Strictly Research (Bad Boy MFM Romance) Read online

  Table Of Contents

  Strictly Research

  Bonus Novel

  Forbidden Indulgences

  Excerpt from

  What Happens In Vegas

  Contact Information

  Strictly Research (Bad Boy MFM Romance)

  By

  Terry Towers

  Description

  Fake. Fraud. Charlatan. I was all of those and more. Well, that’s how I felt most of the time.

  I write romance novels—and not the sweet, innocent, “dewy rose of her desire” kind. Nope, for me, it’s gotta melt your panties or I’m not doing my job.

  My fans love my books, but with every comment praising me for writing the wild woman they wish they could be, those words above are like stakes that pierce my heart. People say you should “write what you know.” Truth is, I wrote what I imagined, not what I knew.

  Sex with my nice, pleasant boyfriend always seemed restrained—and not in the fun way. If I wrote books based on that, they'd never sell. Oh, and those who say that even bad sex is still good obviously never slept with my ex. He dumped me, hoping for someone who won’t put their career first. And you know what? I was thrilled he beat me to it. No one wants to be the bad guy, so unbeknownst to him, he was doing me a favor.

  Now, with the access man baggage shed, I intend to do what any self-respecting romance author would do in my place: fly to Amsterdam to soak up as much experience as I can—no strings attached. Tax-deductible, intellectual, and purely sexual. You know… RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY.

  I expect to experience a wild week or two, acquire some knowledge so I can write what I know, so I don’t feel like a fraud. I’ll be ecstatic if I find even one man who can hold his own against my libido and sexual curiosity. But the thought of two drop-to-your-knees-gorgeous men who can outstrip me, or who would want me for more than just a good time? That sounds too far-fetched for even me to consider...

  Strictly Research

  Copyright 2016 by Terry Towers

  Cover by: Erin Dameron-Hill @ edhgraphics.blogspot.ca

  All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used for critical reviews and articles no part of this book may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author Terry Towers. Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Terry Towers can be contacted via her website at www.elixaeverett.com

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via internet or other means, electronic or print without the author's permission. Criminal copyright infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov.ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Prologue

  One Year Ago

  Monica

  Oh thank God, it’s done. It’s over. It was so hard to keep a smile from spreading across my lips, you have no idea. It had been a long time since I’d felt such relief. It was like being suffocated to the point where I thought I would die and finally getting a breath of fresh air. It was over—freedom. A year with Joseph Ramirez had been about six months too long. But it was done, and the relationship was over. I looked at Joseph, Joe or Joey to his friends, but I always called him Joseph and forced my expression to remain dower.

  “I’m really sorry, Monica,” Joseph said. He was legitimately upset. I could see the conflict in his eyes. For a moment, I thought I saw a hint of tears. He had been the one who had brought up the idea of a breakup, but I could see his conviction wavering. Oh please, God, don’t let him change his mind! No, it was too late for that. No mind-changing. No take-backsies. Maybe he was expecting me to protest, to cry, to beg him to change his mind. He got none of that. He’d finally done what I hadn’t been strong enough to do myself: put this relationship out of its misery.

  I suspected I knew his motivation for ending it, even though he didn’t have the balls to say. Her name was Sophia Gomez, and she was a new employee of his, working for him at the hardware store. I wasn’t stupid, I saw the way he looked at her. She was 20 and slender, with stunning bronzed skin and captivating dark, nearly black eyes. She was out of his league. Way out. But I figured he thought he had a shot. “Good luck to him” is all I had to say about that. Let’s not even begin to talk about how miserable he is in the sack. Sure, it takes two, but I tried. You can’t fault me for that; he was simply too conservative, and he refused to go down on a woman, but expected me to suck his dick?

  Nope. Sorry pal.

  So oral was out. Same went for anything kinky or different. Our sex life consisted of three things: missionary, me on top, and me bent over some piece of furniture. And he made really weird noises when he came. I was never sure whether he was having an orgasm or in pain. It was disturbing and totally threw off the mood.

  I will give credit where credit is due. He was a good man. Very good man. Reliable, dependable, financially stable, and caring. Notice how words like exciting, outgoing, impulsive, and all the other qualities that make relationships thrilling are absent? With Joseph, there were no surprises. Even my Christmas present was dull. He bought me a blender. A fucking blender for Christmas! Not because I asked for one, but because mine had broken. Yes, the man is practical to a fault, and oh-my-god was it ever boring. I realize that it isn’t really his fault, it’s how he is, but it would be an exercise in futility to try and change him.

  I gave him a reassuring smile, lightly touching his upper arm. “It’s fine. It’s for the best.”

  His expression turned confused. Yes, this is definitely not how he expected this to go down. “But…”

  “There’s no ‘but,’ ” I say to him. “You’re right. We’re good friends, but it’s time to move on.”

  “If we had more time... you’re always working,” he trailed off.

  Nononono! You are NOT taking this breakup back! NO! I won’t allow it, even if it means me being the bad guy in this. “But you know, my writing is my life. It’s my world, I’ll never give up my 12 and 15-hour days on the computer writing. My focus is my work right now. You know that. It won’t change.”

  And that’s true. From the moment I wake up until I go to bed from exhaustion, I work. Whether it be writing or marketing or one of a dozen different tasks I have to take care of, I work. Even my closest friends and family don’t understand my long hours. It seems the only people who truly understand the pressure to work and keep pushing are other self-published authors. They get it. They get me.

  Like most other people, Joseph doesn’t understand me. Even with us living together for the past couple of months, he still doesn’t get it. I doubt he ever will.

  It’s for the best. And boy, am I ever glad I never gave up my own apartment. Packing my stuff and getting out of his house would be easy-peasy. Thank you and goodbye. It’s been fun—sort of—but it’s way past time to move on.

  “Can’t—”

  With a shake of my head, I cut him off. “I’m going to go back to my place. I’ll gather my stuff when you’re at work tomorrow morning.”

  He didn’t say anything, but simply stared. Damn, this is hard. The expression
he was giving me then, hurt and confused, was why I’d continued to endure.

  “You were right, Joseph, this isn’t working. You deserve to be with someone who has the time for you. I can’t give you that.” When did this go from him dumping me to me dumping him? I sigh. “I’m going to go.” Not waiting for him to answer, I leave and don’t look back. I’m a coward, I’m soft. If I look back, I’ll cave. So I don’t. It’s hard, but I don’t.

  Chapter 1

  Amsterdam. Wow, I could hardly believe I was doing this. I had my e-reader in my hands but wasn’t really reading the words on the screen. My mind was whirling with the possibilities. I was on a plane, getting ready to leave for Amsterdam for a couple of weeks—or more, I hadn’t decided yet. This was my first time to Europe, and being that as long as I had my computer with me I can work wherever I am, it may just have been the start of my journey. Maybe I’d hop a train and make my way across Europe. Being 28, single, and without a child to care for, the world was open to me to explore. So the truth was that I was on the no-plan plan. All I knew was that I needed to get away and I needed to have this experience.

  “Miss, I think you’re in my seat.”

  “Huh?” I glanced up and met the stare of a tall, dark-haired man with the most stunning gray eyes that I’ve ever seen. I found myself staring up at him, not speaking, no doubt looking like a complete tool.

  He motioned towards the seat I was sitting in. “34B. My seat. You’re in it.”

  “Ummm.” Pulled from my frozen state, with a frown creasing my brow, I dug into my handbag and produced my ticket. Printed on it was 34A. “Ahhh, shit. Yeah. Sorry.” He didn’t respond, but stuffed his carry-on in the overhead as I unbuckled and shifted myself into the window seat where I should have been, all the while feeling like an idiot. How hard is it to read a plane ticket? Too hard for me, apparently. Once buckled back in, I directed my eyes back to the e-reader, but my mind was quickly redirected to the faint, enticing scent of his cologne. He’d applied just enough to make me want to lean into him and indulge in the scent—I refrained, but oh god, it was hard.

  “No worries. I just like to stretch my legs, and the window seat doesn’t really allow for it.”

  Glancing up from the e-reader, I looked over to see him smiling at me, two soft dimples emerging at his cheeks. He really had a sweet, sexy look to him. I could only imagine the amount of women that fell over themselves to be with him. He encompassed all the physical features I write my heroes to have: tall, sexy smile, interesting eyes that drew you in, and just muscular enough to make you yearn to run your fingers along the lines of muscle that no doubt were under the tight grey t-shirt he was wearing. Yes, this man sitting beside me was everything women dream of having in their men—physically, anyhow. The jury was still out on his personality.

  “What are you reading?” he glanced over at my e-reader and I quickly shut it off. The last thing I wanted was this stranger knowing I liked reading BDSM smut. The book I was currently reading was titled, “Chained Up, Bad Girl.”

  “Nothing. Just…” I tucked the reader in the back pocket of the seat in front of me. “Nothing important.”

  His grin widened as he settled into the seat, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Can I take a guess?”

  “No. I preferred you didn’t.” I looked out the window pretending to be interested in what was going on outside.

  “See, that just tells me I’m right.”

  I groaned out load, turned my head to face him as I rolled my eyes and then returned to pretending to look out as the plane left the gate and began taxiing down the runway.

  “Was it Fifty Shades?”

  Apparently, he wasn’t interested in being ignored. I turned my head and looked at him again, and his smile hadn’t faded. I was coming to realize that he intended for me to be his onboard entertainment for the flight. “Excuse me?” I allowed my eyes to do another scan of him. I supposed I could do much worse than this man beside me for entertainment.

  “The book. Was it Fifty Shades?” he prompted.

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”

  He huffed.

  “What was that about?”

  He cocked a brow up at me, his smile returning. “What about?”

  “You, like, huffed at me. Like you didn’t believe me.”

  He didn’t have a chance to answer, as the flight attendant’s voice sounded over the speakers informing us of the emergency procedures. In fact, it wasn’t until four hours later when we were being served some very questionable mashed potatoes and mystery meat that we were told was roast beef (but I had my doubts) that he spoke again.

  “I’m Mitchell, by the way.”

  He’d been so quiet since the takeoff I actually yelped at hearing him speak to me now. I hadn’t pulled the e-reader out again, opting to watch the in-flight movie instead. “Monica.”

  “And what do you do, Monica?”

  “I do?” I knew what he meant, but wanted a second to decide if I really wanted to tell him I write erotica for a living or not.

  “Your job. What do you do for money?” He shovelled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and waited.

  Screw it. It’s not like I was ever going to see this guy again. And it certainly wasn’t like I was shy about telling people. Lots of authors prefer to keep the fact they write erotica to themselves, I’m not one of those people. If people judged me over my occupation then that’s their problem, not mine, and I really didn’t need to be associating with that type of negativity anyhow.

  “I write erotic romance novels.”

  He swallowed and leaned back into his seat, his interest in the food gone and his grey eyes drinking me in with much more interest than he’d displayed up until that point. “You don’t say. So you not only read the kinky stuff, but you write it, too.” A woman across the aisle from us turned her head and stared a moment before going back to her paperback novel.

  “Shhh. Could you keep it down a little?”

  “Embarrassed?”

  “No. I just…” I raked my fingers through my chestnut-brown hair and sighed, leaning into him and lowering my voice. “Some people don’t understand and tend to judge me based on my work. That’s all.”

  “And why do you care? You enjoy what you do?”

  “Yes, of course I do. And I don’t care. Normally. Normally, I don’t.” I shrugged.

  “You don’t like that people judge you when they don’t even know you.”

  “Pretty much.” Done with my dinner, I sank back into the seat. “People are so quick to make a decision about you without taking the time to really find out whether or not it’s true.”

  “Believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel.”

  I gave him a hard stare. I doubted it.

  ~*~ TT ~*~

  Mitchell Cook. Walking into the front lobby of the hotel, dragging my two suitcases behind me, I couldn’t get my mind off of him. A part of me had hoped that he’d want to see me again, but he hadn’t so much as hinted at it. It was disheartening, to say the least. Surely someone like him was in a relationship. Of course he was, a man as sexy and charismatic as him, there’s no way he wasn’t involved. The only way he wouldn’t be involved would be if he was some sort of player and wasn’t interested in being involved. Either way, he was a no-go. Not that it mattered anymore, anyhow. My chances of ever seeing Mitchell Cook were slim to none.

  I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the four steps quickly approaching. I mean, seriously, who puts steps in the middle of a lobby anyhow? The toe of my shoe banged the marble step, and I went tumbling forwards with a yelp, the suitcase going with me.

  “Oh heavens! Are you hurt?” A male voice with a slight French accent asked, the person I assumed to belong to the shiny black dress shoes that were in my line of sight.

  “Only my pride.” I mumbled, accepting his outstretched hand.

  Once I was to my feet, he released my hand and m
otioned towards my suitcase. “Let me assist you with your luggage, Miss.” Not waiting for a response and to my relief, the bellhop relieved me of my luggage. “Welcome to The Royal Paramount. Registration is to the left.”

  “Thank you.” I headed to the registration desk, pulling my passport and wallet from my handbag.

  Within ten minutes, I was checked in and entering my room to be extremely disappointed. The lobby gave off the aura of classy, high-end hotel. “$350.00 a night, for this?” Crinkling my nose, I scanned the tiny room that reminded me of a Motel 8 room. There was barely enough room for the dresser holding the small television, the double-sized bed and a night side table, and it was in severe need of a renovation.