Release Date: October 30, 2017
Title: Mister McHottie
Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Sexy Romantic Comedy
Release Date: October 30, 2017
Blurb
Chase
Iâve just bought the woman of my nightmares.
Technically, I bought the company she works for. Point is, she cost me my two best friends ten years ago. Itâs payback time, and Iâm going to make her life hell.
When Iâm not banging her silly and myself stupid.
I need to get my head back in business, because getting off is great, but He was a man who had sex, and lots of it, and in the worst locations, with the woman of his nightmares isnât the inscription I want on my tombstone.
Even if itâs true.
Ambrosia
There are three things I hate:
Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking loudly like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett.
Mostly I hate Chase Jett. Itâs been ten years since he took my virginityâIâd make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth is that it would have to be a bratbest joke, which also pisses me offâand now heâs not only a billionaire, heâs also my new boss.
Turns out our hate is mutual. And this kind of hate is horrifically twisted, filthy, and banging hot.
I just might have to hate him forever.
Mister McHottie is 45,000 gloriously hilarious, hot, sexy words that your mother warned you about, complete with an organic happy-ever-after (or seven), a Bratwurst Wagon, ill-advised office pranks, and no cheating or cliffhangers.
Purchase Links
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Excerpt
Ambrosia May Berger is standing in the elevator bank, peering up at the numbers. She hiccups again. I stop beside her and watch her eyes go wide, then narrow, then cross. Mirrored elevator doors are possibly the second greatest invention known to man.
First, of course, is the internet.
I stare at Bro in the door mirror.
She stares back.
For all the shit she gave me growing up, I always respected her spine. As much as one can respect something that infuriating. She got away with everything. Even when she was reckless.
I can honestly say no woman Iâve been with since her has ever tried to make a break for it in the Bratwurst Wagon.
As long as I block out the month that followed, I can think of the Bratwurst Wagon with a smile.
âWorking late or coming in early?â I ask.
âThe hogs are mating again,â she replies.
The world believes this woman to be a sane, competent adult. Mind-boggling.
âDo you always wait in elevator banks for women you want to harass?â she asks.
âOnly when Iâve gotten bored staking out the bathrooms.â I reach over and hit the up button, because she hasnât. âDo you always assume the elevators can read your mind?â
âThey were doing better than you. I didnât want to go up.â
âAnd youâre standing here becauseâ¦?â
âItâs my thinking spot.â
âItâs 3 AM on a Wednesday morning.â
âDo you see me judging you on wanting to use an elevator at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning? No, you donât. So why do you have to judge me for wanting to think in an elevator bank at 3 AM? Hmmmmmm?â The hum trills up on the end, right in time with her swiveling to face me. She squints one eye, then the other, before scrunching her face, pointing her index finger at my nose, and making pew, pew noises.
If this is what the security guards were worried Iâd find, Iâm rather disappointed.
âDrinking on the job again?â I ask.
âAgain implies Iâve done it before. Which I have not, unless you count that time the guava kale juice fermented, which I donât, because it only counts as drinking if I enjoy the alcohol. Also, all whiskey was consumed off-premise.â
âSo youâre drunk.â
âIâm not drunk. Iâm barely buzzed enough to be able to tolerate you.â
I eye her, and decide sheâs telling the truth. Her eyes are too focused and her tongueâs too sharp for her to be drunk. I canât even smell anything on her. Tired, maybe, but not drunk.
âWas it organic?â I ask dryly.
âItâs whiskey, dickhead.â
Christ, that mouth. I want to lick it and tape it shut all at the same time. âYou shouldnât call your superiors names.â
She blows a raspberry. The sight of her ripe pink tongue makes my cock leap to attention.
âLooking for disciplinary action?â I murmur.
âOh, donât you wish.â The elevator dings, and she lists inside. Iâd try to catch her, but frankly, I wouldnât mind seeing her crash to the ground.
She comes to a solid stop at the railing along the back paneled wall. âAnd youâre not my superior,â she says.
âI write your paycheck.â
âNot yet you havenât.â Spittle shouldnât be sexy, but her second raspberry gives me a longer look at her tongue. I remember that tongue. Long as a lizardâs, hot as a volcano, talented as a porn star.
Thatâs as complimentary as I get where Bro Berger is concerned.
âSo Mr. Liver-bellied Bratwurst-runner-away-er,â she says, âwouldnât you be happier owning a grocery store that I donât work for? Because Iâm sure we can find another zagillionaire to take your place.â
I punch the button to the eighteenth floorâwhere the fresh greens for tomorrow are being picked and packed right now, if allâs on scheduleâand give her my worst smile. âAw, Bro, your inflated opinion of my bank account is touching.â
âYou could be a mega-ka-billion-trillionaire, and you still wouldnât have enough money to buy a soul.â
Iâm relatively new to the ranks of the ten-figure club, but itâs still been years since anyone has insulted me to my face.
Her blatant hatred is oddly erotic. âWho needs a soul when I have the power to sack tempestuous employees?â
âGo ahead. I dare you.â She bangs the button for the fourth floor. Then the third, fifth, seventh, ninth, and every odd number to the top. With a frown, she draws her hand down the row of even numbers until every single floor is lit, and if Iâd still thought this was alcohol motivating her, the sharp, devious intention in her cold eyes removes any doubt.
Sheâs fully in control and sheâs intentionally trying to bait me.
Heat creeps over my scalp. Itâs working.
Sheâs making this elevator stop on Every. Single. Fucking. Floor.
I whip out my cell phoneâsecurity can override her little prankâbut as the doors close, my signal dies.
She does the MC Hammer dance, and her breasts jiggle under her swishy spring dress in a way even a celibate Tibetan monk couldnât resist. Thereâs no fucking way sheâs wearing a bra.
My cock twitches harder.
How did a woman so insanely evil land the worldâs most perfect tits?
âGo on, rich boy.â She switches to the Lawnmower, and now her hips are rocking it too. âBuy your way out of that.â
Good Chase, the businessman, the gaming tech genius, the face I show the world, the smarter part of my brain, hops off when the doors open on the second floor, because he appreciates stairs and getting the hell away from this deranged woman.
Bad Chase, though, has possessed my body, and keeps me in the elevator.
I wave goodbye to rational thought and better judgmentâwho needs those bitches anyway?âand turn to Bro with a growl.
Sheâs wiggling her sweet curvy ass at me now, arms circling, stirring the batter. âItâs my birthday, happy birthday, itâs my birthâoomph!â
Huh. Emergency stop button works, but itâs a little choppy on the execution. Better have maintenance look at that tomorrow.
I take one large, purposeful step toward Bro.
She fists her hands on her hips and calls me an asshole with her dark, heavy-lidded, fuck-me bedroom eyes.
Yeah.
Sheâs feeling it too.
That pull. That hate. That inexplicable force of rage that can only be satiated with a hard, hot fuck.
Author Bio
Pippa Grant is a stay-at-home mom and housewife who loves to escape into sexy, funny stories way more than she likes perpetually cleaning toothpaste out of sinks and off toilet handles. When sheâs not reading, writing, sleeping, or trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be productive members of society, sheâs fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies.
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