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by USA Today Best Selling Author HJ Bellus & The Girls
“The Waves of Love Can Make You Sick”
A Reckless Series Spin-off
A Romantic Comedy
Memphis Love knows three things.
As long as it has a pond for him to dip his pole into, he’s game, and he doesn’t stick to just one pond for his fishing trips either.
The small, beach town he lives in doesn’t offer much for job opportunities or at least lucrative ones. He relies on his body, the pole, and stage. Oh, and the after hour clients.
Iris, his best after hour customer, takes him on a yearly cruise with her friends. He’s there for one purpose and one purpose only…their boy toy.
Memphis is no fool. A two week, all paid cruise to soak up the sun and sights is a no brainer. Only thing is he didn’t expect a little ray of sunshine on the ship this year. Raylan Moore has the power to rattle everything he once believed.
The doctor is in; he’s willing, able and ready to please. Dr. Love has the cure to your Love Sick (offset in a different font) blues, only this time maybe he’s the one needing the healing.
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I lie back in the lounger, finding the perfect snooze zone again while soaking up the rays. Then I hear it. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every single inch of my body is on alert. I sit right back up, pulling down my Ray-Bans on the bridge of my nose.
I smile like the victor of Titty Mania 2017. Give me the belt, bitches. Hand it right over. She didn’t fall into my lap this time. Nope, it’s so much sweeter because I spot her before she attacks.
Raylan. She's standing at the bar fifty feet away. Her head is thrown back in laughter. A damn fruity drink is in her hand. Her girls at her side are making her laugh at something. It’s a lingering suspicion, but I know Raylan is never this carefree. The edge of a hot tub is feet away. It’s not her clumsiness I’m studying, but what she’s wearing.
Or should I say what she’s not wearing? That scrappy piece is a poor excuse for a damn top. I know what’s under it or at least half of it. She has one of those fancy, see through skirts tied around her lower half. The knot is settled nicely on her hip.
It would take one nip of my teeth to undo it. Fuck, I wouldn’t have to take her bikini bottoms off to taste her. I bet she’s as sweet as those damn drinks she loves.
I peer over to the voice ready to glare at the bastard interrupting my daydream, hot shower research supplying spank bank material. But it’s a little boy pointing right at me.
“That man has Wi-Fi.”
I squint my eyes trying to put together what the hell is going. He begins racing over to me chanting Wi-Fi.
I peer down to see if the little bandit is planning to nab any of my personal items. Kids these damn days are too smart for their good. It’s then I see the Wi-Fi. Spandex and a raging cock are not the right combination and a clear signal for Wi-Fi according to young children. The size of my engorged dick could guide astronauts home from Jupiter.
What has this clumsy girl done to me? I’m a global threat at this point. Draining my remaining drink, I find the perfect excuse to stride right over to the bar where the group of girls are still chatting it up. Hell, Raylan doesn’t notice all the men checking her out. Her friend, Brenna, has at least double Ds and I’d bet my left nut they’re fake. She’s the type the majority of men magnetize to, but not with Raylan next to her. Josi, I’m pretty sure that was her name, is also a knockout with fake assets and plump injected lips. But it’s none of that which attracts me.
The fuck? I don’t remember any female names, and here I’m studying Raylan and her friends like a first rate stalker. I saddle up to the bar, blocking the group of dickheads drinking in Raylan. My size and width get the job done.
“Another, hun?” the busty bartender asks.
I keep up the smolder showdown giving it to her smooth. “Please, darlin’.”
That does the trick. I hear one of the girls squeal. I know it’s not Raylan but not sure which one it is.
“Raylan.” I hear a loud skin slap, but I don’t look, pretending to eye down the bartender. “It’s him.”
Another voice joins. “It is Raylan. Holy shit, he’s on the cruise.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
“Who?” Raylan asks. Hell, her voice erects the Eiffel Tower in a matter of seconds.
“I’d say nipple gate 2017, but it was more of Tit Show Gate 2017 live and in action.”
There’s an audible gasp. I can feel her gaze soaking up the front view leaning on the bar. My elbow is propped on the smooth wood and my face is in the direction of the back shelf with my legs crossed at the ankles. Most men would flex their muscles right now, putting them in the douche category permanently. I remain calm, playing to ignore the conversation.
I’m betting today they’ve had a few to drink since their voices are not a whisper when they think they are.
“You were right about his wiener. It was not your imagination.”
I stifle laughter at that one.
“Don’t say wiener; we aren’t ten years old anymore.”
“I told you it was huge.”
And there’s my cue. I stand slowly, paying attention to each move of my body, grab my drink from the bar, and make eye contact. They react as suspected, ducking their heads and blushing like fools.
— ABOUT THE AUTHOR --
HJ Bellus is a small town girl who loves the art of storytelling. When not making readers laugh or cry, she's a part-time livestock wrangler that can be found in the middle of Idaho, shot gunning a beer while listening to some Miranda Lambert on her Beats and rocking out in her boots.