Shameless Game (Shameless Sport #1)

Shameless Game (Shameless Sport #1)

By Kelly Finley

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

No one comes between me and my smut.

BLAIR

You’d think working in an adult store would be fun.

I get to sell the best vibrators to women, delighted by the impatience in their eyes. Like they can’t race home fast enough with their new lover. I encourage husbands to play kinky dice with their wives. Nothing says “Happy Anniversary” like a game of cunnilingus. I can tell you the best-tasting lube (pink lemonade, trust me). I know the lingerie that flatters every gorgeous shape and the best book to teach you how to tickle his pickle… if pickles are your thing.

Don’t you worry; I’ll make sure you, my happy, horny customer, get the pleasure you deserve.

But me?

I’m fine.

I’m not having fun.

I’m perfectly content in my celibate misery. I dust glass shelves with nipple clamps, BDSM collars, and blue alien cock sheaths that make me sigh, staring longingly at the toys. My pathetic sigh fills another giant penis-shaped balloon in my pity party of one over Beau Bronson.

Until…

My evil twin schemes an intervention.

“Enough!” Vale tosses a fuchsia bustier at me. “Your sad vag is a virus that’s infecting us all. Put this on. The skirt, too.” She flings the matching satiny garment at my face. “We’re taking you to the club.”

“The Club” is a private sex club.

This lingerie turned sexy streetwear is worth hundreds. Lucky for her, I caught it.

And my twin sister is a giant pain in my lonely ass.

I’m trying to have my eat, pray, love life, minus the praying and the love part.

And yet here she is, trying to bully me into kinky fun.

“I’m not going to the club, you conniving cunt.” I flit my feather duster at her. “Quit trying to make me happy and shit. I’ve told you a zillion times, I’m fine.”

There are no customers in Delta’s. We just closed the store where we work for the day, but apparently, my sister is hell-bent on big plans for the night.

Because Jace, our store’s bouncer or bodyguard? Hell, I don’t know what his official title is. He’s just a mountain range of muscles topped by a sexy face towering behind her. He wants to ruin my life with fun, too.

“You’re going with us, Blair.” Yep, Jace is a pain in my abstinent ass, reminding me, “It’s been four months since Valentine’s, and you need to get back on the horse.”

I stand my ground in a showroom full of high-end sex toys, my glare landing on the shelf featuring the biggest dildos. Pointing to the long, angry pink and brown one, I snap, “The only horse I’m ever riding again is that giant stallion cock.”

Though pony play is not my kink.

No, Beau Bronson is my kink.

Beau Bronson is the cocky, sweet asshole I met in college who stole my heart.

Beau Bronson is the sexiest man who appeared eight years later, like a once-in-a-lifetime sex comet, giving me the hottest and most heart-breaking Valentine’s night of my life.

And…

Beau Bronson is the number one NFL quarterback who won’t stop appearing in my damn FYPs, on the flatscreen, or in my mind when I close my eyes.

And the reason I’m really miserable about it?

Beau and I were meant to be together, though we never will be.

“You don’t have to fuck tonight,” Vale huffs, tapping her foot clad in a black, vinyl, thigh-high boot. She tops her boots off with a gothic, Wednesday Addams black vinyl mini-dress, lace collar, and braided pig-tails. Her dirty school-girl look drives men insane. “But you’re going with us to the club. Your pitiful pussy party has officially turned pathetic.”

Does anyone want to buy a twin?

I’ll give you fifty percent off because she can read your dirty mind and broken heart, especially when you don’t want her to.

Hell, I’ll give her to you for free.

Because Vale is my mirror, though I work our long raven hair in a classic starlet way, and I’ve proudly earned more curves than her. I swear I was born in the wrong decade. I worship Marilyn Monroe. It’s destiny we share the same last name.

But still, deep down to our DNA, Vale and I are identical.

She’s exasperated with my vow never to have sex again. Well, sex with others. With myself? I’d make Pornhub blush. I’m such a slut, moaning Beau’s name, memories of him making me come every time.

And yes, I’m guilty of trying almost every single dildo in this store. And no, I don’t use the ones on the shelves.

I use my store discount and buy my own. You should see my collection. I use them as bookends on my shelves.

Big fake boners and real smutty books: that’s my fetish.

“It’s enough, Blair.” Vale softens her tone. Usually, she’s a raging bitch, and I love her for it because it lets me be a royal bitch right back.

That’s called sisterly love, as she scolds, “You can’t keep living in your books and writing about alien romance and big blue cocks and?—”

“My books are finally selling, thank you very much.” Sister or not, no one comes between me and my smut. “So I’m not going to the club tonight. I have another book to finish and a deadline.”

“Your books are selling because Beau Bronson went viral yesterday reading one in a Charleston coffee shop,” Vale snaps. “And you’ve been moping around all day about it because that was it. Beau made you a bestseller, but he didn’t show up today. He hasn’t called or texted or dropped in your DMs, and I swear to god, if you sigh like a pining romance heroine about it one more time, I’m cramming an alien cock sheath down your throat.”

Jace chuckles. Our daily duels amuse the hell out of him.

“Go suck a box of Daddy dicks.” I half laugh, half snarl at her.

“Proudly, I suck dick almost every night.” She half laughs, too. “And so did you. Where is my shameless sister? The one no man could break? Since when do you crumble for cock?”

“You got as much room to talk as a cheap Vegas honeymoon hotel.”

Vale narrows her eyes. “At least I don’t have a dead fish city between my thighs.”

“No, you got a hot Daddy treating your puss like it’s his Disneyland.” And I grin right back. “How many times have you ridden Mr. Allen’s Space Mountain?”

I busted Vale yesterday. The entire staff did. We know she’s fucking her best friend’s dad, but Jace interrupts our spat.

“Come on, Blair. You know you really want to go.” He sounds like an audiobook alpha male, all tempting and two seconds from making you do something dirty. He could say vaginitis and make you want it. “Let’s celebrate,” he says. “You’re a bestseller now, and you’ve worked hard for it.”

But don’t worry.

Jace is like our brother.

I’m sure he’s making someone, probably many people, happy with that third leg in his pants, but it ain’t me.

I have zero interest in non-Beau cock, so I just roll my eyes. “Fine,” I huff. “I’ll celebrate. You can buy me a Happy Meal before you take my sad ass home.”

But that doesn’t happen because my sister is a pit bull like me. Once she sinks her teeth into an idea, she won’t let go.

And Jace is quite persuasive because he’s too damn big. Arguing with him is like telling Mt. Everest to step aside. Same with his older brother, Grant, our other mountain range, who guards the front door to Delta’s.

Grant doesn’t miss a chance to go to the club with us. He always uses me as bait, making jealous women swarm like bees to his hulking honey stick.

An hour later, the four of us are quite the sight at this club I used to frequent several times a week. I was known for my knowledge of kink and my erotic skills, too.

What can I say? A romance author needs to do her research.

Many couples sought me as their unicorn—a bi woman shared with another man and woman already together. But often, I was wary. Their expectations were unrealistic, and I didn’t want to be the reason for friction or a break-up.

I just wanted to have fun so my romantic heart didn’t get broken. I usually kept it to one night only. Sometimes, I’d let couples play with me for the weekend.

But that was months ago.

Months since Valentine’s. Months since my night with Beau Bronson at The Mercier Hotel. Months since I finally fucked my college enemy, who I lusted over for years, because really… Beau and I were secretly in love.

Only twice have we admitted it.

The first time was the night he showed up at my dorm room our senior year with a busted lip, fighting back tears, and I held him all night. I told him it would be okay. I gave him ice for his face. I listened while he confessed his deepest secret and kept it for him. But we never did anything about our love. Through tears shed, we confessed that, too.

Because Beau was dating my roommate, Reese. He was faithful to her, and I was loyal. I don’t fuck other women over. Even though she wasn’t there that night, and we could have. We never did anything about our love, our attraction.

Until eight years later.

This past Valentine’s night.

The feelings Beau and I revealed, the secret fantasies we fulfilled, the kink we shared, it found Beau deep inside me, over and over again, finally confessing our love over moaning lips.

And yeah, since then, my pussy has been in a coma. Self-induced. Numb to others. The feline has flat-lined. It doesn’t wet or purr or even tingle with desire for anyone else because my mind wants to live in the past.

It wants to live forever in that night in the hotel suite with Beau, remembering how I melted with our first kiss. How he kept growling my name and biting my neck. How he held me tight afterward. We weren’t shy together.

Even in college, I always felt safe with Beau.

Though, yeah… we double-majored in wicked pranks on each other.

Like when he kept leaving condoms full of mayonnaise on the hood of my car, or my dorm doorknob, or my favorite… when he managed to superglue one to the bottom of my backpack without me knowing.

So, I bribed his roommates to plant rolls of fake toilet paper everywhere he went. You know, the kind that won’t tear? Yep, they make it. So you have a choice: use it and clog the toilet with two pounds of paper or call for help.

Yeah, I got three of Beau’s shitty situations on video until he finally started carrying his own Charmin in his backpack.

Still, I trusted him.

I secretly loved him.

Because only Beau can make me cry. Like that Valentine’s in The Mercier Hotel when he gave me his Atlanta football jersey before leaving me with his tender kiss goodbye. Like when I buried my face in his hotel pillow, still warm from him, suddenly feeling cold and lost after he left.

Couples and throuples and piles of scantily clad-to-nude bodies fuck all around me. It’s role-play night, and the club smells like sex and sandalwood. Music pumps. So do cocks and dildos. Whips crack the air, and moans of lust lull from every direction in the club around me, but I’m bored shitless.

No, I’m not bored.

I’m hurt. I’m confused. I’m overwhelmed that Beau did such a sweet thing for me yesterday.

He purposefully read my newest release, a paranormal romance book inspired by our Valentine’s night, in public, where he knew he’d be spotted. Pics were snapped of him holding my book in his hands.

And I knew that smile on his face. His cute, cocky smile that went viral.

It’s the same smile I’d bust on his sexy face when I’d catch him hiding in the library at college, reading Harry Potter or Tolkien’s books. Only I knew that side of Beau.

Because, for everyone else, he’s just the best quarterback in the country.

So, Beau’s football fame made my book a bestseller in a matter of hours, and then…

Nothing.

Yes, I keep checking my phone. Yes, it’s blowing up with notifications, new followers, and posts from excited readers. I want to cry with joy.

And I want to cry with a What the fuck?

“What do you think it means?” I ask Jace, sitting beside me on a barstool while we sip virgin mint juleps. The club doesn’t serve alcohol. Vodka and random sex don’t mix.

Down the bar to the right, Vale’s chatting with some friends, Silas and Eily Van de May. They’re loyal customers of Delta’s. I glance left and Grant has a swarm of women on their knees worshiping his purple throbber.

But Jace?

He’s my buddy. He’s here for me, chuckling. “You want me to read Beau Bronson’s mind?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Beau did this really sweet thing, but why? And why, when I should be happy about it, am I feeling like shit?”

A DUH neon sign just lit over Jace’s head.

“Because you’re in love with him,” he answers. “And he’s in love with you. You don’t do shit like that; you don’t make a woman’s dream come true unless you love her.”

“But Vale’s right. Beau’s still ghosting me.”

“Hang on.” Jace lowers his heavy brows. “You said you wanted it this way. Both of you. You and Beau were frenemies in college when you really wanted to fuck the hell out of each other and when he randomly showed up at our store on Valentine’s night after how many years?”

“Eight.”

“Yeah, eight years later,” he marvels. “You two finally had an epic night together. You said you tried to see who could out-kink the other and agreed it was a one-night-only. And that was four months ago, and obviously naive as hell because all y’all did was light a fuse. You’re a bomb begging to blow.”

“The only one begging to blow is Grant.” I point to Jace’s brother, fisting a blonde and a brunette, slobbering all over his knob like a giant grape lollipop. “Because I’m never blowing Beau Bronson again. It would be a disaster.”

Even though Beau is the first and last man I ever swallowed. Even though I’ve been with dozens, Beau’s the only man I let inside me bare. Even though Beau’s the only one I ever trusted with my fantasies, with my dreams, with my heart.

“Look, I get it.” Jace pats my back, and I choke on my drink. He forgets he’s a grizzly bear petting a rabbit. “Dating the top quarterback who lost the Super Bowl this year could be hell. It could ruin your life, but maybe he’s worth it.”

“But he doesn’t do girlfriends,” I repeat what Beau told me. “And I don’t do love,” I repeat what I told Beau.

And yes, it was bullshit.

Because with the way Beau kissed me goodbye and said, “I’ll be reading your books. Keep writing them about us,” before he left our hotel room? I knew his heart was mine.

Because with the way I snot cried about it when he left, and for weeks, I didn’t stop, even though I told him to leave? I knew it was love.

Because above all, I know what football means to Beau Bronson.

Everything.

We’ve always wanted to be together, but in college, when Beau wasn’t playing ball, he was committed to Reese. He made fixing her problems a game he would win, too. Then, days before graduation, Reese mysteriously ghosted us, and I never spoke to her or Beau again. Reese never answered my calls, and Beau, who was drafted in the first round from The University of Alabama, disappeared into his life with the NFL.

And though I love to hate football, I’ve secretly watched his journey.

I’m proud of him.

Beau’s well on his way to being a titan, a legend in the sport. The pundits call him “The Pope in the Pocket” because he’s calm and in control, almost spiritual when everyone’s rushing him, but he’s holding the ball.

So, I won’t get in the way of Beau’s dream. He said relationships are a distraction, and he’s determined to win the next Super Bowl. He came so close and lost it all in one baffling final interception that people won’t stop talking about.

And I get it.

Yes, relationships are a distraction.

Because all I do is either think about Beau or write about him. Thankfully for me, I can turn distractions into fiction.

But for Beau, distractions lose football games. He’s under tremendous pressure. He’s the face of his team’s franchise, and it all rests on his multi-million dollar shoulders.

“Well,” Jace grins at me, lost in thought, “please tell your pretty face that you don’t love Beau Bronson because it doesn’t believe you either.”

“So what? You’re saying I should message him or something?”

“Do you want to?”

Hell yes.

“Do I want to get my life and heart ruined?”

“Your life?” Jace nods. “Yes. Because he’s not just famous for his golden arm; he’s infamous for that pretty-boy face. His dating life is a public sport, too, so anyone with him would be like a lamb led to a viral slaughter. But your heart?”

Jace rubs my back. It’s in that brotherly way that almost makes you feel better. You can almost fight the tears.

“Blair, I love your books. I’m one of your biggest fans. But I suspect the love you two deny would be far better as fact than your fiction.”

I think about it all night.

Should I message Beau?

Should I put my bleeding heart in the ocean full of hungry media sharks, hoping only Beau will bite?

And what if he doesn’t? What if I’m the only one who feels this way? The only one who wants more than Valentine’s night? What if football truly is his only love?

We purposefully didn’t exchange our digits, though I know I could find him if I tried. And Beau sure as hell knows where to find me. I work at Delta’s, a luxury adult store, while trying to get by as a struggling indie romance author.

Until yesterday.

Until Beau made my book go viral.

But he hasn’t messaged me. Apparently, he’s even in Charleston, where his older brother lives, and not in Atlanta, where Beau’s team is. But he was a no-show today. So, I hear his silence loud and clear.

And it hurts.

It makes me angry.

I feel like we’re back in college, and he’s playing another cruel, teasing joke on me. Back then, his jokes messed with my mind.

But now, they mock my broken heart.

So, all night, I try to revive my kitty. I hope she still has a pulse. I hope she’ll want to play again, but I worry.

Because watching Silas Van de May passionately fuck his beautiful wife, Eily, on the stage only makes me miss Beau. I know Silas and Eily. They shop at Delta’s all the time. They overwhelm you with their love, I swear. And Silas sure does make a hot cop tonight, role-playing with Eily, who’s willing to be a very bad girl to get out of a ticket.

Their marriage is heaven. Their love nirvana. Their sex is fun, too. It’s obvious Silas adores Eily, and she was meant to be his.

I want that.

I want that so much.

“Does that interest you?” A baritone voice tempts over my shoulder. “Because I have handcuffs and a big baton, too.”

Jace went to the restroom so I’m alone at the bar. Turning around, I confront a tall, gorgeous man. He’s a hundred percent fuckable. And months ago, based on looks, I’d jump him like a polecat.

But yeah, my kitty has flatlined. No response. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t deserve to be punished?” He licks his lips. “I’ve heard enticing, naughty things.”

“About me?”

“Yes,” he smirks, and I’m half-flattered, half-offended, and a hundred percent preferring a hemorrhoid to this guy right now because I can suddenly see it in his eyes. I know the difference between safe lust and dangerous lechery.

“I’m sure,” I answer. “Go court a different cunt for your cop-n-cock game.”

“I don’t take no for an answer,” he threatens, looming closer, and despite the dumbass shit you hear, that’s a deadly red flag on your coffin. Check the stats.

“Then take it as a complete sentence because it is.” I stab him with my glare. “No.”

But he hovers at the bar, eyeing me, his sexy reeking into sleazy, and the owner, Ms. Faye, doesn’t usually let guys in like this.

Jace senses it, too, when he returns. “Hey man,” he lowers his voice, threatening my icky admirer, “leave her alone and leave here now, or I’ll feed your face pavement until you swallow your teeth.”

The guy measures Jace up, recognizing an ass-whooping when he sees one. So he skulks away, and Jace follows, telling the security at the door to red-line him. He won’t be allowed back in, but that’s my cue.

This night sucks, and there’s smut for me to write. At least on my pages with Beau, a.k.a. Willuf the Wilder or Valen the Vulgarian, will my kitty purr again.

In the club’s front lobby, Jace waits with me. He insists on escorting me to my car, and that’s fine. All is fine; I lie to myself as the attendant hands us our phones. They’re not allowed in the club.

When I check my screen, I see all the missed notifications and messages from sweet romance readers, and a text appears, too.

It rips the breath from my lungs.

Even though it says UNKNOWN, my heart knows it’s Beau. It always has. Because all it does is make me so happy and so hurt, I’m pissed as hell.

UNKNOWN

It’s Willuf

And I need a wild favor

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