You're All I Think About_Second Chance Romance Read online

  YOU'RE ALL I THINK ABOUT

  A Second Chance Romance

  Scarlett Avery

  Copyright © 2018 by Scarlett Avery

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Scarlett Avery / Absolutely Naughty Publishing

  Edited by John Hudspith

  Proofread by Ali Skrzypiec

  Model: Jacob Cooley

  Photographer: Wander Aguilar

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. This book is for sale to adults over 18.

  You're All I Think About / Scarlett Avery

  ISBN 978-1-987943-52-8

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  Foreword I

  Prologue

  Barrett

  Women have one purpose—to release pent-up frustration.

  It’s the best way to alienate the pressure on my heavy balls.

  Most of those pussies don’t matter.

  Most don’t even have names. Well, none I care to remember after I come.

  It’s like that for all women… except for one.

  Lately, not even the perspective of meaningless sex appeals to me.

  Jaded and bored of endless anonymous hotel room romps, I’ve turned to my fist instead of succumbing to a woman’s gripped hand, or a warm and inviting mouth, or the tight slide of a slippery pussy.

  I’ve allowed my career and this fucking incessant drama to take over my life.

  Again.

  Well, that’s part of the reason.

  The one I’m willing to fess up to.

  She’s the other.

  She’s been preoccupying my thoughts lately. Consuming them even.

  Making it nearly impossible for me to want to be with another.

  But it’s easier to pretend and suppress the lure than to want what—I guess I should say who—I keep allowing to slip between my fingers.

  She’s all I think about, my butterfly, but I’ll be damned if I put her in harm’s way.

  Foreword II

  About the British Monarchy in this book

  In respect to the current Royal Family ruling Britain, I’ve created a fictitious Royal Family. In this story, King Albert Christian Patrick David II is in power. He's eighty-five years old and he’s ailing. He and his wife, Princess Edith Mary of Battenberg, have three children, triplets, Victoria III, Duchess of Wales, Louis Hewitt, Duke of Cambridge and Alice Louise, Duchess of York. The triplets are fifty-five years old and they all have children of their own. It's a well-known fact in Britain that King Albert’s grandkids are spoiled rebels who often make it to the front page of the gossip papers and websites.

  Foreword III

  I can't thank you enough for purchasing this sizzling read.

  I’m absolutely passionate about what I do. Once I start writing, I just can't stop.

  It's taking me a whole lifetime to get to the point where I’m able to live out my dream every single day.

  The captivating stories and the enigmatic characters live with me throughout the writing process. I think you'll quickly notice how much care and attention I put into each one of my romance novels.

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  ***

  Dirty British Romance Series

  Romance #1: Deliciously British (Serial of 4 parts)

  Romance #2: Bad Boy SEALs (Standalone)

  Romance #3: You're All I Think About

  (Standalone)

  Romance #4: Standalone Coming Soon

  Romance #5: Standalone Coming Soon

  Romance #6: Standalone Coming Soon

  Romance #7: Standalone Coming Soon

  Romance #8: Standalone Coming Soon

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  ***

  CHAPTER 1

  Barrett

  Wow. It's almost nine o'clock.

  “Do you want another vesper martini, sir?”

  I lift my eyes from my iPhone and up to the smiling waitress. She’s hunched over in an exaggerated way, displaying her tits. It seems like she’s revealing far more now than when I got here.

  “Caroline, is that right?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir.” She’s eager.

  “I’ll gladly have another one. After all, no one does a martini like the Connaught,” I smile.

  “I like strawberry daiquiris, but our high-roller clients love our martinis,” she flirts. “Shaken, not stirred.”

  “Yes, please. I know the bartenders at the Connaught hotel have a penchant for the quietly stirred, never shaken martini, but I like mine à la James Bond.”

  "Anything to eat?"

  Now that she mentions it, it dawns on me that I haven't eaten since noon. I’m famished.

  "Actually, yes. It seems that the person I'm supposed to meet has been delayed.” She does little to hide her disappointment. "I’ll also order the steak frites with truffle mayonnaise. No ketchup."

  “Of course. I’ll be right back with your food.”

  "Thank you."

  There are loads of hotel bars in London suitable for a meeting, but the Coburg located inside the Connaught hotel is the only spot in the city to have their own dedicated martini trolley. It’s no wonder their martinis are the pinnacle of drinks.

  As the waiter—I now know as Brian—rolls the trolley towards me, my phone rings. He quirks an eyebrow, but I nod encouraging him to keep on his mission.

  “Hello,” I say picking up.

  “Hey, Barrett, it’s me.”

  “Holt, mate, are you on your way?”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to reach you. I kept calling your old phone number until it hit me. I had to text your secretary to get your new number since she’s the one who confirmed the meeting for tonight. But as she was at a yoga class, her phone was in her locker.”

  “Yeah, those wankers who stole my phone a few days ago in Barcelona can rot in hell. What a bloody nightmare.”

  "I can just imagine," Holt sympathizes.

  "If you’re calling me then it isn't good news.”


  Holt let’s out a long sigh. “I'm so sorry, buddy. I know you've been waiting for almost an hour—”

  “There are worse places in London for me to be waiting than the Connaught,” I laugh. My eyes shoot up to the waiter who’s ceremoniously preparing my martini. He nods his agreement.

  “At least I know you aren’t roughing it,” Holt says.

  “I love that American expression.”

  Brian, aka the master craftsman who prepared my martini, drops it in front of me and I mouth, ‘thank you’, before bringing the glass to my lips.

  Bloody hell, this is amazing.

  "Perfect," I mouth.

  Satisfied, Brian pushes the trolley away and moves to the next patron.

  “No, I’m not," I say picking up where I left off. "I’m sitting in the Coburg bar with martini in hand and privy to a front-row view of the chic shopping area known as Carlo’s Place. What more can I ask for?"

  We both laugh.

  “I can’t make it,” Holt cuts to the chase.

  “I suspected that much. You did warn me," I say. “I assume it didn’t work out with the new nursemaid?”

  “No, this nanny didn’t even last ten minutes. And now, I have an agitated four-year-old and an angry as fuck dog on my hands. I can't seem to calm either of them down."

  Holt Christensen owns a hugely successful record label with headquarters in New York, LA and here in London. He also happens to be one of my best clients.

  "No problem, mate. We can meet at another time.”

  "Thanks for being so understanding."

  "Of course. You're doing this alone and you're doing a smashing job of it.”

  "It doesn't always feel that way. Most times I feel like I'm failing her," he confesses.

  "I think you're selling yourself short, mate. You're an amazing father, Holt.”

  "That means a lot to me, buddy."

  "Dah-deeeeee," a child wails in the background.

  "That’s my cue. Sorry, I have to go. My little princess beckons me."

  "Your daughter comes first. Call me when you can reschedule."

  "Will do."

  I hang up and take a long sip of my drink.

  It doesn't take long for the waitress to arrive with my food.

  "Here you go, sir," Caroline says dropping two plates in front of me. "I waited because I didn't want your meal to get cold."

  "How thoughtful of you, Caroline. Thank you."

  "It’s my pleasure, sir." She's just about to say something when a couple sitting at the table next call for her attention. "I'll be right back… just in case you need something else from me," she says. With a wide smile and a twinkle in her eye, Caroline walks away.

  She's definitely working it. I'm not sure it's for a huge tip or my cock.

  I poke into my golden chips and shove a forkful into my mouth. Mmmm. That’s all it takes to unleash my appetite. Within a few minutes, I polish off everything in front of me. I ready myself to order another martini, when a woman who seems to appear out of nowhere plops herself into the seat next to me.

  “You busy man.” What the fuck? A blonde wearing far too much makeup with puffy hair and even puffier breasts coos. “I Evgeniya Elizaveta Zadorozhnaya,” she says with a heavy accent. That's a mouthful.

  Since I'm in a good mood, I decide to indulge her.

  “You’re Russian?” I ask.

  “Yes. You guess.” She seems impressed. I do have my fair share of Anglo- Russian mogul clients to thank for that. “I come here only one year.”

  “How do you like London?”

  “Hot men. I like.” I guess, my question got lost in translation. “You hot. Very hot. You sexy hot, like a god.” She growls that last part.

  “Well, thank you, Evgeniya,” I say.

  “You call me Double E. We friends now.” She scoots her chair closer.

  “Double E?” I cock an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Nickname for girls,” she says lifting her mammoth tits as a gift. No doubt she was born with those… just like she was born a natural blonde.

  Did I mention she’s wearing a short and extraordinarily tight sausage-casing-like dress in a screaming shade of bright green that's practically transparent? When I blink, I notice how her nipples are protruding. She notices my reaction and leans into to me.

  "You like?" she asks squeezing her tits together. “All men do.” I pull up the corner of my lips. I guess she takes that as an invitation. “We go to restroom and I show you nipples. They long—one inch.” She sticks out her chest even more. Those pointy nipples are threatening to rip that dress. “When I show you, you want to stick in mouth. All men do.”

  “Evge—”

  “Double E.”

  “Evgeniya,” I insist. “I’m sure your breasts are quite the phenomenon, but—”

  “Come on.” She walks her fingers up my arm. “I have very big kitty cat cunt already wet for you.” Clearly, she’s still learning English. “No condom. Your big dick rub my cunt and I come. I put my cunt cream on you.” I guess she kept her English education strictly to the essentials. She gives me a creepy eye sweep. I’m sure it’s meant to be seductive, but it reeks of a crazy vibe.

  I open my mouth to answer, but my phone flashes a text from my secretary.

  Extremely urgent. It’s about Groove Renegade records. The new client. Maxfield is on his way to pick you up. The car should pull up in front of the hotel in ten. I’ll meet you at your place. Gregory is taking care of fueling the jet.

  This doesn’t sound good.

  “I’m sorry, Evgeniya. I have a pressing situation to deal with.” I stand up and call Caroline over. As she approaches my table, I throw two hundred pounds on the table and say, “Thank you. I have to run. Please keep the change.”

  She rewards me with a dazzling smile. “Thank you very much, sir.” She’s about to say something else, but Evgeniya reminds us of her presence.

  “I give you number. You go now, but tomorrow night you rub my kitty cat cunt with big dick.” This woman has no shame.

  Caroline widens her eyes and rushes off.

  I inhale, carefully weighing my words. “Evge—”

  “You say yes?" She's practically salivating.

  “You lost me the second you sat down uninvited at my table. By the time you said, ‘All men do’, twice, all I could see were the words STD flashing in neon lights over your head.”

  "What it means STD?”

  "Sexually. Transmitted. Diseases."

  Her jaw drops and she sears me with a dark gaze.

  That only fuels me.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a chap who’ll gladly suck on your one-inch nipples. Too bad for you I don't have the word stupid stamped on my forehead. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  With that, I make my way to the door. I don’t even grant Evgeniya the courtesy of another look. She’s not worth it.

  Thank God Maxfield is just pulling up as I step out of the Connaught. As I slide in the back of my chauffeured Rolls-Royce, I can't help but feel sorry for the poor idiot who will fall into Double E’s web. That woman is nasty. And I don't mean that in a good way.

  If I’ve learned anything from my profession, it’s that eager pussy can sometimes come at a hefty price.

  CHAPTER 2

  Charlie

  The music is thumping and the crowd around us is growing thicker by the minute. DJ Hux has been playing a string of smash hits to keep the group of well-clad socialites and young rich Londoners bumping and grinding. And, yes, I’m one of those souls. It just never occurred to me that I’d be partying with two extremely handsome Americans.

  On the verge of exhaustion, I asked for a short respite to which my two companions eagerly agreed. They ushered me to the bar where they have me cornered into an intimate triangle. When DJ Hux switches to an old chart topper, I can’t help but smile. Britney Spears’ ‘Slumber Party’ is the best way to describe this wild night.

  “Charlie, you’re sexy as fucking hell,” Damon whi
spers loudly in my ear. "I'm dying to find out what you’re hiding under those short shorts. I'm willing to bet my entire trust fund that they’ll look even better on the floor than they do on you," he laughs.

  "Who says you'll ever find out?" I tease from under my eyelashes.

  "Come on, don't make me beg. Say yes to my brother's proposal," Damon implores.

  "You two are crazy," I laugh, swatting Damon's chest.

  “It's only fair, sugar," Dexter chimes in, his lips eerily close to my lips. “Just because Amelia didn't show up doesn't mean that I have to be left hanging."

  My best friend Amelia Cavendish stood me up. Although she seemed convinced earlier when I twisted her arm in coming out to the Warwick—the private club I belong to—for their monthly cocktail party to welcome new members, she’s a no-show. She texted me hours ago to let me know she couldn’t make it. I guess duty called. It’s impossible for me to be upset at her considering she ditched me to stand beside her father—Britain's Prime Minister—at another one of those dreadfully boring official events.

  “Think about it. Identical twins…” Damon tempts. “We’ll make it worth your while, Charlie," he persists.

  “Oh my,” I say.

  Don’t judge. It's been a very long month of celibacy.

  "The raunchy way you rolled those hips on the dance floor lets me know that you’ll feel real good underneath me." Damon refuses to give up.