Kiss me Now (Brewhouse Book 3) Read online

  Kiss me Now

  Brewhouse Book Three

  Holly Dodd

  Contents

  Blurb

  Also by Holly Dodd

  Join the Hive

  1. Angela

  2. Jackson

  3. Angela

  4. Jackson

  5. Angela

  6. Jackson

  7. Angela

  8. Jackson

  9. Angela

  10. Jackson

  11. Angela

  12. Jackson

  13. Angela

  14. Jackson

  15. Angela

  16. Jackson

  17. Angela

  18. Angela

  19. Jackson

  20. Angela

  21. Jackson

  22. Angela

  23. Jackson

  Excerpt of Hot Blooded Prizefighter

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Join the Hive

  Angela Watts loved being the life of a party.

  Until one night changed everything. Now, she just wants a fresh start. With one semester left of college, she's intent on finishing it and moving on. That means no more distractions and no more boys. Especially womanizer's like Jackson. His cocky smile and mesmerizing eyes ignite her like none other. Which is exactly why she vows to stay away from him. Except he's always there when she needs him. His hungry kisses and fiery touch inflame her. She hadn't wanted a relationship, but in his arms, she is safe again.

  Jackson Clark f*cked up. He failed the only job he'd had, and that failure ruined Angela's life. Even though he didn't have a hand in what happened, he's drowning in guilt. Then, he sees Angela again, and he becomes the protector he should have been. The heat between them is undeniable. For the first time he doesn't only want a tight little body and juicy mouth, but her heart too.

  But one thought lingers: if Angela knew the role Jackson played in her downfall, would she still want him?

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017 Holly Dodd

  http://www.hollydodd.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For permission requests please contact mailto:[email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Also by Holly Dodd

  Theirs to Take

  Giving it Up

  Pin me Down

  Kiss me Now

  Dirty CEO

  Hot Blooded Prizefighter

  Join the Hive

  Sign up HERE!

  1

  Angela

  “Why are you being such a stick in the mud?”

  Carrie Parker’s high-pitched voice barely blipped over the dance music thumping around us. Her question competed for my attention with the co-eds in the corner and lost. I was such a voyeur. I fucking loved watching my peers do stupid shit, and the three—two guys and a girl—I was watching gave me quite a show. Others nearby must have been thinking the same thing because they had their phones whipped out and were capturing this moment of youthful stupidity for posterity. I hoped the girl didn’t have political aspirations because this was a goldmine of future embarrassment.

  I tilted my head and held back a snort. Were they really doing upside down keg stands? Didn’t they realize how much beer burned and foamed when it got into your nostrils? They had to be freshmen cutting loose at their first frat party.

  The girl braced her palms on the smooth metal edge of the keg and hoisted herself into a half handstand. The guys each grabbed an ankle and flipped her vertically.

  I shook my head when I got flashed a beaver shot. Goodness, she should have at least worn panties when doing that. Then again, until recently, had I ever turned down a keg stand, a free drink, or a chance at the beer funnel?

  I couldn’t be bitchy about party girls. During my college career, before my current vow of celibacy, I was worse than all of them. That was why I currently sported the scarlet label every guy stamped me with when I met their eyes: crazy slut. They might want to stick their dick into crazy, but they sure as hell didn’t want me for anything more. I had sought love in all the wrong places, and now I bore the social stigma of my graceless actions.

  I shook my head. “You know I hate frat parties. Why didn’t you tell me where we were going?”

  The house party Carrie had dragged me to was in full swing and filled with a smorgasbord of campus lifestyle with a salty dash of Greek row. No matter where I looked my vision collided with sorority sisters and frat boys.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  I glanced towards the three in the corner and raised an eyebrow. They weren’t the root of my problem though. “Yes, it is. You know what they did.”

  The house used to belong to the local chapter of a very well-known fraternity—Delta Phi, the brothers of my own sorority house. But, the fraternity’s letters had been suspended last year. Though, the only reason they had been punished was because they had gotten caught, on video, hazing a pledge. Hazing was a hot-button topic for any university, and just a whiff of drama had the dean doubling-down on the school’s zero tolerance policy. But, it wasn’t a permanent ban.

  “You’re acting as if they haven’t paid for their crimes,” Carrie said.

  I snorted. She could be so innocent, or willfully stupid. I wasn’t sure which.

  The Delta Phi’s “probationary” period was almost over, and this party was a celebration of their return to Greek life and all the perks which came with it. If they didn’t do anything stupid again. I doubted they had cleaned up their act. All their sucking up to the Dean and the Associate Dean of Fraternity and Sorority Affairs had been an act.

  The thing was, they had never actually paid for their earlier crimes. The hazing incident which had burned them was not even half of the vile deeds you could heap at their feet. There were a lot of rumors and whispers around the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus about the sort of guys this fraternity catered to, and the “events” they encouraged their members to partake in.

  I had the heebie-jeebies just being here.

  If I had known that the party Carrie had wanted me to attend would be here, I wouldn’t have come. I didn’t want to support this fraternity. This house was a no-fly zone for a lot of the upperclassman. That was probably why there were a lot of younger girls, freshmen and the like, wiggling about than what was usual.

  The music cranked up a few decibels louder, and my body throbbed painfully with the beat.

  Carrie danced beside me, using her slinky gymnast's body as a man lure. She’d already had a few nibbles, though they were bottom feeders instead of the alphas she was trying to entice. Why take a low-ranking pledge when you could sweet talk an all-star athlete? There were more than a few Badgers players milling about, but she hadn’t tried to score one. She was being a good friend and sticking to my side as if glued. I appreciated it, but she was ragging on me at the same time.

  “Why don’t you go dance with him already?”

  “Because I promised you I would be your wing-woman!”

  “I’m not looking for a man. Besides, I already said you can go off with him. What the hell was his name anyways? Never mind. You don’t need to hold my hand. If you want to have him bang the shit out of you, go!” I shooed her towards the hallway where one of her catches was eye-fucking her over his red silo cup. The party mating game was in full
effect. Her potential bedmate was cute in a pretty boy way; dark hair artfully tousled, darker eyes that spoke of bedrooms and lies, and a hint of scruff meant to gritty him up but only came off as poser-ish. He was immaculately groomed in the metro-sexual way common in male models.

  I liked my men more rugged than that.

  An image of Regi O’Connell flashed through my mind, and I scowled as I took an angry sip of my Diet Coke. He was an asshole, and I was on a no douche diet.

  Carrie had a whippet-thin look that, honestly, reminded me of a greyhound. She was all stick-thin legs and bursting with energy when it came to guys. If a guy wasn’t involved, like when it came to school work or volunteering at the sorority, she was straight up lazy. While it wasn’t really a flattering depiction, I couldn’t help it. Whenever I stared into her long face, longer nose, and her ultra-lean body, the image came to mind. The girl had a super high metabolism. While I was thin, she was practically translucent. But I wouldn’t body shame her by making snide remarks like some of her sorority sisters did.

  I’d been body shamed before, though on the opposite side. I might be a ‘perfect ten’—the most common line guys fed me—now. A few years back the word I heard most often had begun with an W and ended with a HALE. The wounds left by those words remained behind, hidden from everyone but me. No one on campus knew who I used to be, and I took great pains to keep it that way.

  Carrie flicked an ash-blonde curl over her shoulder. “You usually have guys three deep around you trying to get your number. What’s wrong, Angela?”

  I fiddled with the metal tab on my Diet Coke. Carrie and I were friendly, but not close. We had met during my brief stint as a sorority sister at the Delta house. While we were no longer ‘sisters’, she was my occasional sidekick and I hers.

  I had considered staying home tonight, but then I mentally slapped myself upside the head. What would I do at home? Watch television? Listen to my roommate Jo Miller and her hunky boyfriend Kevin Harris fuck all night? Yeah, no thanks on that.

  I’d forced myself out, and now all I wanted was to go back to the apartment and crawl into my pajamas, even if I had to put noise-canceling headphones on. I’d been in a kind of a slump since the last guy I’d seriously crushed on—Regi—had blabbed his mouth about me. He’d been overheard by a couple of big mouth gossips saying that, while I was an amazing lay, I had a case of stalker-itis. That shit hurt. I might laugh it off publicly, but I’d cried my eyes out privately when word got back to me.

  Was I really that needy and desperate to be loved?

  I was cursed. My love life had a big fat DOA—dead on arrival—stamped on it. I was tired of the Tinder lifestyle, and I wanted more. I had always wanted romance, but I’d pretended I was fine with being the hookup, the one night stand, the rebound, the booty call. I cultivated a reputation for being the hot girl on your arm, but never the one you took home to meet the family. I just wasn’t sure how to go about fixing it.

  I shook my head. “You know, the same old bullshit. I don’t want to talk about it and bring down your vibe. The guy you landed looks hot enough. Go have fun, I’ll be fine. I’m just going to finish my soda and head home.”

  I wasn’t a heavy drinker. My limit was one cocktail or two glasses of wine. I hated the taste of beer, although I was gaining an appreciation for hard ciders. At parties, I didn’t drink at all. I didn’t want to put myself into a situation where I could be taken advantage of. At most I nursed a beer, but tonight was not a beer night. I was sipping a Diet Coke as if were the finest vintage.

  Carrie smoothed her hand down the black micro-mini skirt hugging her hips. “Thanks, babe. I owe you. Kisses!”

  She puckered her lips into the air and then strolled away toward a cluster of guys who were playing drinking games in the dining room. Her catch had moved there, and she interjected herself into the conversation like a pro.

  I sighed. Had I, at twenty-two, suddenly gotten too old for the party scene?

  I sipped my drink and looked around. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to talk to. Especially not the freshmen who were eyeballing me as if they had a chance. On the other side of the open floor-plan, where the dining room would have been if there wasn’t a pool table in the way, there was a big commotion going on. By the roar that spiked above the aggressive music, one of the superstar athletes had arrived, or done something “impressive.” Oh yeah, I was hanging air quotes all over that word. They might be impressive on the field, but most of the college sports stars I hooked up with left a lot to be desired in every area. The guy they were cheering had broad shoulders and medium-colored hair piled into what looked like a man-bun.

  Not Regi.

  I ground my teeth together. I refused to think of that asshole.

  A few nights ago, there had been a huge scene at the Alehouse, the restaurant-slash-bar in downtown Madison that Mia Reynolds had crowned as the place to be when she chose it as the home of her little Brewhouse social club. Mia wasn’t all bad, though I only knew her because she was besties with my roommate. There had been a drama bomb between Mia and Regi. Apparently, he had it bad for her and was completely ass-over-teakettle in love with her. And she didn’t want anything to do with him. So, he’d hooked up with her sister. I didn’t see that coming. I don’t think anyone did.

  The Alehouse wasn’t my scene any more than this party was. I only went to the Alehouse because of the potential to network. That was, after all, why she’d created the Social. I only went to this party to be seen. I went out to meet guys, but my new year’s resolution had been to retire my little black book.

  Now, I felt adrift without any direction. I had no idea what I wanted. Did I want to continue my love-em-leave-em path, or maybe find something else? Maybe I needed a hobby. I could learn to knit bottle koozies and then donate them to the fraternities.

  I sighed and slouched deeper into the worn microfiber love seat. There were a few dark, sticky spots by my thigh I didn’t want to investigate, but this had been the only open seat in the house. Men were pigs, and a house filled with them was most certainly a sty.

  I felt lucky. No one was bothering me, which was rare. Usually, the guys saw me flying solo and were on me like cat hair. So far there were only a few boys giving me those long side-eyes as if they could dickmatize me into coming over. Others just stared but didn’t have the balls to hit me up. Still, the staring made me uncomfortable. I was afraid if I met someone’s gaze they would take it as a sign to come over and talk to me.

  I picked at my skirt and avoided looking at anyone.

  The cushion beside me dipped as someone joined me on the two-seater. I glanced up hoping it was a girl.

  A smarmy-looking frat-boy sat beside me. I always knew the Greek type. They were too shiny to the point of plasticity, and they all tended to have this asshole expression. I didn’t know why fraternities attracted that type of guy, but I had never met one who didn’t make me want to roll my eyes and take a shower from the sleaze rolling off them.

  This one was no different. I raked my attention over his mop of curly hair and athletic body. He was toned, but I liked my guys big and burly; lumberjack or Superman style. Give me Jason Momoa and I would drop my panties without a second thought.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Please just go away. “Hey.”

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing way over here all by herself?”

  Did he really think that line was going to work?

  I glanced at the various people standing by the couch. “I’m not really alone.”

  “This seat wasn’t taken. Where are your friends?” He flashed an oily smile, and I had to lock my knees so I didn’t stand up and walk away. Where would I go? If it wasn’t this douche-nozzle hitting on me, it would be another.

  I shrugged and kicked back a sip of my soda. I swallowed. “They’re around.”

  “This sounds like my lucky night. Maybe it’s destiny, baby. They left you alone so I could find you.” He stretched his well-muscled arm along the back of t
he couch. His fingers almost touched my long platinum-blonde hair. The Rapunzel-esque strands were a beacon. Little old ladies in the grocery store petted me. Guys played with it. Girls wished they had it. I had been growing my hair out since I’d been little. When I went to the salon it was only to get it trimmed and shaped. While I loved it, at times like this, I wished I had shorter hair.

  He stroked a lock and I suffered in silence. Great, I would wind up having to wash the Eau de-sleaze out of my hair when I got home.

  Ugh. I repressed a shudder and looked away. “You’re rubbing up on the wrong girl.”

  His denim-clad thigh pressed against mine. “Why is that. You think you’re too good for me?”

  The sudden venom in his voice sent off a thousand warning bells in my head. I bit my inner cheek. How could I get myself out of this without causing a scene? Why did guys have this expectation that because I was alone I wanted company? That because I dressed sexily I was an open game?

  Oh right, because I came to a house party hosted by a fraternity.

  I closed my eyes and felt him shift beside me, coming closer still. His arm brushed my forearm, bumping my arm. The soda bubbles fizzed subtly against the can and I used my drink as a distraction. I took another sip and thought about how I was going to extract myself from Touchy McGee. Damn, I hated being polite.

  “No, that’s not it. I’m going through a bad break up.” That sounded like a reasonable lie. It was one of my go-to excuses when guys got too pushy. This one was already way too handsy, and I was going to have to make a quick exit.

  His fingers slipped down the back of the couch, and then squeezed my nape. The way he pulsed his hand seemed as if he was trying to give me a massage, but all it did was make me tense. “You’re wound up tight. I can help you with that.”