He’s the boss. But she’s ready to take charge.
In this provocative and sexy* office romance, a cheeky new hire tempts a hotshot sports agent to mix business with pleasure.
Jenny: Job interviews are a bitch under the best of circumstances, but when your potential boss is the world’s biggest prick, that’s when you should simply walk away. It’s just that I need this job so badly—and I’m mesmerized by Ethan Mason’s piercing gaze. Men like him aren’t supposed to exist in real life. But under the tailored suits and GQ looks, Ethan simmers with barely restrained ambition. And no matter how hard I work to fight the attraction, I’m going to get burned.
Ethan: You don’t become a top agent without learning how to close deal. I always get what—or who—I want, by staying cool and in command. Then Jenny Jackson walks into my office with her lush curves and “screw you” attitude and blows away my intentions of keeping things professional. All I can think about is exploring the perfect body hidden beneath those conservative clothes or shutting her saucy mouth with one hot kiss. Jenny’s worth breaking the rules over—if I can convince her to break the rules for me.
*By sexy, we mean sexy. Like, 18+ sexy.
When I turned back to the cart, a suit and tie slammed into me, knocking my bag to the ground. I stumbled around in a momentary daze, trying to process what had just occurred.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.” I crouched down and quickly gathered all the papers that had spilled out of my bag and shoved them back in. Finally, I turned my head to meet a perfectly creased pair of black slacks, then lifted my gaze up to his face. The guy had to be mid-to-late twenties. He glared down at me with a pair of warm brown eyes, holding his phone to his ear. His hair was dark and combed back like the models who graced the covers of GQ or Style. His lips curled into a devilish smile as my face flushed with heat at the sight of such a handsome man. It was like seeing a lion on the Discovery Channel, only live and in the flesh. Predatory men like him weren’t supposed to actually exist in day-to-day life.
His brows pinched together and he scoffed, “You’re excused.”
I was at fault. I knew this. Standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk and staring out into the park was just asking for trouble. But something about his cocky attitude and the way he spoke to me crept under my skin in the worst possible way. Pulling myself to my feet, I propped my hands on my hips, and glared at the back of his jacket as he started to walk away. “Excuse me?”
He froze in his tracks as I eyed him from head to toe. His suit hugged him perfectly, as if it were specifically tailored to every dimension of what I imagined was the body of a Greek god. But being attractive wasn’t an excuse for being a dick, no matter how fast my heart sped up when he turned around, and his gorgeous eyes found mine again.
“Hang on a moment,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
He took a few steps that seemed to last an eternity as he neared me. “Sorry. I thought I’d said you were excused already.” He paused for a quick moment, then his eyes widened. “Oh my. You’re deaf.”
He held out his hands and flawlessly signed, You’re excused. I knew because I’d minored in ASL in college.
Before thinking, I signed back, You’re a fucking prick, coupled with a smile that matched my sentiment.
He stared at me like I was an alien for another brief moment, before raking his gaze up and down my body. I clenched my fists at the shiver it sent crawling up my spine, and the heat it sent between my thighs.
“Well, aren’t you a clever one? Never would’ve guessed you had an attitude, judging by that outfit.” He smirked.
I folded my arms across my chest and stared lasers into his eyes. The same eyes that sent nerves skittering through my body. “Well, aren’t you—”
His hand shot out and his index finger was against my lips. “Shh.” He slid his finger down my mouth slowly before pulling it away and pointing to his phone. “Important phone call.”
He stared out at the park as my chest rose and fell in huge waves. My face heated to an alarming degree.
“Yeah, well don’t let them fuck up my sandwich this time. I want the condiments on the side. They get the bread all soggy.” He cupped his hand over the phone and whispered, “So sorry. This will only be a second. Then we can get back to”—he waggled his index finger back and forth between the two of us—“this little thing we have going on here.”
I should bite his damn finger off. Or lick it. What the hell, Jenny?
“Yeah, see that it’s right before you bring it back to the office. Bye.” He tapped the screen on his phone and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then grinned at me. “Are we finished here?”
“I bet you hear that a lot from the ladies.” I tapped my foot on the ground. He picked the wrong woman to be an asshole to. I didn’t care how expensive his Armani whatever suit cost, being a jerk wasn’t acceptable. Who did he think he was?
“It’s usually more like, ‘I want you to finish here.’ ” He pointed at my chest and smiled a toothy grin.
I remained unmoved by his misogynistic sarcasm. His smile widened.
“No?” He drew out the syllable. “Here?” He canted his head sideways and pointed at my mouth, then chuckled. “What’s wrong? You can dish it out but can’t take it?”
I sighed and gave him an obviously fake laugh. “Oh, I can take it. I just prefer an entree. Not an appetizer.” I shot a glance to his crotch.
He leaned down next to me, his breath warm in my ear. “I can assure you, there’s plenty to eat down there.” He rose back up and examined me once more, as people made their way around us. “And it looks like you’ve been starving yourself for a while. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important things to do.”
“That’s right. I’m a guy.”
Thank you for having me on your blog and letting me tell your readers a little about myself. My name is Sloane Howell. Wait, that’s not true. I have a normal guy’s name but that’s irrelevant. Fact is, I’m a normal married guy with a kid and two dogs and an asshole cat.
People ask me all the time how I started writing romance. I think people are curious about an average every day guy writing the genre. Obviously, it was so I could get thousands of followers on social media and make millions of dollars. Why else would a dude write romance? It certainly wasn’t to get in touch with my feelings or some other pussy reason like that. It wasn’t to make my writing well-rounded. Only a good writer would have a goal like that. Money and fame is the way to go, always. Facebook likes is how you should always measure your success.
Hah! Sorry, I joke a lot. I’ll punish myself accordingly.
There were a lot of reasons and I never expected it to be half as successful as I’ve been. I figured I could bring something different to the table writing from a man’s POV. When I wrote the first story of my Panty Whisperer series I didn’t know if my wife would divorce me when she read it or drag me to the bedroom. I’m still married so you can do the math. Apparently, it worked for readers too because I’m still around and my fans seem to enjoy my writing style.
It’s funny, because when I started researching the genre in the beginning, well, I won’t lie, I kind of expected stories that were written directly for women with these ridiculous expectations of how a man would act from a female’s point of view. A big feels fest with some unrealistic cheesiness.
I was pleasantly surprised, because the stories I dove into were anything but that. They were dirty, raunchy, hilarious, and I was hooked. I had to write something and there’s something about the disconnect when you’re just sitting in front of a keyboard that just lets you not hold back.
The naughtier the story, the more people liked it. Hair pulling (which I maintain is the answer to world peace), ass slapping, you name it, the more the merrier. Make the hero throw the heroine over his shoulder like a caveman and I’d get twenty messages immediately asking for more. There’s nothing an author loves more than having people chasing you down for more stories.
So, like any sane person, I kept writing them and kept trying to get better. The fact is that erotic romance can affect a reader the way other genres just can’t. It’s like my buddy from my sci fi days E.J. Robinson said (I’m paraphrasing), ‘You can read a murder mystery and you won’t go out and try to solve crimes. But when you read an erotic romance you can damn sure grab your significant other annnd go get busy in the sheets.’
Love and hate are the two strongest emotions in the world, so I try to slam a reader with both whenever I get the chance. Because I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t trying to push those buttons. I hope you’ll check out BOSSED (3/28/17) and SCORED (8/22/17) – and let me know if I achieved my goal.
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Thanks so much for having me! □
Sloane Howell lives in the Midwest United States and writes dirty stories. When not reading or writing he enjoys hanging out with his family, watching sports, playing with the dogs, traveling, and engaging his readers on social media. You can almost always catch him on Twitter posting something goofy.
Visit his web page www.sloanehowell.com to sign up for his mailing list to get updates on new releases, promos, and giveaways. Thanks for reading.