Enter a mysterious woman. She is hell bent to destroy Brian for his past transgressions.
When a series of strange circumstances leads Brian to invite a woman into his apartment, he wakes up the next morning - dazed and confused, with no memory of what occurred the previous night. The police barge in and arrest him. Brian is accused . . . of rape.
Sam and Brian are about to lose everything they hold dear unless they can find a way to brave the coming storm together.
THE PRETEND BOYFRIEND 2 is a 26,000-word erotic romance short novel.
BOOKS IN THIS SERIES
The Pretend Boyfriend 2
There's a pounding in his head that he can't get away from. Someone is hammering nails into the base of his skull. A splitting headache like a hundred hangovers rolled into one comes charging through the noise, breaking through the barriers of murkiness and haze and dreams filled with shadowy figures that are wraiths and yet not wraiths.
He claws through the murk and tries to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. Shapes swim into being. A vivid red and gold pattern assails his vision, and he realizes that he is face down on his own lounge carpet. To be precise, his one hundred thousand Persian weave. The house-warming present from his billionaire uncle's wife.
He raises his head. There is a persistent knocking on his front door. He groans. His body feels as though a steamroller has flattened it. He raises himself to his elbows.
The door bursts open and feet clatter into his apartment. Black boots, regulation style.
"Mr. Morton?" says an unfamiliar voice.
Brian squints into the light, dazed. Outside, the sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows. He holds a hand up to block out the light. He thought he had drawn the fucking curtains.
"You are under arrest."
The rest of his Miranda rights are lost in the drone of the officer's voice as hands jerk his naked body up, and his wrists are cuffed behind his back. Brian stares in horror at the ruins of the evening. Broken glass coffee table. Scattered shards of glass everywhere. Smashed three thousand dollar lampstand. Torn curtains.
His clothes strewn all over the floor.
And a torn silken bathrobe crumpled in a heap beside them.
What? What? What? What? A ship is plowing through the mists of his brain - a flotsam of memories struggling to come to the surface, like a shipwreck victim clawing for air. And failing miserably to ascend.
Something cuts through his bare feet. He lifts his right leg up and stares at his sole.
Embedded glass fragments.
And that's not the only damage to his body. The bloody trails of four fingernails have been raked and imprinted upon his chest.
What the fuck happened here?
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