Josh Faraday is used to getting what he wants. And what he wants is her.
The Playboy and The Party Girl with a Hyphen, Josh and Kat from the bestselling The Club series, tell their love story in a scorching new trilogy: The Infatuation, The Revelation, and The Consummation. Whoever said love is patient and kind has never met hell-on-wheels, Kat Morgan.
Readers are advised to read the bestselling books of The Club Series in order before reading Josh and Kat’s trilogy:
The Club (The Club #1)
The Reclamation (The Club #2)
The Redemption (The Club #3)
The Culmination (The Club #4)
I have to start by saying HOLY.FUCK. This book is HOT. Now The Club books were Hot but Josh and Kat are just WOW.
Firstly I have to say hat’s off to Lauren for doing something I think is always a struggle for authors. She took two characters that had already been established and grew them into two people I loved. The nature of the story meant there is some overlapping back to the end of The Club Trilogy. There’s always the risk of repetition and I’ll be honest and say that’s something I was wary of. But that just one an issue here. It’s still a wickedly engaging story. The chemistry between the two is incredible. The book had me laughing out loud at the banter between Kat and Josh. There was enough intrigue and mystery to keep me on pins until the book was finished. And what a finish! Holy suspense Batman.
A fantastic start to what I know will be an epic trilogy.
5 fantastic stars from me.
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1SjZzwl
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1mn2Oq5
“What does that mean? Are you jealous of Miss Blast from My Past?”
“Of course. Isn’t that what we’re doing here—playing the honesty-game ’til we both wanna bang our heads against a wall?”
She laughs. “Um… I’m more like envious, I think, but, no, not jealous. I don’t get jealous when I’m not in a relationship.” She glares at me, clearly telling me my jealousy about Cameron Schulz is premature. “Now, if you were my boyfriend and I found out you’d fucked another woman, then, yes, I’d be so jealous I’d burn your fucking house down. And then I’d cut off your balls, roast them over the burning embers of your house, smash them between two graham crackers with a Hershey bar and make testicle-s’mores out of them, which I would then gobble up as I stood over your writhing, whimpering body on the ground.”
Holy shit. I’m so shocked, I can’t even laugh. But Kat does—in fact, she belly laughs and throws back her head, completely enthralled with herself.
“And do you wanna know why I’d burn your house down and make myself s’mores out of your balls, my dearest Josh?”
I shake my head. “I’m too scared of you to even venture a guess.”
“Because if you were my boyfriend, I would never, ever cheat on you, I can promise you that on a stack of bibles. Never. I’ve never cheated and I never will. And here’s why: because I never agree to be someone’s girlfriend unless I’m one hundred percent willing to give the guy my whole heart. And as the relationship progresses, if I’m feeling like cheating, then I don’t stay. It’s scorched earth maybe, but a man never, ever has to wonder where my feelings stand.” She picks up her drink. “It also means that, if you were my boyfriend and you cheated on me, then you’d undoubtedly be breaking my heart.”
I place my palm on my chest, steadying myself. I look down at the bar, collecting myself. This girl just knocked the wind out of me.
“But since you and I aren’t even dating, then, no, I’m not jealous.” She takes a long sip of her drink. “Because I can’t justify getting jealous when a man’s not mine to begin with.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Kat,” I manage to say.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve never met anyone like you, either.”
“You’re like some bizarre, undiscovered species of fish that washes ashore after a nuclear disaster and freaks everyone the fuck out,” I say.
She laughs. “Wow. That’s your idea of a compliment?”
“I’m normally much smoother than this, I assure you. You bring out the Jonas in me.”
She laughs. “Jonas seems pretty damned smooth, actually.”
“Not usually. Just with Sarah all of a sudden. She brings out the Josh Faraday in him, I guess.”
She grins and I can’t help smiling back at her like a fucking dope.
There’s a very long beat, during which we’re smiling at each other, not saying a damned thing. Finally, Kat bites her lip and touches my hand, sending electricity throughout my entire body.
“For God’s sake, Playboy,” she purrs, “just tell me what’s in your application so we can get this show on the road. Please?” She squeezes my hand and licks her lips. “I’m suddenly feeling extremely… impatient.”
Oh man, she’s good. She’s very, very good. But she’s also shit out of luck. There’s no fucking way I’m giving this girl my application. Period. And certainly not in exchange for the honor of fucking her. Hell no, when she finally fucks me, it’s gonna be for no other reason than she’s dying for it, not because I gave her some stupid application.
I drain the rest of my drink. “Nope.” I clap my hands together. “Getting this show on the road is entirely up to you, Party Girl. All you have to do is kiss me, just once, and then I’ll know you’ve conceded your demands and have finally decided to find out the good old-fashioned way if I’m gonna chain you to a donkey or not.”
She smirks. “No, no, no, my dearest Playboy; you’ve got it backwards. What’s actually gonna happen is you’re gonna kiss me—thereby signaling to me you agree to my demands and will give me what I want.”
We stare each other down.
“I’m not gonna give you my application, Kat. It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Oh, I think you are.”
She puckers. “I’m a really good kisser, Playboy.” She raises an eyebrow. “At least, that’s what Cameron Schulz said.”
I squint at her. “You’re evil.”
I motion to the bartender. “Check, please.” I glare at her for a long beat. She looks so fucking sure of herself—and so fucking hot, I doubt this girl’s experienced disappointment once in her entire life. “Okay, Party Girl,” I say. “The time for chitchat is over. I’m not gonna give you what you want—which means you’re not gonna fuck me.” I make a sad face and she matches it. “So I guess that means there’s only one thing left for us to do,” I continue.
“And what would that be?”
“Dance, of course.”
Her face lights up. “Oh, I love to dance.”
“Well, of course, you do. You’re the Party Girl With a Hyphen, for fuck’s sake.”
“It’s time for you to earn that nickname of yours, babe.” I touch the cleft in her chin one more time and then put out my hand. “Let’s go, baby. Time to paint Sin City red.”