F*CK Reality: Take One Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Description

  Rights

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Epilogue

  Description

  Brock LaDuece is a millionaire, but in name only.

  When his father disperses an ultimatum clearly stating he must marry, if only to secure the future of his family’s Fortune 500 company, Brock reluctantly agrees he has but one choice...

  To find a woman his parents will love, even if he doesn’t.

  Brooke Malloy is over the childish clichés born from romance of any kind. Studiously overseeing the day-in and day-out operations of her parents’ family-owned bed and breakfast has become her life’s routine.

  By mere chance, or her best friend’s unwavering determination, Brooke finds herself front and center in the world of reality television.

  When Brock and Brooke are thrown together after a heated one-night stand, only to come face to face the next day as opposing contestants on a failing reality television show, sparks fly. But not in a way either of them expected.

  Facing each other again is tough enough, but doing so in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers who thrive on critiquing their every move, proves not only difficult, but their own hellish version of reality is in the spotlight.

  Rights

  Copyright © Raegan Matthews 2016

  F*ck Reality

  IBSN: 978-1536928983

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected].

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning:

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Acknowledgements

  Editing, Formatting, and Cover by: Rebel Edit and Design

  http://www.rebeleditdesign.com

  Proofreading by: Author Services by Julie Deaton

  http://jdproofs.wix.com/jdeaton or https://www.facebook.com/jdproofs/?__mref=message_bubble

  Book Club Gone Wrong: https://www.facebook.com/Bookclubgonewrong/?fref=ts

  Thank you so much for hosting my release party and to all the wonderful authors who took time out of their writing caves to come and help celebrate the release of F*CK Reality. I appreciate you all!

  Prologue

  This is where everything gets fuzzy.

  Brooke

  -

  “Fuuuuck,” Brock moans his frustration into my neck as he greedily thrusts his cock against my thigh.

  We’re both drunk, and I have no clue as to how we ever made it up from the hotel bar to his penthouse suite as quickly as we did. I suppose my lack of sexual adventure, coupled with our mass consumption of alcohol, had something to do with it. No matter, though, because as we sat across from each other at the bar downstairs, listening to those around us banter in their own drunken states, our attraction to each another was undeniable.

  Now that we’re finally in his room, alone and naked, the attraction has gone from subtle touches to blatant groping. And not because I have rose-colored beer goggles on, either. The man on top of me, fighting with a condom in one hand, while balancing his weight to keep from toppling me with the other, is hot—beautiful even.

  And, thank you, God. Even in his clumsy state of intoxication, he’s an ace with his hands.

  “Hang on,” he mutters as he lifts his body off mine—just enough he’s able to sheath himself with the same condom he’s been messing with for what feels like forever.

  “Do you need a minute?” My question comes out as a drunken giggle. “Is this your first time?” Finding it incredibly difficult, I barely hold back voicing more jokes at his expense. We’ve been constantly at each other in interruption.

  He’ll kiss me, I’ll kiss him.

  He’ll touch me, I’ll touch him.

  He’ll laugh at me, I’ll laugh at him.

  It’s turned out to be a game of whose determination to deter the other is greater. I’ll admit to the possibility that I’m cheap and easy, too. But only because I’ve enjoyed every second of his body touching mine in play.

  “You got jokes?” he attempts to sneer, but the break of his boyish grin ruins his objective. The question ends up getting lost in his slurred words, followed by his drunken laugh.

  I love his laugh.

  I love his smell.

  I love his smile.

  Apparently, after so many on-his-tab rounds of tequila, I’m a lover of all things Brock LaDuece. And, at the moment, I’m drunk enough to not be even a little ashamed to admit it. Tonight, the shots were good, the company was entertaining, and the likelihood of what would come later was promising enough to keep me toasting.

  At least a dozen times.

  “Ready,” he directs as he positions himself at my entrance.

  “Do it,” I breathe, praying I end up enjoying his cock as much as I’ve enjoyed everything else about him.

  When he finally thrusts his hips and slides inside of me, I hear a guttural hiss break between his grinding teeth, along with the violent curse he utters immediately after.

  It’s not every day, or any day for that matter, that I’ve been so boldly comp
limented on the feel of my tight, wet pussy. Or the silky strands of my long, dark, and shiny hair. Not to mention his constant verbal praise of my bronzed skin, perky chest, round ass, and shapely legs. He’s done nothing but reference my appearance all night.

  There may be a small, feministic part of me that would normally take issue with his way of expressing his desires, but only if I were sober—which I’m not—so fuck it. I’ve encouraged myself to revel in every goddamn compliment, even if most of them have been dirty.

  “I’ve been worked up since I saw you sitting alone downstairs,” he chuckles, pinching my nipple and licking the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Slow the fuck down.”

  When I don’t submit to his demand, he stops moving altogether and looks down while putting his weight against me to keep me still. The lamp light next to his hotel bed is dim, but I’m still able to make out every glorious facet of his face and striking feature of his body. I shamelessly commit them all to memory.

  His honey colored eyes are like glass; so reflective, I can see my own flushed image inside them.

  His dark hair, nearly black in color, sticks out in every direction from where I’ve ran my hands roughly through it.

  The strong line of his jaw, paired with the two-day darkened growth around its edges, heats my skin with every graze.

  His glossy red, well-kissed lips stand out against his perfect white teeth. A complete contrast in comparison to his olive colored skin.

  All of Brock is ... too much.

  “I’m close,” I cry out. He lifts his weight and begins to move again, my hips in sync with his, but powering through with more speed and added aggression. “Don’t stop.”

  “Fucking hell, you’ll pay for this,” he threatens as his pace quickens to match mine.

  Once his body carries mine to the brink of release, he drags me back when he suddenly slows.

  My body tenses, clenching him tightly from inside in an effort to delay my orgasm for as long as possible. His hands grab my wrists and pins them over my head. There, he laces his fingers through mine, clutching them firmly. Our bodies are flush together by his weight, sinking me further into the lush hotel mattress.

  Brock bends his neck to kiss me. The warm caress and soft touch is unhurried as his tongue slides deeply and forcefully into my mouth. The twisting duel of tongues continues before he pulls out and starts all over again. As soon as our bodies ignite with our orgasms, we both let go.

  Completely...

  Chapter One

  It’s three strikes you’re out, right?

  One week earlier...

  Brock

  -

  “Sweet mother in heaven. For the love of God, make it stop,” I hiss at my cell phone lying next to me, buzzing its insistence. Obviously, someone expects me to answer, but fuck if I want to move an inch to find out who it is.

  Opening one eye, I find the constant stream of my phone’s vibration has forced it to the edge of my nightstand where it’s now threatening to fall. My head is pounding, and my eyes are splitting, in sync to every beat of my heart.

  Last night was yet another victory in way of mind-numbing sex. As it always turns out, the next morning I’m waking up sick from a hangover, but happily content in doing it alone.

  “What?” I snap after I connect the call and gently brace it against my ear.

  Pushing my morning irritation aside, I listen to Drew as he attempts to rein in his laughter.

  After he’s composed himself to his own satisfaction, he quips, “You brought that cougar from Shooter’s home with you last night, didn’t you?”

  Son of a bitch. Of course I did.

  Being a thirty-year-old bachelor, spending most of my evenings in the company of a variety of women isn’t necessarily the abhorrent curse my family would like me to believe. The truth is they just don’t understand. It’s not as if my life is being spent as single and ‘alone’ alone. That’s not the case at all.

  I have a strong center, which includes a close, tight-knit family. Even if they don’t agree with my decision on giving up finding ‘the one’ to settle down and start a life with, I know if I ever truly needed them, they’d be there without question.

  Same with my small group of trustworthy, long-time friends. Those men are more like my blood brothers. We’ve known each other most of our lives and have been through a lot, both separately and together.

  “How drunk were you?” he questions, still stifling a laugh.

  “Drunk enough,” I openly admit, because I was. I was blitzed.

  My active-as-it-can-be social life is what my parents pretend to ignore the most. I enjoy women because of their gentle nature, their soft bodies. And, if I’m lucky, their willingness to spend just one night and be on their way first thing in the morning, but I prefer them to leave sooner.

  I wouldn’t label myself a player by any means. I mean, I haven’t completely given up on a future with only one girl, but I haven’t found a woman who suits everything I’m looking for.

  Sure, I’d like her to be both smart and attractive, but to be honest, I’m looking for a woman who possesses a great sense of humor. This characteristic has taken me a long time to admit. A lot of men my age desire full lips, round tits, and a nice ass. Maybe I’m getting older, or maybe I’m more old fashioned than most, but I like to laugh. I’ve been in the company of enough women to see that most are afraid to be themselves. If a girl has me laughing, she’s already a candidate for a second date.

  My life isn’t all about a loving family, great friends, and finding laughs, though.

  You’ve probably heard the idiom stating how money is the root of all evil. Well, in my case, this holds weight. In comparison to most other men or women my age, I’m rich. But not personally. I’m a millionaire in name only.

  My stepfather, the only father I’ve truly known, is the rough and tough Chief Executive Officer and proud owner of Merritt Media.

  Martin Merritt is a smart and savvy businessman. He started his company before I was born and has dedicated his life to making it all of what it is today. His determination in cultivating business relationships throughout this country has led to its strategic diversification. He’s not only grown his business as a whole, from the first brick laid to the other buildings he holds staff in, he has also trained, mentored, and educated his employees to run the business seamlessly in his absence.

  Are you bored yet?

  Because I’ve heard this same speech from him so many times I can finish his sentences before he’s finished speaking them. The first time he explained all of this to me, I was eight. The second time, I was eight and a half. Needless to say, Martin’s been drilling this information into my head ever since.

  After college, I immediately started my predestined marketing position inside Merritt Media. After many years of putting up with the exasperating duties and the hours I work to finish them, I’m considered only a favored paid employee. Hence, I’m rich by extension only. I don’t make frivolous amounts of money; however, it’s enough to pay my bills and allow me to live a life of menial luxury.

  When I’m not working, I spend most of my time hanging out with my high school friends, Drew and Nick. Yes, I said high school.

  One friend, of which is on the phone now, is using his antics to fray my already threadbare nerves.

  “So, how was she? Did she show you her social security card as foreplay?”

  Mental note: Find new friends.

  “No, asshat.”

  “She leave early? Had to run home to feed her ten cats, I’ll bet.”

  “You’re an idiot,” I charge.

  This may make me sound like a pussy, but while I was away at school, I missed my friends and family. I hated not being around for their life’s milestones; weddings, birthdays, anniversaries ... all of it. Because of my studious college class schedule, I wasn’t always able to make it home enough.

  While standing up and stretching, I stop my best friend with feigned denial. “Fuck you, Drew. She
wasn’t a cougar.”

  The asshat laughs again, seemingly not as sick this morning as I am.

  “The hell she wasn’t, Brock,” he snorts. “Nick asked her how old she was when you left to get more drinks. She told him she was forty-one. Had to be lying. Had to be. I bet she was older.”

  Forty-one?

  By today’s standards, forty-one isn’t old, but it would be a record for me. Older or not, the woman was hot. She was tall with long, red hair and a tight body, which enhanced her generous chest. Fuck, maybe it was all the beer and shots I had, but when she made her way over to our table, I didn’t refuse her.

  Last night, my buddies and I went to the new club located deep in downtown Dallas. I was wired from working another eighty-hour work week and was looking for an easy and fun way to release my tension.

  “Why the hell are you calling me so early, anyway?” I clip, mentally cringing as I calculate how many shots we each must have consumed.

  “Early?” Drew mocks. “It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon. What the hell have you been doing?”

  Taking a quick look around my room, my eyes widen with anxiety, and the sharp pain behind both continues to worsen.

  “Shit, I was supposed to meet my dad at the house for lunch.”

  “That was today, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I confirm. “At noon.”

  “Martin’s gonna skin your ass for this.”

  He’s right. My father is probably sitting in his office at home right now, livid as fuck, contemplating all the ways he’d like to rip me a new asshole.

  It has to be said that I hold the highest respect for Martin Merritt. Several times he’s voiced his desire to one day have me take over his company, but with the constant stream of mishaps he views my life to be, he hasn’t mentioned this being the plan in a long time.

  I was only four when my biological father passed away. He died in a sad and tragic car accident, which left my mother in pieces. I don’t remember a lot about what transpired directly after, but I continually give thanks to Martin for providing my mom with the life she most definitely deserved after suffering such a heart-rending loss.

  “I gotta go, man. I need to call him so he knows I didn’t forget.”