Sofa King Hard Read online

  Sofa King Hard

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Sofa King Hard

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2018 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv

  All rights reserved.

  Sofa King Hard

  Big. Strong. Really good with his hands.

  Great at fitting into tight spaces.

  No job too hard. No job too dirty.

  No stopping him once he’s unchained…

  The Marines made me tough. Prison hardened me. Five long years I’ve been away—chained up like a beast without knowing the touch of a woman, serving time for a crime I didn’t commit.

  I’m out now, and the proud owner of Sofa King Movers. I’m supposed to keep my head down and play nice, but that’s before I lay eyes on her.

  Jillian Lafayette. Tempting, beautiful, and very off-limits. But five years does something to a man. It makes him hungry. It makes him crazy, driven, obsessed. And when I catch her being a bad girl with her hands where they don’t belong?

  Oh, there’ll be no stopping me from claiming what’s mine and showing her just how hard I can be.

  I know she’s a client. And her shithead of an ex-husband has mob ties I can’t pretend aren’t there. But one look and I’m addicted. One taste, and I know she’s mine.

  Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.

  …Mine to keep, all for myself.

  Five years is a long time. Jillian’s let the leash off the beast, and once I get my dirty hands on her, there’ll be no stopping me from taking it all.

  Warning: this one is ridiculously over-the-top and complete and utter fantasy at its finest. Seriously, if you’re looking for realism and long, drawn-out falling-in-love, this ain’t it. This is page-one insta-love. This is wild, reckless, hot as hell, and SO much fun.

  Go ahead. Say the title out loud and have a giggle. Then get ready for some serious freaking heat.

  As with all my books, this standalone novella is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.

  1

  Jillian

  Muscles ripple, clenching, tightening. I can see the sweat running down his sun-bronzed skin, trickling in little rivulets down between the bulges of his biceps. His arm raises, pushing his fingers through his dark hair before suddenly, he reaches for the hem of his white t-shirt. He peels it off, and my eyes go wide as he pulls it off of his head and tosses it aside.

  I swallow, my skin prickling with heat as my eyes drink him in.

  Good lord.

  His body looks like it was carved out of marble — bronzed, chiseled muscles that ripple as he moves. That thick, powerful chest, those abs like something off a freaking billboard.

  God, he’s so fucking hot.

  He stretches, crossing one arm over his chest and pulling before switching it up for the other. It’s hot as hell outside in the scorching California sun, but even with the AC on in here, I can feel that heat too. But it’s all from him.

  I swallow again, shifting, squeezing my thighs together as I peer out through the master bedroom window at him. The curtains are half pulled shut, and I’m standing here like a total creep, totally ogling the crazy hot mover who’s finishing up loading my belongings onto the moving truck. I went out for a run when they started, and when I got back, since they were done with the upstairs, I took a shower and started to get dressed. I got as far as underwear and a robe before I made the mistake of glancing out the window to see him.

  His name is Kane. Kane Hawks, and it’s his company that’s moving me out today—Sofa King Movers. My eyes draw away from the gorgeous demigod with the rippling abs for one second, darting to the side of the truck to see the big red logo emblazoned on the side of it.

  Sofa King, huh? I blush, nibbling at my bottom lip and raking my teeth over it as my eyes go back to mentally undressing the rest of Kane.

  He’s so fucking SOMETHING, that’s for damn sure.

  I blush deeper, the heat blooming inside of me as he turns and lifts a box from the lawn next to the pool in the backyard. Good lord, he picks it up like it weighs nothing at all, even though I know for a fact it’s stuffed full of my books and heavy as hell. He turns, hefting the box effortlessly as he marches over to the truck, and I squeeze my thighs together again, feeling the heat pool between them.

  In my head, he’s carrying me away in those big, “just tear my clothes off” arms of his.

  …And trust me, I could use some carrying away.

  I turn away for a second as he disappears up the ramp into the back of the moving truck. I glance over the half-empty bedroom and scowl.

  Yep, I won’t be missing this place. Or any part of this house. Or any part of this life.

  I bring my hands together, my right rubbing the finger of the left hand that’s been so used to the ring for these past four years. I scowl, my eyes narrowing as I purse my lips.

  Four fucking years, wasted. Given up. Stolen from me. Four years in this little well-manicured, pristine, rich little prison, married to Jim.

  I was twenty-two when my parents basically sold me off to Jim Santori. Cruel, weasely, awful, sadistic, prickish Jim Santori. But also rich Jim Santori. Jim’s a “producer” in the Hollywood scene, which basically means he funds awful movies and then sues the studio when they inevitably sink for his money back plus interest. But asshole or not, he’s connected, and rich. And when you come from the world I do, rich and connected are the only real things you’re looking for when you’re looking to marry off your daughter, apparently.

  There was never any love between my ex and me. Trust me, none. Barely any intimacy either, which is just freaking fine with me, believe me on that. Jim decided early on I “wasn’t his type, sexually.” Any other guy, and that might have broken my heart or given me a complex. With Jim, it gave me a golden ticket out of having to put out.

  The big “D” word — divorce, was something I threw around early on, but Jim had shut that down quick. See it seemed he needed my father’s connections just as much as my father needed his. Which meant us splitting up was out of the question. It also meant Jim screwing around was par for the course. But me? Yeah, right. Forget it. The asshole kept me under almost constant watch, warning me about the “consequences” should he find out I’d had any dalliances with another man. All while he was out screwing a different c-list actress every other night of the week.

  Prick.

  But that all changed a month ago. You see, a month ago, Jim crossed a line he couldn’t uncross.

  …He hit me.

  He’d yelled before. He’d broken things, he’d gotten in my face and made me terrified. But he’d never actually struck me. And when he did, I knew I had my win. The backhand to the mouth had been enough to bruise and to cut my lip a little. And that was all the evidence I needed.

  After that, even Jim’s lawyers agreed that he should let me have the divorce.

  So, that’s where I am now. Jim’s off in Italy or the Greek islands or something with one of his skanks. And I’m watching the stupidly hot mover and his team pack up the last of my stuff out of this big, cold house, so that I can move to my new beach house over in Malibu.

  …After four years of Jim’s shit? Yeah, you can bet your ass I went after a nice alimony. Which is good, because ever since I announced the split, my parents have stopped talking to me.
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  Yeah, life growing up rich is so wonderful.

  I turn back to the window, and when I watch Kane jump down from the side door of the truck, my sour thoughts of Jim and all of that disappear. He stretches again, raising his head up to the sun, his eyes closed as he pushes one strong hand through his thick dark hair. Muscles ripple across his bare, shirtless torso. His biceps clench. Those jeans… Good God, those jeans cling to him like they were tailor fit for him, slung low on those grooved hips and tight across that ass.

  I chew on my lip again, heat teasing through me as my hands slide lower. The blush builds as I realize what I’m subconsciously doing, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

  Kane brings up a bottle of water, twisting the cap off and tilting it back to take a big swallow. He pours some more of it out over his face, and I gasp as I watch the sun catch the liquid as it trickles over his sweating, muscled chest and down his grooved abs. He drinks down the rest of the water, tossing the bottle away and rubbing his hands over his chiseled jaw. He slides them down, skimming the water off of his chest.

  And then, his hands push lower. My breath catches as I watch his fingers trace lazily down his abs, down to the waist of his jeans. The hand slips under the denim, and when I watch him push his hand deep between his legs, my eyes go wide.

  Oh fuck that’s hot.

  I whimper, my fingers finding heat and my body trembling as I watch this gorgeous, rough man like he’s my own private show. I move faster, knowing what I’m doing is wrong but not even remotely able to stop. I lean into the curtain, clutching at it with one hand as my robe falls open. My eyes lock on him as he groans, his arm muscles rippling as his hand touches…

  And suddenly, the curtain rod gives way, and the whole thing just drops.

  Oh God.

  I was hidden before. But when the big white curtains drop, they billow like a flag and his head turns, his eyes instantly swiveling to lock right on me.

  …Standing in the floor to ceiling window basically naked with one hand between my legs.

  Our eyes lock, the fire explodes through me, and suddenly, he grins. He grins, and then he starts to move. And when I realize he’s storming right for the house, I gasp, pulling away from the window, my pulse racing.

  I hear the door to the kitchen downstairs slam open, and my heart jumps into my throat.

  Heavy boots on the stairs, and I whirl, my eyes locked on the door as my hands clutch my silk robe shut.

  He’s coming right for me.

  2

  Kane

  Fuck it’s hot out here.

  I growl, twisting in the sun, feeling the burn from the job that’s taken most of the day but also loving it. Heavy lifting always felt good to me. It makes me feel alive to stretch my body, feel my muscle coil like the machine I am. The Marines built this body. Then prison honed it.

  Yeah, I did time, but not for a crime I committed. Hell it wasn’t for a crime the man I did the time for did either, but someone had to take the rap. Levi, my kid brother, got mixed up with the wrong crew after I’d gone to the service. He’d stayed home, watching after our mama before she passed. A robbery went down, went wrong, and went sideways, and a guard ended up taking one in the arm.

  Levi had only been the driver, but the crew he’d been running with set his ass up. My little brother was every bit as tough as me, but he sure as hell wasn’t the type to go and shoot anyone. But when the law started snooping, those fucks he’d been paling around with stuck the gun in his apartment.

  I was there when the cops showed up. I didn’t think, I just acted, and I told them the gun was mine. I’d promised our mama to keep him safe, and that's what I did. Even if it cost me four years. But I’m out now. A free man. Torn down and built back up outta fucking steel and fire.

  I glance over to the driveway of the huge ass mansion, and when I see the truck, I grin.

  Mine. My own business, built with my own fucking hands and brute will. Sofa King Movers. I grin and shake my head. The name started as a joke, I guess. Old Mrs. Miller who lived next door when we were growing up needed some help. I offered, and even when she tried to tell me it was too big a job for one guy, even though I was built like a brick house even back then, I still took the job. I moved that damn sofa myself, up two flights of stairs. A month later, I did it again, and after that, the name stuck.

  Sofa King. I’d figured it’d work well for the business name too, and business is booming. I started small, with a few small gigs for people back in the neighborhood. But pretty soon, the Carmichaels, who my mama used to clean house for, called and asked for a quote to move their stuff from their old eight thousand square foot beach house over in the Palisades to their brand new nine thousand square foot beach house in Malibu. I bid low—so low that I basically lost money on the gig, but it worked.

  Soon enough, every single one of their rich friend wanted Sofa King to be their go-to movers. And let me tell, you, rich people move a lot. Or they’re moving in new furniture, or moving that one-year-old chair out because it's “old” or whatever. I’m not here to judge though, I’m just here to lift heavy things, feel the blood pound through my veins, and get paid.

  Sweat trickles down my body, soaking my white t-shirt. But damn, the sun feels good. Anywhere that’s not prison feels fucking good.

  The spot we’re at today… I whistle slowly as I glance around the huge backyard, and then up at the house. The place is a fucking palace. Pool house, five-car garage, manicured grounds, a fountain. I never talked to the woman who booked the gig, and she apparently went out when we got here. But, the directions were clear. The furniture with blue tags on them went, and everything else stayed.

  …I’ve been around this block enough to know what a divorce looks like.

  I roll my eyes, imaging the crusty old couple parting ways. Or hell, knowing LA and this house being up in Beverly Hills, it’s probably him who’s the crusty old dude. She’s probably the gold-digging wannabe starlet a third his age who’s about to get traded out for someone new.

  I shake my head. Like I said, I’m not here to judge. Just work, and get paid.

  I peel my shirt off, feeling the sun warm my bare skin as I growl. I reach for a box, hefting it easily and turning to walk it up the ramp onto the truck. I grab a water on the way out, and when I crack the lid and pour it into my mouth, I groan as I swallow deeply.

  Fuck, it really is hot out here.

  I can feel my muscles aching and burning so good from the work, and I pour some of the water out over me to cool down. We’re just about done here. Levi, Nash, and Ford are grabbing the last of the blue-tagged stuff from the pool-house, and then it’s back to the warehouse. Tomorrow, we’ll head over to this chick’s new beach place over in Malibu and unload—

  The flash of white up in big floor-to-ceiling window has my head whirling, Marine reflexes kicking in as I yank my head around, muscles tensing for action when…

  Holy shit.

  She’s beautiful. Beautiful like I can’t even remember seeing before. Dark chestnut hair, big, blue eyes, full red lips and…

  I growl.

  And barely a stitch of clothing on her.

  She’s got this green silky-looking robe half hanging off her shoulders, and these tiny little black panties on. And fuckin’ nothing else. I feel the fire burn fierce inside of me, my eyes drinking in the milky temptation of her skin, her perfect, full tits with soft pink little nipples capping them. Her curvy waist, her long, slim legs…

  …And the one hand buried in her panties.

  I growl. I look up, our eyes lock, and when I see the fire in those big blue eyes, whatever self-control I have left snaps. It’s primal, but when I see her watching me like that, touching herself, suddenly, something inside of me snaps.

  Oh fuck yes.

  I was behind bar for four long years. It’s been months since I’ve been out, almost a full year.

  …But I haven’t touched a single woman. As fucking insane as that is.

  My buddies s
ure tried when I got out. Levi, Ford, Nash, Diesel—they all tried to set me up with girls. They threw me a welcome home party, even had chicks waiting for their turn with me.

  But, fuck that. My head wasn’t in the right spot for any of that shit. And I wanted no part in it. After that, it was getting the business up and running, and after that, I was just busy all the damn time.

  But now? Now it’s like something snaps. Something breaks inside of me. And five fucking years of want and desire come roaring to the surface.

  I can’t be stopped. I won’t be.

  I drop what I’m doing, and instantly, I’m moving on autopilot. I see her gasp, yanking her hand out of her panties and scurrying back from the window, but I’m already moving. I’m already coming for her. I slam the back door to the kitchens open, storming in and moving through the house like a man possessed.

  My blood is on fire, my hands clenched tight, my jaw grinding. My cock fucking throbs against my jeans, ready to tear a hole through the denim, and my balls swell with cum.

  I take the stairs two at a time, my boots stomping on the polished wood and tile, my body tingling. Ready. Ready to pounce. Ready to claim.

  The door to the bedroom slams open as I storm through it, and she whirls, gasping as she clutches the silky green robe shut. Fuck me, she’s even more beautiful up close. There’s something elegant to her, and also something sexy as hell that gets my blood boiling in my veins.

  Jillian Lafayette.

  I’ve never met her, and I missed her before. But instantly, I know who she is.

  “You— you can’t be in here,” she breathes, her face flushed red as our looks burn into each other.

  My eyes drop to one of her hands, and then to where I know she’s hiding that tempting little pussy away behind the thin, silky robe. Oh, she’s been touching herself alright, like a bad girl. I can smell it.