Double team, p.1
This is a MFM ménage romance! So if you're not into the idea of two hot athletes falling head over heels for one girl, then take a pass on this one!
There are no M/M scenes – this is all about the woman. And this book gets pretty raunchy, so if lots and lots of explicit smut scenes aren’t your thing… well, you’ve been warned.
There’s basically no football in here, either. But let’s be real - are you reading one of my books for the football? ;)
I’ve included a copy of Prince Albert, my royal romance (yes, he’s named after the piercing for a reason) AND at the end I’ve included a sneak peak of the book I’m working on now — Her Bodyguard — which is the follow-up to Prince Albert and tells Max and Alex’s story!
Both of these are full-length novels, and Double Team weighs in at 100k words, so it’ll end around 55% on your Kindle, if you’re trying to keep track of the pacing. Prince Albert will end around 98%, and you’ll find the excerpt to Her Bodyguard at 99%. All of them are marked in the table of contents so you can easily find them.
I, Grace Monroe Sullivan, head of a charity foundation and daughter of Arthur Sullivan, the very conservative President of the United States, am staring at a cardboard box of blow-up dolls. And no, these are definitely not kids' toys. I know the box contains blow-up dolls (free condoms and lube, too, apparently) because in bright orange lettering on the side, it announces the contents: LIFELIKE PERSONAL ROMANCE DOLLS! NOW WITH FREE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK-CONDOMS AND LUBRICANT!
I suppose that could be helpful information if you're wondering which of your many boxes contains your personal romance dolls. I thought sex shops were supposed to be more discreet than that, but maybe broadcasting your purchases is the hot new thing. I wouldn't know because I've never even been to a sex shop. I mean, seriously, try to do that with your security detail in tow as they telegraph their judgment through their eyes despite their ever-stoic expressions.
I've never ordered condoms and lube online, either. That’s just the kind of story the media loves to get ahold of, and pretty soon you're not the smart capable First Daughter who runs a foundation; you're the pervy First Daughter who orders stuff from a sex shop.
"Do you think it's the lube or the condoms that glow in the dark?" Vi asks over the phone.
I sip my glass of wine and stare at the box like it's going to answer that question. It doesn't. "Have you ever heard of glow-in-the-dark-lube?"
"You ask that question like I'm an expert on sex accessories," Vi sniffs.
"Really? You're going to go with the virginal-good-girl thing?" I tease. "Because I could remind you of our days in boarding school if you'd like." Vi and I attended boarding school in Switzerland. So posh, right? We're poster children for wealth, privilege, and power. I reacted to that by knuckling down, trying to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, and throwing myself into work. Even in high school, I was the ultimate good girl. Vi reacted to that by whooping it up and broadcasting her I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude far and wide.
Her father thought that sending her off to a boarding school with other children of politicians and world leaders would rein her in. Do you want to know what's wilder than a boarding school full of the bored children of wealthy and powerful parents?
Answer: absolutely nothing.
Vi is the exact opposite of someone I "should" be friends with, per my parents, who are very concerned with that sort of thing ("You have standards to uphold, Grace," my father reminds me sternly every time I see him), but the fact is, Vi and I were friends long before Switzerland. We were an unlikely pair – total opposites – thrust together in solidarity as children in the limelight when my father was Governor of Colorado and Vi's was Lieutenant Governor.
"I'm monogamous currently." Vi laughs. "Well, mostly." Vi's flavor of the month is a professional snowboarder whose name I can't remember.
"You're a paragon of virtue. But wouldn't glow-in-the-dark lube look like a scene out of CSI?" I wonder.
Vi snorts. "That's both true and repulsive."
"I'm not the one who ordered glow-in-the-dark condoms and lube," I argue, squatting down to read the address label on the box. "Mr. Dick Balsac is."
Vi cackles. "Please tell me you'll deliver that box to your neighbor personally."
"Or I could have it redelivered to the correct address," I suggest.
"It's right next door!" Vi shouts. "And you haven't met your new neighbor."
"I don't need to meet my neighbor," I protest. "I've already heard him quite enough, thank you very much." He moved in just last week and already I've heard enough loud music and splashing in the pool than any one person should have to endure. I swear the other night I heard him playing bongos. Who plays bongos other than Matthew McConaughey??
Vi snickers. "Yeah, you told me about the bongos. Don't you want to see if he plays them naked?"
I make a gagging sound. "Yeah, I want to see if my new next door neighbor, Dick Balsac, inflatable sex doll connoisseur, plays naked bongos in his backyard."
"You know the blow-up dolls are a prank. Dick Balsac is the fakest name ever."
"What if it isn't?" I take a sip of my wine and almost choke because I start giggling so hard at the thought. "What if that is his real, actual name?"
"Then you have to meet him. Why don't we just look up online who bought the house? Maybe he's hot."
"Yeah, right." I snort. I purchased my house in this quiet, off-the-grid historical neighborhood specifically because it was filled with retired professors and older business people. It's the most uncool neighborhood ever - which means that it's really private and people leave me alone. And that's exactly what you need when your father is the President and he's in the middle of a reelection campaign.
Even if he is the incumbent candidate, reporters are still interested in digging up anything salacious they can on my conservative father, whose campaign is laser-focused on family values. That means that I'm under the microscope almost as much as he is, so this out-of-the-way neighborhood was the best place in Denver to stay out of the limelight.
It’s not like I would be hitting up the bars or clubbing or doing anything wild, even if I weren't under the microscope, anyway. Vi says I'm an eighty-year-old woman in the body of a twenty-six-year-old, and that's probably true. The wildest thing I do is drink a glass of wine and consider personally redelivering a box of blow-up dolls to my neighbor next door.
"I bet he's hot as hell and tattooed and –"
I interrupt her, laughing. "I'll give you a hundred bucks if Dick Balsac is under the age of sixty-five. I'm going to be delivering this box to a crazy old man who probably has a collection of blow-up dolls he has conversations with."
"Whatever you do, don't step inside for a cup of tea," Vi advises. "That's how you wind up in a hole in the backyard rubbing lotion on your skin before someone makes a suit out of you."
"Go deliver the box," Vi demands. "Your life is boring. This is literally the most interesting thing to happen to you in forever."
"It is not!” I protest even though I know she's right. You'd think that being the daughter of the President of the United States would be inherently interesting, but it's surprisingly not. All of the scrutiny and expectations that come with being the First Daughter really just make your life dull.
In fact, this is the closest in proximity I've been to a condom in two years. That's pathetic, right? I’m twenty-six years old. I’m pretty sure that most other twenty-six-year-olds are dating and hooking up and generally having lots of fun. But when you're the First Daughter
At least, that's how my father sees it.
Vi makes a kissing sound into the phone. "If I don't hear from you in an hour, I'll assume your flesh is being made into a jacket."
"I'm pretty sure my security detail would frown on that."
"The new neighbor is going to be hot and you're going to owe me a hundred dollars."
One more glass of wine later, I'm officially tipsy and emboldened. And, okay, curiosity is getting the better of me. I could just go online and look up who bought the house, but I kind of do want to see Mr. Dick Balsac with my own eyes.
My own slightly inebriated eyes.
I slip my shoes back on, hoisting the box up and carrying it outside. My day shift security detail, Brooks and Davis as they insist I call them instead of their first names Janice and Alice, reach out and steady the box as it threatens to slip from my grasp the second I set foot outside of my gated driveway.
"I'm walking this next door," I protest, my heel catching on the sidewalk. In retrospect, maybe I should have changed out of my work attire - suit and heels - to lug a box of blow-up dolls around. Or maybe I shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Probably the latter.
"Would you like some help, ma’am?" Brooks asks.
"Hey, do you remember that time when my father insisted that I have a security detail and I agreed, but only on the condition that my detail not interfere with my life in any way, shape, or form? That's a fond memory I have."
I swear I can hear Brooks and Davis rolling their eyes behind me right now. They're just being polite by asking. It's against protocol for them to carry a box even if I wanted them to, since it would interfere with their job of protecting me. I’d be just fine without protection, though. My father’s approval rating is the highest of any president in the last ten years; the economy is good and there are no active threats to my life - that I know of, anyway. But my parents are overprotective, to say the least.
And honestly, Brooks and Davis are not bad at all as far as security details go. They are humorless, of course. I think that's a job requirement. Contrary to popular belief, we are allowed to decline protection, although my father would probably have an actual heart attack if I did. I only relented to having a security detail if they were female (how impossible would it be to have a relatively normal existence with a team of brutes in suits following me around?) and if they were not reporting my every move to my father.
Follow me around… Fine. But I draw the line at them helping me with routine, everyday tasks.
You know, like hauling a box of inflatable sex dolls and lube to my neighbor's house.
I stand outside the gate with the box, Books and Davis a safe distance behind me, as a male voice answers. "Yo."
Yo. Definitely not a retiree. "I'm your neighbor. I have something… well… um…of a personal nature that was mistakenly delivered to my house."
He laughs. "Of a personal nature?" he asks, obviously mocking the formality of my words.
I immediately bristle. I mean, yeah, I've gotten called stuck-up a lot and Perfect Presidential Daughter, but really, I'm doing this guy a favor. I could have just inflated his dolls and thrown them over the stone wall that separates our properties. On second thought, I definitely should have delivered the contents of the box that way.
The gate opens and I stand there for a second, looking at his house. I've not seen beyond the gates of any of the houses in my neighborhood; I've never even met any of my neighbors. His driveway is short and cobblestone, just like mine; and his house is similar to mine except it's at least twice as large. It's fucking huge. Decorative trees line the edge of the wall between our properties and I make a mental note to landscape better. I'm more than halfway up the driveway when he steps out of the house.
Buck naked and carrying a set of strategically-placed bongo drums.
I blink twice, stopping short as my neighbor casually walks toward me in bare feet. Carrying bongos.
Naked. Totally and completely naked, the bongos strategically covering the goods. He's definitely not a retiree. Nope. Not at all. He's young and fit and…
Massive, I realize as he approaches me. My gaze reluctantly moves from the bongos upward, lingering for just a moment too long on his very muscular, very ripped chest and abs. I blame the wine for my lingering eyes. A tattoo covers one of his pecs, moving up to his shoulder and down part of his arm.
His arms are just as huge as the rest of him – sculpted biceps and forearms and… good Lord, this guy looks like he should be felling trees or something. My eyes don't stay on his arms, though – they go right back to the bongos. And the fact that those bongos are covering his… bongos.
“My package?" he asks.
"What?! I'm not looking at your package," I protest. My voice seems to come out at least an octave higher than it is. I practically squeak like a mouse.
The edges of his mouth pull up in a slow smirk. "I was asking if you wanted to hand over my package."
Heat rushes to my face. Oh God, I can feel my cheeks turning scarlet already. I clear my throat. "Yeah. Obviously. That's what I was talking about, too. " I force nonchalance into my voice. Eyes up, Grace. Make eye contact and do not look down, even if this is the closest you've been to an almost naked man in two years. "The package. Your package. Not your… package." I glance down at the bongos again. What the hell is wrong with me?
"I can take a picture if you'd like," he says, grinning. "Of my package, I mean. If you'd like to revisit it on your own… in a more private setting."
My cheeks warm. "Why would I want that?"
He shrugs. "Just a neighborly offer."
The box. I shove it at him. "Here are your inflatable personal romance dolls, Mr. Balsac."
He doesn't even look down at what he's holding. "Is this a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift?"
"Yes, I've come to say hello, but instead of bringing a fruitcake, I brought you sex dolls, condoms, and lube. Nothing screams 'Hi, neighbor!' quite like that."
"I could take a pass on the sex dolls, unless you're into that kind of thing obviously. But a neighbor who looks like you bringing condoms and lube? Well, then: Hello, neighbor." He grins.
Hello, neighbor. It's not explicitly sexual but I swear his words are saturated in sex. Hell, every part of this man is dripping with sex. He's one of those men who just exudes it from his pores.
Double Team by Sabrina Paige / Romance & Love have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on44 votes