Sexy Motherpucker: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel Read online

  Sexy Motherpucker

  A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

  Lili Valente

  Self Taught Ninja

  Contents

  About the Book

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Tell Lili your favorite part!

  About the Author

  Also By Lili Valente

  26. Sneak Peek

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright Sexy Motherpucker © 2017 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.

  Created with Vellum

  About the Book

  When the family dog trots in with my diaphragm in its mouth—in front of my date, his parents, and his adorable little girl—you would think I’d hit rock bottom.

  *

  WRONG.

  *

  Let’s back this up a sec…

  *

  Brendan Daniels is the sexiest man alive. The captain of the Badger’s NHL team is also clever, kind, funny, and was my good friend…until we cruised out of the friend zone one weekend with a red-hot fling. Come Monday morning, I wanted to keep riding the Big O train to happy town, but Brendan wanted someone who was “stepmom” material.

  *

  A.K.A, not me, apparently.

  *

  The problem? I’m crazy in love with him and his daughter. So when he asks me to be his pretend girlfriend for a long weekend with his former in-laws, I say yes. We’re still friends, after all, and friends don’t let friends fake it alone.

  Laura Collins is the last woman I should be thinking about taking in the back seat of my car, in the woods behind my in-laws’ house, or in a hotel room where we’re sharing one very small, very squeaky bed.

  *

  I need a steady, stable influence for my daughter, not a fling with this too wild, too young, too impulsive red head. So what if she’s beautiful and intense and passionate and has the biggest heart I’ve ever known? I don’t want to fall in love. I really don’t. The whole “pretend girlfriend” thing was supposed to solve my problems, buy me a little more time.

  *

  But when it comes to Laura? Hell, maybe I’m just not cut out for faking it… Subscribe to Lili’s newsletter and never miss a sale or new release: http://bit.ly/1zXpwL6

  Dedicated to Sawyer Bennett,

  one generous, kind, talented, kick-ass writer friend.

  Glad to know you, lady!

  Prologue

  Laura

  Last summer…

  *

  The summer breeze off the Pacific is cool and sweet, and the setting sun casts a sleepy orange glow over Cannon Beach. Majestic Haystack Rock rises from the waves a few hundred feet from shore, a benevolent overlord gazing on as families take advantage of the shortest night of the year to party long after most of these kids would usually be in bed asleep.

  All in all, it’s an excellent evening for burning underwear.

  “Good-bye silk thong,” I say, tossing my favorite, most comfortable thong onto the fire. It catches on one of the unburned driftwood limbs, trembling there as if hoping for a last-minute rescue from the flames licking upward.

  But there will be no rescue. All the underthings must go. I’ve got the entire contents of my lingerie drawer in the duffle bag slung over my shoulder, and I’m not leaving until every bra, panty, and garter belt has been reduced to ashes.

  “Good-bye, comfortable cotton briefs.” I drop a handful of simple black and white briefs into the heart of the fire, where they begin to smolder. “Good-bye lace boy-shorts. Good-bye push-up bra, I knew you well.”

  A soft rumble of laughter alerts me to the fact I’m not alone.

  I spin, eyes narrowed, to see Brendan standing behind me in a white button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbow, khaki shorts, and bare feet, looking ridiculously gorgeous, as usual. The man should come with a warning label—Danger: Do Not Look Directly into These Dreamy Blue Eyes for Too Long or You Will Forget That I am Off-Limits, Not Interested in Romance, and Also Irritating as Fucking Hell.

  Brendan is captain of the Portland Badgers, the NHL team my PR efforts have helped lift from relative obscurity to become one of the big names in the league. The fact that they’ve qualified for the playoffs three out of the past five years probably hasn’t hurt, but I’m not afraid to take credit where credit is due. I’ve grown the Badger youth hockey program, increased season-ticket sales by twenty percent, and started a fantasy camp with a waiting list two hundred people deep.

  I work hard for my team, and I appreciate players who make my job easy by being sweet to reporters, putting their best skate forward when I film spots to play during the games, and smiling for the camera at meet-and-greets designed to build goodwill within the community.

  Brendan is not one of those players. Brendan is a cranky, recalcitrant, stand-offish, doesn’t-play-well-with-the-press pain in my ass, which makes the big smile on his face even more disconcerting.

  Damn, he’s nice to look at.

  It really is too bad that he’s determined to stay above the dating fray. He would make some lucky woman very happy. And maybe make himself easier to live with in the process.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself.” He ambles closer, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I had to see if you were really burning your bra.”

  “I am. And my panties.” I flick another pair of briefs into the flames.

  “Is this a feminist thing?” He comes to stand beside
me, sending the smell of freshly washed man and an earthy, foresty cologne drifting to my nose.

  He must have already been back to his room at the hotel to shower. I’m still in the bikini and oversize cover-up I’ve been wearing all day, rocking the casual look for the first annual Badger Beach Bum weekend. I’d planned to head up the hill half an hour ago and get cleaned up for the team cocktail party starting at ten, but after a chat with some teenagers who agreed to let me take over maintenance of their beach fire, I decided it was better to burn the underwear first.

  The sooner I can put the Panty-gate disaster behind me, the better.

  “No, it’s not a feminist thing.” I wait for the briefs to start smoking before I add more fuel to the fire. “It’s a walked in and caught my boyfriend wearing my underwear kind of thing.”

  Brendan’s brows lift sharply. “Oh. Wow.”

  “Yeah. I forgot my beach bag this morning. When I ran back to get it, I found Henry standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing my lace thong, silk stockings, and push up bra. There was also makeup involved, but that wasn’t mine.” I toss another bra, proud of how much better my aim is getting. “He’s a winter, not a spring.”

  “I’m guessing this wasn’t something you knew about Henry going into the relationship.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Henry is a seemingly straight-laced investment banker whose hobbies include making money, drinking scotch, playing fantasy football, power lifting, and going on long, aggressively competitive bike rides with other investment bankers. He never made any mention of a love for cross-dressing.”

  “And if he had?” Brendan asks, collecting a slim piece of wood from the sand.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. To be honest, it would probably have still been a deal breaker, but if he’d been upfront about it—and bought his own lingerie instead of tainting mine—it would have at least been up for discussion.”

  “Wouldn’t washing everything work just as well?”

  “No, Brendan, washing everything won’t work just as well.” The next few bras hit the fire with considerably more force. “Some taints go too deep for soap. Some taints must be cleansed by fire.”

  “Like taints that come from being close to your ex’s taint,” he says, summoning an unexpected laugh from between my lips.

  “Yes, like that.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “I’m not used to you being funny.”

  “It’s something I try to avoid as much as possible,” he says pleasantly. “It confuses people. Makes them think I’m not going to be a pain in their ass the next time they ask me to spend my Sunday morning eating pancakes with strangers.”

  “So you saw the email…” I glance up at him, my throat tightening for reasons I can’t explain.

  He nods. “I did.”

  “There are worse things than being asked to eat pancakes, Brendan.”

  “Pancakes with strangers,” he corrects, using the end of his stick to catch the thong that has thus far escaped the flames. “I don’t like strangers.”

  “Even strangers who are also your biggest fans?” I watch him lower the panties into the fire, my cheeks flushing for reasons I also can’t explain.

  “Even strangers who are fans. When I’m not away for a game, Sundays are for family.” The thong slides onto the coals, and Brendan turns to me, an all too familiar stubborn expression firming his features. “You can courtesy-copy Coach Swindle and the team manager on requests all you want, but I won’t be bullied by any of you. Chloe’s back from her grandparents’ house on Tuesday so I won’t be eating pancakes with anyone next Sunday, or any Sunday in the foreseeable future.”

  “You can bring Chloe if you want,” I say, naively hoping this might be an easy fix. “I would be happy to watch her while you network.”

  He crosses his arms at his chest. “No.”

  I take a deep breath, in and out, fighting a wave of irritation. “Come on, Brendan. You know Chloe and I get along like macaroni and cheese. We could eat pancakes together at the kids’ table and then color until you’re ready to go. It will be fun.”

  “No.”

  “No? Just…no?” My volume rises as I drop my nearly empty duffle onto the sand and spread my fingers wide, palms up, in front of the most frustrating man in the universe. “That’s it? No, Laura, I will not allow you to do your job. No, Laura, you will never have my cooperation without a fight. No, Laura, I refuse to compromise no matter how far you bend over backward to make things easy for me.”

  “That’s not—”

  “No, Laura,” I push on, unable to stop the flood now that I’ve started, “you are a thorn in my side, and I hate you like I hate fans who bang on the glass, so you might as well give up and resign now because you are the worst part of my day. Every day. Bar none.”

  His gaze softens, and the stubborn jut fades from his jawline. “I don’t hate you. Not even a little bit.”

  I swallow hard, shocked to find my eyes beginning to sting. “Yeah, well sometimes it feels like it. I’m just trying to do my job, you know.”

  “And I’m just a single dad trying to be there for my daughter.”

  I nod, the stinging sensation getting even worse. “I know that. And I respect it so much, I really do. I adore Chloe, and would never want to take quality time with her dad away from her, but can’t we find a middle ground?”

  Brendan’s blue eyes wrinkle at the edges. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” I sniff hard, fighting to hold back the tears insisting it’s time to come parachuting out of my tear ducts. “I never cry.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

  My bottom lip trembles. “It’s fine. I don’t need to cry. It’s a waste of time. What does it matter if half the people I work with think I’m annoying and useless? I know I do good things for this team.”

  “No one thinks you’re annoying or useless.”

  “Yes, they do.” I sniff again as Brendan’s face begins to shimmer from the stupid tears filling my stupid eyes. “But it’s fine. Who cares? And who cares if I have to burn all my underwear because I’m not sure what Henry wore when I was gone? And who cares if the first guy I’ve given a key to my apartment in years didn’t trust me enough to be honest about his lady-panty fetish, and I’m clearly a crappy judge of character who will probably end up married to a serial killer? It’s fine, I’m just—”

  “Stop it.” Brendan cups my face in his hands, drawing me closer. His touch is gentle but assured, commanding, and…interesting in ways I’ve never been interested in Brendan before.

  I suck in a breath and hold it, blinking fast. Brendan has only ever been my friend, and there are times when things between us aren’t even really that friendly. But his face is suddenly very close to mine, and his eyes are burning with an intensity that is confusing

  When he speaks in a soft, husky voice, my pulse begins to beat faster. “I’m sorry I make things hard on you. I’ll try to do better.”

  My forehead furrows. “You will?”

  “I will, and I’m going to prove it. Turn around and close your eyes.”

  My brows shoot up, but before I can ask why I need to turn around, Brendan says, “Do it, Collins. You can trust me.”

  It’s true. If there’s anyone I can trust, it’s Brendan. He isn’t the easiest person to get along with at times, but he is honorable to the core. He is trustworthy and good and, even in his most stubborn moments, kind.

  With a nod, I turn to face the ocean. The crowd has thinned considerably in the last half hour. Now there are only a few couples still lounging on their blankets at the far end of the beach, and a trio of horseback riders trotting toward the trail that leads up to the cliffs overlooking the water and continues to the hotel parking lot.

  “Okay, you can turn around,” Brendan says after a moment.

  I turn, a confused smile curving my lips as I see what he’s holding in one hand. “Are those boxers?”

  “They are.”
He nods solemnly.

  My smile widens. “How did you get them without taking off your shorts?”

  “I didn’t.” He winks as he steps closer to the flames. “I used to be an Olympic-level streaker back in high school. I can get in and out of a pair of shorts in two seconds flat.”

  “Impressive.” I nod, refusing to be flustered by that wink. “But I’m not sure I understand the point of this removal of underwear, Daniels.”

  “Because I’m going to burn them in a show of solidarity, to help remove the taint of any bad feelings between us. Give us a fresh start.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, surprised by how nice a fresh start sounds.

  But then, that’s what this is really about. I’m not burning my bras because Henry might have worn them. I’m burning them because I don’t want to be the woman who was too proud to admit that things with her too-perfect-to-be-true boyfriend haven’t been perfect for a while. That they have, in fact, been pretty shitty.

  I want a fresh start, to head back into the dating rat-race with my eyes open. I want to burn away the bullshit and make a commitment to being honest with myself about what I really want in a partner.

  “You ready?” Brendan twirls his boxers in a circle.

  I nod, reaching for the last handful of panties in my bag. “Ready.”

  “On the count of three,” he says, holding my gaze. “One, two…”

  On three, we both drop our drawers into the bonfire. For a moment, the flames dim, fighting for oxygen, but then they surge back even brighter than they were before, illuminating the smile on Brendan’s face.

  “You should smile more often,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

  He nudges me back. “And you should stop wearing makeup.”

  I snort. “No way. I look like a twelve-year-old without eyelashes. Or eyebrows. Or lips, unless I have a sunburn.”

  “No, you don’t,” he says softly, “you’re beautiful, Freckles.”

  I usually hate any mention of my smattering of offensive nose dots, but when “freckles” is used in the same sentence as “you’re beautiful”…