Sofa King Wrong Read online

  Sofa King Wrong

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2018 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv

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  1

  Alyssa

  Holy shit.

  He’s huge.

  I blink quickly, my eyes going wide behind my big dark sunglasses as I stare at him. “Big” doesn’t even really cover it. The man is a beast — easily pushing seven feet, and a body build out of iron and pure muscle. The hot, California sun beats down on him, glistening over his sweat-slicked body, his tanned skin and the dark tattoo ink swirled over it rippling.

  I feel my pulse quicken to a full-on run, and my teeth rake over my bottom lip as I let my eyes drip all over him. He’s got thick dark brown hair, and these piercing blue eyes I can see even from the other side of the pool. Oh, I can see them alright, because they’re looking right at me.

  Into me.

  I swallow.

  His slightly scruff-covered, chiseled jaw clenches, and there’s this fire in his gaze as he sets it right on me. He moves with purpose, moving towards me down the path around the edge of the landscaped pool like a jungle cat stalking through the underbrush, ready to pounce. And he’s shirtless, like this man needs any extra help being stupidly good looking and insanely hot.

  Rock-hard muscles coil under his bronzed skin. Tattoo ink swirls over his chest and shoulders, and down two arms — the kind of arms that make girls’ stomachs do flip-flops. The kind of arms that make cores tighten. Movie superhero arms is what they are, like he should be holding Thor’s hammer or something.

  My eyes dip to his abs, and I feel my thighs squeeze together on the lawn chair. How does someone even get abs like that? He’s got this perfect six pack, with those grooves on his hips that just scream sex. Those lines dip down, tracing down into his low-slung jeans, like a promise of what you’d find if you’d just keep going.

  I blush wildly, and quickly bring the magazine in my hands back up — like that’s what I’m studying, not the panty-meltingly hot piece of female fantasy stalking right over to me.

  He’s been here for the past two hours, unloading boxes from the mid-sized moving truck in my driveway into the house. And truth be told, I’ve been ogling him ever since he arrived, hidden away behind my Dolce shades and my gossip magazine out by the pool.

  … He never even glanced at me.

  That’s new. And that’s not me being pretentious or vain, it’s just the nature of my reality. It’s the cost of fame. When your face is all over movie posters and billboards, when you’re appearing on national morning talk shows to smile and gush about your latest album and the fashion line you’re now a spokeswoman for? Well, people know you.

  Men know you, that’s for sure. Especially when you’re my age, in this town. I’m used to men looking at me. Hell, I was used to it long before it was remotely okay for most of them to be looking at me like that. But, I learned to tune it out. No, I don’t glory in it, like I’m sure the tabloids say. But, it is what it is.

  Except, he hasn’t looked at me once. I mean, Alyssa Campo, out by the pool, in a bikini? A paparazzi shot of me right now would go for sixty grand. Easily. Again, that’s not vanity, it’s just the reality of me being young, famous, and desired. Even when I don’t want to be. So him not looking? Not even once? He’s either a Zen monk, or gay.

  But then, he’s looking at me now alright. Right at me, right into me, and like he wants to devour me. I shiver as he storms right over, coming to a stop right in from of my lawn chair, looking down at me.

  I raise a brow behind my shades, my lips twisting. It’s my “sassy bitch” look. The one the tabloids always think is so “fresh” and so “fierce.” In reality, it’s my “I don’t know what the fuck to say right now” face, but the celebrity gossip types have dubbed it my sassy bitch face. Whatever. I’ve learned to roll with whatever comes my way, and if a “sassy bitch” look sells tickets to my next concert or the next movie I’m in, fine.

  “Yes?”

  That’s the other part of the sassy bitch look — I’ve learned to use it. Throw a little attitude behind it, and it usually cuts through any BS right to the point of things.

  The man’s jaw tightens, and those piercing blue eyes send a heated shiver through me as they burn into me.

  “Get up.”

  I frown. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re exposed out here. There’s clear lines of sight to four other rooftops, plus that bend in the road across the hill.”

  I stare at him from behind my shades. “Huh?”

  “You’re out here in that,” he nods his chin at my bikini as he folds his huge arms over that bare chest. “And there’s clear lines of sight all around. You should have a landscaper come out and put some more trees or coverage up where it’s missing.”

  I shake my head. “Uh, okay?”

  He doesn’t move.

  “So, uh, thanks. You can go now.”

  A slow smirk spreads over his face as his jaw tightens. His eyes look right into mine, like my sunglasses aren’t even on. A warm shiver teases through me, and I shift, my thighs tightening.

  “I don’t think you heard me,” he growls. “Let’s go. Now.”

  I frown. “Go where?”

  “Inside.”

  My frown deepens. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are…” I shake my head, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the low table next to me. I don’t even like the things, but my stress levels have been off the charts lately. A new album, trying to lock down more serious roles, the new denim line coming out. Very publicly breaking up with my douchebag of a boyfriend...

  Yeah, all that and the threats I’ve been getting in the mail. My stalker.

  I shiver, pushing that thought away as the gorgeous, rough, beast of a man looks down at me. I go to pull a cigarette out, but suddenly, he’s snatching them out of my hand. He crumples the box, glaring at me as he tosses it away.

  “What the fuck?” My lips purse, my temper rising. Okay, hot and completely gorgeous or not, just what the hell is the mover doing coming over here and giving me attitude? I glance past him, at the moving truck in the driveway that he’s just unloaded — Sofa King Movers, it says on the side of it.

  “I think you’re confused,” I hiss at him. “See, you’re the mover. You moved my shit into my new house. That’s your job.” My lips purse as I narrow my eyes at him through the sunglasses. “You’re the mover. Not the boss of me, moving man.”

  And slowly, he smiles, like this is funny — a joke I’m not aware of.

  “Actually, princess,” he growls, that voice rumbling through me as those eyes lock on mine. “I am.”

  I blink. Wait, what?

  “I’m your new bodyguard, at least until your security detail gets set up next week.”

  My jaw drops, my pulse skipping.

  “Uh, no you’re not.”

  Yeah, no. No way is huge, hot, and demanding going to be my new shadow.

  I snort a laugh, waving my hand dismissively a
s I look down into my magazine. “Yeah, sure, okay. Listen, if you’re done with the boxes, you can just leave.”

  He’s silent, and when I finally glance back up, I almost gasp at the intensity in those eyes.

  “I don’t think you heard me correctly. You’ve had threats, and here you are prancing around in a bikini in an open backyard without proper tree coverage. So, for the last time, princess,” he growls, the fierceness in his voice making me gasp and doing all sorts of wicked things to my core.

  “Get your sweet ass inside until I can determine the security risks.”

  Danny did mention bringing in outside help until my security team can get set up here at the new house. But I was expecting a boring Ken doll with an earpiece and a suit. I wasn’t expecting a cross between a giant and a biker in jeans and no shirt looming over me looking dangerous, wild, and like the god of sex.

  I know this guy is right. There have been threats, and in all honesty, I probably should have someone out to plant some more trees or something before I go prancing around out here in a bikini. But, I didn’t make it to where I am today being a pushover. Also, I’m more than a little stubborn. Also, I’ve got this way of testing my limits.

  Slowly, I shrug and bring my magazine back up.

  “I’ll come in in a little bit.”

  I swear I can hear him growl, and I swear, it triggers something dirty inside of me. I swallow, shivering as I force myself not to gasp and to just keep staring at my magazine.

  “Now, princess.”

  “I’m sorry, are you my security or my fucking baby-sitter?”

  “Both.”

  I smile sweetly at him, trying to ignore the way those eyes are setting something on fire inside of me.

  “I don’t want a babysitter.”

  “Then stop acting like a little brat. Let’s go.”

  My jaw drops as I pull my sunglasses down my nose to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Princess,” he grumbles. His muscles ripple extremely distractingly as he raises one arm and shoves the fingers through his dark hair.

  “In three seconds, you’re either walking that bratty little ass inside, or I’m carrying it in.”

  I blink, staring at him. “You do know who I am, right?”

  “One.” He shrugs. “I know who you are.”

  “And do you know how much trouble you’d be in if you picked me—”

  “Two.”

  My pulse skips a beat, and I swallow thickly. I can feel my skin prickling under his gaze, the heat pooling between my thighs mortifyingly. It’s like the sheer size of him and the gruff, no-nonsense way he’s talking me is some sort of aphrodisiac, as wrong and as completely inappropriate as that is.

  I purposely yank my magazine back up. “Whatever. Screw yo—”

  “Three.”

  He moves faster than I’d ever have imagined, and I shriek as his big, strong, warm, powerful hands grab me by the waist and effortlessly hoist me. I gasp, the sunglasses half-falling off my face as he drapes me across his shoulder, turns, and storms for the house.

  I screech, kicking and hitting him as my pulse thunders like an engine in my ears. I can feel his muscles rippling against my body — his bare skin against mine, and I bite my lip to stifle the whimper as his big hands hold me firm against him.

  “You’re not the boss of me!”

  “I am now, princess.”

  2

  Diesel

  This is going to be a problem.

  This is going to be a big fucking problem. Blood roars in my ears, and my hand tightens. The plastic water bottle crinkles loudly under my fingers as my jaw grinds. I’m panting, my muscles heaving from the workout of the solo job — unloading a midsize truck worth of moving boxes into the huge, ivy-covered mansion up in the Hollywood Hills. L.A. is hot as fuck today, and I can feel the sweat running down my shirtless torso as I glare at the man and take another sip of cold water.

  “That’s not what I do.”

  Danny, her manager, smiles at me in that plasticy Hollywood bullshit way. Which makes sense seeing as his client is the queen of plasticy Hollywood pop bullshit. I don’t even follow celebrity crap, and even I know her.

  Alyssa Campo: teenybopper sensation. I don’t actually know if she was a singer or an actress first. Or maybe it was a model. Who knows, and who fucking cares. Just more plastic, veneered Hollowed shit as far as I’m concerned. She’s a teen starlet, a movie sensation, and a tabloid drama queen. All I know from glances at the covers of grocery store tabloids is that she’s eighteen, wild, and constantly in trouble, very publicly. That and she’s got a reputation for being a class-A brat and a half.

  “It’s what you did, though, right?”

  I blink, swallowing another sip of water as I glare at Danny.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Well from what I’ve heard, you were quite good at it. You know, until you….” he clears his throat, smiling. “Well, until you changed professions.”

  That's one way of saying “went to prison for six years.”

  “Find someone else, I’m not interested.”

  “What if I made you interested?”

  I smirk, arching a brow. “Trust me, nothing could make me interested in babysitting your client.”

  Danny just smiles. “A red-blooded man saying no to spending lots of one-on-one time with Alyssa Campo?” He shrugs. “You batting for the other team, Diesel?”

  “No,” I mutter, glaring at him “And are you her manager or her pimp?”

  Danny chuckles. “Well that’s perfect. So committed to your job that you won’t even be tempted by the most tempting celebrity in Hollywood.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not interested—”

  “You keep saying that, but let me make it worth your while. All I need is a week. In a week, her security detail will be all set up here at the new house, and the place will have all of its new security systems in place. A week, and you’re done. Think of it like being a substitute teacher or something.”

  I shake my head, turning to look out the window. And I see her.

  I growl.

  Not tempted, huh? Something fierce rumbles through me. That’s not entirely true. I’m not interested in this bullshit job, but that’s not to say I’m not tempted. Danny is right: no red-blooded male wouldn’t be tempted by what I’m looking at.

  I mean the girl is forbidden fruit personified. She’s bait.

  She’s fucking intoxicating.

  She’s in this snow-white bikini that hugs every goddamn curve and inch of her body like it was painted on. Her long blonde hair is piled up on her head in this messy bun that somehow makes her even sexier. Those full, pouty red lips from the cover of magazines purse, and I watch, feeling my blood thunder as the soft pink of her tongue swipes across them. She stretches out on the lawn chair out by the pool, those long tanned legs flexing, those soft, full eighteen year-old tits thrusting towards the sky. I furrow my brow, eyes fixing on those...

  I groan.

  She’s got nipple piercings. Two of them. And trust me when I say I notice them from all the way over here.

  She’s reading some trashy gossip magazine, her eyes hidden behind these big dark movie-star sunglasses. But I know they’re crystal blue from the bits of her I’ve seen.

  Shit, this is going to be trouble.

  She’s gorgeous, there’s no doubting that. And tempting as all fucking sin. And I’d be a liar if I said that when I look at her, my cock doesn’t fucking throb between my legs. But I shake my head. She’s tempting all right. She’s the inappropriate fantasy. She’s the forbidden fruit sitting there tanning in a barely-there white bikini with those bad-girl nipple piercings on display.

  But still. She’s all of that, but I’m not going to play babysitter to some little Hollywood brat no matter how hot she is. No matter how tight that gorgeous, ball-achingly sexy little body is. How completely tempting and off limits she is.

  I growl to myself, shaking my head.
/>   Fuck it’s been way too long. I can feel my balls swell looking at her, my fat cock thickening in my jeans. Yeah, way, way, too long. Years, actually. Since before jail. Before that even. I’ve gone a long damn time without the touch of or the desire for a woman. But looking at her?

  Shit, it brings it all back, in a rush to the head. She brings it all back, when I haven't wanted anything in years.

  I can feel my cum boiling in balls as my eyes trace over the edges of that tight little bikini. And when she shifts, and re-crosses those long tanned legs, I feel my pulse skip.

  Shit. This is a seriously big problem. There’s no fucking way I’m taking this job.

  Think of it like a substitute teacher.

  I groan. A teacher, huh? Nope. Cause that just means I’m thinking of her as the student. And suddenly, images of schoolgirl skirts and knee highs tumble through my head. Fuck, she even actually had a music video of that exact fantasy too. This hugely popular single where the video was her in this schoolgirl outfit prancing around a volleyball court or something. I don’t think I ever listened to the song, but I know I’ve seen the video.

  Yeah, no way I’m taking this.

  “I’m not a bodyguard, Mr. Nunez.”

  “But you were.”

  “Like I said, a long damn time—”

  “One-hundred-thousand.”

  I blink, staring at him. “Huh?”

  “One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.” He smiles. “For one week of work.”

  Holy fuck.

  I pause, and he spots it, grinning.

  “See, I knew I’d have your attention.”

  You don’t. She does. That money sure does too.

  But then still, no. No way. My job is with Sofa King Movers, the company one of my best friends in the world, Kane, started. We did time together, and when I got out, it’s not like people were lining up to give a scary looking ex-con work. But Kane did, and the money is great. And I’m not just taking a side gig without him knowing about it.