Release Blitz: One Hour Girl by LeTeisha Newton
Title: One Hour Girl
Series: Lost Souls #1
Author: LeTeisha Newton
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: February 29,
2016
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.
Always
“You are my date for the night.” He
said date like a curse and I arched my brow at him, irritated that I
noticed his good looks when he seemed to be disgusted by the very
thing I represented. This man probably never had to pay for sex in
his life.
Well I wasn’t some newbie who’d let his
actions hurt me. I wouldn’t.
“That’s what you paid
for.” I shifted my chest so my breasts swayed a bit. His eyes left
my face and his gaze followed the sway of my breasts for a moment
before he looked back at me. So, not completely adverse to my
charms.
“Your job is to stay silent, entice, and smile
pretty. These men here are donating money toward my organization
based on ‘paying for one of you for the night’” he said,
fingers curling in quotation marks.
“I understand,”
I said. This was business, and that I could do. Men with money did a
lot of odd things with their money. I had more powerful men and women
in my client list than I would have ever believed when I first
started. This was no different, and the premise of the evening didn’t
bother me.
It was the fact that the organizer seemed
discomforted by his event. And his discomfort was extended to
me.
And why it bothered me, I didn’t know. But it
shouldn’t have. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts, and stood
taller. I let my arms fall to my sides before I stepped up to his
side. He stiffened a moment before relaxing as I grasped his arm in
my hands. The cool material of his suit rubbed against my nipple and
I sucked in a breath, and took in his scent with it. I could taste it
on the back of my throat.
He smelled of sandalwood and
Jasmine, but in a light, lingering signature that I recognized. I’ve
smelled Clive Christian on a lot of men, but I hadn’t smelled it
like this. Ever. I leaned in, inhaling more of his scent. My date
shifted against me, and molded his body to my front. I let go of his
arm with one hand and gripped his lapel. He held his body, hard and
hot, against me. My breasts tingled, crushed to his chest, and I
couldn’t stop myself from taking another whiff. My nose touched his
neck before I realized it. I caught his swift intake of breath, the
bite of his finger in my upper arms as he gripped me, and pulled me a
little closer.
“You do your job well,” he whispered
in my ear. His voice was low, seductive, and authoritative.
“But
I don’t pay for kicks.” I stopped breathing.
He
couldn’t have done a better job if he’d tossed cold water over my
head and laughed in my face. I plastered a smile on my face, feeling
the burn of embarrassment on my cheeks. I leaned back from him and
looked directly in his eyes. He wasn’t going to scare me. He wasn’t
going to hurt me like so many others had.
“Sugar, you
spend over two thousand dollars on cologne made to attract women, and
then buy escorts to earn money for your organization. You pay for
tricks already, you just would have been much happier had you paid
for mine. Shall we?” I gestured toward the open door, and the party
he’d paid me for. He hid his momentary surprise well, the
expression melting into a cool mask so fast I would have missed it
had I not been looking at him.
Take that. I may be a lot
of things, but your object of ridicule I am not. He didn’t
acknowledge my statement, but he turned towards the door and walked
with me out of it. I kept my grip on his arm, holding my head
high.
“Royce Mattherson,” he said then, and I
frowned over at him. “My name,” he added. A smile played on his
lips, the left side a bit higher than the right. That smile, that
show of imperfection made my heart skip a beat. I forced myself to
ignore it as I thought of my reply.
“Nice to meet you,
Royce Mattherson. I’m your one hour girl.” I bowed my head to
read the watch on his wrist. “Of which, you have forty-five minutes
left.”
He chuckled, a soft rumbling sound that had my
toes curling. “I hurt your feelings, I see. Grow up, little girl.
This world will crush you if you let it. You won’t make it very far
if you don’t understand that.”
“You don’t know
anything about me,” I hissed at him through clenched teeth,
maintaining my false smile as he walked me up the hallway to the main
part of the party in a ballroom.
“You’ve got a chip
on your shoulder a mile wide,” he responded.
“Now
who has the hurt feelings? I think you’re more bothered than you
want to let on that I didn’t offer my services,” I
argued.
“You’re here; I’ve already got your
services. I just don’t want what’s between your legs,” he
added. I felt his eyes on me.
But I knew what he said
was a lie. I could read it in him. I’d bothered him. Stepped on his
peace offering, but I hadn’t known how to read him. And, yes, I’d
been sort of hurt, sort of bothered that he hadn’t reacted to me
the way I’d hoped.
And where did that leave me
admitting that?
“Yes you do,” I said, stopping.
He
stopped with me. I turned towards him and ran my hand down over his
groin area. His cock jumped under my hand. The desire was there,
despite his words.
“I know this better than anything,
and you do want me.” I trailed my fingertips over his shape. The
cloth separated us, but his heat pushed through the cloth as I
measured his girth. My pulse quickened. Yes, this is what I knew,
what I understood. He gripped my wrist and pulled my hand
away.
“You speak your mind, and I can respect that.
But let me be perfectly clear, I have never, and will never pay for
sex.”
“Is that your problem? And if we’d met in a
bar? In a club late at night with the music thumping around us?” I
asked.
“Then I’d have fucked you against the nearest
surface until you couldn’t stand. And then I’d have walked away,”
he answered. He stepped back from me and straightened his clothing
before looking over at me with a question in his eyes.
I
had no return for that. My body was hot with the idea, and the
anonymity of the encounter would have been just what I liked, but
something in me hesitated. Would I have liked to be a passerby in
this man’s world? I didn’t know, and the lack of answer irritated
me. I needed to get away from him, and the questions he brought,
fast.
“I’m sure it would have been a fun time,” I
answered, no longer interested in the banter. I gripped his arm once
more and he walked into the party, his small crooked smile on his
face again.
I hated that smile. It meant he won. That
he’d bested me. I didn’t want him to win. I didn’t want to fall
behind. And it irritated me that I care so much. And yet, as I
listened to him talk about his organization, helping with domestic
violence and using rescue dogs to help rebuild trust in those who’d
learned only pain from their loved ones, there was no doubt he was an
intelligent man. He was composed. He was a man that I could have
liked. A man that I could have respected if my other side, the
pristine side, the perfect side had met him first. Would she have sat
and smiled, talked to him? Would she have blushed prettily at his
compliments and challenged him with thought provoking conversation?
Would he have liked her?
Because right now I was playing
the whore, and, for the first time, I felt dirty and wished Ms.
Perfect was in attendance.
I hated Royce Mattherson.
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.
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