Ares

I like poetry.

Always trash talk in haikus.

Miss playing hockey.

But if I can’t be on the ice, I’m happy to be with Felicity. Included with the team. Doing my part.

Like today.

Today’s her first day as the team’s jack of all trades.

They’re calling her an intern, but we know where it’s going. She knows too much about everything for the team to not want her.

Not saying I had anything to do with it, but I might’ve made sure everyone saw her resume after she passed her certification exam.

Followed certain staff people with puppy dog eyes for a few days.

Okay, hours.

Fine.

Only took ten minutes.

And an agreement to try harder in front of the camera.

Which is why Felicity’s first assignment is to work on promo videos for the Thrusters.

With her puppets.

And my teammates.

Jenna’s not happy though.

I share a look with Felicity.

Don’t have a clue what crawled up her butt, I telegraph.

I brought a talking BRATWURST in a THRUSTERS uniform, Felicity telegraphs back. She’s mad because it’s too much innuendo.

Only if you have a dirty mind, I reply.

She snorts.

Yeah, fine.

Everyone in this room has a dirty mind.

But if anyone can make a Thruster bratwurst innocent, Felicity can.

Jenna claps her hands. “Ready, Felicity?”

“She’s been ready for twenty-something years,” the bratwurst answers for her.

Jenna directs her to the middle seat—a folded cloth number, like a director’s chair with the Thrusters logo on the back—and puts Murphy and Lavoie on either side of her. There’s a green screen behind them.

“Sure you don’t want in?” Jenna asks me.

“Have no fear, lady,” Thrusty the Bratwurst says. “He’ll get his moment of glory.”

Murphy eyes me.

Since the donkey, and a little haiku I planted in his ear, he’s been giving me space.

Lots and lots of space.

Vengeance best served cold.

Watch your stick and your berries.

Who knows when I’ll come.

Let him think I was talking about sleeping with his sister with that last line.

Most fun I’ve had outside Felicity since spending the summer with Z.

Between me and our charm school teacher, Murphy’s having a hell of a time.

“Ignore the cameras,” Jenna tells the three of them. “Just get comfortable and chat.”

“Don’t think that’ll be a problem for some of us,” Murphy says with an eyeball at his sister.

Thrusty turns and gapes at Murphy.

Murphy eyeballs the puppet.

“Oh my…oh my mustard,” Thrusty says. “You’re…you’re Nick Murphy.”

Murphy scratches his cheek. Eyes his sister. “That’s right. And you’re…?”

“I’m Thrusty. Like Trusty, but with a Thruh. And I’m a huuuuuuuuge Thrusters fan,” Thrusty says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All my life. Like, alllllll my life. Ever since I was born last week. I love hockey. I auditioned to be a hockey stick once.”

Murphy coughs, a grin forming. “How’d that go for you?”

“It. Was. Amazing.” Thrusty has this voice like a twelve-year-old boy. A little rough, not high, not low. “Manning Frey touched me. You know? The prince? Is he here? I need to apologize for getting my mustard all over him.”

Lavoie snickers.

It’s an off day at home. Watched practice earlier. Had a hard session with PT. Getting stronger. Might make it back on the ice in late February or early March.

Before the playoffs.

We’re all in track pants and Thrusters sweatshirts with our numbers on them. Lavoie’s lounging in front of the camera with an ankle hooked over his knee.

While Felicity prompts her brother, asking if anyone’s seen Prince Manning, Thrusty peers around her to look at Lavoie.

And promptly covers his face with his skinny little hand. “Felicity! Felicity!”

“What, Thrusty?” she asks.

“Is that Duncan Lavoie?” the bratwurst whispers behind its hand.

“Yeah, Thrusty. Have you met Duncan?”

“Oh my bun, he is my favorite player ever.”

Felicity looks doubtfully at Lavoie. “Duncan is?”

Thrusty nods.

Which isn’t easy for a bratwurst.

Also, his eyes twist funny.

Don’t know what I’m going to do for a present for Felicity for our three-month anniversary.

Hard to top Thrusty.

There’s always ketchup or mustard or relish for a real bratwurst. But, I mean, it’s hard to find her a better gift.

“Did you want to ask him for his signature?” Felicity asks Thrusty.

He shakes his head.

Also hard for a bratwurst.

That’s a fucking cool puppet. And Felicity handles him like a pro.

“Duncan doesn’t bite, Thrusty,” Felicity says. “Your head’s safe.”

Murphy snickers.

Fuck, I’m snickering.

Gracie’s stifling a giggle next to me too.

“It’s not my head I’m worried about,” Thrusty says to Felicity. “You know what happens when I meet my favorite players.”

“Right. The mustard.”

“I just get so excited.”

“I spill my mustard when I’m excited too,” Lavoie says.

Murphy coughs and hides another snicker.

Felicity’s cool though.

Both she and Thrusty look at Lavoie like he’s just confessed to wetting his pants.

“Have you talked to your doctor about that?” Felicity asks.

Completely straight-faced.

She was born to perform.

“Felicity,” Thrusty hisses, “don’t embarrass him. And can you…”

Thrusty trails off.

Felicity leans closer to him. “Can I what, Thrusty?”

They have a short, whispered conversation no one else can hear. After a few seconds, Felicity lifts her head. “Hey, Duncan, could I ask you for a favor?”

“Sure,” Lavoie says.

“Thrusty wants to know if you’ll take a picture with him.”

“Anything for my biggest fan.”

Felicity hands the puppet over and leans back, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

“You want me in that picture?” Murphy asks while Felicity leans back, capturing Lavoie and Thrusty.

Thrusty turns his head and looks at Murphy. “No thanks.”

Lavoie drops the puppet, shrieks, and tips his chair over.

Murphy shrieks and jumps out of his chair.

Gasps go up from everyone in the green room. One of the cameramen shrieks.

Felicity keeps a straight face.

I’m choking back a laugh.

Viktor’s moving in like he’s going to shield Gracie and her baby bump from the demon bratwurst.

Demon bratwurst.

Heh.

Wonder what kind of gif that’ll pull up. Whatever it is, I’m sending it to Z.

Murphy finally slows and looks at Felicity.

Then at me.

“Aw, fuck,” he says.

Felicity dusts off Thrusty and props him back in her lap. “Nick Murphy, there are kids watching this video,” Thrusty chides.

“Did you get a fucking remote control dummy?” he asks.

Lavoie’s springing back up. “I was in on it,” he lies.

I hit a button on my phone, and Thrusty’s head turns in a circle, his eyes rolling in opposite directions.

“That’s fucking wrong,” Murphy says.

“You say fuck too much,” Lucy answers, even though she’s tucked in a trunk on the side of the room. “Isn’t charm school working?”

“Fuck off, Lucy,” Murphy mutters.

“He says fuck too much,” Jaeger mutters on my other side. “Ruined a fucking perfect video.”

“Can you go back to where Felicity’s handing Thrusty to Duncan?” Jenna asks.

They shoot some more. Felicity’s on her game. She’s throwing Murphy and Lavoie off theirs.

It’s perfect.

Jenna finally lets them go after almost an hour. “Thanks, gentlemen. Ladies. Enjoy your afternoon.”

Murphy gives me a good-natured punch in the arm on his way out. “Yeah, yeah, we’re even now.”

“Nope.”

“Bring it, Berger.”

There’s no heat.

He’s coming around.

Helps that Felicity’s happy.

Grounded.

Got her dream job, with her dream team, with enough flexibility to handle her attention span.

Her IQ’s so high, nobody ever asked about her attention span.

I use my crutch—I’m down to one, following doctor’s orders, and my girlfriend’s orders, and some to be extra cautious—and cross the room to offer my help.

She goes up on her tiptoes, and I lean down to trade cheek kisses with her.

“You have perfect timing,” she tells me.

No, she has perfect timing.

She grins, then peeks around me.

Looking to see how big our audience is.

“You heading home?” she asks me.

Which means we have a pretty big audience.

I nod.

Could go grab a beer with the guys. Invited to hang at Frey’s tonight for game night too.

“Hey, Gracie, can we grab a lift?” she calls around me.

“Do you even have to ask? Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re back at my place.

Didn’t think I’d like it as much as I do when I picked it. Just wanted to be close to the arena. Close for practice. Close to friends.

But Felicity’s made this apartment more than just a few rooms I sleep and eat in.

There are pieces of her everywhere.

Her puppets live in a corner of the guest room.

Her coffee press is on the counter.

Gammy’s last blanket is still gathering rows, but it’s here on my couch now.

Felicity’s soap and shampoo bottles clutter my bathroom.

And her scent lingers in my bedroom.

She fixes us popcorn for an afternoon snack and snuggles up to me on the couch, tossing pieces to Loki on the coffee table while I flip through the sports channels, looking for highlights from Z’s game last night.

“I told Nick we need to sell Gammy’s house,” she tells me.

I hit the power button on the remote and look down at her.

She hasn’t spent the night at Gammy’s house in three weeks.

Last time she did was because the furnace was getting replaced early in the morning, and she didn’t want to have to get up and trek across town in rush hour traffic.

But she’s kept a bunch of her stuff there.

“You’re not crazy,” she says, ticking her fingers off like she has to justify wanting to move in. “I already basically live here. It’s really nice not feeling like there’s a ghost peeking over my shoulder all the time. And I love you.”

“And you love his monkey, Felicity,” she chirps happily as Lucy. “You’re always talking about how much you love his monkey.”

“That’s code for his penis, Lucy,” she answers herself as Tim.

“Would you kids quit talking about penises and monkeys?” Harold grumps.

“Okay! Let’s talk about bratwurst instead,” Lucy says. “I vote we let Thrusty into the club. All in favor?”

I kiss her before her puppets can take a vote about a bratwurst.

And kissing her turns into pulling her shirt off—as it frequently does—and sends the monkey into hiding.

As it also frequently does.

Soon we’re both naked on the floor. A mass of tangled limbs and joined body parts. She slides her pussy down my cock, takes me deep inside her, and fuck, I’m home.

I’m just home.

“I love you,” I grit out.

So close.

That’s all it takes. Just her body against mine, her inner walls gripping me tight, and she puts me on the edge every time.

She pumps up and down on my cock, riding me, gasping, stroking, squeezing, kissing me, until we both spin out of control and explode in a joint shower of sparks and light and pure, unfiltered bliss.

When the last of our climaxes fade away, she flops onto my chest, softly rubbing my pecs. “Thank you for pestering the team until they hired me,” she says on a yawn.

She’s adorable.

One orgasm, and she’s ready for sleep.

I kiss her head.

She’s perfect. Knows as much about hockey as I do. Hard to tell her no, so she’s spending a lot of time with the stubborn cases—like me—in the PT room. Bounces ideas around with the team marketing department.

“Felicity,” I whisper.

“Mm?”

“Marry me?”

She lifts her head.

Meets my gaze with those bright green eyes that aren’t sleepy anymore.

They’re wide.

Hopeful.

Shiny.

“Please,” I add.

The smile starts slow but blossoms all over her face. She’s smiling so big the whole room’s smiling.

I’m doing this wrong.

Don’t have a ring.

Nothing romantic.

But I love her.

I love her with everything in me. I want to be hers in every way I can. Forever.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Ares…yes.”

I roll us so I’m on top, kissing her. Her neck. Her jaw. Her nose. Her lips.

Everything.

She’s my everything.

The last piece to my puzzle.

I’ll love her always.

POST-EPILOGUE

Thanks for reading! Want some bonus epilogues, including Ares and Felicity getting some quality time with Zeus and Joey, and something to do with a Zamboni? Click to register for the Pipster Report, a weekly dose of zaniness from the Pippaverse, and I’ll send you three! If you already subscribe to the Pipster Report, check your last email from me for the magic link!

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And keep reading for a sneak peek at Rockaway Bride. Hugs and cookie kisses!!

Pippa

If you love rock stars, runaway brides, and hilarious adventures, read on for an excerpt of Rockaway Bride…

Willow Honeycutt (aka a bride on the verge of a breakdown)

When I was little and dreaming of my wedding day, I always pictured myself with a Mohawk, a tie-dyed fluffy wedding gown cut off at the knees, biker boots, and dashing out the back of a chapel in Vegas to peel off into the sunset on a Harley.

Mostly because I was secretly in love with Davis Remington, the youngest member of the boy band Bro Code, who had tattoos and sometimes shaved parts of his head and made headlines once when he crashed a Harley, and he was just hot, and I assumed that’s what his wedding would be like, and also that I would be his bride, because he was only a few years older than me.

Not that I ever told my mom that. As far as she knows, I always loved Tripp Wilson—you know, the big brother of the group, who was more years older than me and therefore only a silly girl crush—because that helped her sleep at night, and I knew how much she worried.

About everything.

Being a single mother in the city is hard. So I kept my dreams of marrying a boy band bad boy to myself, I got good grades, I got scholarships for an early childhood education degree and then a job teaching preschool, Mom married the king of a small Nordic country—yes, seriously—I stayed in New York and joined a band where we cover our favorite boy band songs and mostly play juice bars some nights and weekends, and tomorrow I’m having the fairytale princess wedding in a palace, exactly like every girl dreams of.

Except me.

And tonight, while I wander the stone hallways of Skyr Castle in my mom’s adopted home country of Stölland, where I’m supposed to be getting my beauty rest after watching my soon-to-be mother-in-law kiss up to the king so very blatantly during the rehearsal dinner that even the palace mice were embarrassed for her, I’m trying really, really hard to convince myself that my regrets and doubts are a result of this wedding’s lack of Mohawk, tattoos, biker boots, and getaway Harleys.

And that my regrets and doubts have nothing to do with Martin.

My fiancé.

Whom I’m marrying.

In eighteen hours.

Eighteen.

Hours.

Eighteen hours until my life and my freedom and my future are forever sealed in the bonds of marriage.

I’m going to throw up.

I breathe through the nausea and turn a corner, passing one of those knight thingies that are in the corners of ancient stone castles everywhere, except this one is all suited up in Viking armor instead of metal armor, so it has a vicious looking helmet with horns on top and some weird protrusion covering where a person’s nose should be, a shield portraying the Frey family coat of arms, which has a killer sheep carrying a spear and an ax and eating a whale on it—royalty is so weird—and a bearskin rug where a breastplate should be.

Bearskin coat?

Whatever.

The point is, I turn the corner on knees and legs which are rapidly melting to the consistency of slime, wishing I had a paper bag, and I find myself face-to-face with three real Viking princes.

My stepbrothers. Who, thankfully, are all in jeans and casual dress shirts instead of Viking armor, because that truly would be the end of me for the night.

“There’s the lovely blushing bride,” Gunnar, the oldest, says.

“Blushing? I believe the more appropriate adjective would be hyperventilating,” replies Manning, the youngest.

“You two fuckers are bloody useless,” grumbles Colden, the grumpy one.

All three have this quasi-British accent that would be intriguing if any of them were tatted up, owned motorcycles, and not my stepbrothers.

Colden shoves a wine bottle into my hand. “Drink.”

Stölland’s national beverage is mead, and I learned the night before my mom’s wedding to the king several years back that I don’t tolerate it well.

I take the bottle and glug off the top without asking for a glass, because he’s right. I need a drink. And I’ve known my stepbrothers long enough to know that when one is handed a bottle, one drinks off the bottle.

Which is awesome tonight.

Tonight, I need all the drinks.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad,” Gunnar says to Manning, who nods his agreement while they both watch me swig.

The two of them are nearly the same height, both with thick brown hair tinged with red in the sunlight, both with pale blue eyes, and both fathers now, though Gunnar—the crown prince—is always clean-shaven, whereas Manning, who’s so far down the line to inherit the crown that he’s been given permission to live in the States and play professional hockey basically until he’s too old to play anymore, almost perpetually sports a short beard around his never-ending smile.

He’s madly in love with the perfect woman for him, and they have the most adorable baby together. Of course he’s smiling.

Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god.

The possibility of having Martin’s babies is suddenly so real that my ovaries have just offered themselves as tribute to a cryogenics experiment. And possibly performed some sort of self-freeze.

I take another fortifying gulp of honey wine and pray it stays down. “What won’t be so bad?” My voice comes out high and panicked like I’ve been sucking helium, only worse.

Colden sighs. He’s shorter than his brothers by a couple inches, with hair much darker, almost the same shade as mine. I’m told he resembles their long-departed mother. And I know firsthand he prefers the company of sheep to the company of people.

“The night before the wedding talk,” he answers.

My face goes so hot my brains melt out my nose. Or so it feels. “Uh, guys, I don’t think—”

Manning laughs. “Not that talk, dear Willow, though if you need pointers—”

Gunnar silences him with a sneak attack headlock. “We were referring to the if you need to run, we’ll make it happen talk. Family tradition. Though I do believe this is the first time we’ll actually mean it.”

My heart skips a beat.

Or maybe four beats. “I can’t run,” I object. Or try to. The words get stuck, and I have to swallow them down with another healthy swig of mead before I try again, when the words once again get stuck.

“You can, you may, and you should,” Colden replies.

Manning’s twisting and flailing and attempting to get out of Gunnar’s headlock, which would be way more entertaining if the mead in my belly wasn’t churning like a tsunami of bad idea bubbles and overwhelming doubts.

“We’ve bought you a ticket,” Manning says between grunts and twists.

“A ticket to where?”

“New York, but we can change it to anywhere,” Gunnar replies. He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying the hell out of getting the upper hand on Manning, who should be the strongest of the bunch since he plays professional hockey for a living.

My stepbrothers are all over-muscled Viking goobers.

And I might possibly love them more than I love peanut butter cups right now.

“Do you wish to marry Martin?” Colden asks.

My tongue swells. I rub it over the roof of my mouth, and I gag.

“Exactly as we suspected,” Gunnar declares. He releases Manning, who springs just out of reach of the eldest Frey brother. “Come, Willow. We’ve a plan.”

I stomp a foot, and I sway. Whoa. That mead is yum. Am I supposed to be drunk this fast? I don’t remember getting drunk this fast last time. Although, I suppose not eating anything at the rehearsal dinner might’ve been part of the problem. I kept sneaking my food to the dog when my bridesmaids and mom weren’t looking.

“I’m going to marrrrr—” I start, but I can’t finish. While my stepbrothers watch expectantly, I take another drink off the bottle, and I try again. “I want to marrrrr—”

All three of them continue to stare at me.

“Fudge you all!” I say.

Gunnar and Manning smirk.

Colden sighs again. “We can order him beheaded instead,” he offers.

“And his mother too,” Manning agrees.

“But not the dog,” Gunnar says. “Viggo’s rather taken with the dog. I dare say the dog may not make it back on the plane to the States.”

“You can’t steal people’s pets!” Which is a phrase I’m capable of saying. Whereas I can’t make myself say I want to marr—marr—fudgesicles. You know. Do that thing. That ceremony.

With Martin.

I swallow half the remaining bottle of mead in four gulps. My eyes burn. My throat’s on fire too. But the alcohol is warming my belly and defrosting my ovaries, and I’m starting to breathe better.

“When you’re king, you can do anything,” Gunnar tells me with a shrug.

“You’re not the king.”

“But I will be one day. And then my son will be someday after that. Which isn’t the immediate issue, my lady. The immediate issue is canceling your wedding.”

“I know none of you are Martin’s biggest fan,” I say, pointing the bottle at each of them, “but he—he—we’ve been together for seven years. That’s like…like…a llama caw wedging.”

I get two matching squints and another sigh.

“A common law wedding?” Colden prompts.

I point the bottle at him. “Seventeen points for House Coldendorf!”

The three of them share a look.

Or maybe the five of them share a look. Why are there two Mannings and two Gunnars and only one Colden?

I should’ve eaten something for dinner.

And not used that secret passageway Manning showed me in my chambers—palaces don’t have bedrooms—to slip away from my bridesmaids tonight.

My bridesmaid wouldn’t be getting me drunk and trying to talk me out of doing…the thing…tomorrow.

Or maybe they would. They’re not Martin’s biggest fans either. I squeak as a thought hits me.

“Did my friends tell you to do this?” I demand.

They share another look. “The throne room,” they say together.

“Oh, no, are the sheep in there?” I whisper. “They can’t be. Not yet. The sheep don’t invade the palace for washings until the washing day.”

“Weddings for the wedding day,” Manning helpfully corrects.

I point at him. The one of him on the left, I mean. “You told me so when I helped you herd them inside before Mom married King Tor.”

“Bloody bastard, I knew that was you.” Colden catches Manning with a punch to the arm.

Gunnar leaps between them. “Later,” he says.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” I chant. And then I giggle. Because I’d way rather watch Vikings fight than get marr—marr—marrrrr—fudgebuckets.

“We possibly should’ve skipped the mead,” Manning says cheerfully.

“The mead’s tradition,” Gunnar replies.

“For the men in the family,” Colden points out.

“For everyone,” Gunnar argues. “Merely because there hasn’t been a royal female in two hundred years doesn’t mean the females should be excluded.”

“She’s not technically royal,” Manning observes.

“She helped you herd sheep. She’s family.”

Colden twitches his fingers at me. “Hand over the bottle, Willow.”

I pull it to my chest. “No trucking way.”

Am I drunk?

Maybe.

But I’m also seeing something very, very clearly.

I’ve been with Martin for seven years. I know all of his eighteen cats. I know his birthday, his family’s birthdays, the gate code for his family’s Long Island estate house, that he’s allergic to soy and works too much, that the diamonds his mother wears in public are replicas of family heirlooms because she’s terrified the plebian masses will breathe wrong or steal the real pieces, and that he has some insecurities that come from not being loved enough as a child, which is why it took him six years and an anti-anxiety pill to propose.

But I don’t know that I love him.

I mean, I love him. But I don’t think I’m in love with him.

He’s the outward physical manifestation of the perfect husband—successful financial blah blah something, animal lover, upper crust family, respectful of my boundaries—and he’s also boring as hell.

And he never comes to my band’s performances, whereas my band mates’ boyfriends are always there.

Over dinner one night last week, I told him about Beatrix Clara Clementine trying to prove she could fly by leaping off the top of the slide on the playground at the preschool where I work, and he had no idea who I was talking about.

Beatrix Clara Clementine joined my class last August, and on her first day, she tried to practice being a submarine in the bathroom sink, which was the first of no fewer than ten instances this school year where we had to call an ambulance for the child.

I don’t even know what Martin does for work anymore. We used to talk about stuff like this, but he switched companies to work for his uncle a while back, and now it’s all oh, honey, I don’t want to bore you with that.

And we haven’t had sex in four months.

“We’ve a secret stash of mead in the throne room,” Manning tells me. “No sheep, I promise.”

“Better fucking not be,” Colden mutters.

“If there are, it was the Berger twins,” Manning replies. With a smile. Of course.

I hug my mead tighter to my chest. “I’m taking this to bed,” I tell my stepbrothers.

All three of them study me closely.

They might be Viking goobers, and they might’ve gotten stuck with a stepsister who has no interest in any of this royal business, but underneath it all, they’re good guys.

They’ve been good to my mom. They’ve been good to me.

And it’s sweet that they care.

But me getting marr—marr—dang it.

They can’t tell me what to do. They can’t tell me how to do it.

“May I escort you back to your chambers then?” Gunnar asks.

I shake my head, which makes something slosh between my ears, and not in a completely unpleasant way. There are enough guards milling about that if I get lost, someone will point me in the right direction. And since Mom’s so popular here, and everyone says I look just like here, there’s little chance of me finding myself with a battle ax to the throat or anything.

“Pass along any messages for you?” Manning offers.

I shake my head again, and there’s more wooziness.

Woozy is good. Woozy is fun.

Colden’s frowning the biggest. He pulls me in for a hug, which is surprising, because I really did think he only liked sheep. “Call if you make a break for it and need anything,” he says gruffly. Quietly.

Gunnar grabs me next. “Didn’t sleep a wink the night before my own wedding,” he says. “But I didn’t have the choices you do.”

Right.

Because his marriage was arranged.

Whereas mine isn’t.

And I have a crazy suspicion that if I were to walk out the castle gates, right now, in the dead of night, I’d have my passport, cash, and a phone with all the numbers I need to tell my mom that I’m okay.

Which is sweet of them.

But it’s not the right way to break an engagement.

If I’m not marrying Martin, I need to tell him.

To his face.

Maybe after I take a walk.

If you love sexy studs who aren’t afraid to read romance novels, socially awkward heroines, and jungle beefcake bachelor auctions, read on for an excerpt of s!

Knox (aka Mr. Romance, aka Tarzan, but only for tonight)

Even though it’s been six years since I stripped for a roomful of women, I’m pleased to report my loincloth still fits in all the right places. Tad more snug in front than I remember, but if I had to grow, might as well be in the junk.

I give the elastic one last test as the producer signals that I’m up. Spider-Man gives me a fist bump. Thor smacks my ass. They’re the last two bachelors going up on the block after me in tonight’s superhero-themed auction.

There are some who might say Tarzan isn’t a superhero, but Jane would beg to differ.

And I fucking own this costume.

Plus, if no one else bids on me, my Nana’s right up front, ready to throw down the hundred bucks I slipped her before the show.

I’m hoping for a little higher than that though. Batman just went for a cool five grand.

Batman was a dick, which I assume my Nana didn’t know when she started the bidding on him. A grade-A, condescending asshat who thought just because he had a few million bucks in the bank, he could call people gay like that’s an insult and take a metaphorical shit on my favorite books.

I fucking want to beat Batman.

“Ladies,” local anchorwoman Nancy Houlihan says into the microphone onstage just beyond the door where I’m waiting, “next up is…”

She pauses, the spotlight criss-crosses the stage, and a drum rolls. All goes silent, the light stops on the doorway, and Nancy crows, “Tarzan!”

My music starts—does anything say jungle man quite like “The Lion Sleeps tonight”? Not if you have half a sense of humor, it doesn’t—and I put all my swagger into walking out that door to the whoops and hollers of the fancy crowd. Nancy’s on the far side of the stage, waiting at the microphone while I make my way to center stage, grinding and gyrating and showing off my old moves for the ladies.

At the front table, Nana’s covering her eyes, and despite my irritation with Batman, it’s all I can do to keep from cracking up.

Am I a sexy beast? Sure.

Do I know how to give the ladies what they want? Damn straight.

But a bachelor auction? I’m a little more than just my meat, thank you very much. Also, I’ve read over eighty bachelor auction romances. I know how this story usually ends, which is why I almost said no.

However, Nancy reached out to me through my blog and said the magic words—“All proceeds are going toward literacy”—so here I am, and I’m damn well going to get as much money for my sexy ass as I can. I shake my booty, I point at the ladies, I wink, I smile, and I get my groove on, squatting to the floor and thrusting to some “a-weema-weh.”

Nancy and my Nana might be the only two women in the room unaffected.

Just because I don’t take myself too seriously doesn’t mean I can’t give a good show.

The music keeps playing, but it lightens as Nancy steps to the mic. “Ladies, meet Tarzan. He’s six-two, one hundred eighty pounds, and when he’s not swinging vine to vine to save Jane in the jungle, he likes to—”

“One thousand dollars!” A brunette in a killer red dress leaps out of her seat at a table midway back in the banquet hall and waves her paddle.

Holy shit.

Bidding hasn’t even started, and we’ve already surpassed Nana’s budget. I cock a finger at the brunette, wink and fire, and a Marilyn Monroe lookalike in the corner flings her paddle in the air.

“Fifteen hundred!”

“Two grand!” I make eye contact with the strawberry blonde at table seventeen, and hello.

There’s something fierce about her. She’s not leaping out of her seat like the brunette, Marilyn Monroe, or the little old grandma in the back who just stole a mic to offer up seven grand and her pet poodle.

Seven grand? And what’s a literacy foundation going to do with a poodle?

“You keep your hands off my grandson, Mabel!” Nana yells.

“Suck it, you old hag,” Mabel yells back.

I point Nana to sit down, then do a slow turn, pausing to show the audience my ass while I flex my arms and shoulders. Am I whoring out my body?

Yes.

Do I care?

Fuck, no. It’s for a good cause.

Bonus if we click, but if we don’t, she’ll still have a night to remember. With all our clothes on. I might be nothing more than a librarian in a loincloth, but I do have some standards.

“Ten grand.”

The strawberry blonde at table seventeen again. She’s got a death grip on her paddle and her voice is firm, but there’s something in her expression that says this isn’t where she wants to be.

Like she’s out of her element, but she has a goal, and she’s going to get it, even if it’s uncomfortable.

And she just doubled Batman’s final price. I could kiss her for that alone.

I’m distracted by a high-pitched whistle and a “Shake it, baby!”

The music switches to an old song from my grad school stripping days. I tip my head back and laugh. Nancy cocks her own finger gun at me—the lady did her research well—and goes back to fielding bids. I dip into another grind, rub my hands down my chest and play with the band on my loincloth.

“Fifteen grand!” That from the brunette who jumped the gun on the bidding.

“Twenty!” Holy shit, Marilyn Monroe’s serious.

The strawberry blonde at table seventeen surges to her feet. “Fifty thousand dollars!”

Fifty what?

Holy fuck.

The music screeches to a stop. I stop. Nancy stops.

She bats her fake eyelashes at the strawberry blonde. Not coy, like she’s hitting on the highest bidder. But like she just forgot how to talk and she’s stalling for time.

She visibly swallows, which is more than I’m currently capable of doing. “Fifty thousand dollars?” she repeats.

“Fifty thousand,” the strawberry blonde confirms with a waver in her voice.

Fuck me.

This isn’t bachelor auction money. This is gigolo money. Or… worse.

I know that book too. And at least a dozen variations.

Nana looks at me as though she, too, suspects this is bang her and knock her up money. Or I want to be your sugar mama money. Or possibly I need to take you into a secret room for a government experiment money.

I read a lot. Don’t judge.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Nancy says. “Going once…”

I stare at the strawberry blonde.

She stares back, not blinking, but not nearly as confident as she was when the bidding was still in the four figures. There’s something about that determination in her gaze—there’s a story there.

An intriguing story. One I’m surprisingly interested in hearing. Fifty grand? For me? I’m a catch, but dude. That’s almost as much as I make in a year.

“Going twice…”

“One hundred thousand dollars!”

A new voice rings out from the back doorway. Gasps and whispers of “Who is that?” echo under the sparkling chandeliers.

I crane my neck, but she’s backlit, and all I can see is a shapely figure and a curly head of hair.

The strawberry blonde at table seventeen drops her paddle, eyes flared, lips parted like someone just stole her baby unicorn.

I might be wearing a similar expression.

Because what the fuck is expected of a guy who goes for a hundred grand?

Nana’s gaping at me.

Apparently she doesn’t know either, but then she starts grinning like she’s already counting new great-grandbabies.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” Nancy repeats faintly. “Do I hear one-fifty?”

Silence.

“One hundred thousand. Going once…” Nancy calls.

The strawberry blonde quietly sinks into her seat.

“Going twice…”

A hundred grand.

Holy fuck. Batman can blow me.

“Sold! To… the lady in the doorway for one hundred thousand dollars!”

I put on a smile and move to the side of the stage as my purchaser swings her hips through the tables. The strawberry blonde at table seventeen is staring down at her program, and I get the oddest feeling in my chest.

Like something bigger than a hundred grand could’ve happened.