Three on a Match E-Book

Michelle Love

• Herausgeber: Michelle Love
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Sparks fly on a remote Caribbean island when three hot, desperate ex-convicts rope lonely trauma nurse Alanna into helping save one of their lives.
Plucked from her cruise in the middle of the night, she becomes a woman on a mission...
but it's hard to keep her mind on business with so many hunks around.
All three men want her, and they're willing to share. Offered a month of relaxation, seduction, and mind-blowing sex?
Virginal Alanna cannot resist. But as everyone's feelings deepen, an unexpected surprise complicates matters: Alanna is pregnant.
When jealousy and violence rear their heads on the island, will their new love last?

Keywords: Guaranteed HEA, no cliffhangers, happily ever after. billionaire, bad boy, office romance, steamy romance, contemporary romance, love books, love stories, new adult, alpha male, romance, action, adventure, steamy romance, small-town secrets, hot, alpha hero. free book, free novels, romantic novels, and sexually romantic books.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THREE ON A MATCH

Copyright

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Blurb

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Sneak Peek – Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Other Books In This Series

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THREE ON A MATCH

A Reverse Harem Bad Boy Romance

Island of Love 8

By Michelle Love

©Copyright 2023 by Michelle Love

All rights Reserved

In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights are reserved.

Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

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Blurb

Sparks fly on a remote Caribbean island when three hot, desperate ex-convicts rope lonely trauma nurse Alanna into helping save one of their lives.

Plucked from her cruise in the middle of the night, she becomes a woman on a mission...

but it's hard to keep her mind on business with so many hunks around.

All three men want her, and they're willing to share. Offered a month of relaxation, seduction, and mind-blowing sex?

Virginal Alanna cannot resist. But as everyone's feelings deepen, an unexpected surprise complicates matters: Alanna is pregnant.

When jealousy and violence rear their heads on the island, will their new love last?

Chapter 1

Alanna

“Come on, sweetheart,” the balding man with a conspicuous tan line around his left ring finger said with an oily smile. “Neither one of us is young anymore, so it’s not like you have your pick of men on this cruise.”

The insult stings; I lower my magazine and lift an eyebrow, fixing him with what the rest of the girls at work call my best ‘annoyed nurse’ stare. I came out here to the deck to get a little bit of sun and relax, and I’m two Long Island Iced Teas into a minor drinking binge. This horny asshole is in my sun and trying to nag me into fucking him, and I don’t feel like being diplomatic.

I’ve seen his type many times before: short, chubby, his graying comb-over about as concealing as a few streaks of paint across his skull, and above all, entitled. He stares at me with his greedy little eyes as if he’s in line for People’s “Sexiest Man of the Year” title, and I’m some naive, desperate Plain Jane. In reality, he’s as bland and common as white bread.

And I’m not. I’m a five-foot-eight stacked, brown-eyed redhead, and I’m currently rocking a purple neoprene tankini. Judo, yoga, and swimming have resulted in a great body, even if there’s currently no one in my life to show it off to. I’ve got a killer smile too—not that this guy’s ever going to see it.

My reasons for being alone have nothing to do with being old or unattractive. I’m just...picky. My libido is a finicky thing—as flighty as a writer’s muse—and so far on this goddamned singles cruise, nobody has managed to catch my interest.

But this asshole doesn’t need to know any of that.

“I am twenty-seven. At least half your age, I’d wager,” I say with ice in my tone. “By the looks of it, you’re also married and looking for someone to cheat with. You don’t want to know my opinion on cheaters, so it’s best you walk away now before I decide to enlighten you.”

He pales, jaw dropping. Apparently he thought leaving his ring at home was a foolproof plan. He looks slowly down at the pale stripe on his ring finger and then goes red. “Why you little cunt—”

I’m up and in his face in a split second.

I spend five to six days a week, every week, taking orders from doctors with my hands in people’s orifices—and sometimes their bleeding wounds. I have faced down gang-bangers, violent psychotics, and people with temporary superpowers thanks to bath salts. I’m no wimp.

The last thing I’m going to do is let some fat old man bent on cheating on his wife fuck up my vacation. This cruise was already disappointing enough without his help.

“What was that?” I growl, staring him right in his puffy face. “Keep throwing a tantrum because a woman told you no. See what happens. I dare you.”

He seems to shrink a few sizes, going pale again. He opens his mouth, but I lift a single, imperious finger, cutting him off.

“Go back to your wife before you get hurt.” Not exactly a threat, but not exactly empty words either.

He stares a moment more, mouth working as if to form a sentence, but he seems to sense something in me that he doesn’t want to mess with. I stare back implacably. After a few moments, he turns and slinks away. “Redheads are all crazy,” he mumbles to himself, and I laugh sharply after him.

Standing there alone once again, my heart sinks as I look around. Rosa, my supervising nurse and best friend, has been recommending these singles’ cruises to me for years. I’ve always wanted to try a cruise, and the whole ‘perpetually-single’ life has been getting to me lately, so it seemed like a good idea.

At the time.

“Holy shit, what did I ever do to deserve this?” I grumble, flopping back down into my lounge chair and slathering on more sunblock. I can’t be out here too long; the Caribbean sun is brutal, especially on my fair skin—the plight of a redhead. Besides, I’ve learned the hard way that hanging out anywhere in a bikini for a prolonged amount of time gets me the wrong kind of attention.

I tick off a mental list of the men I’ve met on this cruise in only the day and a half since it left port in Miami. Besides Married Max, there was Overcurious George, Horny-for-Everyone Henry, and Argumentative Rupert. I had also met Perpetually Drunk Mike, Creepy Charlie, Creepy Edgar, Dom-wannabe David, Fuckboy Cody, Cute Gay Matt, Adorable Gay Bob, Hunky Gay Devon—I’m really hoping they can find each other among all these bad-mannered straight guys—and Red Flags Rory.

Zero for thirteen. And the only attractive, friendly ones were gay. Am I broken or something? Or am I just perpetually dealing with a crappy selection?

But Rosa keeps raving about how much fun she has on these cruises. Which leaves me feeling like it must be me. Am I frigid?

Am I cursed?

Enough with the self-pity. I decide to hit the pool to work off my frustration, and then take a nap before dinner. Tomorrow I’ll hang out on a different section of the ship and see if the people over there are better.

Someone on this crazy cruise must be worth knowing. Or at least worth gaining some actual sexual experience from. I’m tired of being the oldest virgin that I know. It’s a pride thing—and also a curiosity thing. I want to know what sex—good sex—is like.

Despite what some of my friends think, I actually do have a sex drive—it’s just in a state of constant free-floating frustration, never fixing on any man strongly enough for me to think about giving up my V-card. So I guess I can’t be frigid.

But why am I so picky?

I’m not interested in girls. I’ve had my fair share of crushes on movie characters or celebrities and men in books, or, once or twice, a teacher or someone else totally unattainable. I like men...but I don’t like men who come at me like they’re doing me a favor by even speaking to me, or who treat me like I’m a hooker they can use for free.

I want the real thing, I think as I pick up my magazine and my glass of ice and make my way to the pool grounds. I want to know what it’s like to scream my head off with pleasure while a man I actually want plays my body like an instrument. I want to know what it’s like to rest in someone’s arms and enjoy just being there.

I want sex, love, orgasms, marriage, kids, and a quiet place to settle down—preferably somewhere green and warm. I’m sick to death of my tiny Miami apartment and the bed I share with absolutely no one. But my capricious sexuality and the sheer number of unpleasant, unavailable, or inappropriate men I keep running into have made it very hard.

I hand the glass to a server as I pass by; he’s young and marginally cute, and his dark eyes sweep over me as I turn to walk away. I’m aware of it, but that’s about as much feeling as I can muster. I’m not offended, or flattered, or aroused. I set my magazine and towel on a lounger near the deep end, walk to the edge of the pool, and dive in.

The cool water closes over my head and I glide, finally feeling some peace in the half-deserted pool. The lap lane is nice and long, and even better, I have it to myself. I settle in to spend the rest of my time under the sun cooling off and stretching my muscles. Swimming gives me some time to think in private without having to hide in my cabin.

I’m determined to solve my little problem and not by settling for someone who doesn’t turn me on. Why should I?

No, I’ll just have to keep looking until I find a man that I really, really like. And when I do, he’s getting all my love.

I’m almost to the shallow end of the pool when some asshole in board shorts jumps in feet first and stands there in my way. I pop up, stopping immediately. “The fuck?”

And then I recognize him and wince. “Cody, get the hell out of my lane, I’m doing laps.”

Fuckboy Cody stands there with that same stupid, shit-eating grin he always has around me and bobs his head, arms folded stubbornly across his reedy chest. He’s eighteen—probably barely eighteen—and I have no goddamn idea how he afforded this cruise. He has his phone in his free hand, without so much as a sandwich bag over it to protect it from the water.

That alone makes it clear he didn’t buy anything with his own money.

“You wanna get some exercise then you should take me back to your cabin. I’ll give you plenty.” And he reaches down and grabs the crotch of his shorts.

I can feel a headache coming on. “Get. Out. Of. My. Lane.” Idiot.

He’s one of a litter of about five late-teen boys who have made nuisances of themselves for the whole cruise so far. How did they get aboard, and why are they running around pestering women who are twice their age? Can we spray for them?

Cody’s grin takes on an even sleazier cast. “You really need some good dick. Guess what—I have a great one.” And he opens his phone and holds it out to me, revealing what is probably the best of his dick-pic crop.

I’m a nurse. I’ve seen a lot of dicks. I look at it, my mouth an unimpressed line, and then look back up at his vacantly-grinning face. “You’re kidding, right?”

Slowly it dawns on him that I’m not paying attention to the picture of his thumb-sized cock, nor am I freaking out or acting turned on. Instead, I just continue to stare down his dumb ass sternly until his grin wavers. “What?” he manages finally, looking genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t have time for this.” Turning away from him, I push off the bottom and jump into a forward dive, knowing he’ll be standing there looking at my ass as it surfaces. Maybe even taking a picture.

I do a single dolphin kick, sending a plume of water his way.

I hear his yell of outrage as I zip away quickly, snorting a trail of bubbles. The hell did you think would happen, taking your phone into a pool?

My grim amusement quickly subsides as my loneliness and frustration well up inside again, leaving me swimming sadly for the deep end.

When am I going to meet a man who is actually exciting?

Chapter 2

Daniel

I manage to duck the machete aimed at my head, letting it bite into the trunk of the palm behind me, then kick its wielder in his hollow gut. He grunts and staggers, but stays up.

“Ah fuck,” I mutter, clawing for my pistol as I dodge another swipe at my neck. I have no plans of being decapitated today.

No one who’d ever heard of Daniel Case, the guy who hacked NORAD when he was sixteen, would expect to find me here. I pretty much belong in front of a computer screen, surfing around endless data streams, stealing information, and altering records.

So what the hell am I doing fighting pirates?

“Little help here, Jake?” I call out, praying that my ex-soldier partner is still within earshot. My other partner, Sebastian, is up a tree with his rifle, picking off the pirates operating the rocket launcher.

The boathouse was blown apart. Most of it is now floating in burning scraps next to our equally gutted fishing boat. As for the speedboat and the yacht, there are half a dozen Haitian pirates climbing all over them, yelling at each other in Creole because they can’t get either one started.

Too bad for them that we only fuel up when we’re actually going out on the water.

I duck another blow. The skinny man in the ragged red T-shirt and headscarf glares at me through bloodshot eyes, determined to cut me up no matter how many times he risks breaking his blade on the trees.

I give up and aim the damn pistol. He finally backs off, still glaring.

I hate killing. I’ve only done it once, and I’m trying to avoid doing it a second time. Unlike my partners, I’ve never adapted that well to our new life.

He calls me several foul things in Creole and then hisses that he’s going to fuck my mother when he’s done with me.

I respond in his language, letting him know that my mom’s off in Upstate New York disapproving of my whole existence, so he’s really welcome to the bitch if he can pay the plane fare.

He lets out a startled laugh, and his guard drops for just a second—so I keep the gun safety on and smack him as hard as I can across the face with that solid chunk of metal. Blood flies from his nose and he drops like a stone.

“Ow.” The impact hurt my hand, and I shake it out briefly as I grab his machete and toss it aside. One down, too damn many to go. He has a walkie-talkie with him, and I hook it onto my belt to listen in while I zip-tie his wrists and ankles.

Pirates are foul-mouthed in any language: English, Somali, Russian, Creole—the stream of obscenities and insults flying alongside their communications all follow the same basic script.

“What is taking so long, you lazy dickhead losers?” I overhear from the transceiver.

“There’s no fuel and the fucking refueling tank’s locked, boss!”

“Well, what are you doing on those boats still, eating each other’s dicks? Go help capture those rich white bastards! Then they can fuel up the boats!”

“Not so easy, boss. There’s a dickhead in the tree with a rifle! He got two of us already! We’re pinned down.”

An angry growl. “So fire a rocket at him, imbecile!”

“We don’t know what fucking direction to fire in—” A soft grunt, and then a clatter, followed by a heavy thump.

I sigh in relief and check my surroundings again before hurrying on, leaving my guy tied to a tree. I keep the pistol in my hand and tuck the machete in my belt.

Looks like Sebastian’s picked off three of them so far. I had better go help Jake—if he even needs it. But where the hell is he?

The mid-conversation death of his man doesn’t seem to do anything but annoy the pirate captain. “How can my own cousins be so useless? How are the looters doing? Alain! Are you through that fucking gate yet?”

Clatters, thuds, followed by muffled screams. “Aaah! Fuck fuck fuck fuck...fuck he’s beating our dicks in—”

“Alain?”

“Helllllp!”

I choke on a laugh. Oh. That’s where Jake went.

Former Army Specialist ‘Big’ Jake Cosgrove is the number one reason why Sebastian and I were able to survive three years on Riker’s Island. The guy’s a warrior. He’d die of boredom at my desk.

For a profoundly honorable man, he loves a good fight way more than I’m comfortable with.

Until, of course, we’re fighting for our lives. Then I remember why we need his ferocity.

I check the narrow trail that leads up between the trees from the burning dock to our walled compound high above, then start quietly climbing the hill. I keep listening in as I go, a plan forming in my mind.

Now and again as I climb, a heavy crack rolls across the slope, and I know that Sebastian, patient as a spider, is picking off another pirate.

He picked up sniping fast once Jake offered to teach him. It’s another horribly necessary skill. But unlike Jake, Sebastian is no soldier. Just a talented amateur who is better at hardening his heart than anyone I’ve ever been.

Every time he pulls the trigger, I know why he has to do it, and I still wonder how he can stomach it. So far, I’ve taken down only one pirate—but I also disabled the towing rig on their modified fishing boat, cut their moorings and anchor line, locked the refueling tank, and kept the fire from spreading—all without being shot or blown up.

I don’t kill; I use my head instead—along with a lot of sneaking around.

Every one of us has a skill that we bring to the table when we work as a team. Jake is tough. Sebastian is persuasive. Me? I’m clever.

As I run up the path, I’m already knuckle-deep into the guts of the walkie-talkie, switching a few wires around. I then disconnect the output speaker, crank up the volume as high as it will go, and set the radio down, holding the broadcast button down with a rock.

The ringing screech of feedback erupts up and down the slope as several men yell and curse. I hurry uphill, laughing to myself as I run toward the yelling near the compound gates. I’ve just cut their communications to each other and distracted all of them.

I wonder if their boss has noticed yet that he’s slowly drifting out of the lagoon?

A heavy whump of an explosion down on the beach leaves me wondering if we’ll have to replace a boat, or if the pirates just lost their ride—and their boss. What the hell did you do, Sebastian?

I draw my gun again as I reach the top of the hill—and stop just inside the tree line at the clearing in front of our compound. Six men are on the ground: four unconscious and two groaning, disarmed, and holding themselves. As I watch, one of the four who’s still on his feet goes flying backward, landing on his ass in the dirt while he folds around his wounded guts.

The man in the middle of the carnage has a machete in one fist and a broken baseball bat in the other. He’s already emptied his gun. His huge figure is in constant motion, tawny hair flying, driving each man away from the half-open gate with brutal blows.

It’s an awesome sight—until I notice the blood soaking down the left calf of his bleached jeans. Stabbed or shot—it’s a wonder he still has use of the leg—and bleeding freely enough to endanger him. Especially if he goes down before the last pirate does.

Fuck. Glad I came up to give him some backup.No idea how long he’ll last with his calf streaming like that.

I can see the fire in Jake’s green eyes, and know he wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I were right beside him. I don’t know if he has any Norse in him, but he sure acts like it when he gets deep into a fight. He’s like a Berserker, lost in the sheer ferocious joy of kicking ass.

The pirates, who are either jacked on some stimulant, desperate, or incredibly stupid—or some combination—keep coming at him. They’re beaten back time and again until they break.

One of them standing back with a pistol catches my attention. I start creeping around toward him, my gun on him the entire time, praying I can get to him and disable him somehow before I have to use it. If his finger so much as tightens, I’ll be forced to shoot him in the head.

“Get out of the way, you stupid dogs!” he yells in frustration, but they ignore him and keep trying to fight. “I can’t put a bullet in him with you in the way!”

Just then, one of the last pirates stumbles back holding a broken arm—and his head flies up from a snap kick to the chin, sending him toppling over backward. He leaves a gap in the crowd; the gunman grins and aims—

—and the top of his head flies off in a chunk and he collapses, his pistol firing harmlessly into the dirt.

I stare at him, then down at the gun in my hand, my arm still aching from the recoil. I didn’t hear it fire. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger.

Oh God, I think, bile crowding the back of my throat. I have to pull myself together for a moment; I can freak out later. Breathing in deep shudders as the cold sweat of nausea breaks out over my skin, I put my focus back on my friend and partner.

I hear the grinding crack of Jake slamming the last two pirates’ heads together. A few of them are limping away back down the path, unarmed and bleeding, moving as fast as they can. I turn around, still trying to keep my guts from heaving up my lunch, and see Jake standing there panting and triumphant, the hellfire slowly leaving his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says when he can speak. “You saved my life.”

I force a smile as I put the pistol away. I can’t look at the corpse I just created. “Just paying you back some, bro.”

He grunts and nods an acknowledgment, looking around at the mix of unconscious, wounded, and broken bodies. “Looks like they leave their men behind.”

He sounds disgusted, and I can’t blame him. We might be outlaws, but we all have some very particular feelings about honor. Jake especially.

“Well, they’re fucking pirates. And not like Marcel.” Marcel is a pirate, but he comes to trade and have a few beers. He’s not stupid enough to attack us. Few are.

I can hear yelling from the beach and the rumble of an old boat motor. That fishing boat’s guttural diesel growl was what alerted me that we had company when this all started. “Think we’ve got them on the run.”

He sags slightly with relief and exhaustion—and exasperation at the pirates’ reckless stupidity. “Fucking finally. Half these idiots died of sheer stubbornness.”

I radio Sebastian, touching my throat mic. “Hey Bastian, it’s all dead and wounded up here. A few survivors are coming your way. Are they on the run beachside?”

“The survivors.” He sounds a little shaky, which is strangely reassuring. Whatever part of him that can coldly pick off human beings with a rifle, it’s now sunk back beneath the surface, like Jake’s dark side. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get a new speedboat. One of them fired the rocket launcher into its fuel tank.”

I wince. “So that’s what that boom was. Guess their boat’s still working. They waiting for their wounded, or do we have to ship them back to Haiti ourselves?”

“They’re covering their men’s escape, probably on their captain’s orders. There’s only a handful left of the twenty. You guys okay?”

His note of concern reassures me further, but I don’t go off whining about having to shoot one guy, even if it’s gnawing at me. If I do, he’ll calmly tell me about all the guys whose heads he just blew off, and I’ll feel even worse. “Jake’s bleeding and they damaged the gate. They never got inside the compound, though.”

“Fuck, one of them tagged Jake? Is he still on his feet?”