Boss Me Around (The Mcguire Brothers #3) Read Online Lili Valente

Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >67

Christian McGuire is the last person I should be asking to boss me around in bed. Sure, he's a bonafide Sex God, but he's also my co-worker AND my shiny new brother-in-law. But after a few too many tequila shots one night, I shoot him a text, asking him to be my smut mentor. As soon as I sober up, I'm MORTIFIED, of course. I try to steal his cell phone and destroy the evidence, only to find I'm too late. Christian has already read my message. Even worse? He wants no part in helping me ditch my ancient virginity. That is, unless I agree to a few rules... 1. We never talk about Sex Club. 2. We never get caught by our friends or family. 3. We commit to fulfilling each other's wildest fantasies for one steamy month until he leaves town. No holds barred, no shame, no limits. I agree without hesitation, confident that I can have a month of earth-shattering nookie and walk away without a broken heart. But the more time I spend in the sack with this wild, funny, secretly tender man, the more I fear I'll break the biggest rule of all--Never Fall for Mr. Off Limits.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One

STARLING RENEE BAXTER

A woman on a mission to salvage

her dignity. Before it’s too late…

All the way over to the bowling alley in my rickety little car, the tequila-inspired message I left on Christian McGuire’s voicemail earlier tonight plays on repeat in my head…

Hey, I heard you were leaving town.

Should we get naked and have some fun before you do, or what? Just low-key, you and me, blowing off some steam. I don’t know.

Sounds like it could be a good time.

Let me know.

This is Starling, by the way. And I am currently wearing panties, but that’s a situation that could be changed pretty quickly if you wanted to come over.

I’m housesitting at Barrett’s for the weekend.

“Panties. Why did you have to mention your panties? What is wrong with you?” I mutter as I hunch over the wheel, squinting up at the rapidly darkening sky.

An autumn storm is rolling in, wiping away the last of the sunset light. If I’m lucky, maybe a bolt of lightning will knock out the power in the bowling alley, and I’ll be able to creep inside and steal Christian’s phone under cover of darkness. I’ll get in, get his cell submerged in a pitcher of beer before he can listen to that mortifying message, and get out before anyone knows I’m there.

But even as the fantasy plays out in my mind—complete with cat burglar type acrobatics and slinking around bowling ball stands on tiptoe—I know I’m fooling myself.

I’m not going to get lucky.

I’m reliably unlucky, especially when it comes to getting away with bad behavior.

The one time I took something without paying for it—a handful of penny candy from the old-fashioned general store when I was four—I was caught on camera. The owner made my mom pay double for the candy, then posted a shot of me mid-theft by the checkout counter with the line—Thieves Will Be Prosecuted: No Matter How Small the Theft (Or the Thief)—written above it in thick black letters.

It stayed there for years, long after I was old enough to read the warning and be deeply ashamed of my four-year-old self’s pudgy hand squirming through that jar of lemon heads.

The same thing happened the one time I faked being sick to get out of taking a test and the one time I stayed out past curfew my senior year. Both times, my mother caught me, gave me that “oh, honey, I love you, but I’m so disappointed” look, and I nearly died of shame.

My mother is a single mom who raised two daughters on her own, worked odd jobs on top of her accounting gig to help us pay for college, and never raised her voice to me or my big sister, Wren, in all twenty-three years of my life.

She’s a saint, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint her.

She would be shocked and appalled if she knew I’d just propositioned my employee. Yes, Christian is five years older than I am, way more experienced in both life and love, and no one’s idea of a vulnerable human, but he is, in fact, my subordinate. And propositioning someone I have the power to hire, or fire, isn’t cool.

It’s the opposite of cool.

I’m basically a sexual predator! Like one of those guys in an ‘80’s movie who oozes up behind a woman with a huge perm and shoulder pads—just some poor, hardworking woman, innocently going about her day, trying to get ahead at the office, while being disrespected by her boss, her male coworkers, and the chaotic fashion of her day—and fondles her backside by the copy machine.

I’m a backside fondler! Or at least backside-fondler-adjacent, and if I don’t get to Christian’s cell and intercept that message, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.

I’ll have to wear a bag over my head at work.

Or cut bangs and hide behind them when he stops by my desk.

And I’d look really bad with bangs. My hair has curl in it, even when it’s really long. If I cut bangs, they’d be super floofy. I’d look like a sheep in the front and a show pony in the back, and that breed of messed up mullet isn’t a good look for anyone. I’d scare the animals at the shelter, not to mention my mother, who’s been worried about my sanity for months now, ever since I adopted a wild turkey and taught him to walk on a leash. Knowing my luck, she’d try to stage a hair intervention, I’d end up with an all-over sheep-do, and spend the rest of my twenties growing out my unfortunate hair catastrophe.

I simply must lay hands upon that cell phone and destroy it, no matter the cost.

And it will cost me. I fully intend on paying Christian back for the damage, even though he hopefully won’t know I’m the one who wrecked his phone. I’ll slip a few hundred bucks into his wallet when he’s not looking or buy him a new phone as a going away present…once he actually tells me he’s going away.

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >67