Big Rock Read online

  BIG ROCK

  by Lauren Blakely

  Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams

  Ebook Formatting by Jesse Gordon

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, witty romantic comedies with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

  ABOUT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ANOTHER EPILOGUE

  COMING SOON! (MISTER ORGASM)

  COMING SOON! (THE SAPPHIRE AFFAIR)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CONTACT

  ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

  The Caught Up in Love Series (Each book in this series follows a different couple so each book can be read separately, or enjoyed as a series since characters crossover)

  Caught Up in Her (A short prequel novella to Caught Up in Us)

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars in Their Eyes

  Standalone Novels

  BIG ROCK

  Mister Orgasm (2016)

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart (A standalone SEDUCTIVE NIGHTS spin-off novel about Jill and Davis)

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love (2016)

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Sapphire Affair

  A two-book series releasing Summer 2016

  ABOUT

  It's not just the motion of the ocean, ladies. It's definitely the SIZE of the boat too.

  And I've got both firing on all cylinders. In fact, I have ALL the right assets. Looks, brains, my own money, and a big cock.

  You might think I'm an asshole. I sound like one, don’t I? I'm hot as sin, rich as heaven, smart as hell and hung like a horse.

  Guess what? You haven't heard my story before. Sure, I might be a playboy, like the NY gossip rags call me. But I’m the playboy who’s actually a great guy. Which makes me one of a kind.

  The only trouble is, my dad needs me to cool it for a bit. With conservative investors in town wanting to buy his flagship Fifth Avenue jewelry store, he needs me not only to zip it up, but to look the part of the committed guy. Fine. I can do this for Dad. After all, I’ve got him to thank for the family jewels. So I ask my best friend and business partner to be my fiancée for the next week. Charlotte’s up for it. She has her own reasons for saying yes to wearing this big rock.

  And pretty soon all this playing pretend in public leads to no pretending whatsoever in the bedroom, because she just can’t fake the kind of toe-curling, window-shattering orgasmic cries she makes as I take her to new heights between the sheets.

  But I can’t seem to fake that I might be feeling something real for her.

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into with this…big rock?

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Helen Williams because of the day I messaged you and asked if you could make an R look like a C. You nailed that, Helen, and that’s why this book exists. And, as always, to my dear friend Cynthia.

  PROLOGUE

  My dick is fucking awesome.

  But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.

  First, let’s start with the obvious one.

  Size.

  Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.

  You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.

  Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s ever had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”

  No woman has ever had to ask me that.

  You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.

  But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.

  Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherfucking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.

  But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.

  Performance.

  Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not
talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter… Her world rock.

  How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.

  That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Men don’t understand women.

  That’s just a fact of life.

  Like that guy.

  The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t I casual and cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with square red glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.

  Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean “nice” in the sense that they could occupy their own zip code.

  But c’mon, man.

  Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them, or the lady is going to walk.

  I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.

  “This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.

  “Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here, who depend on tips, will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.

  As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse, and heads for the exit.

  Yup. I could be a fortuneteller if my specialty was predicting when a man would score and when he wouldn’t. Most of the time, the odds are definitely not in the dude’s favor, because he makes the most common bar mistakes. Like starting the conversation with a stupid pick-up line. “Girl, you make my software turn into hardware,” or “You should sell hot dogs because you sure know how to make a weiner stand.” Yeah I couldn’t believe my ears either. Or how about this mistake? The guy who has a wandering eye and can’t stop checking out the other attractions. What woman is going to find that flattering?

  The worst bar sin, though, is assuming. Assuming she wants to talk to you. Assuming she’s going home with you. Assuming you can kiss her without her permission.

  You know what they say happens when you assume.

  But me?

  Just check my diploma. I double majored in college with one degree in finance and the other in the language of women—and I graduated summa cum laude. I have an encyclopedic understanding of what a woman wants…and giving it to her. I achieved full fluency in female body language, the clues, and the gestures.

  Like right now.

  Charlotte is tapping away on her laptop and biting the corner of her lip in concentration. Translation: I am on a roll, so do not bother me or I will throat punch you.

  Okay, fine. She’s not really a throat-puncher. But the point being, she is giving off major Do Not Disturb vibes.

  Handlebar, though, can’t read, speak, or write Woman. He’s sauntering along the bar, getting ready to make a move. Thinking he’s got a chance with her.

  From my spot behind the bar, wiping down glasses, I can practically hear him clearing his throat as he preps to say hello to Charlotte.

  I can understand why the man has my best friend in his crosshairs. Charlotte is pretty much a goddess of the highest order. First, she has wavy, blonde hair, paired with deep brown eyes. Most blondes have blue eyes, so Charlotte gets major points for the killer reverse combo that just slams you with its unexpected and absolute hotness.

  Next, she possesses a fantastic dry sense of humor.

  Plus, she’s whip smart.

  But Handlebar doesn’t know those last two. He’s only aware that she’s gorgeous, so he’s about to make his play. He snags the stool next to her and flashes a toothy grin. She flinches, startled that this guy just invaded her blinders-on work zone.

  Charlotte can totally handle herself. But we made a pact long ago, and re-upped when we went into business together on this bar. If either of us needs a fake girlfriend or boyfriend to gracefully get out of a sticky situation, we’ve sworn to step in and act the part.

  It’s a game we’ve played since college, and it works like a charm.

  It also works because Charlotte and I would never be a real couple. I need her too much as a friend, and judging from the number of times she’s laughed with me, or cried on my shoulder, she needs me too. Which is another reason why this tactic is brilliant—we both know we will never be more than friends.

  I walk around the bar and head straight for Charlotte, right as Handlebar reaches her and says his name, then asks for hers.

  I slide in and brush a hand on her lower back, as if she’s mine. As if I’m the one who gets to touch this body, thread his fingers through her hair, and look into those eyes. I tilt my head and flash him the biggest shit-eating grin, because I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who goes home with her in this scenario. “My fiancée’s name is Charlotte. Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer,” I say, and offer a hand to shake.

  The guy wrinkles his nose like a rabbit, getting a clue that he’s just struck out again tonight.

  “Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.

  Charlotte tips her chin to me and gives an approving nod. “Look at you. Captain Fiancé coming to the rescue,” she says, running a hand along my arm and squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t even see him making the moves.”

  “That’s why you’ve got me. I have eyes everywhere,” I say as I lock the front door. The bar is empty now. It’s just us, like it’s been so many nights at closing time.

  “And usually those peepers are busy scanning for available women,” she says, shooting me an I know you so well stare.

  “What can I say? I like to give my eyes a good workout, too—just like the rest of me,” I say, patting my flat as a board belly.

  Then she yawns.

  “Get to bed,” I tell her.

  “You should, too. Oh, wait. You probably have a date.”

  She’s not far off. I usually do.

  Earlier this month, I met a total babe at the gym. She worked out hard, then worked out even harder with me when I bent her over the back of the couch in my apartment. She texted me the next day, telling me how her thighs were aching, and she’d loved it. She said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, would I please look her up, because she wanted to ride my ride again.

  Of course she did. Once you’ve had filet mignon, you don’t want to go back to hamburger helper.

  I saved her number. You never know, right? Nothing wrong with two adults enjoying the night and parting ways in the morning with a spring in the step courtesy of multiple Os bestowed.

  That’s how it should be. The first rule of dating is this—always please the woman first, then ideally a second time before you get yours in. The next two are equally simple—don’t get attached, and never, ever be a douche. I follow my own rules, and they have given me the good life. I’m twenty-eight, single, rich, hot, and a gentleman. Like it’s a surprise when I get laid.

  But tonight, my dick is off duty. Early bedtime.

  I shake my head in answer to Charlotte’s question as I resume cleaning the counters. “Nah, I have a seven-thirty breakfast tomorrow with my dad and some guy he’s trying to sell the store to. I need to be fresh and ready to impress.”

  She points to the door. “Go get your beauty sleep, Spencer. I’ll close up.”

  “I don’t think so. I came to fill in for Jenny. You go home. I’ll hail you a cab.”

  “You do know I’ve lived in New York for five years, right? I know how to hail a cab late at night.”

  “I am well aware o
f your independent ways. But I don’t care—I’m sending you home. Whatever you’re doing here, you can do at your apartment,” I tell her as I toss the washrag in the sink. “Wait. You’re not worried that Bradley Dipstick is going to be roaming around the lobby trying to give you flowers at this time of night?”

  “No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot-tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that said, Please forgive me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N.O.” Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger on his paw?”

  She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”

  “I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”

  I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village—the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.

  I toss my keys on the entryway table as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag, one from a few weeks ago, of me out with the hot woman from the gym. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “noted New York City playboy”—same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.

  Tonight, I’m a good boy though.

  I make no promises for tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Button-down shirt. Tie. Charcoal-gray pants. Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled jaw.

  Yep, it’s all working.

  I fully approve of myself this Friday morning, and if I were a dude in a cheesy movie, I’d give myself two thumbs up.

  But honestly, I’m not that kind of guy. I mean, who does that?

  Instead, I turn to my cat, Fido, and ask him what he thinks. His response is simple—he struts off in the other direction, his tail high in the air.