I was done with games. But playing with her is so much fun.
Ten years ago, I was all set to compete in the winter Olympics. Then I lost everything—my career, my best friend, and my girlfriend. After that, I stopped playing games for good. I swore never to go back to Colorado. Too many bad memories. Plus, she’s still there. Now I live a simple life as a creative director at Shimura Advertising in New York. All is good, until my boss cons me and my coworkers into spending two weeks in Colorado at Proton Sports’ sleep-away camp for adults, pitching their business. Turns out Proton’s idea of a pitch is making the agencies battle each other in a bunch of ridiculous winter games. Guess who owns the rival company? Her. And she’s out to get me. I might just let her win.
*Field-Tripped is Book 3 in the in the Ad Agency Series and can be read as a standalone.
Nicole Archer’s lengthy career as an advertising copywriter not only polished her writing skills—it provided a lifetime of book material. As a single, full-time working mom of a beautiful, brilliant, and horrifically energetic son, she has little time to do much else besides work, write, read, drink wine, and breathe. She’s originally from Colorado, but lives in Dallas now. This is her third book.
Charlie takes her glove off before she reaches me and gives me a handshake that’s more like foreplay. Her fingers trace my wrist and leave a lingering tingle.
My knees almost buckle.
“Ready to lose?”
An instant hard-on grows. No longer capable of rational thought, I brush my mouth against her ear. “If I win this race, I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight.”
Hot surprise blooms on her cheeks, and then, poof! It’s gone, and she morphs back into a surly kitty.
“And if I win,” she purrs, “I’m going to grip that beard of yours in one hand and ride your face like a bronco.”
I choke on my own saliva and pound my chest. Screw the Olympics. I’ve never wanted to win so bad my life. I actually consider performing a series of light calisthenics to limber up. I also consider praying on my knees like Orion’s receptionist.
I swing my leg over the snowmobile and lower my goggles—ready to win, ready to ride, ready to get out of this cold and between her warm thighs. I rev the engine like it’s a Harley. It sounds more like a lawnmower.
A flash goes off in my brain. It’s as if I’m watching myself perform live onstage in a Seventies’ sitcom. Where’s the canned laughter? Where’s the clapboard slamming shut? Where’s the director shouting, “That’s a wrap!”