Author: Lauren Blakely
Published by Self-Published
Release Date January 6, 2016
Genres: Erotic Romance
More Info: Goodreads
Purchase From: Amazon US
Purchase From: Barnes & Noble
Purchase From: Amazon UK
Purchase From: iTunes
Purchase From: Kobo
It's not just the motion of the ocean, ladies. It's definitely the SIZE of the boat too.
And I've got both firing on all cylinders. In fact, I have ALL the right assets. Looks, brains, my own money, and a big cock.
You might think I'm an asshole. I sound like one, don’t I? I'm hot as sin, rich as heaven, smart as hell and hung like a horse.
Guess what? You haven't heard my story before. Sure, I might be a playboy, like the NY gossip rags call me. But I’m the playboy who’s actually a great guy. Which makes me one of a kind.
The only trouble is, my dad needs me to cool it for a bit. With conservative investors in town wanting to buy his flagship Fifth Avenue jewelry store, he needs me not only to zip it up, but to look the part of the committed guy. Fine. I can do this for Dad. After all, I’ve got him to thank for the family jewels. So I ask my best friend and business partner to be my fiancée for the next week. Charlotte’s up for it. She has her own reasons for saying yes to wearing this big rock.
And pretty soon all this playing pretend in public leads to no pretending whatsoever in the bedroom, because she just can’t fake the kind of toe-curling, window-shattering orgasmic cries she makes as I take her to new heights between the sheets.
But I can’t seem to fake that I might be feeling something real for her.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into with this…big rock?
Big Rock is a standalone, dirty romance novel written from the guy’s POV by NY Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely…
My dick is fucking awesome.
But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.
First, let’s start with the obvious one.
Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.
You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.
Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”
No woman has ever had to ask me that.
You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.
But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.
Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherfucking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and for now, when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.
But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.
Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter, her world rock.
How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.
That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.
I do my best work in the bedroom. This is completely my domain. So it should be no big deal that she asked me to wait here. But something about being in Charlotte’s bedroom is wigging me out.
Mostly because there’s nearby nudity transpiring mere feet away.
She’s taking a shower, and no matter how you slice them, New York apartments are approximately thimble size. Let me spell this out—wet, naked, hot woman in a ten-foot radius.
Got it? Okay. Moving on.
I pick up a picture frame on her sky blue bureau of the dog her parents have. A fluffy brown summa dog—some of this, some of that. I’m going to focus on this mutt. Zero in on him. Look at his tail. Check out his ears. Yup, this picture is doing the trick. It is helping me not to linger on the naked woman and how well she kisses.
Or how much I liked it.
Why the fuck did I like it so much?
Of course you liked it, idiot. A pretty woman kisses you, and you’re straight—you’d be stupid not to like it. End of story. Doesn’t mean anything. Stop analyzing.
Especially since she just turned off the shower.
Maybe she forgot a towel. Maybe she’ll open the door a crack, and ask me to grab one for her.
I smack my forehead. Get it together, Holiday.
I set down the picture, draw a deep inhale and straighten my shoulders. The door creaks open. She steps out of the bathroom wearing only a white fluffy towel wrapped above her breasts.
“You might be wondering why I asked you to wait in my bedroom instead of the living room,” she says, in the most matter-of-fact tone.
I have no clue how she can be talking like we’re having a business transaction when droplets of water slide down her bare legs. But I’m a strong man. I can handle this. I’m not tempted at all by my best friend. Though my dick begs to differ, the traitorous prick.
“The thought crossed my mind,” I say, as I lean against the bureau, striking a casual pose.
“Because if you’re my fiancé, you need to be comfortable with me being naked,” she says with a crisp nod.
Shit, she’s going to do it. She’s going to drop the towel. She’s going to make us practice fucking. I am the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
Wait. No. I can’t fuck my best friend. I absolutely, positively, can’t screw Charlotte. Even if she tosses the towel on the floor and begs me to.
I lace my fingers together behind my back, linking these twitchy hands.
“Okay, so you’re getting naked,” I say, doing my best to imitate her cool-as-a-cucumber tone that is throwing me off big time.
“No. It’s the idea of me naked,” she corrects.
I give her a pointed look. “Seems to me it’s both the idea and the reality.”
“Fine, fine. They’re one and the same, and it’s part of the debrief.”
“Is this the exam portion?”
She walks past me, her arm brushing against mine before she yanks open the top drawer of the bureau. “Yes. This is the practical portion.”
“And this is because you somehow think we’re going to be required to be naked together in front of Mr. Offerman in order to pull this off? This isn’t like some feats-of-strength style fake engagement where we have to pass certain skill sets in an obstacle course. You know that, right?”
She nods, as she hunts around in the drawer. “I’m aware of that. I see this as more like the Newlywed game.”
“And in this version of the game we’re quizzed on how I get used to the idea of you naked and vice versa?”
Her breath hitches when I say that—vice versa.
I don’t know what to make of that small gasp, or if it means something about the idea of me au naturel.
She spins around, and holds up two pairs of panties, one in each hand. “Quick. Do you prefer it when your fiancée wears the black lace thong?” She waggles a scrap of silky-looking fabric that is so hot my face might be engulfed in flames right now because Charlotte owns that? “Or do you prefer her in the white side-string bikini?” She waves the white pair before my eyes, and all I can see is a tiny triangular patch of fabric that’s the slightest bit see-through.
Forget the flames. I am a fucking inferno right now knowing she owns this too. White panties that reveal pretty much everything.
And that’s not all! Lauren Blakely has a surprise for you! Mister Orgasm is coming soon! That’s right!
Lauren has a second standalone romantic comedy headed your way in Summer 2016!