Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  All Rights Reserved

  About the Book

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  Tell Lili your favorite part!

  About the Author

  Also By Lili Valente

  SPECTACULAR RASCAL

  A Sexy Flirty Dirty Romance

  By Lili Valente

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright Spectacular Rascal © 2016 Lili Valente

  All rights reserved. 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 copyright owner. This erotic romance 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. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy hot, sexy, emotional romantic comedies featuring alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. Cover design by Bootstrap Designs. Editorial services provided by Help Me Edit.

  About the Book

  When you’ve been screwed over by Mr. Wrong, let a Spectacular Rascal show you how good it feels to be bad.

  You know the smooth, successful New York businessman type? Well, I’m the other guy-the one you don’t bring home to mama. The tattooed, rough-around-the-edges, 100% primal badass.

  As the resident bad boy of Magnificent Bastard Consulting, I’ve got what it takes to make sure your dangerous dick of an ex thinks twice before he knocks on your door again.

  Or I thought I did, until I meet my latest client…

  Now my wild, sexy, one-that-got-away is looking up at me with her big green eyes, daring me to take on an ex as dick-ish and dangerous as hers. But all I want to do is take her-again and again.

  Soon Cat and I are setting sex marathon records and medaling in the orgasm Olympics, all while staying one step ahead of her former Mr. Wrong. Everything is golden, except for the fact that I’m falling hard for this woman and all she wants is more of Curved for her Pleasure (trust me, the nickname fits).

  Now I have to prove to Cat that I’m nothing like the dangerous man she’s left behind, and do it all before our time runs out. Considering her ex is with the mob, if we’re not careful, that could be sooner than either one of us thinks…

  Warning: SPECTACULAR RASCAL is a sexy, standalone romantic comedy told from the hero’s point of view. No cliffhanger. Lots of dirty talk.

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  Dedicated to NYC, thanks for an amazing summer.

  PROLOGUE

  Hey there, princess.

  Yes, you. The one with the copy of Leaning In, Buckling Down, and Having it All! clutched to your chest.

  The one with the tasteful pink lipstick, Spanx squeezing you in half beneath your knee-length pencil skirt, and the “This can’t be happening to me, not to me,” look in your eye. You’ve spent your entire life bending over backwards to be all the things you’re supposed to be—intelligent, well-mannered, ladylike, refined; a rule follower who never leaves an “i” un-dotted or a “t” un-crossed—and look where it’s gotten you.

  In trouble. On the run. Watching your back and wondering how the hell you’re going to get through this, because all the cotillion classes and Ivy League degrees in the world can’t protect you when you end up on the wrong side of Dr. Perfect’s alter ego, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Psycho.

  Going to the police isn’t good enough, and you know it.

  You’re not only well educated, you’re well informed. You keep up with current events and are aware of the depressing statistics on domestic violence. You know that every nine seconds a woman in the U.S. is beaten by her partner. You know that three or more women are killed by their husbands or boyfriends every day, and that a restraining order isn’t going to stop a man who’s determined to prove that no one walks away from him.

  At least, not without a few scars to remember him by…

  I’m not going to sugarcoat it, sweetheart. You were right to be afraid, but you don’t have to be. Not anymore. You’ve come to the right place, to a man who understands how to fight fire with fire.

  Together, we’re going to convince your dangerous dick of an ex that you’ve got a new man, a bigger, tougher, meaner man, who fucks you so often and so well that you don’t have any energy left to worry about Douchebag’s threats. In reality, our relationship will never go further than a kiss, but he won’t know that. He’ll assume that you’ve been claimed by an alpha male with a black belt in kicking ex-boyfriend ass and biceps the size of those spiral cut hams his mama buys for Easter dinner, and realize his best bet is to start walking and never look back.

  I was signed on to Magnificent Bastard Consulting for cases just like yours, for exes who need more than a hefty injection of jealousy into their lives. For the guy who needs a reminder that there are more savage creatures prowling the jungle, and that terrorizing a woman half his size is a shitty idea.

  But this is going to take more than me escorting you around town on my tattooed arm, or kissing you like I own your sweet pussy every night. I can do Big, Bad, and Possessive with the best of them, but you have your part to play, too. A part so important that there’s no way I can do this without you.

  So go ahead and close your eyes, princess.

  That’s right. Close them.

  Lie back. Relax. Unzip your pencil skirt, slip out of those Spanx, and let your breath come slow and deep while I take you to a place I lik
e to call No Fucks Left To Give-ville.

  Now, now, don’t tense up. Hear me out.

  I know what you’re thinking—But Aidan, I’m all about giving a fuck.

  I give big fucks, all the fucks.

  I give so many fucks that sometimes, at the end of the day, I feel like I’m unraveling in all the places where I’ve cared so much, tried so hard, given all I could give to be the best I could be. To be the change I want to see in the world, to inspire and lead by example, and lift up my fellow man, and all those other platitudes I post on social media during my lunch hour to avoid talking to the jerk in the next cubicle over…

  Yeah, I hear you. I get it. You care.

  But when is the last time all that “caring” got you somewhere? When’s the last time the world changed because you were giving so many fucks?

  Probably never, I’m guessing. And that’s because giving a fuck is different than caring. Caring is something you do without worrying about the end game. Caring makes the world a better place while costing you nothing.

  Fuck-giving is a whole other kettle of rotten crabs.

  Here’s how it goes: you’re so afraid of being out of control of your life, or your destiny, or whatever it is that you’re stressed about, that you freak out over things that don’t matter, spreading your fucks around like chicken feed to be gobbled up and shit out by the empty-headed flightless birds of the world. You fight to control and persuade, but in the end the fight controls you. You give your power away to the people who enrage you or misunderstand you, people that you’re never going to change no matter how many fucks you give.

  And sooner or later, you’ll have given so many effs about so many stupid things that you’ll have no energy left for the stuff that really matters.

  No energy for the friend who needs you to talk them out of their post breakup depression. No energy left to notice the woman struggling to get her stroller down the subway steps on the day the elevator is broken while the rest of the world streams past her. No passion for the things you really want to do with your life, for art and music and belly laughs and the rest of the really good stuff.

  Maybe that’s not what you expected to hear from a guy with a beard and full-sleeve tattoos wearing a muscle T-shirt and a chain on his wallet. But I don’t care if I’m not your stereotypical New York City tattoo artist.

  That’s right—I don’t give a fuck.

  I’ve been a resident of No Fucks Left to Give-ville for years, and it’s made me a happier, more well-adjusted, more successful person than almost anyone I know. It has given me freedom to be who I am, to go after what I want, and to enjoy the things I enjoy because life’s too short to let someone else tell me who I should be.

  I call the shots. Not society or religion, not my parents’ expectations, or pressure from my friends, or all the unwritten rules and unspoken messages shoved down my throat a hundred times a day by people trying to sell me something.

  And that’s what I’m here to give you, princess, what you need most at a time like this. Power.

  I’ll show you the way, and little by little, you’ll take back the power the world has stolen from you, power you’ll need to convince your big bad ex that there’s no point in continuing to fuck with a stone cold bitch like you. Yes, it will take time, and yeah, your ex may employ the usual bully tactics—threats, violence, intimidation. But I’ll be there to back you up, to prove to him that you’re so well-loved and well-fucked and completely satisfied with your “new man” that his fight is pointless.

  You are a wild horse he’ll never break, a free bird he’ll never pin down, and sooner or later he’ll drop his fists and walk away. And on that day, you won’t just be free of Mr. Wrong; you’ll be free to be anything you want to be.

  Now, doesn’t that sound nice?

  To never go to bed worrying about whether you’re good enough or smart enough or pretty enough or successful enough by anyone’s standards but your own, ever again? I can tell you’re enjoying how much easier it is to breathe without those Spanx…

  What’s that? You’re not convinced No-Fucks-Ville is for you?

  You need further persuasion?

  Then take my hand, beautiful, and let me show you how right it can feel for a good girl to go bad.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s a gorgeous summer morning in the city and already hot as balls, a fact I can verify as I’m currently cupping my balls—and my dick—in one hand as I run naked across Prospect Park, pursued by a policeman with an air horn he blares every few seconds, ensuring no one is missing my solo streak around the lake. My balls are hot and sweaty, my not-intended-for-sprinting-boots are digging painfully into my calves, and a group of grandmotherly types walking their dogs just whistled and shouted “nice ass, cowboy, let’s see the rest of what you’ve got!” as I ran by.

  Old ladies. They aren’t what they used to be, that’s for damned sure.

  And this sweaty streak is a lot less fun than the last time I went running naked with my Dasher club, when we were all so wasted that streaking across the Brooklyn Bridge sounded like a kick-ass idea. At least then it had been dark, I’d been drunk, and a cool breeze off the East River had kept the ball sweat to a minimum.

  But streaking was the only way I could think of to distract the cop who was about to arrest my friends. Better for me to be charged with public indecency than for Bash and Penny to get hauled in for banging in the Prospect Park Lake.

  I still can’t believe the two of them decided that fucking in public was a good idea. But I guess true love does crazy things to a person’s judgment. I wouldn’t know, personally. I’ve never been in that kind of love, but judging from what it’s done to my best friend and his usually sweet, levelheaded, keeps-her-panties-on-in-public assistant, it’s apparently some intense shit.

  As I duck under low-hanging branches near the edge of the lake, aiming myself for the canoe rental station, I decide I’m just fine with remaining a bachelor for the foreseeable future. Scheming to get my best friend and his girl back together so the pair of them would stop moping and crying and killing the summer fun before it could even get started has used up my limited enthusiasm for romance.

  Besides, I have a job starting tomorrow. A fake girlfriend who, in exchange for ten thousand dollars, I will pretend to be completely fucking devoted to for the next month. Bash has been too caught up in his full-time pity party to send over the complete file on the woman, but I know her name and occupation: Beth Jones, a lawyer who’s having a hard time convincing her creepy ex that their relationship is over for good.

  My gut says Bash would be a better man for this job. He’s the smooth, successful businessman type who looks like he should be dating a lawyer, but Beth asked for me. She took one look at the pictures in my “Spectacular Rascal” dossier—don’t judge me, Bash chose the name; sometimes he’s too damned cute for his own good—and insisted I was the guy she needed.

  Apparently she wants a man who’s “a little bit dangerous.”

  Of course, in reality, my danger factor is only skin-deep. I’m covered in tattoos, have a full beard that accentuates my “don’t fuck with me” face, and am currently risking arrest for a friend, but I’m not dangerous, not even a little bit. I’ve never hit a man who didn’t throw the first punch, never made a risky decision out of anger, and never spanked a woman who hasn’t begged me to show her pretty ass who’s boss.

  I like my sex hot, primal, and as dirty as I can get it, prefer being on top in most situations, and refuse to be fucked with by anyone or anything. But when it comes to the things that really matter, I’m harmless. I literally have “Do no harm,” tattooed on my left forearm, right next to the devil dancing in the pale moonlight I had inked at my first pro convention. I don’t hurt innocent people, I don’t incite conflict, and I don’t work my personal shit out in my relationships. I save that for the weight room.

  That’s where I go to purge my demons and regain my focus. And yes, I’m ripped, and I have to stretch out for
a good twenty minutes after I lift to maintain full range of motion. I’m not saying I don’t have my issues, just that I deal with them in a sane, healthy, muscle-mass-increasing way.

  I’m thankful for that muscle mass as I jump into an empty canoe, setting the captain and his crew free to slap against my thigh as I grab the oar and haul ass toward the center of the lake.

  “Dude, you have to pay for that!” the skinny kid in the Parks Department T-shirt manning the rental station shouts after me. But his tone is more bored than outraged. Apparently the fact that I’m naked isn’t enough to outweigh the fact that he’s stuck working outside without so much as an umbrella to shield his greasy, teenage head from the sun.

  “I’ll pay when I bring it back, man. I promise,” I call, glancing over my shoulder, breathing easier as I see the red-faced cop and his air horn still a good two hundred feet away.

  Resisting the urge to shoot the officer a shit-eating grin—no need to rub salt in the wound, or give the man a reason to call for backup if he hasn’t already—I duck my chin and pull hard, sending the slim canoe skimming fast across the water. Within minutes, I’ve made my way back around the curve in the shoreline, into the secluded cove that was the scene of Bash and Penny’s crime of passion.

  Literally.

  Penny’s skirt had covered the most pertinent parts of the equation, but there was no doubt what they were up to when Officer Red Face and I appeared on the scene. I suppose some guys would get off on that sort of thing, but I’m not much of a voyeur, especially when it comes to watching my best friend and a sweetheart with a goofy streak a mile wide get it on. Penny’s like a little sister to me, and I would pay good money to get the sight of her girl-next-door face twisted in ecstasy out of my head.