Red Hot Candy (22 All-New Delicious Romance Books by Best-Selling Authors about Alpha Males, Billionaires, Cowboys, and More for Your Summer Reading) (Red Hot Boxed Sets)

by Dani Dundee

  Mated in Bearfield by Jacqueline Sweet

  Le Moulin by JC Andrijeski

  Jesse's Girl by Alison Foster

  Dude by Gillian Cherry

  Biker Billionaire's Bitch by Layla Wilcox

  Swaying Fate by Irma Geddon

  Gender Studies 101 by Dani Dundee

  Disclaimers and Copyright Notices

  JESSE’S GIRL

  by Alison Foster

  JESSE’S GIRL

  by Alison Foster

  JESSE’S GIRL © Alison Foster 2015

  Jesse Keller has no shortage of women who want to sleep with him. He’s a strapping, yet sensitive twenty-two year old artist who oozes muscled sexuality. But nineteen-year-old Emma is his only best friend. When she comes to him pleading for him to take her virginity, he has no choice but to coldly refuse her.

  Unwilling to risk the best thing in his life, their friendship, Jesse prepares to tell her that he will be leaving town to study in Paris, but her beauty begins to color his fantasies of painting her beautiful nude body in all manners of innocent and seductive poses.

  Either way, whether through heat or absence, their unfailing friendship is about to be tested.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMMA

  Jesse Keller is going to be the death of me. I’ve sent him over twenty text messages since Friday and got exactly zero replies. Spending the weekend at my parents’ place up in Palo Alto to celebrate my nineteenth birthday was bad enough. But to have Jesse Keller, my best friend in the whole damn world, disregard my pleas for help was just too much.

  Back in Westwood, I run up the three flights of stairs, out of breath and nervous as hell. I should probably stop to calm my pounding heart before I knock on his door. If I am to get out what I’ve been dying to tell him, I’ll need to be in top notch physical and emotional condition. And I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say.

  The building where Jesse keeps his teeny tiny, crammed studio looks so rickety, the next earthquake might be its last. He can be quite pigheaded. If I suggest he move, he never will. In fact, it might make him want to stay even longer.

  I knock on the door of the derelict studio apartment and pat down my tank top shirt. No answer. I knock again. Ever-growing silence. This time I start banging, yelling out his name, “Jesse!”

  After a few seconds, I hear his slow footsteps approach.

  “What the fuck, Em?” he says opening the door just a crack, rubbing his eyes.

  There’s total darkness inside the studio. “You’ve been sleeping?” I scold him. “It’s like noon, you dork.”

  “No judgment,” he says. “Hangover.”

  “This can’t wait,” I say, pushing the door open. “If I don’t say it now, I might lose my nerve.”

  He lets me past him and I go straight for the blinds.

  “You’re fucking killing me,” he says, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “It’s for your own good. You’ll miss all your classes today.”

  “It’s Monday?” he says, confused.

  Lord, give me patience. I quickly turn around to give him a piece of my mind but stop cold when I realize he’s in nothing but his boxer briefs. I swallow hard, trying to stay focused. It’s not like I don’t know he’s hot as hell but seeing him like that on the day of my big decision—tall, muscular, broad shoulders, firm pecs, six-pack, angular features, smooth skin—throws me off.

  “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” I ask him, pouting.

  “I don’t like texting, you know that,” he says, scratching his groin with one hand while the other hand scratches his head. Even when he does such untactful things, he’s off the charts sexy.

  He walks to the sink to wash his face and then pats it dry with a towel. The studio apartment is one big space with only an old divider shielding what would be the bathroom and shower area. Everything else blends in together: the twin bed, the metallic sink, the dirty cupboards, the kitchen table with two chairs and, more importantly, the instruments of his craft: his two easels, his canvases, his paints and brushes, and his art books.

  I stay silent, unable to take my eyes off his delicious butt as he leans over to take his phone out of the jeans that lie crumpled up on a chair.

  “Twenty-three texts,” he says with a sigh. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

  Hmm, panties—appropriate, indeed. I glance up into his eyes. “I came to collect.”

  “Must you torture me with riddles? My head’s splitting.”

  “We had a deal, Jesse.”

  “A deal? Something I’m going to regret no doubt.”

  “That’s not nice,” I say with a pouty face. “Are you going to play dumb? Really? Okay, let me refresh your memory. Two years ago, movie night at my parents’ house. I forced you to watch a Julia Roberts film.”

  He bends his face trying to scan his memories. “Sorry,” he says. “Nothing.”

  “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” I say, exasperated.

  “Yeah, vaguely,” he says. “I remember it not totally sucking.”

  I exhale hard. “You’re not making this easy, Jess.”

  “And you’re testing my patience.”

  “Okay, from the top. I said the idea of best friends falling in love was farfetched. You agreed and we came up with a plan. You and I could test the theory by having sex to see if best friends could become something more. But then you postponed the test, saying I was too young and it’d have to wait until I was at least nineteen.”

  He keeps staring at me, totally and utterly befuddled. I consider slapping him.

  “I just turned nineteen this past weekend,” I say with a wink.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” he says, furrowing his brow. “You’re joking.”

  “Not even a little. You knew about my birthday. You even gave me a cheesy birthday card.”

  “Jesus, Em, I’m not talking about your birthday. I’m talking about the damn deal as you called it. Not that I remember making such a deal, but even if I did, it was a joke, obviously.”

  “Are you going to back out on me?” I say, slapping his wrist.

  He ignores me and then turns his back.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, picking up one of his sketch books to look at a half-finished nude of a woman he must have drawn last night, “I am nineteen and a virgin thanks to you. I think you’ve ruined me.”

  He turns his face to me again, irritation popping up around his lips and eyes. “Yep, you’ve lost your mind. And you sound closer to nine than nineteen.”

  “You said we’d hook up when I turned nineteen. So I waited.” Even as I say the words, I know how they must sound—delusional, desperate and immature, all at the same time.

  He stares at me again, flabbergasted. “Get to the part where you say you’re joking.”

  I squeeze all my stubbornness into my face. “No, because I’m not. Not entirely. You set the bar too high. I compare every guy I meet to you and they all fail. I’ve been waiting to see if we can turn our friendship into something more—waiting for you to go out there and sew your oats or whatever and then come back to me and rock my world.”

  “I set the bar too high—is this what you said? Exactly how did I do that? Because in your eyes, all you ever see in me is someone you can yell at and point out flaws. You spend half your breath correcting me and advising me how to become a better person.”

  He’s going to make this really hard for me and not the really hard I’m looking for. “It doesn’t matter what I say. When it comes to romance, you know what you’re doing. I’ve seen how you treat girls, how they hang from your every word. I’ve even heard confessions from some of them and the things they had to say about you were, well, inspiring.”

  Jesse glares at me. He’s not happy. “Emma, please, get out of here. Just leave.”

  I almost decide to drop it. Almost, but not quite. “Seriously, Jesse, you have to be my first.”

  “No, I don’t.” He picks up a brush from his easel, a
bsentmindedly coloring the canvas with broad strokes.

  An alarming thought enters my mind. “You don’t find me attractive, do you?”

  He sighs as he puts the brush down for a moment to take my hands in his. “I think you’re awesome, Em. But you’re my friend and have been since you were twelve. You’re impulsive. You’re hasty. You don’t think things through. And I’m not Don Juan. I’m just a senior art student who has had a few girlfriends.”

  “A few girlfriends?” I say, almost laughing. “You’ve slept with half the school.”

  “Hyperbole,” he says with a maddening smirk.

  “Jesse, for crying out loud, you have told me the stories yourself!”

  “Okay, so what do you want from me? I’m not the monogamous type, Em, and I’m not looking for a girlfriend. Not even you could change that.”

  “You jerk, I just want you to take my virginity. It’s just a favor. I need to get it over with so maybe, just maybe, I can move on and find someone who wants to be monogamous.”

  That catches him off guard. I mean, he knew what I was getting at, but hearing me say I wanted to use him so I can move on to some other man throws him off balance somehow. He puts down the brush again to study my face. “Stop bullshitting me,” he says.

  “I swear, I’m one hundred percent serious. No one would be better than you for the first time. I know you. I like you, I trust you and, according to many, you have a special-powers dick.”

  His hazel eyes grow bigger and he raises his eyebrows. “That’s no way to talk. I’ll put pepper in your mouth if you talk like that.”

  “Just do it, please.”

  “The pepper?”

  “The sex!”

  “Emma, that’s not happening,” he says, determined.

  “Why? I know you’re tempted. If you weren’t, you’d have put some clothes on by now.”

  “All right,” he says. “You need to hear it, so here goes. For starters, I don’t like getting it on with virgins. It’s always awkward and you have to be patient and you worry you might hurt them—and not in a good-hurting kind of way. Especially if blessed with size.”

  I roll my eyes. “You see, you like toying with me. And you seem to know plenty about virgins.”

  “Hearsay,” he says, shrugging.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “You don’t have to use your extra magic wand, fingers and tongue will do. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just show me how it’s done.”

  “You’re insane,” he says, slowly, and I start to worry that he means it.

  “Will you do it, Jesse?”

  “For the hundredth time, no.”

  “Virgins need to get fucked too, you know, or they’ll always be virgins.”

  “Okay, here’s the real reason I won’t do it,” he says with a teasing grin. “Because, and this is the big reason why, if I do it, you’ll want me to do it again and again.”

  I smile. I’m getting under his skin little by little. He’s getting more and more playful. “So, why not do it again then? We’re free people.”

  “Because we’re friends, you silly girl. Now take your filthy mouth and get out of my space. I need to work.”

  I can’t give up. Not just yet. “You call what you do work? Slapping colors on canvases that you throw out like—what?—ninety percent of the time? Remember when you did that finger painting thingy? That was a waste of time.”

  “Em,” he says, a pained expression on his face. “Enough. Stop with the games.”

  Something tells me I shouldn’t push him anymore. “You can’t blame me for trying,” I say, shrugging. “I’ll let you do your thing.”

  So much for my sexual aggressiveness. He hated every second of it.

  The moment I step out of the apartment, I realize the enormity of my foolishness. What I have been relishing with such care all these years has been nothing but a forgotten footnote to him. Not even that.

  It makes sense. He doesn’t know I’ve been in love with him since I was twelve and he was fifteen. He doesn’t know I’ve taken every word he has ever said to me seriously. He doesn’t suspect I’ve been waiting for this moment for two long years, hoping he’d finally see me for what I am—a woman in love with him. He won’t believe me even if I tell him.

  I don’t want to remind him about that one kiss we shared at my high school prom. I know now it didn’t mean much to him, nothing more than some momentary innocent intimacy between friends.

  Snap out of it, Em. Cry-babies don’t always get what they want. It will either happen or not. Nobody can force love on someone.

  ***

  CHAPTER TWO

  JESSE

  Holy shit, what is she trying to do to me? It’s bad enough that I have to pretend I haven’t noticed how fucking hot she has become in the last year or so. How she has blossomed into a breathtaking, gorgeous woman with a stubborn head which makes her only sexier.

  Night after night I have fantasized about painting her naked. Immortalizing her cute grin, her brown curls and the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s deep in thought. Outlining her smooth curves and the silkiness of her thighs.

  I fucking hate myself for these thoughts but I can’t get them out of my mind. I don’t want to. The heat of the image of her lying on the couch naked and yearning for my touch is hard to ignore. But I have to stop. I absolutely have to put an end to it.

  This is Em, my young friend who has worshipped me since childhood and who thinks everything I say is gold—the girl who has supported me and stayed by my side through thick and thin, scolding me, testing my strengths, but always faithful and encouraging.

  My one true and pure attachment in this world. I don’t want to fuck it up.

  I have slept with so many girls in college, seduced older women I’ve met in bars and art exhibitions, but nobody has kept my attention for more than a few weeks. I have trouble attaching myself to people. Em is the bright exception. She is sacred to me. Since my family fell apart, she’s my sole connection to the world of feelings and caring for others. And now she has decided to tempt me to my core.

  Tomas, my only brother, left town as soon as he turned twenty and never looked back. I had to wait through a long year before I followed his example but ended up a few miles away from home.

  My brother sends postcards from all over the country and world. He’s twenty-three, only a year older than me, but he has already landed in jail multiple times, traveled to China and Nepal and he has spoken to the Dalai Lama himself. Next to him, I’m a child who has lost his lunchbox.

  One thing we have in common, we like to be left alone. We enjoy solitude and thrive in our selfishness. My only soft spot goes by the name of Emma Dawson. Tomas doesn’t have any.

  Maybe I should have given her the news about the Sorbonne, only I haven’t had a chance to process it myself yet. No fucking idea how I’m going to tell her or how she’s going to take it. But this is my life and I might never have another chance like this.

  *

  Em stumbles as she tries to pick a ten-dollar bill from the pavement. She tilts her head trying to solve the big problem of picking up a bill when you’re wasted and in—what?—five-inch heels? I never know why she puts these monstrosities on her feet when they cause her such discomfort when she walks. Her backside is cute enough without suicide heels.

  The cool air hits my nostrils with a vibrant force that shakes me out of my delirium. I offer her my hand for support.

  “No, thank you” she says, sticking her tongue out. “I’m a grown-ass woman. I can do this myself.”

  With a shake of her head, she kicks the shoes off her feet, one by one. She bends over to pick up the bill and my eyes land on her perfect ass, curvy and toned under her skinny jeans.

  “It was a bad idea taking you out tonight,” I say, “after you flaked your math test. You always do stupid things when you’re pissed.”

  “What are you babbling about, thunder boy?” she says, wrapping her arm around my neck. “I’m totally happy righ
t now. Like I could give you the keys to my car happy.”

  “Yeah, good idea, give me your keys. You’re not driving.”

  Her icy skin surprises me. I take her quickly into my arms and rub her small back under the flimsy jacket she has on. She smells sweetly fragrant even with all that hard booze down her throat—she smells like heaven.

  We walk aimlessly around Westwood Boulevard, staring at bright shop windows when Em starts yawning. “Can I sleep at your place tonight?” she says, stretching her arms.

  “Where would I put you?” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve only got the one bed.”

  “I can sleep on the floor,” she says with a wide grin on her intoxicated face.

  “You’re so wasted, I can’t even argue with you,” I say. The truth is I don’t mind having her around tonight. Very soon, we might have to part ways for a long time.

  I help her up the stairs to my studio, supporting her every step with my entire body. She giggles as she tries to fall back on purpose, almost as if testing my reflexes. I catch her just in time.

  “Such a very bad girl,” I say. “Don’t make me spank you.”

  “Awww,” she says, turning around to hide her face in my chest. “Would you do that?”

  “Virgin my ass,” I say as I do slap her ass, nudging her forward and up the stairs.

  She laughs hysterically. “Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m a prude. I know about these things.”

  “Keep it down,” I warn her, turning the key in the apartment door. “How would you know any of that stuff?”

  I push the door open. As soon as we’re in the apartment, she takes my hand.

  “It’s so nice of you to let me stay here,” she says, almost as if humming a tune. Em has a great singing voice, strong and melodic with a very unique timbre. I’ve always loved her voice.