My hands lift up and take Brooke gently around the neck, pulling her face down to mine for a slow, languorous kiss, sliding my tongue in a sensual arc around hers, listening to the fluttering pulse of Brooke's muscles. I can sense an orgasm coming like a storm, rolling in like the clouds outside the car, rain pinging off the metal surface of the roof.

  My goddess whispers something that sounds like a celestial blessing with those pretty lips of hers, her head cupped in my hands as her long lashes flutter and she clamps down around me, capturing my orgasm like a prayer.

  I fall hands and knees onto that altar, baby.

  “Goddamn it, Zay,” Brooke says, flushing and doing her best to disentangle our bodies. I said doing her best, but it's not good enough. I wrap my arms around her and pull those gorgeous breasts of hers to my face for a snuggle. “Shit,” she breathes, relaxing a little. I take that as a good sign and lean back a bit to look up at her.

  Her pale brown eyes are staring down at me with a strange mixture of joy and confusion.

  “You really came back,” she whispers as I grab her by the hips and slide her down to the seat next to me. She turns her head away while I dispose of the condom in a trash bag hanging off the back of the passenger seat. Hubert hisses at me and swipes at the bars of his cage in protest; I just ignore the little bastard.

  “I really did,” I say as I notice Brooke's shredded granny panties hanging from the rearview mirror. I grin, but don't say anything. I want to see how long it takes her to notice them. “I should never have left, Smarty-Pants.”

  “No,” she says, turning her head slowly to look at me. Brooke pauses to grab my t-shirt from the seat between us, tugging it over her head and hiding the warm flush of color on her full, round breasts. I make a pouty little moue of disappointment, but she just ignores me. “You shouldn't have. But you did serenade me with Van Morrison …”

  “And gave you four orgasms,” I say, lifting up four fingers on the hand with the tattooed book on it. The pages are still blank, but maybe that's because I'm waiting for a good story to fill it? I think I've got a good story here with
Brooke. Hell, I'm pretty sure I have a goddamn bestseller.

  “There's that, too,” she concedes, but then she lifts her chin in that defiant way of hers. “But I'm still pissed off at you. I cried all afternoon. I kept …” She pauses to suck in a deep breath. “I kept thinking you were going to come back for me.”

  “Ah, babe,” I say, leaning forward and putting my forehead against hers. “I'm so fucking sorry. You might've been the virgin in this scenario, but I'm like, a love virgin or something. I've had a lot of girlfriends, but I've never been in love. I'm just trying to fumble my way through this.”

  “So you were serious? You're really moving here?” my goddess asks, shoving her chocolate dark hair over one shoulder, my t-shirt sagging on her much smaller frame. The only part of the fabric that looks at all strained is the part covering her breasts. “For me? You're sure you want to do that?”

  “I'm fucking positive,” I say, realizing as I sit there that my headache's gone, that the awful nauseous feeling in my belly's settled. The farther I got from Brooke, the worse I felt. I was having a physical reaction to being separated from her. How crazy is that? Sure, it was probably psychosomatic, but that just means my body was reacting to what my brain—and my heart—already knew.

  This girl, I need her in my life right now. Maybe forever. Probably forever.

  “So … what happens now?” Brooke asks, her voice dropping to a whisper again, her cheeks turning pink. Even in the dim orange light from the streetlamps above us, I can see that warm flush crawling across her skin. Aw, my little baby's embarrassed.

  I grin.

  “Now? Now you tell me that you love me, too, silly. That's how it works.”

  I poke her in the forehead and she smacks my hand away, gasping when I curl my fingers around her wrist and pull her knuckles to my lips for a kiss.

  “I'm … what if I'm not ready to say it?” she asks with a cocky little smirk that fades as soon as I suck one of her fingers between my lips, swirling my tongue around the tip. “Stop that, Zayden. I'm serious. What if I just don't feel like saying it back yet? You really hurt me yesterday.”

  “If you're not ready,” I tell her honestly, dropping her hand to my lap and massaging it with my fingers, “then don't say it. I won't hold it against you.” I toss her a sloppy, lopsided smile. “Doesn't matter. I'm going to be a damn good boyfriend anyway—if you'll let me, that is.”

  “I think you've already been a good boyfriend,” she tells me with a small little smile, one that melts my heart all the hell over my rib cage. I can feel my affection for her dripping into my belly and taking flight in the form of butterflies. Ah, me. Zayden Roth, Casanova dickhead, is getting butterflies. Now you know I've got it bad. “But that, Zay, that was our romantic climax.”

  “Climaxes,” I correct, raising a single inked finger and noticing that Brooke's trying really hard to keep her gaze from tracing down my chest and abs to my bare cock. After a moment, she leans down and grabs my jeans, tossing them onto my lap and covering up the offending member.

  She decides to ignore my comment; ever the practical little Smarty-Pants, isn't she?

  “But what happens after happily ever after, Zay? Like, after While You Were Sleeping ends. Or When Harry Met Sally. Something like that.”

  “Whoa. Eighties/nineties rom-coms. Some of my faves, babe,” I say with a wink, yanking my jeans over my hips as Brooke ogles my body. Oh yeah, definitely ogling. She can't take her eyes off of me. I smirk as she finally notices her ugly cotton panties hanging from the rearview mirror, sitting up and snatching them back as I slap her bare bottom and grin. “I didn't know you were into rom-coms.”

  “Yeah, because we don't really know each other. That's what we have to do now, I think. Get to know each other better.” She pauses for a second and then shoves her panties into the garbage bag with the condom, slipping her pants on and flying the commando flag with me. Brooke sits down with a small huff and glances at me with a raised brow—the one I pierced so expertly, I might add. “Wait, you like rom-coms, too?”

  “Um, duh. Who doesn't love a good romantic comedy? Only a heartless person with a dead soul, that's who.” I snap my fingers for emphasis which really only gets Hubert to start mewling again, attacking the bars of his kennel like some sort of cartoon wolverine. It's just a spinning nightmare of pink flesh and feminist knitwear in that carrier.

  “Uh-huh,” Brooke says as I lean forward and we both pause at the sound of Justin Bieber's whiny croon trickling through the speakers.

  My eyes light up and Brooke's get huge with fear and disgust.

  “No fucking way,” she says as the song Boyfriend starts to play and I grin.

  “If you start singing that …” she warns, but it's too late. I'm grabbing her around the waist and pulling her against me, kissing her cheek and singing the lyrics in an off-key way that's actually kind of better than the Biebs. I mean, I like pop music, but I have to admit, that little fucker's a bit of a douche, isn't he?

  “That's it. I'm getting out of the car,” Brooke threatens, grabbing the handle and opening the door to a shower of cold rain. She wiggles out of my arms and takes off into the park with me chasing after, shirtless and barefoot.

  I manage to catch Brooke around the waist next to the old wooden swing set, setting her down on one of the plastic seats and launching her into a dark sky that's glittering with stars and rain.

  We don't make it out of that parking lot until the night sky blushes with the rose and champagne colors of dawn.

  “Can you please tell me where you buy all those stupid cat sweaters from?” I ask on the tail end of a yawn, slumping against the passenger window of my Subaru Outback, yet another item I inherited from my older sister, Ingrid. As I got older, I sort of expected the used clothes, the old backpacks, the discarded furniture being passed my way. I guess I just never thought I'd also be inheriting her two children.

  “Stupid? Hubert looks swag as fuck in those things, Brooke, and you know it.”

  I raise my eyebrows as Zayden grins at me and turns out of the Humboldt State University parking lot. Somehow the ass managed to convince me that it was a good idea to bring him to class with me. After we dropped the girls off at school, he accompanied me to the lecture hall and fell asleep with his head pillowed on my shoulder. I think he even drooled on me a little.

  But … fuck.

  Drool or no drool, I'm still trying to convince my logical brain that he really is here, that I haven't lost my mind and started imagining sexy tattooed gods following me around. No, I'm far too practical for that.

  I push my glasses up my nose and try to hold back another yawn. After we got back from the park last night, Aunt Monica gave our soaking wet clothes, hickeys, and swollen mouths one long, awful once-over and then stormed out of the house in a huff. I couldn't care less what she thinks of me, the selfish bitch, but I have a feeling we've just lost our only babysitter.

  “Looks aside,” I say as Zayden takes the exit for the highway, “I just want to know where you managed to find a blue kitty sweater that says Nevertheless, She Persisted on it.”

  “Uh, the internet?” he says, scratching at the flop of brown hair on his head. Neither of us was up for much primping today. I'm wearing absolutely zero makeup, dressed in a plain black tank and jeans with mismatched shoes. I could only find one pale pink Converse sneaker and one black one, so I rolled with it. Zay's one-sided mohawk is loose and falling over his forehead and ear, the stars on the shaved right side faded a little with fresh growth. His face is stubbled, but sexy as hell, especially when he smiles over at me.

  Boyfriend.

  Holy. Shit.

  Zayden Roth … is my boyfriend.

  My fucking boyfriend.

  I bite my lip and reach up to grab the edges of the white and pink knitted hat on my head, pulling it low enough that it covers my eyes.

  “Hey,” he says, reaching over and lifting up a corner, “are you hiding from me, Smarty-Pants?”

  “I'm
trying to reconcile myself with the idea that we're a … couple.” I whisper that last word, but Zayden still hears it, even over the screaming metal music I had to play rock-paper-scissors for this morning. Apparently, we're going to alternate our music choices every other day. I try to imagine listening to … pop music for half my life. Sounds like hell to me, but then I start thinking about Zayden's mannerisms, the way he sings and dances to music that would normally make me want to puke.

  Yep. I'm definitely in love with him. That proves it. If I can handle Justin Bieber and Backstreet Boys for that man, I must be in deep.

  I'm just not going to tell him that, not yet. I'm still nursing hurt feelings from the way things went down at the strip club, how he charged in there like he was going to save the day, cost me my job, and then basically told me tough shit. No, I'm not going to tell him for a while, see if he can really prove himself to be a good boyfriend for more than just two weeks.

  In my heart, I believe he can.

  “Where are we going anyway?” I ask as he takes an unfamiliar exit and starts weaving his way through a suburban neighborhood. No matter where we are in Eureka though, there are redwood trees towering over everything, stretching their evergreen limbs into the foggy gray sky. As much as I hate this place, I have to admit that they're beautiful, unique to our little corner of the world. Or maybe I'm just looking at things differently today because I have Zayden by my side?

  I stifle a smile by glancing out the window, so he won't see it. If he does, he'll just tease me about it. I don't want Zay to know exactly how excited I am to have him here. As if he can sense my thoughts anyway, he reaches through the space between us and takes my hand in his, sending a hot thrill through me, like a burning coal sliding up my spine.

  For two weeks, we've been hanging out, talking, fucking … but I knew the whole time that it was temporary. Now that it's … not, it feels different somehow, like Zayden's hand is warmer, his fingers longer, his tattoos brighter. There's this charge in the air that wasn't there before, this electric stuttering in the air between us that makes my breath catch in my lungs.