(Up-Close and Personal Novella, #1)
Publication date: February 9th 2017
Genres: Comedy, Erotica, Romance
WATCH OUT, FOXY POO. THIS BOMBSHELL IS ABOUT TO DROP.
Ladies, I think I speak for the majority of us on the face of the planet when I say we all have that guy who’s grown on us like a delicious fungus. You know the kind I’m talking about–maybe he is your high school teacher or best friend’s dad–some piece of man candy so hot and edible that no matter what you do, you can’t get his taste off your mind (even if you haven’t tasted him yet).
For me, that guy is my big brother’s best friend, one Fox Montgomery. Doctor. Professor. Author.
Here’s the problem though: not only is he the most gorgeous male specimen I’ve ever laid eyes on–black hair, steely grey eyes, and a lower lip you just wanna suck–he’s also a rich academic prick. AND I HATE HIM.
I hadn’t seen him in years, and when I finally did, the vision before me bought a one-way ticket to my personal pleasure town. Then, his beautiful eyes roamed all over me, and I knew–I knew!–he didn’t like what he saw.
Yeah, I’m a big girl, curvy, smooth, and round in all the right places. I’m also covered in tats, and six-inch heels are my go-to footwear. So, let me be frank about something: I’m sexy, and if I wanted a man, I’d have one.
Yet, with one look, Fox turned my years of longing and long-distance eye-f*cking into a big ole mountain of hate.
Here’s the thing, girls: hate and love are effin evil twins. And if my heart gets its way, Doctor Fox and I are going to end up participating in some very strenuous sextracurricular activities. Here’s to our chemistry getting an A+.
*This is a stand-alone novella that is the opener of the Up-Close & Personal series. It’s hilarious and dirty and raunchy and perfectly short enough to be read in a single sitting. That’s what Kellie Hart delivers: pocket-sized smut with a capital P! *wink wink* And you’ll never finish a story without a total HEA! Due to adult content, however, Kellie suggests you be 18+ before getting your kicks on Route Sexty-Six. Trust me: you wouldn’t want your kids reading this, you dirty girl, you.
“OH MY GOD, JACQUE! YOU are smokin’. I’d fuck you if I had a dick,” Char, my best friend, croons from her perch on the side of my bed.
I look down to my ample bosom in the dress Char dragged me to buy after my last class let out today. Knowing me for years, she knew she couldn’t just take me to the Riverwalk and set me loose to find something I’d actually want to wear to a frat party. Instead, she’d hauled me to The Laveau Closet, my favorite little resale shop on Rue Saint Pierre. We searched the racks for at least an hour before the number I’m wearing now spoke to me. I’d slipped it on in the dressing room, and when I stepped out, Char screamed, threw her credit card at the woman helping us, and bought the dress before I could protest. I guess growing up in a life of privilege does that to you—lets you think you can buy whatever, whenever. Honestly, I would have purchased the piece myself. Of course, I would have handed over my debit card with a grimace and a thousand reasons not to do so running through my head; nothing I own is brand-new… It never has been, but Char is right. I do look amazing.
Setting hands on my hips, I turn to face my reflection one last time, and Char grins like a psychotic cat over my shoulder.
“You’re so getting laid tonight!” she squeals.
Char scoops Snots the Incontinent Chihuahua from the bed before approaching me. Sighing, she wraps her arms around me in an unsolicited hug. We hold Snots in front of us in our cupped hands, our eyes meeting in the mirror.
“But seriously, Jacque, I’m not making you do anything you don’t want to do, am I?”
I smile and pat her cheek. Then I pet Snots, too, when he whimpers for attention. My eyes move from my breasts lifted skyward in the strapless A-line dress, to my waist cinched in by a red patent belt, down to the tops of my garters I can just make out beneath the black silk hem. I look good. I feel good. And I want the fucking world to know it.
“No,” I tell Char before pecking her forehead. “I need to get my mind off of everything–exams, the fact I’m not going home for Christmas…and Fox, too. I need this. I want this.”
“Halle-fucking-lujah!” Char cheers after tossing Snots back on the bed. “It’s about damn time!”
She spins and takes my hands before dancing me around my bedroom. We giggle like the teenagers we aren’t anymore and fall on the bed in a fit of hysterics. I pity the elderly couple who live below us in our rented two-story rowhouse. My heels on the floor and, now, the squeaking of my old iron bed must sound like a herd of elephants coming through. And, as if on cue, Mrs. Lafourche beats the ceiling with her broom.
“Get the hell on out for the evenin’, girls!” her voice barks through the floor…or her ceiling. “Robert is trying to sleep off the whiskey!”
Char and I muffle our laughter with pillows until I can answer, “Of course, Mrs. Lafourche. I don’t want to disturb you anymore tonight!”
“When you get the D, think of me,” Mrs. Lafourche answers; then, someplace downstairs, a door slams, and she continues cursing at a presumably dozing Robert.
I hop to my feet and pull Char with me. “What’re you waiting on? You heard her. Take me to get the D.”
Char straightens her silver mini dress, fluffs her curls, then stares at me, deadpan. “More beautiful words have never left your mouth, Jacque.”
I gather my clutch, we link arms, and out the door we go with Snots clicking along behind us.