Release Blitz: Love Sick by HJ Bellus
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LOVE SICK
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.
Money
Sex
Women
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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Memphis Love
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.
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.
“Daddy, antennae.”
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.
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.
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