Jennifer Labrecque - Really Hot!

“Oh, my God, Portia, this is like a fantasy come true,” Rourke groaned, “but I’m not sure I’m up to it. Wait. What the hell am I saying? The sexiest woman in the universe is standing next to my bed, unwrapping a condom. Hell, yes, I’m up to it. You’ll have to do most of the work, but still…”

It took Portia’s hormonally oversaturated brain about a nanosecond to imagine herself pulling off her clothes and going for a ride.

She picked up an ice cube. “I’m making you an ice pack. For your back.”

“Oh.” Rourke lay there for a second, his eyes closed. It was suddenly incredibly hot in his room. Portia proceeded to pack ice into the penis-shaped rubber, struggling to hold it still. Damn, why had she grabbed a lubricated one?

“Okay, I’ve just forfeited all my pride today, so I’ll just confess that I can’t watch you do that. Or let’s just say that I shouldn’t,” he admitted.

Portia felt a surge of sexual power. She stood there teasing him with her deliberate stroking movements. The sexual energy between them made her feel almost drunk.

“You’re a wicked woman, Portia Tomlinson.” Rourke choked out the words. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way…”

Really Hot!

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

A look across a crowded room…the flight of butterflies in your tummy…the slow tingle of awareness down your spine…the sizzle of the briefest touch. This is chemistry, the magic elixir of romance, the inexplicable, undeniable blossom of attraction between two people.

That’s what finally happens to Rourke O’Malley. Rourke made his first appearance in “The Last Virgin,” the final story in the anthology Getting Real. What a guy! The proverbial Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, and a nice guy to boot, Rourke had hero written all over him. Unfortunately, the heroine of the story, Andrea Scarpini had other ideas….

But a potential hero is a terrible thing to waste. How could I just let this awesome, sexy guy walk away? There was only one thing to do…find him some chemistry. And what better way than to give this hottie his own reality TV show, complete with a bevy of beauties to choose from? Only, the woman he wants is “don’t go there” associate producer and single mom Portia Tomlinson.

I hope you enjoy reading Portia and Rourke’s story as much as I loved writing it. The only thing I like better than writing is hearing from readers. You can look me up at www.jenniferlabrecque.com or drop me a note by snail mail at P.O. Box 298, Hiram, GA 30141.

Happy reading…

Jennifer LaBrecque

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

886—BARELY MISTAKEN

904—BARELY DECENT

952—BARELY BEHAVING

992—BETTER THAN CHOCOLATE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

28—ANDREW IN EXCESS

52—KIDS+COPS=CHAOS

64—JINGLE BELL BRIDE?

To Leslie Kelly, Julie Elizabeth Leto and Vicki Lewis Thompson, talented writers and extraordinary people, and the chemistry behind GETTING REAL.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

“ROURKE O’MALLEY is an orgasm waiting to happen,” Portia Tomlinson read aloud. She rolled her eyes and scrolled down the screen, following the postings on the fan site for The Last Virgin, the latest reality show she’d worked on as associate producer. “Give me a break. Some women don’t have good sense.”

Rourke had been the favored contestant, but the show’s bachelorette hadn’t picked him. He had, however, captured the hearts of female viewers around the world and they were in a veritable lust frenzy. Amazing. She swung around in her office chair.

“You mean you don’t think he’s an orgasm waiting to happen?” Sadie Franken, an administrative assistant, asked.

More than once, Rourke O’Malley had intruded on Portia’s dreams, but she wasn’t about to make that public knowledge. And she wasn’t happy about it, either. Portia shrugged. “He’s okay. Great face, great body, but that’s nothing new in Hollywood. Of course, this—” she gestured over her shoulder toward the computer screen “—should mean great ratings for our new show.” This time around, they’d signed Rourke on as their star bachelor and lined up twelve wealthy single women for him to choose from. She’d read an article citing that the latest trend among the twenty-something idle rich was to push their parents’ buttons by putting themselves in a controversial spotlight. They had twelve young women who were living proof. Portia, however, was the lucky duck saddled with baby-sitting Rourke, the star, through production. She eyed the petite redhead. “Obviously you’ve joined the legion of women ready to drop at his feet.”

Sadie raised her hand. “Guilty as charged. I’ve enjoyed several orgasms with him lately. I just crank my vibrator, close my eyes and Rourke O’Malley and I have a grand time.”

Brash and uninhibited, Sadie usually left Portia laughing. “That was so much more information than I ever wanted to know. Please feel free not to share in the future.”

Sadie arched a brow. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never fantasized about him after working with him and seeing him day after day?” Portia opened her mouth but Sadie cut her off before she could utter the denial. “You’ve never thought about kissing that fabulous mouth? Never imagined that hot bod naked and sweaty and getting down? Never imagined him touching you, you touching him?”

Enough. “No, no and no. I haven’t.” But now thanks to Sadie, she had. A warm flush spread inside her and she mercilessly exorcized the erotic imagery.

“Well maybe you should—”

“Not.” Portia cut her off and finished the sentence. “I should not.”

“A little fantasy never hurt anyone.”

“I don’t have time for fantasy.” And if she craved the time, reality lurked right around the corner. The stark contrast between the two proved too painful. Portia lived in the here and now.

She’d found out nine years ago where fantasy got you—single, pregnant and shattered. The ensuing reality had been waiting tables, changing diapers, several long years of night school and working her butt off to get ahead and make a better life for her and Danny.

Sadie shook her head. “A woman without time for fantasy. That’s just not right.”

Portia grinned. “Sorry, toots.”

“When’s the last time you had a date?”

She shrugged and lied. “Not that long ago.”

“Ha. Name the day, place and man.”

Sadie was fun and they laughed together, but she’d just crossed into nunya territory, as in none of your business. Portia’d had one date in the last nine, almost ten, years. She had neither the time nor the inclination. Guys thought single moms were easy marks, desperate for sex. Thanks, but no thanks. The only thing she was desperate for was more hours in the day and a good pedicure.