✮✮✮WELL HUNG is now available! ✮✮✮
Title: Well Hung
Author: Lauren Blakely
Release Date: September 11, 2016
A hot and hilarious standalone romantic comedy, WELL HUNG is about an easy going, and well hung gentleman who’s been burned by love in the past but finds himself falling fast and hard for the one person he cannot have. It takes everything you love about a Lauren Blakely novel –witty dialogue, smoking hot sex scenes, and heartfelt moments –and puts them into one fantastic book! Told in the guy's POV, WELL HUNG is the sexy, irreverent tale of what happens when a carpenter who's good with all his tools accidentally marries his gorgeous and fiery assistant one night in Vegas. The trouble is...what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas in this twist on an office romance.
ABOUT WELL HUNG:
From the NYT Bestselling author of MISTER O, comes a hot and hilarious new standalone...
Here's what you need to know about me -- I'm well-off, well-hung and quick with a joke. Women like a guy who makes them laugh--and I don't mean at the size of his d*ck. No, they want their funny with a side of huge... not to mention loyal. I've got all that plus a big bank account, thanks to my booming construction business. Yup. I know how to use all my tools.
Enter Natalie. Hot, sexy, smart, and my new assistant. Which makes her totally off limits...
Hey, I'm a good guy. Really. I do my best to stay far away from the kind of temptation she brings to work. Until one night in Vegas...
Yeah, you've heard this one before. Bad news on the business front, drowning our sorrows in a few too many Harvey Wallbangers, and then I'm banging her. In my hotel room. In her hotel room. Behind the Titanic slot machine at the Flamingo (don't ask). And before I can make her say "Oh God right there YES!" one more time, we're both saying yes--the big yes--at a roadside chapel in front of a guy in press-on sideburns and a shiny gold leisure suit.
But it turns out what happened in Vegas didn't stay in Vegas. And now, my dick doesn't stay in my pants when she's around. I try to resist. Honest. But the more we try to keep our hands to ourselves, the more we end up naked again, and the more time I want to spend with her fully clothed, too. The question now is...do I take this woman to be my ex-wife?
Let’s back up.
How did we get from not kissing to kissing? What was that turning point? Did she lean into me? Did I move closer to her? Details matter. I’ll gladly share them.
Start with six months of sexual tension. Add in two mojitos for her, two beers for me, and a couple vodka tonics. Stir that with some bad news on the business front, and top it with the cherry of Natalie’s hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-
stick comment that left no question as to what she wanted…and here I am.
We don’t lean into each other. There’s no inch-by-slow-sensual-inch pull. It’s not a slow burn.
It’s a fiery crash. We’re two cars speeding on the highway of this night, and we slam into each other, crawl across the hoods, and kiss like crazy.
Nothing is tentative about this. We go from not kissing to kissing in less than sixty nanoseconds. Yeah, I don’t really know what a nanosecond is, either. But it happens in no time.
And now my hand is in her hair, yanking her close as we crush our lips together. We kiss hard and rough, fueled by pent-up desire and more than enough vodka and rum to make this inevitable.
Her teeth scrape me, and I growl, loving her roughness. I suck hard on her bottom lip, and I’m rewarded by nearly the same sound from her. She’s like a tiger, and together we’re animals.
I grip her head tighter, and her hands are all over me—in my hair, then down my chest, then along my arms. We kiss so deeply, it’s like we’re trying to climb each other.
At some point, she breaks off, breathes out hard, then whispers in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Not as long as I have. Now get those lips back on mine,” I tell her, and she complies.
My hands cup her cheeks, but I’m not gentle, and she doesn’t want me that way. She’s not a gentle girl. She’s badass and tough, and she wants what I want. I hold her face tightly in my hands, and she practically crawls into my lap in a rush to get closer, then closer still as she presses her tits against my chest.
I’m seated on a stool at the bar, and we are putting on some kind of show. But I don’t care.
My tongue searches and hunts, wanting to taste every corner of her mouth, savoring the vodka and the tonic and, most of all, the Natalie. She whimpers and moans, and I swallow every sexy sound she makes.
This stool is ours. This bar is ours. The night belongs to this kiss, because it’s not a starter kiss. It contains all the clues necessary to assemble the puzzle of where this night will end.
With unwavering certainty, I know what kind of kiss this is.
As I explore her mouth, and she claims mine with equal urgency, I know that I will be fucking Natalie tonight.