Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Lessons in Love by New York Times bestselling author, S.L. Scott, brings the heat and heart this season to your Kindle in this holiday, male POV romance.
I live by two rules.
The simple guidelines prevent me from wasting my time and overly complicating my life. After all, I’m not the kind of guy who settles down. So there’s no sense in getting too close or, even worse, falling in love.
And then the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on walks into my bar looking for lessons in the love department.
What’s the harm in a few “private lessons” with a beautiful and equally sexy pupil? Apparently, a lot. We’ve barely gotten started, and I’m breaking rule number one—keep women at arm’s length—like it never existed.
As for number two? I’m in trouble.
She wants me to teach her how to make a guy fall in love. But now I’m wondering if I’m the one getting schooled or if she’ll ever realize that guy is right in front of her?
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Prologue
Blondes
Vodka soda.
Brunettes.
Rum and Coke.
Redheads.
Amaretto Sour.
Highlights.
Mojito.
Lowlights.
Beer.
Knotted on Top.
Margaritas.
Pulled Back.
Gin and tonic.
Bobs.
Moscow Mules.
Long.
Champagne.
Short.
Tequila shots.
Shoulder-length.
Sex on the Beach.
Chapter One
This story is told from the Hero’s POV.
As a dude, I know too much about women’s hair. But in my line of work, it’s a bonus. I can call it the second I see them. One quick glance and I know a woman sporting bangs and long layers is going to want something strong like they are, but independent and free-spirited like they wish they were. I’d wager on a Whiskey Sour.
No matter what their hairstyle, the one thing all women have in common is sex. Yup, sex. You might say that sounds trite, even obvious, but it’s true. There’s a basic need, a desire that the right cocktail with the right opportunity at the right time can release, making the most put together woman come undone.
Back to me, which is how I like it, that and a good bob on my knob. I’m the owner, Hardy Richard. Hence the name above the door—Hardy’s Hideaway, where cocktails are served alongside a good helping of cock tales. Sure I could have gone for the obvious, but Dick’s was already taken. The owner of that bar a few blocks from here doesn’t even see the irony in his name. I do, and I own every inch of my iron.
Tucked down a street near the Brooklyn Bridge, the Hideaway attracts not just Manhattanites but locals too. The clientele changes often, each night bringing a parade of the lonely, the content, the happy, the sad, the partiers, and the overt. Women in every shape and size frequent my bar looking for a good time with their boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, partners, significant others, regular hook ups, and strangers.
They’re all here for the same reasons—a good time and a great fuck. The Hideaway is happy to provide both. Our customers are left satisfied because we’re more than just bartenders. We’re therapists. We’re life coaches. We’re teachers. We’re lovers. We’re sexual healers. Here, under the dim lights, we’re gods. My team is gifted, leaving our patrons smiling and wanting more. Word of mouth has worked its way around the five boroughs and business is booming. Our motto is threefold. The customer is always right, they always come, and they always come back. Goals we strive for night after night.
We’re not particularly hidden being a corner bar, but once you cross that threshold, this is a place where you get to be who you are when you’re alone, the person you want to be, a better version of yourself. No one here judges. I love watching the transformation throughout the evening. They come in here after work or a long day running around doing what unsupervised women do, whether that be—playing mommy to the brood at home or to the man paying them big bucks—this is their escape, where they congregate to wind down.
I wipe down the bar top and throw new coasters down for the after happy hour crowd. We call it the second wave. I look up just as a dark brunette stands a foot back analyzing the liquor bottles lined up against the mirror behind me. Every strand is perfectly in place and pulled back so taut it looks professionally styled. Gimlet. She’s holding onto her designer purse like we’re in a house of thieves. She doesn’t realize it yet, but the only thing we’re looking to steal is that tightly wound good girl image she’s projecting. I’d love to see her lipstick smeared outside her lined lips. I bet she has a solid handful of hair to pull too. Afterwards, I wouldn’t let her put it back up. I’d make her walk out of here freshly fucked with her hair down, loose around her shoulders. She’d feel too good to care how she looked. Too crude? I should start with her first drink. “What can I get you?”
“Gimlet.”
It’s almost too easy. Wonder if she is.
“Coming right up.” And boy am I. I grab a glass from the cooler and go for the chilled gin—top shelf, like her. My gaze relishes her curves she’s trying to hide behind that expensive, but unflattering suit. Charcoal gray. She should never try to look like a man when she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I won’t make her compete in a man’s world. I’ll show her she can be in charge while I have her submitting to me. Sounds like an oxymoron, but trust me, I know what she really needs. At least when it comes to the bar or the bedroom.
Or the office.
Or the backroom.
Or the bathroom.
Hell, I’ll fuck her on top of this bar if that’s what gets her off.
I pour Rose’s Lime Juice, squeeze fresh lime, and gin into a shaker. With my arms above my right shoulder, I shake. Keeping my eyes on her, she looks up, watching the shaker held in my hands. “I’m Hardy,” I introduce myself.