Exquisite Betrayal by A.M. Hargrove
A male Romance Author… a convention in Vegas… a female book blogger… a goal to lose her virginity… what next? Find out when you mix all the above!
Fallon McKinley is headed to Vegas for the Wicked Wenches Romance Con and losing her virginity is only one of her goals. The other is to meet her favorite author of romance novels, R.T. Sinclair. What she doesn’t realize is that the sexy green-eyed god she rams into at the airport is the real R.T. When they keep running into each other, she’s shocked, but excited, because the attraction is irresistible.
Ryland Thomas Sinclair doesn’t want anyone to know his true identity. He’s the author that all women love, but everyone thinks he’s a female. He hides his persona behind the public face of his twin sister, keeping his own a secret. But after meeting the lovely Fallon, his intentions to avoid a relationship come to a screeching halt. She’s put an unwanted kink into his perfectly laid out plans. His unusual reaction surprises him because after a heart-shredding breakup a few years ago, he’s managed to avoid women at all costs.
Resisting Fallon becomes more difficult than he imagines. Soon things are spiraling out of control, until a major miscommunication has Fallon walking out of his home and his life. Will Ryland Thomas succeed in losing the woman he loves? Or can he win her back?
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The jackhammer wakes me up and I can’t figure out where the noise is coming from. Wherever it is, I want it to stop, and fast. It’s splitting my head right open and my brains are spilling out. I inch open my eyes and slam them back shut. The brightness kills me. It sends my stomach churning and the pain in my head worsens. I realize it’s not a jackhammer after all. It’s the throbbing my own skull is producing.
I moan and roll to my side. That tiny movement causes the most violent surge of nausea to roll over me that I’ve ever experienced in my life. I’ve got seconds to get to the toilet. I move to jump out of bed, but I only manage to get my legs tangled in the sheet. My face slams into the floor as I erupt like Mt. St. Helens. I’m not sure what hurts worse now… my throbbing head, my stinging face or my guts. I heave again and then I hear that British accent.
“Bloody fuck, not again. I thought we were over this by now. Thank God I moved the rug.”
The rug? What’s he talking about. Where am I? I give one last gurgle and heave again, and this time it’s nothing more than saliva. I’m now in the dry heave stages of a hangover. I’ve never been this bad before. Truth is, I’ve never thrown up from drinking before, and the way I feel now, I don’t ever want to do it again. I groan in agony. I seriously don’t know which way to turn, I’m that miserable.
“Hang on, I’m getting a cloth.”
Moments later, a cool cloth appears and is bathing my face. It feels nice. But when it leaves, I moan in its absence.
I nod, careful to move my head slowly.
“Come on,” he starts to untangle my legs, “let’s get you in the bath.”
When my legs are freed, he helps me stand before we walk towards the bathroom. I still have no idea where we are.
“Where am I?” I croak.
“In my hotel room at the Bellagio. You were quite plastered last night, love.”
My thoughts shift back to the night before and my stomach seethes with the simple reminder of those redheaded sluts. Damn Amanda. Or maybe it was Mandy. Hell, I don’t remember anymore, Fact is, I can’t remember a freakin’ thing.
Ryland leads me into the bathroom as I blindly follow him, not daring to open my eyes to the blazing light. If I do, I know I’ll be facing a searing pain so severe that I’ll scream. He picks me up and sits me on the counter, then strangely, I feel cool air wash over my skin. How odd.
I crack open one eye and squeal. I’m topless, my boobs playing show-and-tell and proud of it, too. My nipples are pointed and happy as can be. I swear I can hear them giggling. What the fuck?
He hears me squeak and nonchalantly says, “Sorry, love, but you puked all over your shirt. I had to get it off you and you were braless.” Then he shrugs like he hasn’t a care in the world. And why should he? He’s not the one with his boobs laughing and joking with each other. I slap my hands over them, trying to quiet them down. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”
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