by JA Huss
Contents
SEXY
XOXOXOXOXO
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 Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
END OF BOOK SHIT
Edited by RJ Locksley
Stalk Me
@jahuss
www.jahuss.com
Facebook/authorjahuss
Copyright © 2015 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-936413-91-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
XOXOXOXOXO
Imagine the man of your dreams. The blue eyes. The unruly blonde hair. The perfect abs. How strong his muscular thighs feel as you dig your fingernails into the denim of his jeans.
Now imagine looking up to meet his gaze as he guides you towards his belt. Offers you a new life, a new destiny, a whole new world as he teaches you how to make him moan. Coaches you in the art of being sexy.
Would you say no? Could you say no?
Fletcher Novak is that perfect man and he just made Tiffy Preston the offer of a lifetime. And all she has to do is… everything he tells her.
Sexy is a full-length, standalone novel by New York Times Bestselling author, JA Huss.
Chapter One
“Life is a game and everyone’s a player. Whether you believe it or not, the only thing that matters is the score. I can help you score, Katie.”
The girl looks at me dubiously. She’s tall and beautiful, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smile to die for. She works in her family’s corporate law office in San Francisco. She makes low six figures, gets four weeks of vacation a year, and has a small but desirable apartment in one of the best neighborhoods.
Most women would say she’s got it all. But you never know what’s on the inside. And right now, Katie is a mess.
“It feels like cheating, Fletch.”
Not everyone calls me Fletch, but all the girls I work with do. They see me as a friend. Someone on their side. A confidant. They share their innermost secrets and I listen. I’m there to wipe their tears. I hold hands, dish out praise, and cheer when they win.
And they always win. Because I’m a winner and everyone I take under my wing is a reflection of me.
“Katie, listen to me, sweetie. OK?” I place a fingertip under her chin and make those sad eyes meet my gaze. She’s been destroyed by an asshole she trusted, and today is the day that asshole overtakes all the years of praise and happiness and beats her down. She thinks it’s her fault he’s an asshole. That she wasn’t enough. But the truth I hammer home is that he’s not good enough for her.
This is my job. I take these women at their lowest and build them back up. She met me a few months ago through a mutual friend. I’m here to take that sting of defeat away and turn it into whatever it is she thinks she wants.
“I’m not just a player, Katie, I’m a professional. And for the right price I’ll guarantee you a win. You want Mr. Let Me Lick Your Abs to lick you back? I’m the chess piece. You wish Mr. Corporate Moneybags would buy you bling? I’ll put him on the game board. You need Mr. String You Along to get strung up with jealousy? We’ll checkmate together, baby, and he’ll never know what hit him. Think about it. A guaranteed win.”
“I’m just not sure he’s worth it.”
“Him? Jesus Christ, no, Katie. Not him. He’s an asshole. Sweetie, we’re talking someone brand new, OK? Anyone you want can be yours… if you sign the contract.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out, still undecided.
“I can do it,” I tell her. “I can change your life, make your dreams come true, and he’ll never even know he was played. But it all comes at a price. Because sexy doesn’t sell, sweetie. It’s for sale.”
“OK,” she finally says. “OK.” This time it comes with a smile. “I’ll do it. I’ll sign. Where’s the contract?”
Yes, I cheer silently. “Here you are, babe. Just read it over, initial each stipulation, and then sign at the bottom. And here”—I hand her a business card—“is the bank account number. As I explained before, I only accept wire transfers.”
My dressing room door opens and lets in a chorus of cheers from the ladies waiting to see the show. Mitch walks over to my rack of outfits and browses through it.
Katie is still reading her contract, but she’s not too worried about it. I’ve outlined it all in previous meetings and she comes from a long line of lawyers, so she knows legit when she sees it. She skims it, signs, then hands it back with a new hope shining through her sad depression. “This is gonna work, right?”
“I promise, sweetie. Or your money back.”
“OK, when do we start?”
“I’ll be in touch.” I take her hand and pull her to her feet. I bring her to me, just enough to make it personal, and lean into her neck so I can whisper, “Forget about him and think about me. For the next few months I’m your whole life and I won’t ever treat you like he did.”
She turns her head and kisses my cheek. “Thank you, Fletch. So much.”
I watch her ass as she walks out of my dressing room—because hey, I’m an ass man and I can’t help myself—and then gather up her contract and stuff it into my briefcase.
“Got another sucker, huh, Novak?” Mitch asks as he peruses my rack.
“Fuck off, you dick. And get your own costumes.”
He sighs. “The one I wear for my first gig was ripped off last week, remember? I haven’t had time to find a replacement.”
“Whatever. I’m gonna run this up to my room,” I say, holding up my briefcase. “Be back in ten.”
“Don’t be late. Chandler is in a shit mood tonight.”
I ignore that. I can handle Chandler. Besides, I’m the star of the show.
I open the door and again there’s a roar from the crowd as Chandler warms them up after our first group act. Steve goes solo first, then Bill. I come on third, the main attraction for fifteen whole minutes, and then Mitch and Sean finish it up before we all come back on stage for the finale.
I head away from the noise and slip through the backstage door. Not all the guys in the show have a suite at the Landslide Hotel and Casino Resort, only Chandler and me, since we’re the senior members of the cast. But it’s a damn good perk and comes with a private elevator to the North Tower penthouses where they comp rooms for the high-rollers.
I press the button and step in when the doors open. The ride up to the fifteenth floor is quick, since this is a dedicated elevator for the upper floors, and
then I step into the dimly lit hallway and walk the length of the corridor to the end where our suites share the same alcove and flash my keycard.
Inside the AC is chilly and welcoming. Lake Tahoe doesn’t get hot, but hot is relative, right? And August is hot just about everywhere in America. I place my briefcase on the desk and then open it up and take out Katie’s file. I’ve got three weeks of surveillance on her already, which is kind of ironic, considering what she does at her law firm. But let’s face it. When I told her I was a professional, I meant it. I knew she’d end up being a client the first night we were introduced. She had the look of fear back then. Today she had the look of desperation.
I add her to my collection and then close the safe, ready to head back downstairs, when I notice the light flashing on the room phone.
Hmmm. No one calls me on the room phone but management. So I hit the speaker button and press pound seven to get my voicemail.
“Mr. Novak,” Amy, the resort manager, says in her businesslike tone, “there was a meeting this afternoon. I had it on your calendar and you missed it. I’m sure, as always, you have a good reason for that? I expect to hear it tomorrow at nine AM sharp.” She pauses for a moment to sigh. “And Fletcher, just so you know, it had better be monumental.”
There’s a click and the computer voice starts giving me options before I can disconnect the call.
Fucking management. I hate that corporate shit they do. And I hate these monthly meetings even more. But I have a show to do, so I push it away and head back downstairs. The ordinarily quick lift takes a few minutes and is filled with rich, drunk gamblers by the time it gets to my floor, so when I finally walk back through the stage door, Chandler is already calling my name.
“Fletcherrrrrrr…” he roars above the crowd of cheers.
“You’re late again, bro,” Bill says, walking by with his costume in his hand, sweat falling down his face after his dance routine. His hard body is rippled with muscles and his wet-look thong is stuffed with dollars.
But I’m a professional, remember?
I take the small set of stairs two at a time and push the curtain aside, just as Chandler says my name again. His expression is one of annoyance as he looks at the curtain, but then he realizes I’m here and it turns to relief. “Novakkkkkk…” he says, placing the mic in the stand and walking off stage on the opposite side.
I throw up my arms, allowing the tight white t-shirt to stretch across my chest and rise up from the waistband of my tattered jeans a little. The spotlight flashes directly overhead—just one brief tease of what’s to come—and the audience goes wild at that little bit of skin. But before they can do anything else, the stage goes dark again and the music starts bumping.
I don’t talk on stage. No one wants to hear what I’ve got to say. They only want to see what I can do with this body. Hardened from years of sports and diligent gym visits. Lean muscles accentuated with a grace that you only get with a decade or more of martial arts training. That’s all they want. That’s all they see. I’m just something to look at when I’m up here.
So I give them exactly what they expect. A show.
I start dancing, my hips moving to the beat of the song. Another flash of light from above. Another round of screams. And then silence as I freeze.
Whistles and catcalls start. But I hold my pose—fingertips on the back of my shirt, ready to oblige their insatiable need for the sight of bare flesh tonight. Then another flash. I drag the shirt up in that brief glimpse, and then darkness mimics my pause. The next flash they see my abs, the dream six-pack that’s mostly genetics, but I do my share of crunches. Then another flash and I give them the pecs, flexing the muscles and making them dance a little. And in that final flash, I rip the shirt over my head.
The front row stands, waving their dollar bills in the air, begging to shower me with money.
I twirl the shirt several times, taking in the throngs of women with their hands up, ready to catch the prize, and then throw it to a little redhead just as all the lights come on to the beat of the bass. I train my eyes on the crowd, ready to start the real show, and then the lights switch from me to them, lighting up their faces—red with the heat of five hundred woman jostling for position in the room. All of them there for me in this moment. It pans to the left side, and I use those three seconds to search for my star. Then down the middle. My eyes train on a woman in a light-colored suit sitting dead center before I lose her in the darkness and switch to the right side.
But she’s the one. She’s my star tonight. And she has no idea how hard I’m about to rock her world.
I stride down the catwalk, the thumping music penetrating my boots and sending shockwaves up my legs. I train my eyes on the woman in the suit and take in her male companion, the only other person at her front-and-center table. Gay, I deduce, after half a second. He’s too well-dressed in that fashionable way that only a gay man has. Best friend, probably. Safe.
She has a neutral expression as I stand on the stage just above her, but her upturned face is an aphrodisiac that I can’t deny. It’s soft, unlike her eyes, which say guarded. But I’m used to that. It’s my specialty.
I extend my hand and she shakes her head no, her lips pressing together. Her gay friend pushes her a little, trying to persuade her to accept my offer, but she shakes out another no.
The crowd starts jumping when they realize she doesn’t want to participate, so I move on and save her for later. I walk to the left where a girl in the tell-tale bachelorette veil is trying to squeeze in one more night of fun before she gives herself to the man of her dreams forever.
This time when I extend my hand, the new star reaches for it eagerly. I grip her wrist and bend down, wrapping my other hand around her waist, and easily lift her up on stage with me.
She glances back to her friends, blushing, but I wrap my hands around her waist and pull her back into my chest. My hips are doing their own dance against her ass, making her blush even more. A palm comes up to her mouth to continue the act.
I lean into her neck and yell over the music. “Wanna play the game with me tonight, sweetheart?”
She nods enthusiastically as her friends go crazy down on the floor.
Thought so.
I dance around her, touching her in places that would make her fiancé mad with jealousy—if he were here, and he isn’t—and then I spin her around and place her hands over the taut muscles of my waist. She lets out a breath of surprise but the blushing is gone and all I see now is desire.
She wants me.
Maybe that man she’s gonna marry is perfect. He could be a millionaire with a huge house. His job might be something so far above me, I’d look like an insignificant ant under his shoe. He might have a Harvard education and enough investments to put ten kids through college.
But right now, in this moment, all she wants is me.
I do the dirty dance with her, my body pressing against hers. The sweat is already pouring out of me, dripping down my stomach and pooling into the band of my tattered jeans. But her fingertips relish in it. They drag up and down the hard muscles of my abs. And I let her get her feel. I let her touch me anywhere she wants, waiting to see how far she goes. When she reaches around for my ass, that’s the signal. I place my hand on her head and press. She gives in easily and falls to her knees in front of me, looking up, her mouth poised in front of the zipper of my jeans.
I bump against her face and the crowd roars.
She blushes again but doesn’t pull away.
Fuck. They never pull away.
I grab the back of her head and push her face into the soft fabric. And even though my whole body is nothing but heat, I can feel her panting breaths as the humidity seeps through the denim covering my dick.
Just as she presses into me, just before I really get turned on, I push her away. She teeters backwards for a moment before catching her balance, and then I walk around her, dancing.
She pivots with me, but I move quickly and straddle her
thighs, placing her head in my hand while pushing her backwards with the other one. She falls with my push, allowing me to lay her out on the floor. Those eyes, man, they’re still trusting. Still eager.
I dance over her, bending my knees, getting lower and lower with each thump of the bass, and then I drop my knees on the floor and straddle her face. Undulating up and down just an inch or two from her mouth.
She’d suck me off right here if I let her.
But of course, I’m not gonna let her. This is a show. It’s fake. And everyone in the room knows this. Especially me.
She starts stuffing her dollar bills into my pockets, but I have to give her one more thing to dream about tonight, so I grab her hand and place it over my crotch.
I’m not hard. I never get hard for this fake shit. It’s a job. And I do it well.
She screams with delight as I rub her hand over me and then before she can enjoy it too much, I step back and pull her to her feet. I get behind her again, dancing against her ass again, and yell into her ear, “Thank you, baby. You’re a good sport!”
She turns and screams, and before I know it, she’s kissing me. Long and hard. Sloppy and demanding.
I grab her by the shoulders and laugh it off, but secretly I’m pissed I didn’t see it coming. Most of the brides-to-be don’t take it that far, which is why I push a little harder with them.
I back away and raise her hand in the air as Chandler comes out on stage to talk her back down from her stripper-induced euphoria. I take a bow and let them cheer for a few seconds before casually jogging offstage, passing Mitch in the hallway wearing the costume he just pinched from my closet.
He claps me on the back, laughing. “You’re losing your touch. She got a sloppy kiss in.”
“Fuck you,” I say, heading to my dressing room. I close the door and relish the relative silence as I collapse into a chair.
But the kiss bothers me. I’m the one in control out there. The whole show is based on the fact that we’re entertainers and in a room filled with hundreds of out-of-control women, we’re the ones in control. And she got me.