ARROGANT PLAYBOY
Authors: Winter Renshaw
ARROGANT PLAYBOY
WINTER RENSHAW
COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations
EDITING: J.J. Mayflower
PROOFREADING: Janice Owen and Carey
Sullivan
All rights reserved. No part of this book
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of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not
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This ebook is licensed for your personal
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BOOKS BY WINTER RENSHAW
Never
Kiss a Stranger
(Never Series #1)
Never
Is a Promise
(Never Series #2)
Never
Say Never
(Never Series #3)
Arrogant
Bastard
(Arrogant Series #1)
Arrogant
Master
(Arrogant Series #2)
Arrogant Playboy (Arrogant Series #3)
Coming Soon!
Bitter Rivals (part of the POSSESS anthology) –
November 9, 2015
Dark Paradise – December 2015
DESCRIPTION
PLAYBOY
.
Noun
.
A moneyed man who spends his time
enjoying himself, especially one who acts irresponsibly or is sexually
promiscuous.
Synonyms
: ladies man,
philanderer, womanizer.
See Also
:
Beckham King.
BECKHAM KING
.
Noun
.
Synonyms
: None.
Vanity
wrapped in arrogance and tied with a wicked-intentioned bow.
Obnoxiously
attractive.
Wildly
talented in the sack.
Everything
a girl could want in a one-night stand.
Don’t
ask him to commit.
Don’t
expect a phone call.
You
only get one night.
And God
forbid you’re the
one
girl deemed worthy
of a reprise…
Because
you won’t stand a chance.
When an
arrogant playboy’s mind is set, there’s abso-f*cking-lutely no changing it.
TABLE
OF CONTENTS
BONUS!
One
BECKHAM
I’m spent, balls deep inside an
auburn beauty with shapely runner’s legs that wrap around my hips and pin us together.
Our bodies meld.
Each rise and fall of her chest
brings the peaks of her budded nipples against my chest. The glowing beauty’s
forearm rests across her eyes, and her swollen lips relax into an exhausted, exuberant
smile.
I love that smile.
I
live
for that smile.
Not on her but on every woman I
spend the night with.
Fucking women is a pass/fail
endeavor and that smile tells me I made the grade.
The promise of warm sunlight fills
the space around us. My sleepless night will catch up with me around three
o’clock this afternoon, but she was so fucking worth it. I don’t move, opting
to reside inside her a moment longer, both of us basking in our respective
euphoric states a few more seconds.
Her arm goes limp, falling to
the pillow behind her head, and our eyes meet for the first time since we
stumbled over each other in a drunken rush to dive headfirst between the sheets
of my king-sized bed.
And this is where it gets
awkward.
This is where she’s supposed to
sigh and give me that far off gaze, the one that makes me think she believes something
amazing just happened between us. This is where she flashes a smile and grabs
the sheet and covers up and combs her hair out of her face like she’s all of a
sudden self-conscious around me.
They all do it. It’s like
they’re reading off some kind of twenty-five-year-old single girl script.
First they’re sexy, bold, and
brazen.
Then they’re cute, coy, and
bashful.
Bait and switch. Every fucking
time.
At least I know how it works
now. I’m not some twenty-one year old, fuck-anything-with-a-vagina pencil dick
who falls for it anymore.
One step ahead of them now.
After this radiant vixen plays
modest church mouse for a while, she’s going to say she had fun and if I ever
want to hang out again – hang out code for screwing her until neither one
of us can walk straight – to give her a call.
That’ll be my cue to say
something like, “Absolutely!” or “Hell yeah.” A little something to put a pep
in her step during her imminent walk of shame.
The auburn girl below, whose
name escapes me at the moment, flashes a two-second smile.
Here we go.
Three…
Two…
One…
“You can get off me now.” Her hands
press against my biceps, and her post-orgasmic smile fades. “We’re done here,
right?”
Wait,
what?
I strategically maneuver myself
out of her, making sure the condom is still intact, and move to the side. The
girl doesn’t grab a sheet or slip into shy-mode. She tiptoes to the bathroom,
her peach-shaped ass swaying, and comes out a few minutes later, brushing her
teeth with her finger and apparently some borrowed toothpaste.
She leans over, spitting into
the sink, the long muscles down the side of her leg flexing as she rises on her
toes. When she emerges, she snaps a black elastic between her fingers.
“Found a hair tie in your
bathroom,” she says, pointing to her hair as she finger-combs it into a messy
pile on top of her head. Her breasts lift, round and proud. She has no shame
– not that she needs any. She’s her own brand of gorgeous, and she owns
it. There’s not an ounce of insecurity anywhere on this woman.
The sunlight climbing over the
cityscape outside my penthouse starts to fill the shadowy room, bathing her in
warmth and illuminating every curve.
“You just going to stand there
with your mouth hanging? Be a lamb and find my bra, will you?”
I climb off the bed, stepping
into my crumpled boxers and digging through the mess of clothes on the floor
until I pull out a black bra with see-through lace cups and some clear, plastic
strap across the back.
I hand it over, a half-smirk on
my face.
She takes it from me and slips the straps
over her creamy shoulders before adjusting it into place and securing the back.
I grab her dress from last night, the tight black number with the low back that
initially caught my eye, and hold it out for her.
“Thanks.” She steps into it,
pulling it up and over her curves. Her eyelids are rimmed with smudged black
makeup but it’s quickly overridden by a confident glimmer in her round eyes. The
girl glances around the room. “What time is it?”
“Six.” I eye the blue-numbered
alarm clock over her shoulder before getting up to grab some mouthwash.
“Quarter after actually.”
“Perfect.”
I follow her out my bedroom,
down the hall, and toward the foyer where her heels rest on their sides in
front of my private elevator. This girl’s in such a hurry that I almost feel
used.
Almost
.
Maybe it’s karma for all those
times I’ve gone home with a woman and dashed out before the sun came up.
She spins on her heels,
checking out her reflection in a wall-hung mirror, licking her finger, and
wiping a streak of black mascara under her eye.
“So…” I feel the need to fill
the silence with something, but nothing comes to mind because my brain is too
busy trying to figure out the anomaly standing before me.
This girl has game. She may
even have more game than me.
Her gaze darts around the room,
scanning the marble buffet table and elaborate floral arrangement and zipping
across the chessboard tile. Most women fawn and ooh and aah over my foyer but
not her. She couldn’t care less.
“What are you looking for?” I
ask.
“My bag.”
She breezes past me, her heels
clicking against the marble tile, and heads into my kitchen. I scratch my
temple.
Did
I take her in the kitchen last night?
A smile crawls across my lips
as faded fragments of our evening return to my memory.
Oh,
yeah. I took her in the kitchen last night. And the dining room. And the
balcony.
“Stop,” she says, returning
with a black satin clutch under her left arm.
“Excuse me?”
“Stop gloating.”
Who
is
this woman?
My palm rakes my five o’clock
shadow. This girl with the dark, fiery hair is something else. I bite my tongue,
biding my time before she steps on the elevator. At least I’m spared the whole
awkward exchange where I pretend like I fully intend on tapping that ass again in
the near future.
“Ugh.” She rifles through her
unfastened clutch. “Where’s my phone? Why isn’t it in here?”
This woman wants nothing more
than to leave my place, and the universe wants nothing more than for her to stay.
I’m caught somewhere in between, still standing here in my silk boxers, mildly
entertained but mostly confused.
“So. Thanks for last night.” I
widen my stance and fold my arms across my bare chest, refusing to let myself
cringe. I never fucking do this.
I’m not that guy. I’m not the
lame ass who goes from sex-on-fire to grateful chump as soon as morning comes.
What
the hell is wrong with me?
She glances up from the shallow
depths of her bag and rolls her eyes. “Did you seriously just thank me for
fucking you?”
We fucked not once, not twice,
not even three times.
Four
times.
“I appreciate a girl who can go
the distance. Rare to meet someone who can keep up with me.”
She bites away a grin. Pretty
sure she’s fucking laughing at me.
“Something funny…” My mind goes
blank as I rack it in search of her name.
Odette? No.
Tessa? Nope.
Olivia…
“You don’t remember my name, do
you?” Her full lips pull wide, showcasing a mouthful of perfect, white teeth.
Her entire face lights, followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Classy.”
“We had a lot to drink.” Everything
happened so goddamned fast.
“Yours is Beckham,” she says.
“Like the soccer player. Beckham King. Truth be told, that’s all I know about
you. I picked you because you were hot. I came home with you because I felt
sorry for you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I cup my
chin, cocking my head. “You felt
sorry
for me?”
She lifts a single shoulder.
Odessa
.
That’s it.
“Odessa,” I say, fighting the
smug twitch in my mouth. “Odessa Russo.”
I halfway remember her bragging
about her Greek-Italian heritage, and I fully recall appreciating her Greek ass
and the exotic Italian angles of her pretty face.
“Oh, wow.” Odessa’s brows lift,
her lips puckering as she sarcastically accepts defeat.
“You came home with me because
you felt sorry for me?” I refuse to let it go.
“Yep.”
Green. Her eyes are a radiant green.
Lit from the inside. Hypnotic.
“I watched you hit on about
four or five women before I had to come in and save the day.”
She’s lying. She’s got to be
lying. I have a three strike rule, and I’ve yet to need to enforce it.
I love sex.
Correction: I love
casual
sex.
Carefree, uninhibited,
never-see-you-again sex.
It’s what I do. It’s the way it
has to be.
Page Six stopped calling me one
of New York’s most eligible bachelors years ago after a failed engagement with
a pedigreed hotel heiress, and they quickly rebranded me as an arrogant
playboy. But I don’t mind. It’s who I am, and I make no apologies for it.
I’m the guy women fantasize
about changing; the one they dream about falling hopelessly in love with.
The only thing I’m hopelessly
in love with is my life – exactly the way it is. It hasn’t always been
this way, but I’ll be damned if I ever go back.
“Help me find my phone,” she
orders, striding into my living room. I stand back as she slips her hand
between the cushions of my overstuffed leather sofa.
Did
we fuck there last night too?
She retrieves a white phone, inspecting
it like there’s a chance it belongs to a former conquest.
“Ugh. Battery’s dead.” She
stuffs it in her clutch and snaps the little bag shut.
Guess
there’ll be no exchanging of numbers.
Woe
is me.
Our eyes lock, and Odessa tugs
the hem of her dress into place though it’s barely long enough to hit the
middle of her long thighs.
“All right, then.” She walks
past me, grazing my shoulder, and heads for the elevator, hips swaying with the
subtle bounces in her steps. Her fingertips reach back, smoothing loose auburn
tendrils that have fallen around her nape.
My eyes trace down her back
until it finds the dip just above her perfect ass and those hips I’d held onto
all night.
I don’t do repeats. I don’t do
booty calls or the whole fuck-buddy thing. I’m a one and done kind of man, but
damn, if this sexy little spitfire doesn’t make me want a reprise.
Odessa presses the call button
on the elevator and the doors part. She steps inside, our eyes meeting one last
time.
This is it.
Once those doors close, I’ll
never see her again.
Which is exactly the way it’s
supposed to be…
I suck in a quick breath.
“Wait.”
I never chase after women. I
send them packing with a post-orgasmic glow and sometimes an awkward,
morning-after hug. The second they close I’m never going to see this woman
again. Any other time I’d be perfectly okay with that. But I can’t let her walk
out of my place lugging every ounce of power from this entire exchange.
It’s not the way it’s supposed
to go, and I can’t allow it.
Her brows arch, and the right
corner of her fuckable pink lips pull up. I can’t let her leave with the upper
hand. I can’t be left in the dust like some pathetic pity fuck.
The doors ding and slide, but I
stop them, climbing onto the elevator next to her.
“What are you doing?” She backs
herself into a corner, literally.
The only way to reset the power
balance is to get her to want me. I need her to leave this place thinking she’d
just had the best sex of her entire life, and I want her to silently plead for
more with those glossy emerald eyes of hers.
And after that?
I want her calling me every
night for a week, begging to come over if only so I get the satisfaction of
telling her “no.”
I reach for her, sliding my
palm against her jaw and cupping my fingers around her soft neck before
lowering my mouth to hers. Without saying a word, I steal a tender kiss. My
free hand hooks the curve above her hip, and her body melts against me for the
few, short seconds my mouth claims hers.