Game Player Read online

  Game Player

  Copyright © 2016 by BJ Harvey

  Edited by Lauren McKellar

  Cover Designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Photo sourced from Shutterstock

  ISBN: Epub - 978-0-9941257-4-3

  ISBN: Mobi - 978-0-473-35030-7

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek ~ Game Maker (Game #2)

  Preview ~ Temporary Bliss

  About the Author

  Other Books by B.J. Harvey

  You know how they say weddings make single women desperate? I have to confess to committing the ultimate wedding cliché.

  In my case, seeing so many hot men in tailored suits—my kryptonite—left me helpless to my out-of-control libido. This led me to make sexy eyes at Matt “Man-whore” Taylor all day—and night, from standing opposite him in the church as my sister married his brother, to the reception at the country club where he gave a rousing best-man speech full of sexy grins and smiles, quips and stories.

  I was a victim of his charm and had consumed too much champagne, along with the mandatory pre-wedding tequila shot, to defend myself against him.

  So I didn’t. I was a single, partially drunk woman who had an itch and wanted it scratched. Therefore, when I had the chance—and with everyone else dancing and drinking—I snuck out of the reception hall and made my way toward the bathrooms.

  When I got there, Matt hooked his arm around my waist, and pulled me close and kissed me as he dragged me through an open door and closed it with his leg behind him.

  In hindsight, it was a stupid decision—probably the worst I’ve made in a long, long time, even more so than taking Martin Hall’s virginity back in my senior year. That went bad because he found out it was out of friendship and sympathy, because I didn’t want the hot class geek to leave high school a virgin. Martin wanted more, and I didn’t see him as anything other than a friend.

  But Matt Taylor’s lips against mine, his body against mine, his very hard pelvis against mine—all I could think about was getting an orgasm any way possible.

  “My dress has a split,” I breathed out between kisses.

  “Fucking perfect,” he said, his voice low and raspy in a way that I felt deep between my legs. Then his hand dipped beneath my blue satin bridesmaid dress, gliding over my skin toward the V zone.

  To my delight and complete admiration, he hit the golden spot first time around, growling in appreciation at my lack of panties. My head dropped back in total and utter relief the moment he touched my clit because even in my drunken state, I could appreciate that—at the very least—the rumors of his talented whoredom were true.

  As he rubbed and curled, and stroked and swirled, he proved without a doubt that he knew what he was doing and exactly what to do to get me there.

  I clung to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as his tongue plundered my mouth and his magic fingers rocked my world with his cock pressing against me. Then I felt it, from the tips of my toes to my aching breasts, from my fingertips biting into his skin to the drenched finish line between my legs—my climax hit me like a Mack truck going at warp speed. My entire body convulsing in ecstatic spasms as I screamed his name into his mouth and he groaned long, low, and hard into mine.

  In between heaving breaths, he mutters, “That’s one . . .”

  “What?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Want to get out of here?”

  Thankfully, even in my drunken haze, I knew I’d just put in motion a potential clusterfuck of epic proportions, and damage control—albeit half-hearted at best—needed to be implemented.

  “I’ve got to . . . go . . .” I said slowly, thinking on my feet, “ . . . see Zoe. She’s leaving soon, and I’ve got to help her get changed.” And, doing a quick scan of my dress in the dim light of what appeared to be a supply closet, I swung the door open and quickly scampered across the hall to the ladies’ bathroom to freshen up.

  When I resurfaced five minutes later—makeup and hair fixed, and dress resituated—the supply room door was open, but the room was void of Matt. Weirdly enough, I didn’t see him again for the rest of the night.

  And in the eighteen months since then, it has never been mentioned.

  So much so, I almost wonder if I imagined it.

  Until now.

  Nat hasn’t even finished her first drink at Throb, the nightclub our friend Amy works at when she sees Matt Taylor and his wingman—and best friend—Jase across the other side of the club. We do the silent polite wave to say “hi, don’t come over here,” and then turn our backs to them, continuing to talk to Amy in between her serving of customers.

  Unfortunately though, because I’m an idiot, I keep glancing back over at Matt—discreetly, of course—until I realize that he’s looking back at me, sending silent calls for help.

  This was because a very blond, very bouncy, and from what I could see—very clingy—woman was climbing him like a tree she wanted to hump. I have to admit I was enjoying the show they were putting on, Matt looking scared out of his mind, and the woman resembling an animal intent on mating with him—anywhere, anyhow.

  “We should be filming this,” Nat says with a laugh. I smile at her, but I know it’s half-hearted. I feel sorry for him more than anything, and part of me wants to rip her hands off him.

  He’s my brother-in-law’s brother so there’s no shared blood between us, thank God. That would just be ick, and any sexual feelings I have for someone should never be icky.

  Well, actually. There was this one time where the guy thought the more spit the better, and that was kind of gross.

  Then there was the one whose pelvic thrusts were more of a sideways roll, and there’s nothing more uncomfortable than a guy who impersonates a frog in a blender when you’re trying to do the nasty. My coochie was bent and stretched in unnatural ways that had me walking funny for days—and not in an “I’ve been laid good and proper” way either.

  Finally, nothing and I mean nothing could ever be icky about Matt Taylor.

  The man who reportedly boasts about his scratch ’n’ sniff technique, and has been between more legs than KFC has made hot dinners makes the sexiest of bad boys look like immature no-hopers.

  There’s the problem.

  He’s a player. A big one. One of those guys who you know will be good at what he does and will make it good for you while he’s doing it before he makes a run for it.

  Then it’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience, my limbs moving of their own accord across th
e dance floor until I’m in front of Matt, some part deep inside of me needing to get rid of the clingy tart.

  His eyes widen when he sees me strutting toward him and a slow smirk grows on his face.

  “Babycakes, I couldn’t find you,” I coo when I reach him. He steps out toward me, his hands going to my hips as soon as I’m within reaching distance, hooking my own around his shoulders and slamming my body hard into his.

  “I’m here, Snookums,” he replies with a dazzling grin. Then—deciding to go hard or go home—I lift up on my toes and smash my lips against his. His fingers bite into my skin through my skirt, mine gliding through his hair and gripping the strands tightly as his tongue plunges into my mouth, seeking mine.

  The bunny boiler gasps loudly. She tries to shove my arm away but I tighten my hold on Matt and get lost in the feel of his body against mine and his very notable hard parts pushing into my front.

  One of his hands drifts around my waist and down to grip my ass, pushing my pelvis hard against his. Moaning into his mouth, I pull back just enough to bite his bottom lip before snaking one of my hands down between us, running it up and down the length of his cock over the top of his jeans.

  He starts to slow it down, the intensity of the kiss easing as his fingers knead my ass cheek and his tongue makes lazy strokes against mine. “Well, I think she got the message,” I breathe, my hand shifting from his shoulders to rest on his chest. My vision is hazy with a fucking fantastic kiss-induced fog that is now making it hard to stay upright.

  Matt holds me, one arm on my waist, the other on my ass, his fingers flexing against my skin. As clarity and realization return, I recognize the look of shock mixed with unmissable heat in his eyes. He continues to watch me, his heart thrumming wildly beneath my hand.

  “How do you know that?” he says, as my head stays stuck on the repeat screening of the hottest ‘supposed to be fake’ makeout session of my life. Not that I have them all the time, but about two seconds after my mouth hit his, the fake part of the make-out became a distant memory.

  Matt looks at me expectantly and I shake my head to get rid of whatever spell his mouth has put me under. “What?” I ask.

  He continues talking, and I notice that he still hasn’t moved back, or removed his hand from my ass and I can still feel every inch of how happy our kiss made him. “The hand on the junk and the tongue down my throat was a nice touch by the way. Well played.” Then that stupid hot smirk of his makes an appearance and common sense returns. Yet that mouth, those surprisingly soft lips, and the taste of bourbon from his tongue haunt me. It’s like our bodies are magnetized to each other and I can’t tear myself away from him.

  What the fuck is up with that?

  Deciding I need to end this charade now, I push gently on his chest and take a shaky step back. Squaring my shoulders, I return to my game plan.

  “You sure seemed to appreciate it,” I say with a sultry grin, my smile growing wider when I see my lipstick smudged over his lips—probably not his best color but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to tell him, just so he can look like a fool for the rest of the night.

  And there’s no way another woman would go near him with the evidence of his whoredom spread over his face.

  He laughs and takes a step toward me. I step back again, and he continues to come closer until I hit the wall of the club. And still he keeps coming, until he’s pressed hard against me. “A hot-as-fuck woman palms my dick and attacks my mouth in the middle of the dance floor to ward off a bunny boiler?” Shaking his head, his eyes scan my face with a strange, yet captivating expression. He looks surprised, intrigued . . . interested. “You can bet your ass I’ll like it.”

  Before I can stop myself, I continue to flirt with him, my body and mouth seemingly on autopilot and impossible to control. “I’ve always said, if you’re gonna do something, you’ve gotta do it right.”

  “Beautiful, I’d love to know what else you know how to do right,” he says, and hearing him throw out one of his undoubtedly well used and successful lines acts like a bucket of ice cold water has been poured down my pants, instantly cooling my libido and clearing my mind of everything Matt.

  “Keep dreaming, hot stuff,” I muse. “We’re basically family.” I lift my hand up and give his cheek a playful pat before stepping sideways and strutting off with a completely unintentional—I swear—swing of my hips.

  “There’s nothing familial about what I’m thinking right now,” he calls behind me.

  Unable to help it, I spin around and walk backward as I point at him. “You owe me now, Matt, and I always remember to call in my favors.” And with a wink, I turn away and heading straight for the front door of the club for much needed fresh air. My heart races with every step I take, and the wave of cold wind that hits me when I reach the sidewalk is welcome relief.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I send a text to Nat.

  Mia—I’ve got to go home. Can you get Amy to drop you off?

  Nat—You cut n run on Mr. Cut ‘n’ Run. What’s up with that?

  Mia—It was horrible. I’d rather just forget about it.

  Obviously that last text was a lie, but if I told her how good it really was, I’d never hear the end of it. Natalie knows all about Matt’s history since he did his cut ‘n’ run routine with her sister’s friend.

  I’ve been known to lie in order to protect myself. In fact, my mom says that I’ve been doing it all my life. I used to lie to get myself out of trouble. First I’d blame Zoe, or my older brother, Zander—especially if he wasn’t home to defend himself—then later, my younger sister Danika was my go-to girl. And being the awesome sister that she was and still is, she’d take the blame and not get me in trouble.

  Danika is now twenty to my twenty-four, Zoe is twenty-six and married to Matt’s brother, Noah—a trauma surgeon, no less—and Zander has just turned twenty-nine and is married to Kate, and together they have my niece, Rose.

  Needless to say, my mom had her hands full with the four of us as kids, so I always got away with my little lies. Mom had her hands full dealing with my deadbeat dad’s lies and cheating to worry about my fibs anyway.

  Now I’m an adult and I don’t do it often, but with two nosy sisters and an over-protective brother, it has been known to still happen on occasion. Mainly to keep certain parts of my life private.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’m close with my best friend, Nat, as well as Danika and Zoe, but I’m more of an information gatherer, not a giver.

  Now, Matt Taylor and that spectacular and total mind-fuck of a kiss is definitely going in my vault of experiences never to be spoken of again. No one knows about the wedding hook-up and no one will know about this. Too complicated, way too difficult to explain to any of our family members, and honestly, not worth the talking to I’d get about ‘the player.’

  Will definitely need to chat with Nat in the morning about keeping my secret.

  Matthew Taylor, the ultimate game player, needed to be taught a lesson, and I figured by kissing him, blowing his mind and walking away, I would be able to play the player and win the game. Fuck was I wrong.

  Fuck. That kiss. That kiss was better than all of the kisses I’ve ever had, combined. It was the atomic bomb of kisses. It was like my body and brain lost all function the moment his tongue touched mine. I’m all for kissing. I’m a huge fan of kissing. Making out, rounding the bases, and then denying the home run. That’s me. I love to date; I love the chase, and the excitement of meeting someone new when they’re all about making an effort—some just to get into your pants, but most of the guys I do meet seem genuinely interested. It’s just that I don’t want to be in a relationship. I’m all about the date and not about the mate.

  But sex . . . sex is something entirely different.

  Sex is . . . well, sex is fucking awesome. It’s fun and good, and a great way to spend a night, an early morning, even a lunchtime nooner.

  I’ve never had anyone who has rocked my world completely and ut
terly. I’ve had bad, mediocre so-so sex—the sideways penile grinder is a perfect example—and I’ve had great sex. Just never the “oh my god, completely out of this world” sex that my sister and her friends, and my friends, all rave about.

  The only way I get anything close to that level of off-the-charts orgasm is when I let my fingers do the walking and my vibrator do the talking.

  My collection is extensive. There are big ones, small ones, ribbed and dotted ones. Rubber, glass, electric and battery-operated ones. You name a vibe, and I’ve probably tried it.

  But the holy mother of God, sex with a man who has a cock to match the attitude and confidence to take control and give me everything I need? Totally fucking absent.

  Except for my brother-in-law’s brother, the best damn kisser I’ve ever known and probably ever will.

  I hop out of my cab and walk up to my apartment, my body still humming from the impromptu live show in the middle of the club. I decide I need to call upon at least one if not two of my trusty silicon sidekicks to take the Matt Taylor-induced edge off for the night.

  It seems my rescue plan turned into one of the hottest make-out sessions of my life and now I’m the one suffering the frustrating consequences.

  It can’t happen again. I’ll just have to self-love him out of my system tonight so that I can put it in the vault and never think about it—or do it—again.

  I just need to make sure I can keep my legs crossed and my feelings safe around him in future. I can do that, right?

  “Dude, what was that?” Jase asks, moving in front of me.

  “What?” My voice is still thick, just like the dick in my pants.

  “You just sucked face with your sister-in-law’s sister. That ass has complicated written all over it.”

  “You’re fucking telling me,” I mutter. “Where’s my drink?”

  “The bar dude said to tell you he’s cutting you off.”

  I look over Jase’s shoulder toward the bar, but can’t see anybody I recognize. “Yeah? He and whose fucking army? I’ve only had one and I’m driving,” I reply.