The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction)

By: Naima Simone


He promised to stay away…but some promises are made to be broken.

Plain-Jane computer programmer Khloe Richardson needs a date—one to make the prince of her dreams jealous. Maybe then he’ll finally see her as a desirable swan and not the ugly duckling in the second office from the left.

But when she bids on a bachelor at a charity auction, the man she wins is millionaire Niall Hunter—who once made intense, passionate love to her and then left without a word. She’s determined not to let her guard down again—among other things—around the infamous Irish lothario.

Niall never imagined his penance for one hot-as-hell night with his best friend’s little sister would be transforming her from a shy wallflower to a sultry siren. Helping her attract another man is torture...especially when he promised his friend he’d stay away. Plus, she wants forever, and he’s not a forever kind of guy. But Niall can’t stop wanting her. Can’t stop touching her. Can’t stop, period. And damn if he can remember why he has to...




To Gary. 143.





Prologue

Oh feckin’ hell, he was wrecked.

Groaning, Niall Hunter clapped his hands to his pounding temples and rolled over…and immediately wished he’d remained still. Or comatose. Comatose was good. Especially when his head shrieked like a damn banshee.

“Christ,” he mumbled, and with more caution than his first ill-advised attempt, levered off the mattress and eased his legs over the side of the bed. White sheets tangled around his hips, the scent of alcohol—the reason behind the pickaxes happily hammering away at his skull—sweat, and sex greeting him like a Morning After brand of coffee.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, the scratch of hair over his palm reminding him his razor wasn’t just decoration for the bathroom. At some point he needed to use it.

“Stop being such a pussy,” he muttered, pushing to his feet. Given alcohol had been his go-to bed partner in the past month, he should be well accustomed to this god-awful state. Sometimes a woman joined him and made the twosome a nice little ménage—him, a faceless, nameless one-night stand, and a bottle of whiskey—but only alcohol could quiet the relentless grief and guilt that clawed at him day and night. Not shut it up. Just…quieted it for a little while.

Snatching his discarded pants from the previous evening off a chair, he dragged them up his legs, leaving the waistband unbuttoned. On bare feet, he shuffled across the floor toward the door, casting a cursory glance toward the bed. He would need hot, strong coffee before tackling the “Hey, had a nice time last night, got a cab waiting for you downstairs” talk…

“Holy shit.”

The harsh growl rumbled out of him and exploded into the room, seeming to bounce off the white walls. But the woman with the sheets gathered around her waist, the delicate expanse of her bare back taunting him like a red flag, didn’t even flinch. She continued to sleep like a babe, her light snores a testament to her exhaustion.

As if the sight of all that creamy skin flipped a switch in his head, memories flashed across his brain, three-second freeze frames that converged into an erotic, hot as hell collage.

His mouth latched around a dark brown nipple, his tongue circling and tugging on the beaded tip.

His lips skimming down a softly rounded stomach to the glistening, plump folds between long, graceful legs.

His hands holding those same legs wide as he buried himself over and over in the tightest, sweetest flesh that had ever squeezed his cock.

He shut his eyes, but that only caused the pictures to stream quicker, brighter. And that was wrong. So goddamn wrong. Because the woman whose breasts he’d sucked, whose pussy he’d feasted on and thrust into for the better part of the night had been Khloe.

Khloe, who’d been a virgin.

Khloe, who was his best friend Michael’s little sister… The best friend who had died barely a month ago.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

Blinding pain burst behind his sternum, and he sucked in a ragged breath. What the fuck have I done? He escaped the room and the woman in the bed who tempted him even now. With the visions from the previous night fresh in his head, his dick didn’t give a damn that it or Niall shouldn’t have ever touched her. All his “little head” cared about was a repeat performance.

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