The Bet

THE BET

J.D. HAWKINS

Contents

Copyright

Also by J.D. Hawkins

Prologue

1.
Brando

2.
Haley

3.
Brando

4.
Haley

5.
Brando

6.
Haley

7.
Brando

8.
Haley

9.
Brando

10.
Haley

11.
Brando

12.
Haley

13.
Brando

14.
Haley

15.
Brando

16.
Haley

17.
Brando

18.
Brando

19.
Haley

20.
Brando

21.
Haley

22.
Brando

23.
Haley

24.
Brando

25.
Haley

26.
Brando

27.
Haley

28.
Brando

29.
Haley

30.
Brando

31.
Haley

32.
Brando

33.
Haley

34.
Brando

35.
Haley

Epilogue

Sneak Peek of Confessions of a Bad Boy

About the Author

Also by J.D. Hawkins

Acknowledgments

Copyright 2015
©
JD Hawkins

Cover Design: Jennifer Watson, Social Butterfly PR

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Created with
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Also by J.D. Hawkins

Insatiable Part 1

Insatiable Part 2

Bootycall Part 1

Bootycall Part 2

The Bet

Coming Soon

Confessions of a Bad Boy

Prologue

My muscles scream, chest on fire, nerve endings twitching like a million thunderbolts across my torso. I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead running down my tensed neck. I glare at the fluorescent light on the gym ceiling, feel the cold metal of the bar against my chest.

That twinge in my triceps should worry me. Gotta meet Jax at the club for drinks in a couple hours. Maybe it was a bad idea to do this big a lift at the end of a workout. Last time a lift went wrong I messed up my thigh so bad I was finger-fucking girls for a month.

Thoughts bear down on me like a load of bricks, pressing down on the ends of the bar, making it even heavier than it really is.

Don’t think, Brando. Just fucking lift.

I repeat the words like a mantra. A rhythmic drumbeat that focuses my mind. I exhale as I push, the rush of adrenaline leaving no room for thoughts, the heat burning all doubt out of me.

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

As I pump the bar up and down it feels like I’m lifting the entire building, like I’m trying to push a planet away from my chest. I feel like I’m calling on strength that doesn’t belong to me, strength that comes from the same deep pit of hell the pain in my muscles comes from. I exhale and my breath comes out with a long, low grunt.

The pain and the heat and the testosterone and the adrenaline swirl inside of me, and I direct it all against this fucking barbell.

When my set is finished I have just enough energy to bring the barbell back onto the claws. My fists sting as they let go of it, palms almost melded to the metal. I drop my arms and breathe deeply for a few seconds before sitting upright. My blood pumps, veins throb, and I feel the satisfied ache of a post-workout high seep into my skin.

“Pretty dangerous, benching that much without anyone spotting you,” a throaty female voice says from behind me.

I look up. The gym is almost empty except for a guy listening to his headphones as he runs on a treadmill in the corner. I save myself the trouble of turning around to see her and just look at the reflection in the wall-sized mirror in front of me.

“Looks like you spotted me just fine,” I drawl, eyeing her in the glass.

Even by gym standards, she’s unbelievable. She’s in tight black spandex pants, with nutcracker thighs and hips that seem custom-made for my hands. Her sports bra is so tight she may as well be naked, and the thought instantaneously sends about a million X-rated images through my mind. Judging by the hungry look in her eyes, I know exactly where this is going—but I’m enjoying the foreplay, so instead of just cutting to the chase and inviting her to suck my dick in the locker room, I grab the barbell and force myself through one more punishing set of reps.

It takes everything I have to keep my arms steady, my muscles screaming all the while, before slamming the bar back onto the rack and sitting up.

“Impressive,” she says, eyeing me up and down in the mirror. “You certainly don’t do things the easy way.”

“I prefer the hard way,” I tell her, checking out the curve of her breasts like I’m about to paint a portrait of them. It’s all I can do to keep myself from just grabbing her and sitting her down in my lap.