Authors: Devon Hartford
Cover Model
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Devon Hartford
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright ©2015 Devon Hartford
Cover Copyright ©2015 Devon Hartford
Cover Model - Myles Leask
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DEDICATION
To everyone who told me to get my ass to a romance convention, I decided to bring one to you.
COVER MODEL
They called him Connor HUGE.
Connor Hughes f**ked his way through every girl in my high school.
Except me.
We
hated
each other.
That arrogant a**hole insulted me, tormented me, and
ruined
me without ever laying a finger on me.
After graduating near the top of my class, I escaped to UCLA, got my degree, and threw myself into a career as a serious journalist. But I never forgot the damage Connor did.
At least I’ll never have to see him again.
Until my editor at
Trending Magazine
tasks me with writing a tell-all article about Connor. Turns out my insufferable bad boy nemesis grew into the ultra-gorgeous model whose perfect body steams up the covers of half the romance novels on the bestseller lists.
Now I’m stuck shadowing him all weekend long at the world’s largest Romance Convention. I’m forced to watch in disgust as 45,000 women throw themselves at him and worship his shirtless body while he taunts me incessantly.
We hate each other as much today as we did seven years ago. But I can’t stop stealing glances at his perfect abs and perfect a**.
My better judgment tells me to drop everything and run, but
something deep inside me is dying to know if he’s as HUGE as the rumors…
***Cover Model is a steamy standalone with an HEA***
Prologue
ELECTRA
GRAD NIGHT, 2008.
“Not on your life,” I chuckle, staring into the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever hated.
I stand toe to toe with Connor Hughes, the gorgeous young man I hate more than any other human being on the planet.
“You totally want me.” He flashes his insolent grin, the one that makes all the girls in school drool over him and write his name in their notebooks and stalk his Facebook page in hopes that he’ll mention them. “You’ve
always
wanted me.”
My anger rises and I snort, “I’ve
never
wanted you.
Connor.
” I spit out his name like it’s filthy. “You must think I’m pretty stupid if you think I’m going to let myself become yet another notch on your bedpost.”
In the distance, a flickering rainbow of light beams from the grad night carnival set up behind our high school. All that frolic and fun seems a million miles away.
Ten hours ago, Connor and I walked separately across the stage in the North Valley High School gymnasium and got our diplomas from the principal. When Connor got his, he took a bow to an uproar of cheers and applause. Everybody loves Connor Hughes. Except me. When I took my diploma, nobody made a sound, not even the crickets.
Now it’s four in the morning and I’m all alone with Connor under the starry night sky.
I fold my arms defensively across my chest and growl in his arrogant and undeniably handsome face. “The only reason you want me is because you never
had
me,
Connor
. We both know that if I was dumb enough to have sex with you, you’d get what you’ve wanted all along, and you’d move on. Just like you did with every other unsuspecting girl you’ve fucked. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He opens his mouth to speak. A strained half syllable wheezes out but catches in his throat. “I—” He deflates, his muscled shoulders sagging.
“That’s what I thought,” I smirk. “I’m just another notch for you. But I’ve got news for you, Connor
Screws
. You will
never
catch me. I will
always
get away. After everything that you’ve done, I will
never
be one of your notches.”
I turn on the heel of my brand new bowtie flats and stride across the damp grass field toward the main parking lot. I never look back, promising myself that I will
never
think about Connor Hughes
ever
again.
As far as I’m concerned, he is out of my life forever.
Good riddance.
Chapter 1
CONNOR
SEVEN YEARS LATER…
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I grunt as I push my dick deeper into her pussy. “And wet as fuck.”
We’re sprawled on the king-sized hotel bed where we’ve been fuckin since the sun came up.
Her eyes are clamped shut and her face is screwed up as tight as her pussy. “Ohhhh, yes, Connor, yes…” she moans. “I’m going to come again…”
They always do.
This will be her fourth orgasm this morning, and the seventh since last night when we stumbled up to my room.
I slam into her harder and harder. “Squeeze my dick, babe. Fuckin
squeeze
it… Yeah…”
Her mouth splits open and she cries out, “
Yes, yes, oh my god, yes!!
” Her nails claw my shoulders. This chick’s a fuckin beast between the sheets.
I’m down with that. “Come on my dick, Juh—” I stop myself because I almost said Jasmine. She doesn’t notice. I don’t think this chick’s name is Jasmine. Jasmine was Tuesday. At least I
think
it was Jasmine. Or was Jasmine on Wednesday and Siobhan was Tuesday?
Who knows.
I should just stick to calling all of them Babe.
The only thing I do remember about this chick is that she told me earlier she’s half Chinese and half Brazilian. Exotic as hell. Long black hair, tanned caramel skin, perfect bod, killer tits. Crazy hot. You don’t come across a chick like this every day, but I’m going to come inside her in a minute.
When she picked me up last night, she was easily the hottest chick in the club. I spotted her out of a sea of plastic Beverly Hills blondes immediately. I grew out of my blonde bimbo phase three years ago. They’re usually shitty lays. But this chick around my dick is top shelf. Prime Grade. Just like that choice beef they serve down in the restaurants of Brazil. Or is that Argentina? I can’t remember. For me, the month long jungle photo shoot I did down in South America was one big blur of exotic pussy, killer booze, and killer food. The steaks down there are unreal.
I nearly laugh out loud at the thought.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about Argentinian beef while I’m fuckin this hottie, but I am. No matter how much I think I’m into a chick, my mind always ends up wandering during sex.
“I’m coming, Connor,” she squeals as her pussy grabs my dick like a fist.
Yeah she is.
Time for me to let loose myself and get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today. I groan wordlessly as I pump harder and shoot a load into the condom. It’s good but not great.
It’s never great.
But it helps me forget about
her
.
For a minute, anyway.
The second I roll off Babe, or whatever her name is, and close my eyes, I see
her
face.
I fuckin
hate
that.
After seven years, I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw
her
face.
One of these years, I’m going to forget about Electra Warmoth.
Or not.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
ELECTRA
I didn’t spend four years at UCLA getting a degree in journalism for
this
. Writing an exposé on a male model who poses shirtless for romance novel book covers?
Please.
What about this assignment says serious journalism?
None of it.
Sleek modernist decor on the seventh floor surrounds me as I walk along the luxe patterned carpeting toward my destination. Early morning light shines through windows at the end of the long hallway, stabbing my eyes. I need coffee. It’s way too early for this nonsense.
I’m beyond irritated about being here.
Why?
Late last night, Vince Pitts, my annoying ass of a Managing Editor over at
Trending Magazine,
insisted I cover this silly story if I wanted to keep getting work from him. I’m a freelancer, and only a junior contributor at that, which means I barely scrape by on what I earn. Considering I still owe a king’s ransom on my student loans from getting my journalism degree at UCLA, I agreed. So here I am at Rom Com Con 2015, short for Romantic Comedy Convention, which takes place every summer at the sprawling Beverly Hills Resort and Convention Center.
Can you say waste of time?
I told Vince I didn’t care that there will be over a hundred hot hard-bodied male cover models circulating throughout the convention for the next three days, signing autographs and showing off their flawless physiques. I reminded him that a few weeks ago, Hilary Clinton announced her candidacy for President. Whether I agree with her politics or not, I should be following
her
on the campaign trail, covering
her
story as she sets
her
sights on making feminist history. It’s about time this country had a woman for president.
But
nooooo
, Vince insisted I spend my Fourth of July weekend here covering this trivial fluff piece. The only fireworks I’m going to see are the irritated ones shooting out of my ears.
Walking beside me in the hotel hallway is a guy named Romeo Fabiano. He’s slightly shorter than I am, has olive skin, a coifed black faux-hawk, and a perpetual grin. As we walk, a slick black vinyl trench coat billows out behind him and a monocle bounces from a black string tied to one of his vest’s many buckles. Emo chic. He and I met for the first time this morning. Margaret Lang, my media contact for the convention, introduced me to Romeo when I arrived at the resort. She instructed him to take me up to the interview.
“Are you excited to meet him?” Romeo titters. “I know
I
am.”
“Excited?” I sigh. “Why should I be excited?”
“Because
no one
has ever seen
HIS
face.”
“Maybe
HIS
face isn’t worth seeing,” I mock, picturing some random meathead gym rat with a dopey expression and a crooked nose whose only asset is his body.
“Surely you jest,” Romeo says. “We’re talking about
the
Connor. The hottest male model in the business. The man with the perfect body. The body by which all others are measured and found lacking.”
The sour expression on my face says:
I don’t care.
I could be reporting on the plight of displaced refugees in third world countries. Instead, I’m here at Rom Com Con covering
this
. Open disdain shows on my face. Poker is not my game. But I am a professional, so I try to think happy thoughts to smooth out my wrinkled brow. It doesn’t work.
Romeo drives his point home. “A
Connor Cover
, as they’re known in the industry, practically guarantees that a book will sell millions of copies and land a top ten slot on The New York Times best sellers list. His abs put washboards out of business. His chest makes granite statues weep with envy. His shoulders made Atlas shrug in defeat. And those tattooed arms? Mmm-mmm, girl. With a body like his, I can only imagine what his
heads
look like.”
“You mean, ‘head’,” I correct.
“No, I mean
heads
. As in, plural. As in, both of them…” His eyes flicker impishly.
I refrain from rolling mine, but the urge is intense. “I hate to break it to you, but the logical conclusion why he’s never shown his face is because it’s not worth showing.”