A Very Filthy Game (Winner Takes All #3), page 1
A VERY FILTHY GAME
LAUREN BLAKELY
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
About
A Very Filthy Game
A Very Filthy Game
1. Dirty Longing
2. Let’s Do It Again
3. Come and Get Me
4. The First Move in the Game
5. Your First Order
6. If Someone Saw Me
7. Here’s Your Reward
8. Shameless Exhibitionist
9. All My Past Mistakes
10. Sex Chess
11. Leave the Door Unlocked
12. First Time
13. Do You Know His Story?
14. Two Can Play
15. Ground Rules
16. A Man with Specific Desires
17. Highly Motivated
18. The Private Club
19. I Won’t Beg Unless We’re in Bed
20. Under the Table
21. Some Kind of Sex MacGyver
22. Caught Stealing
23. I Want to Make You an Offer
24. This Is Your Warning
25. A Little Obsessed
26. Midnight Craving
27. Come to the Window
28. Do I Stay or Go?
29. The Twist
30. The Price of Me
31. One Night or Nothing
32. Showtime, Lover Boy
33. Palace for Sin
34. A Very Filthy Game
35. My Shameless Confession
36. Last Time
37. Dangerous Temptations
38. Surprise Me
39. Getaway Jet
40. Smile for the Camera
41. Running from Him
42. Parting Words
43. I’m So Over You
44. The View from the Balcony
45. The Man on His Knees
46. A Little Magic
47. A Mirage, or Not
Epilogue
Be A Lovely
PS
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Contact
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by TE Black. Photo by Wong Sim
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader:
Rafe and Gunnar’s love story was first told in a serial fashion, originally available through Kindle Vella. As such, the story was written in a soapy, dramatic fashion, with a particular intensity of emotions, as well as mini cliffhangers in each chapter. Though I revised the story to release as a novel and an audiobook, their romance still has a certain “drama!!!” to it. Think of it like a late-night, sexy erotic soap! This style of quick storytelling is a little different from my usual fare. Thanks for giving it a shot.
Xoxo
Lauren
ABOUT
It's a fine line between lust and obsession…
Lately, I’ve been full of questions. Then one hot summer night I find all the answers when I kiss another guy for the first time. But all too soon, he disappears, leaving me wondering who my mystery man was.
Then I can’t stop thinking about him. Even on the ball field, I’m daydreaming about his hungry hands, and the filthy things he whispered in his posh British accent.
Somehow I still win one of the biggest games of my career, and afterward the man surprises me with an invitation: “Meet me in a private suite.”
When I RSVP, he makes me an offer – one chance to try all the things I’ve never experienced. Then we’ll walk away.
But once will never be enough. Soon I’m locked into an intense lessons-in-seduction game with the secretive billionaire who keeps love at a distance, all while he pushes the boundaries of my brand new desires.
And soon I learn that all my desires come with a terrible cost, as he breaks down the walls around my heart.
A VERY FILTHY GAME
By Lauren Blakely
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A VERY FILTHY GAME
By Lauren Blakely
1
DIRTY LONGING
Rafe
The music pulses. The lights are low. The packed club radiates sex and energy.
I’ve danced my ass off for hours with my friend Theresa and one hundred of our new closest mates.
I may not know their names, but I know them. They might be strangers on paper, but I can tell you what anyone here at Edge tonight would look damn good in when they take off their trousers.
Take that all-American guy out there. He’d turn heads in a pair of my Tight, White, and Bright jocks—all boy-next-door in the front, loud-and-proud playboy in the back.
The bearded man in the corner wearing the snappy, bright red tank top? When he strips for his lover tonight, he’d give that lucky man something to ogle in my Over the Rainbow briefs.
It’s a private party game I play as I ask for a martini at the second-floor bar where I catch my breath, running a hand through my hair.
It’s been a perfect Saturday night, and perfectly inspirational. My mind swims with ideas as I wait for my drink and once more scan the crowd at the San Francisco club. Revelers fill the dance floor. Bodies bump and grind. Hands slide along arms, and legs intertwine. Hips thrust. Lips lock, and I can’t look away.
My greedy imagination gobbles up the sounds and the motion. And most of all, the touching.
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Theresa, her skin aglow and flushed from dancing. She’s my very good friend, as well as my Executive VP. “I know that look,” she shouts into my ear in her familiar English accent. “You’re thinking of men’s underwear.”
I laugh aloud, though it’s drowned by the music. “Guilty as charged.”
Theresa shakes her head. “Always conjuring the newest line of sexy AF briefs.”
That’s true. Men flock to my designs, buying them in droves because of how they show off their wares. Body confidence is a beautiful thing, and I’m a proud purveyor of it. Some might say lucky me, but I’ve worked hard for this luck, and my brain never stops turning.
Theresa casts her knowing brown gaze toward the dance floor. “Don’t work the whole time. Look around. Maybe you’ll find some handsome hottie to go home with.”
“Ah, but I’m only here for inspiration,” I say.
“Maybe you’ll find some inspiring sex,” Theresa says. She’s always going on about how the world needs more sex.
She’s probably not wrong.
And I certainly wouldn’t object.
It’s been a while. Late nights, early mornings, employees to look out for—work makes it hard to find time for anything more than the daily grind.
Besides, business doesn’t break your heart.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” I say drily, then I take the martini the bartender left for me and make my way to the railing overlooking the dance floor.
And holy fucking inspiration. There are some perfect models for my designs. Sweaty, muscly bodies. Greek god physiques. Mythically sexy men.
Theresa joins me to ogle the crowd below. “Happy sigh. Don’t you just love a fit athlete?” She gestures to one pack of sturdy men, laughing and dancing, clearly having a blast.
I make a low noise of approval—under the cover of the music, so Theresa won’t think I’m staring shamelessly.
But I totally fucking am.
It’s damned sexy, the way they’re enjoying themselves. Maybe that’s the inspiration I’m after—a fantastic new line of radically fun underwear.
Theresa points to the dance floor below. “I’ll be heading there.”
“Be sure to take notes,” I tease.
She taps her temple. “I’m always working, just like you.”
“Birds of a feather,” I say.
“And I’m going to fly now,” she says and departs with a wink.
I sip my martini, soaking in the colors, the lights, the sounds, imagining how they would come together in a design. Then my gaze catches on a strong, muscular man dancing with a group of friends. He grinds against a woman, then switches to the man flanking his opposite side. I watch as he switches back and forth, giving each a turn.
With him so far away and the lights low, I can’t tell what color his eyes are, but his hair is dark blond and wavy, his lips full, and his chest broad. A tight white T-shirt hugs his muscular pecs, and his jeans snuggle up against sturdy thighs.
&nbs
It’s crooked and electric, sexy and dirty.
When he looks up to the second floor, his eyes find mine. Our gazes lock, and a simmering heat whooshes down my chest, straight to my groin.
Something in his eyes says come and get it. They never leave mine as he swivels his hips, lifts his arms, and moves his body like he’s seducing me. I watch, hypnotized, as the woman in the triangle pulls him close, then pushes him toward the other man. She’s the orchestrator of this dirty dance show, and by all appearances, the guy in the white T-shirt loves it.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s what he’s looking for.
Someone else to be in control.
The back of my neck pricks with possibility—with scenes of control and dominance. I have the feeling he might want that kind of game.
So what if I didn’t come here to take a man home. Maybe I will, after all.
I knock back the rest of my drink without breaking eye contact, turn around to set it down on the marble bar top, then flash the man a sly grin. He licks his lips.
As quickly as possible, I ask for my tab, hoping the man in the white T-shirt will be hot and sweaty and waiting for me. But settling the check takes a frustrating amount of time, and when I head downstairs, he’s gone.
There’s no sign of my dirty dancer anywhere.
My shoulders sag. We didn’t even talk, yet I felt such a strong pull toward him.
But pulls are dangerous.
Attraction can be risky, so this is for the best. I should shove the man out of my mind.
As I get into my limo and head home, I ignore the subtle sense of disappointment—the unusual bit of longing that tugs at my chest.
Doesn’t matter. I won’t see him again. And by tomorrow, this dirty craving will have disappeared.
2
LET’S DO IT AGAIN
Gunnar
Boom.
One million followers.
In the locker room after a game against the Seattle Storm Chasers, I flash my phone at my teammates Zane and Declan. Between us, we kill it on the San Francisco Dragons’ lineup and on the field. Declan’s the shortstop, Zane mans first, and I handle the hot corner like a badass.
“Check this out. You wish you had my following,” I tell them.
Declan rolls his eyes as he grabs his bag from his stall. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want—a massive social media following. Not the thirty home runs I already have this season,” the shortstop says.
Zane echoes the dismissal. “Or the sponsorship deal I just got.”
I scoff, grabbing my shirt from the stall, but then—fuck it. Why do I need a picture with a shirt on? We just won the game. I clobbered in a three-run homer. Fans like pictures of me with my shirt off. So I snap a selfie in front of my stall, grinning a little wickedly.
“Bet I get a fuck-ton of likes on this,” I say, admiring it like the cocky fucker I am.
“And what are you going to do with all of those likes?” Zane asks.
“Um. Hello? Pretty sure Seductive Cologne doesn’t mind the shirtless pics. Nor does my bathing suit sponsor,” I say, pulling on my shirt. Probably crazy to think the guy I danced for at the club could be one of those likes. But you never know.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a showboat?” Declan asks, making his way to the locker room exit.
“All the time. And I love it. And the fans love it too,” I say. But I don’t just do it for the fans. I have my reasons. Personal ones.
Zane shrugs, following Declan. “He’s not wrong. The fans eat it up.”
“The ladies and the dudes.” I stuff my phone in my pocket and head out into the corridor after them. “And, speaking of ladies and dudes, I think I might head back to that club early tomorrow night. Are you in?”
Something sparked for me there. The start of something new, something alluring. A sense of what I want after hours. A possibility of how I might want to spend my time.
“The night before a game?” Declan asks in faux horror.
“I said early, for some good ol’ fashioned fun.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not suggesting we dance till dawn and drink the bar dry.”
Declan shudders. “You won’t find me in a club again. I only went once for Grant. And that was a couple years ago,” he says as we head down the corridor. “But he gets it.”
“Awww. You were such a good boyfriend then,” I say.
“And I’m a great husband now,” he says, waggling his ring finger.”
Laughing, I shudder. “No lady or dude is tying this guy down.”
Zane claps my shoulder. “It’s going to be so fun when you eat your words.”
“No way. You’ll see. I’ll still be single AF by the end of the season because I plan to enjoy the hell out of the off-season.”
The guys stop in their tracks like they’d rehearsed it, and they exchange a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Declan asks Zane.
Zane nods knowingly. “Time for a bet.”
Declan turns to me. “Guys like you always fall the hardest. If you’re still single AF by the end of the season, I’ll donate a hundred grand to the charity of your choice. And if you fall, you’ll donate that to our picks.”
I blink. Someone throws down big. But then I square my shoulders. “You think I’ll have someone locking me down by then? It’ll never happen.”
We bet on it.
These guys have no idea.
A memory of a certain hottie and his I want to fuck you eyes rushes to mind and turns my skin hot. I only want sex, and I want it with the guy from the club.
I round up a crew of friends early the next night. Zane and his boyfriend join me, and so do Layla and her girlfriend. It’s a motley crew of gals and guys, straight and queer. We’re decked out in our club finest—tight and sexy and seductive duds.
“And so it begins,” Zane says, as we turn onto the block where Edge resides. “I’ve decided your donation will go to that new cat shelter.”
His dude, Maddox, chimes in with, “You always have a plan, Zane.”
“You know me so well,” Zane says to him, with an insider grin.
I snort-laugh. “Oh, ye of little faith. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
They really don’t. When you figure out at twenty-four you like dudes as well as gals, the last thing you want is to settle down. I want to explore this side of my sexuality. To go beyond the rudimentary kissing.
Well beyond it.
But that’s not all.
Another kind of craving tugs something in my chest. I don’t entirely understand this nascent desire. But I want to. And I think the key might be with that man who watched me dance and ignited a new kind of lust in me.
3
COME AND GET ME
Gunnar
Inside the club, I stay alert for a glimpse of my watcher. He was tall and trim and dripping with elegance. Dark hair, smoldering eyes. Tailored shirt, custom-fitted slacks that hugged his legs, and the exact right amount of stubble.
