One Hour Girl, The Lost Series Book #1
Genre: Comtemporary Romance
From International Bestselling Author, LeTeisha Newton, February 29th, 2016!
So she learned to cope.
During her days she’s a paralegal in a prestigious firm. But by night, she’s an escort, addicted to dangerous situations, rough sex, and money. This is what she knows, what she craves, and what keeps her stable.
Ms. Perfection is kept happy because Ms. Whore keeps the darkness at bay.
Until she meets Royce Mattherson, L.A.’s most eligible bachelor, and billionaire. No that his life was much better. His past was just as dark, just as twisted, and they find that they can give each other those dirty moments. Love wasn’t supposed to be a part of it.
It never was.
Her heart is off limits, and he doesn’t have one to give. The found a way to break the rules anyway.
He thinks I’m his forever girl, I saw it in his eyes. I wished I could have slapped the look off his face and hit him with the same jarring finality I’d learned I didn’t mean shit.
I’m not a forever sort of girl.
I’m not even his for the night.
He’ll be lucky if I’m his for the next hour if he doesn’t pay me for it.
And then Royce Mattherson stormed my defenses. Took all the poison inside of me and pushed it out through my pores. He tasted the taint on my skin and still decided to love me. He terrifies me. Exhilarates me. Frustrates me.
And he always gets what he wants.
“No, I tried to give you something better than a simple fuck and you degraded yourself down to a lower level. If this is what you want, I’m more than willing to give it to you,” he said roughly and then slid a key card into the panel on the wall. The button with a P lit up and he pressed it. The glass misted so that we couldn’t see people on the other side. A neat trick. That hadn’t happened when I’d come before, although, I hadn’t been heading to the penthouse suite either.
“So that’s your excuse? Because you had your hands between my thighs before dinner it’s a problem? You have got to be shitting me,” I told him.
“You’ve got a dirty mouth, and I can think of much more nasty things you could be doing with it,” he snapped.
“Yeah, and I’m really good at them too. Want to see how far I can swallow you down? No gag reflex, big boy. I promise you’ll enjoy it. What if I lick your balls at the same time? One of your sophisticated sticks ever do that for you?”
“Shut up,” he roared at me, but I didn’t. He was a bastard, and I wanted him. I needed him, and he was making me feel cheap. So what if I was a whore, I was worth every fucking penny that I charged, but I was a woman. I knew who I was. I was strong, and I knew what I needed. He wasn’t going to scare me. Fuck him.
“Oh, Pretty Boy, you didn’t like that? Come on, baby, live a little.”
“Don’t call me that.” The words were harsh as he forced them out between his teeth.
“What Pretty Boy? Baby?” When his gaze narrowed I laughed. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Hell, I didn’t even know where we’d gone wrong in the car. He’d enjoyed touching me. He liked the way I spiraled out of control. I’d loved it. And now he wanted to be a little shit.
“How the hell did you survive long enough in you line of work to fucking get paid?” he asked me as the elevator stopped.
“Test my mouth and find out, baby.”
He roared. He stood in the middle of a room surrounded by glass, giving glimpses to the lit up city around them. In the center of the sophistication that only his type of money could buy, he roared. I stopped, staring at him.
“Did that hurt?” I taunted. He shouldn’t be able to be mad. He shouldn’t be able to toss me off like I was nothing. He chased me. He’d offered me triple my rate just to take me on dates for five nights and screw my brains out. He’d reached out after his fundraiser. I hadn’t asked him for a fucking thing.
“What the fuck is your problem? Huh? Who gives a fuck what I paid for tonight? Is it any different than taking you out to the restaurant, buying you gifts, parading your around before cameras to make you famous? Is paying you cash right in your hand for ass any different than me wanting to treat you like a woman that I want in my bed?”
He took two swift steps forward, and I stumbled back. He caught me in his hard arms, lifting me off the ground until we were face to face. I gripped his shoulders to keep my balance. My hair swirled around us. The strands fluttered over his nose, lifting and falling as he breathed roughly.
What was wrong with me?
I didn’t know how to do normal. I didn’t understand it. What he wanted was impossible.
“I can’t,” I said, not able to say the rest. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes as I fought the panic back. No, no, no, no. I couldn’t do this. He couldn’t touch my heart. That’s not where he was supposed to be. I refused.
“Put me down,” I begged him.
“You don’t want me to,” he said, and the wonder I saw cross his face had me fighting to get out of his arms. I couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in. No. Not normal. I couldn’t be what he wanted. I couldn’t. I was filthy, used, tossed aside.
I was better for nothing more than a fuck.
He couldn’t see it, but he would. He had to see it. I knew it was right there on the surface.
“Look at me,” he urged, but I turned my face away as far as I could, feeling the strain in my neck. I clawed at his shoulder.
“Fuck me and get it over with,” I told him.
“Listen to yourself. You fighting to get out my arms but you’re telling me to take you. Do you think I can do that? Look at me!” he yelled.
I swung my head back to look at him. His face had softened, the anger gone. He lifted a hand and palmed my cheek. So tender. So soft. I couldn’t handle it. I shattered. Great sobs wracked me as he pulled me tighter into his arms, holding me close. My struggles meant nothing as he fell with me to the floor and rocked me. He slid off my shoes and curled me into his lap.
Royce Mattherson, one of the richest men in America, sat on the floor and rocked L.A.’s greatest whore. He was clean, sweet, and normal. He was cocky, rough, and domineering, but he held me like I was priceless. I couldn’t fight the tears, and I didn’t try to.
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Writing professionally since 2008, LeTeisha has spanned from Fantasy to Interracial Romance on her road to getting the jumping characters out of her head. Most days she’s pretty color blind, unless it’s a great shade of red (then she can’t ignore it). Other times she’s plotting her next twenty books and then remembering that the computer can’t read her thoughts and doesn’t type at lightning speed. Either way, she just can’t seem to get enough of quill to paper…or eh…keyboard strokes, apparently.