Scoring The Billionaire by Max Monroe Review Tour
Blurb:
Two love-matches made.
One to go.
Even though two of his best friends have settled down, Wes Lancaster is determined not to get sucked into some siren’s web. As owner of the professional football team the New York Mavericks and wildly successful BAD restaurant, his lifestyle is full as it is.
Well, it was, until Winnie Winslow, the new, sexy, stiletto-wearing Team Physician trash-talks him in the locker room without batting an eye.
Now he can’t stop himself from wanting her.
The only girl in her parents’ brood of five, she’s as outspoken as she is beautiful and the kind of woman who holds her own—and then some.
Always competitive at heart, if he’s going all in for love…
Wes sure as hell wants a Win-Win.
Prepare to get a little dirty because this one might go into overtime.
Game. On.
Disclaimer:
Max and Monroe, under penalty of fictional perjury, swear that actually changing the rhythm of your heartbeat was not their intention, but rather, a side effect of swoony characters and an overzealous dedication to tears. No, no. The Dedication of the book is actually to tears.
Proceed with caution. Except, be cautious quickly.
Check out our 5 smooches review HERE.
“Leave it,” I whispered as her phone rang from her tiny purse that lay discarded on the floor, groaning and pushing her deeper into the wall before sucking the peak of her nipple into my mouth.
We were in the trenches of my favorite two-person activity, and I had absolutely no desire to add a third—especially knowing whoever was on the other end of her phone wasn’t a model for Victoria’s Secret.
Relax. I’m mostly joking.
I’d been working diligently at the removal of each and every piece of her clothing for the last five or so minutes, but we were so desperate to keep our mouths on one another, the process had been slow going and she’d yet to have the chance to reciprocate.
I couldn’t help it, though, and I didn’t mind that I still wore my clothes. Her skin was like a flavor, one I swore had been specifically designed for me by Baskin Robbins, and her nipples were like the cherries on top. Deep red from my attention and perfectly delicious.
But the bleating of her phone threatened to pop my flawless pleasure bubble.
And I was in no way ready to stop.
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