Pu$ Magnet Read online

  Pu$$y Magnet

  A Titans of Tech Novel

  Tessa Layne

  Contents

  A Very Naughty RomCom

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Tessa’s Newsletter

  The heroes are here

  Introducing the Roughstock Riders

  Also by Tessa Layne

  Copyright © 2019 by Tessa Layne

  Paperback Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-14-2

  EPUB Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-15-9

  Published by Shady Layne Media

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of copious amounts of wine, long walks, and the author’s overactive imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Very Naughty RomCom

  Let’s get one thing straight. I love pussy. Fucking. Love. It.

  Call me shallow, call me a perv, call me a fucking manwhore, but the reason I know there’s a heaven is because God made pussy. Because when my tongue, fingers or cock is buried in its sweetness I know without a doubt, I’m in heaven.

  My life’s mission, to sample as much of the pussy garden as possible, began when I was thirteen and found a stack of playboy magazines in the shed out behind my grandfather’s summer house. There, I was initiated into the exotic, mysterious world of pussy. Black pussy, white pussy, Asian pussy, Mexican pussy, Italian pussy, Irish pussy, Turkish pussy. Each a perfect pink flower, reflecting the personality of its owner - trimmed, waxed, or wild and free, they hold the key to a woman’s undoing. Because no matter who a woman is, a ball buster in the courtroom or a flower child at an Avitt Brothers concert, I have the keys to the kingdom, and they all want it.

  Until Mariah Sanchez - aka Sparky

  She wants me.

  I can feel it. I can smell it. But for nine months, sixteen days, twelve hours and forty-seven minutes she’s had my cock in irons. Worse, my mouth and my fingers, too. Locked up in an invisible prison of my own making. And because I’m a stupid idiot, the only person I can blame for my predicament is me.

  But that’s about to change…

  Chapter One

  From the perspective of Steele’s dick

  Football players are pussies. Baseball players? Pussies. Hockey players? Maybe not pussies, but with all the gear they hide under it’s hard to tell.

  You want to fuck a real athlete? Someone who’s all muscle with endurance for days? The kind of athlete who can make you come for an hour straight? Then let me tell you where it’s at. Crew.

  What’s that? You’ve never even heard of crew? Eight men in a boat, using one-hundred-percent of their God-given muscles, stressing every system in the body to the max in an all out sprint- just them against the water and the wind. Man against nature. You want a man with arms? With abs? With a rock hard ass? Oh- and a brain? Fuck the rest of the athletes. You want a man in a boat.

  A man like… me.

  Someone with a hot bod, an enormous cock, and a bank account with so many zeroes behind the number, it’ll make your panties wet.

  Chapter Two

  “Dude, tuck your junk away.” Sparky, my boat’s coxswain, rolls her eyes as she walks past. “Press is on their way for a photo-op.”

  My chest puffs a little. “There’s no tucking this bad boy away, Sparky. You know that. Especially when we smoked the competition.”

  She scoffs deep in her throat not bothering to turn around. “I’m putting you in the back row then. No one needs to see that shit on the front page of the London Times.”

  “Then they shouldn’t design these uniforms so tight,” chimes in my CTO and best friend Stockton Forde as he falls into step beside me.

  “Right?” I add, following her down the dock to where the press and our fans wait to congratulate us. “The ladies don’t give two fucks about rowing, or who wins a regatta. They’re here for one thing only.” I slide a glance Forde’s direction.

  “The uniforms.” We both chortle simultaneously.

  “Twelve-year-olds,” Sparky mutters under her breath as she keeps walking.

  I fucking love this about her. We all do. Being a female cox for an eight-man rowing team is half motivation, half toleration, and fulltime ego management. And Sparky has those qualities in spades. It’s why we hired her fresh out of college to help whip our team back into shape. And today it’s paid off big-time.

  Sparky stops and turns on a dime, holding out her hands, and giving us one of those I’m not fucking around looks. “Don’t be assholes in front of the press. No one likes losing at home.” She looks all eight of us in the eye. “Steele, since you’re stroke position, the press is going to be directing most of the questions to you.”

  This is why our team loves Sparky. She’s so much more than a coxswain. She’s the heart and soul of our boat, we do things with her we can’t do on our own. And sure, Fitz, our official coach is a phenom when it comes to technique — to helping each of us understand timing, feathering the oar, and making our strokes as efficient and streamlined as possible. But it’s Sparky that helps us make the boat swing. And when it swings like it did today, it’s fucking magic.

  “And the women,” grumbles Owen, my CFO and the tallest guy on our boat. “Share the love with the other guys, asshole.”

  A ripple of laughter spreads through the group.

  “There were three camped outside his hotel room this morning,” adds Mac, our most powerful rower. Half Scot, half Italian, the guy is a beast.

  “And two more inside,” adds Jackson, our lawyer, cheerily throwing me under the bus.

  I spread my hands. “Hey, I can’t help it that the ladies love me.” And I can’t help it that I love the ladies. Their soft curves, the way they coo and purr when I lick their nipples into hard peaks. The way they arch and clutch the covers when I feast on their honeyed treasure. I refuse to collect wine because it would take more than a lifetime to sample all the good stuff. Same with pussy. Why limit myself to just one when there’s a buffet of perfection waiting to be pleasured?

  Sparky gives me the full-on evil-eye. “Just make sure they love you far from the cameras. We don’t need any videos of your shenanigans posted online, got it?” She shakes her head and mutters something else under her breath that I don’t quite catch.

  My ears perk up. “What was that?”

  Her eyes jerk back to mine, and I swear her sun-kissed cheeks darken a shade. “Don’t
forget to invite the London Rowing Club to a rematch at our regatta in August.”

  That’s not what she said. I want to press the question, but now’s not the time. Not with the reporters and the ladies practically crawling over the barriers. Instead I nod and follow as she turns and marches toward the meet and greet area where Fitz is already taking questions. She stops at a bench and motions for us to grab our sweats. “Gotta protect the family jewels,” she says with a sly smile, pulling a pint-sized sweatshirt over her own head.

  “Hey, what’d you say back there?” I ask.

  “Let it go, Steele. It was nothing. Go meet your fans.”

  “They’re your fans, too.”

  She glances over her shoulder at the throng of young co-eds clambering for a view from behind the wall of cameras. “I’m pretty sure they’re not lesbians. Go let them down gently. And don’t forget we have a three a.m. wake-up for the airport.”

  “Way to be a buzzkill, Sparks.”

  She flashes me a super-sized grin. “That’s me, and you love it.”

  She’s right about that.

  Chapter Three

  From the perspective of Steele’s dick

  You can laugh all you want about cox in a box, or small cox winning big races, but let’s get one thing straight… the size of your cox doesn’t matter when you have the biggest dick.

  Chapter Four

  “What the fuck crawled up your ass and laid eggs?” Stockton asks when he sees I’m clutching my pint so hard my knuckles show white.

  I nod across the pub. “You ever see Sparky like that?”

  Stockton scans the room, eyes landing on Sparky. He bites back a grin. “You mean acting like a girl?”

  “I mean talking to other boats,” I growl.

  Owen, my number six in the boat and four inches taller than me drops onto the bench next to me. “What’s got your britches in a bunch? No ladies asking to feel your biceps?”

  The pub is filled with older men and women my mother’s age. And the team from Spain. No one here I’d be remotely interested in, which has given me time to watch Sparky. And more time to wonder what the fuck is up with her. Normally she sticks to us like glue, then bows out after a couple rounds. Tonight, she’s been buying rounds… but not for us. We’re the fucking winners and she’s across the room buying rounds for the douchebag Spaniards. Seriously… What. The. Fuck?

  Stockton leans across the table, talking to Owen in a stage whisper. “Sparky just broke up with her boyfriend.”

  I hold up a hand. “Wait, what?" I must be hearing things.

  Owen covers a laugh. “What do you mean, what? Didn’t you know? Sparky was practically married, and she threw the guy out last week.”

  I blink.

  How in the fucking fuck did I not know this? I’ve been sitting directly across from Sparky for the better part of three years, pulling my ass off at her command. Letting her bootcamp my ass four times a week, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard about a boyfriend? Furthermore, why in Christ’s nutcrackers am I the last person to find out? It’s my fucking boat. I’m financing this goddamned gig. I should at least know what the fuck is going on with my cox. I slide a glance Sparky’s direction. Her head is thrown back, throat undulating with a laugh that comes straight from her toes, short dark hair falling behind her like a puffball, and a smile so wide her face might split in two. She’s laughed that hard with us, sure… but not like this. She looks… different.

  Owen curses under his breath, and then louder. “Motherfucker. I know that look. Don’t go getting any ideas, man.”

  “Seriously, man,” Stockton adds. “You’ve got beer goggles. Owen’s right. Do not go getting any ideas.”

  “I don’t have any ideas, and I don’t have beer goggles,” I answer, not taking my eyes off Sparky, or the dudes on either side of her. Just then, the asshole to her left glances up and catches my eye. Then the corner of his mouth pulls up real slow as his chin lifts. As if he’s already tapped her ass.

  Over my dead body.

  “We need to make an extraction,” I growl.

  “I think you’re fucking psycho. Let Sparky have her fun. She can handle herself.”

  “Did you see the look that guy gave me?”

  “You’re paranoid,” Owen says.

  “I’m not. Shit’s gonna go down if we don’t step in.”

  “There a problem?” Mac steps up to join us.

  I nod my head Spark’s direction. “She’s in trouble.”

  Mac takes a pull of his Guinness and surveys the scene unfolding across the room. “She looks like she’s having fun.” He side-eyes me with a smirk. “Sure this isn’t about reminding the Spaniards your dick is bigger?”

  It totally is, but my gut’s screaming something’s wrong. I drain what’s left of my pint and rise. “I’m going in. Y’all join me if you’re up for it.” I let my midwestern, nearly southern twang come out. “Sparky’s in trouble and we’re not going to let her swing.”

  I’m halfway across the room before I register the groans of frustration and scraping benches behind me. My guys have my back, just like I’ll have theirs- anytime they ask. I step up to the Spaniards’ table, and drop my hand to Sparky’s shoulder. She stops laughing and looks up. Our eyes lock and for a second my heart stops. Her eyes are bright, shiny, maybe even glassy — like she’s had too much to drink. Is she drunk? Sparky can drink half the team under the table, and that’s saying something, because our friend, Danny Pendergast, makes whiskey for a living. But it’s the way her full lips are parted that makes my cock jump. A jolt of lust rips through me, like a power surge frying my circuits. It happens so fast that it’s gone before it even registers, but what’s left in its place is a bloodlust urge so strong I could be a fucking gladiator. “Time to go, Sparky,” I growl, pulling my mouth back into a toothy smile I aim at the other guys.

  “Whaddya mean, it’s time to go?” she slurs. “Javi and I were just getting to know each other.”

  Motherfucker. She’s three sheets to the wind. “Cuanto le diste?” I demand roughly, glaring at the other men?

  “Wait…” She flails an arm. “You speak Spanish?”

  The Spaniards look just as surprised. “Enough.” I’m not great, but we have offices in Madrid, so I know enough to get by. Although I refuse to speak with a lisp. That shit’s for pussies.

  “No lo se,” the guy she called Javi answers with a shrug, and a look that says, don’t ask me, man.

  “Time to go, Sparks.”

  She shakes her head, bottom lip thrusting out. “No.”

  “No?” I’m momentarily dumbfounded, that is, until my anger finds a voice. I lean close to her. “You’re shithoused, and you’re coming with me, sweetheart.”

  She beams at me. “You called me sweetheart.” Her eyes slide down my torso and land on my cock. She cocks her head like she’s studying my junk, then shakes it with a giggle. “You might have a perfect cock, but your charms won’t work on me. I don’t do —” Another giggle slips from her mouth. “Pussy magnet,” she mumbles, half swallowing the words. But this time, there’s no missing what she said.

  Behind me, Owen and Mac guffaw.

  She’s wasted. There’s no way sober Sparky would ever let shit like that fall from her lips. Heat flushes the back of my neck. I’m half mortified, half fluffed that she noticed my cock is perfect. “That’s it,” I grumble. “I’m taking you back to the hotel.” I scoop her up into my arms, and she wraps an arm around my neck with a giggle, batting her eyelashes. I never noticed how thick and long her lashes were, or how her dark eyes are at least four different shades of brown, ranging from nearly black to almost gold. For a second I lose myself. Until she pokes a finger into my chest. “Pussy magnet, definitely,” she says again, then circles her finger toward Stockton. “And you… I’ve heard your O’s are legendary. And you two—” she swings her arm to Owen and Mac. “Big bad baby daddies.”

  “So we have… nicknames?” Stockton asks, incredulous.

>   “Are you fucking kidding me?” adds Owen with a shake of his head.

  Mac puffs his chest with a grin. “Hell, yeah, my genes will make great babies.”

  “Of course you do. How do you think I keep track of you? Too much test’rone.” she says with a hiccup. “Mr. Whiskey, Lady killer.”

  Damn if she hasn’t named us all. “You’re drunk and we’re going to pretend this never happened,” I say through gritted teeth, pushing through my friends and stalking to the door. “Right, guys?” I toss over my shoulder. Their ‘yeahs’ and ‘sures’ offer me little relief. There will be razzing. Maybe not in front of Sparky, but I know my teammates well enough to know I’m never going to live this down.

  Chapter Five

  From the perspective of Steele’s dick

  Sparky’s not wrong. On a cock scale of 1-10, I’m a fucking perfect. A 100, easy. I’ve been blessed with girth and length. But it’s what I do with it that matters. I know just the angle to hit the mythic g-spot, and with my stamina built from years of rowing, I can go until my partners come at least twice. Minimum. And that’s just from fucking.