PROLOGUE

Wingman

A wingman is a role that a person may take when an acquaintance needs support with approaching possible partners.

Reign.

The name has a sigh whooshing out of my mouth and my eyes rolling.

King of sex. Jealous. Possessive. Obsessed. Gorgeous.

Those are the first thoughts that come to mind when describing sex extraordinaire, Reign Braxton.

Six months ago, I would have melted to my knees at the very sight of him. Golden eyes, tall, broad, ripped beyond ripped, messy black hair and a smile to die for. He could flick your panties off and have them running for cover with a mere glance in your direction.

He’s also an asshole.

Like, a mega asshole. Not just your average prick—no, Reign takes prick to a whole new level. He owns the word. What he doesn’t own, however, is a heart. It packed its bags and ran off with the last woman who left him: the woman who put me in this position.

The woman that brought Reign into my life.

Selena.

Also known as Slutena. That’s all she is, a giant whore with dollar signs in her eyes. Her need for Reign goes no further than a cock to warm her expensive pussy at night and a credit card to pay for her luxurious, make-her-legs-look-gorgeous shoes.

But without Slutena, there would be no me. You see, although Reign is all those things to her, to him she’s like . . . sunshine or whatever. He looks at her and his golden eyes go all mushy. He fell for her million-dollar pussy and those damned legs, and then he found another man balls deep inside her just over a year ago.

Broke his heart—the heart she still holds.

So that’s where I come in. I’d like to call myself a superhero, but that would be unclassy. I’m far better. I’m the ultimate. I’m the reason his bed is kept warm and his ex is kept jealous.

I’m Reign’s wingman.

Or, wingwoman, if you will.

CHAPTER ONE

Where it all begins.

“Those shoes look super hot on you, Tia.” My best friend, Autumn, grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

I stare down at my red pumps. They are pretty hot. And with my tight, black dress that dips down at the back, and my blond hair, I’m hoping I’ll gather the right sort of male attention tonight. The river is dry, if you know what I mean. It’s been months since I’ve had a man in my bed, and desperation has finally wrapped its claws around me, and shaken.

Time to get laid.

“You’ll kill it,” Autumn says, tucking her long, blond hair up on top of her head.

“So will you. Damn.” I whistle. “Who gave you those legs?”

She turns to me, flashing her man-catching grin and starts singing, “I got it from my momma, I got it from my momma.”

I laugh and smooth my straight, thick hair down. It’s blond; not light blond, but not dark blond either. It’s a little like honey. My eyes are hazel, nothing special, but they work with my olive skin tone. My hair, as much as I love it, also causes me great grief.

Firstly, it’s too straight. I mean come on, not even a wave?

Secondly, it’s thick. Super thick; two hairbands kind of thick.

“You ready?” Autumn asks, jerking me out of my mirror pout.

“Do you think I should leave my hair down?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you should. Your hair is your best feature.”

“Hey,” I protest. “I have a great ass, too.”

She laughs and hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, Tia, let’s get you laid.”

Bring it.

~*~*~*~

“Holy fucking shit, that’s Reign Braxton.”

I turn my gaze to the man that has captured Autumn’s attention not even minutes after we’ve entered the club and gotten a drink. My brows shoot up and I nod, impressed. It is, in fact, Reign Braxton. I’ve never seen him in person, only ever on the television. He owns a massive line of Blue Candy clubs across the state. He’s an extremely rich, extremely gorgeous male.

I also hear he rocks in bed—like rocks rocks.

“So it is,” I yell over the music, being careful not to spill my martini all over myself.

“You should go talk to him,” she cries. “Imagine how good he would be in bed.”

I nod, pursing my lips as I contemplate this. Then, shrugging my shoulders and figuring what the hell, I head over, hearing Autumn’s squeal of delight from behind me.

My guess? I’ve made the right choice. Reign is sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender, who looks as though he’s having a pineapple shoved deep, deep into his ass.

Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble.

I stop beside Reign and lean against the bar. As if sensing my presence, he turns and holy shit, my panties shrivel up and die at the mere sight of him. They know they’re not needed in this moment. My lips part on a gasp as I take him in. The television does amazing things for him, but this . . . up close . . . right in his face . . . that’s another story altogether.

His eyes are like liquid gold, sparkling with pure, raw, male perfection. His jaw is square, his nose slightly bent. He’s obviously been in a few fights in his life, but it seems to fit his rugged, manly features. He’s got a tiny scar above his top lip, but it doesn’t take away from them. No, it just makes him look even more dangerous. His hair is messy, as though he’s only run his hands through the dark locks before leaving home.

He’s wearing a suit; only he’s tossed the jacket and rolled up the sleeves to his crisp, white shirt. The top two buttons have popped open, revealing smooth, golden skin. With a shaky hand, I drag my eyes away from his and slide my glass across the bar to the still shaking man standing behind it. He turns his blue eyes to mine, giving me a thankful expression.