Fifty-Two Pickup: Threes (Jessica Rogers Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PROLOGUE

  Is there no such thing as a serendipitous “meet cute” anymore?

  ~ Katie Patton

  WHY DO I LOVE VAMPIRE BOOKS AND MOVIES?

  I guess it’s because of my mother, but that doesn’t completely explain it. I mean, my mom loved the church, too. I avoid those like I’m a vampire myself. I feel bad for people that think organized religion, especially megachurches, add value to their lives. Think about it; people give their time, money, and energy to something that’s in all probability a deception. Now, perhaps, you think one of those many sects, denominations, or particular religious orders is the One True Faith. Okay, that could be true, but that still means that ninety-nine percent of humanity has given time, money, and energy to support the wrong religion.

  Life is too short to waste on fairy tales, but I’ll admit, it’s not always easy to figure out what things are true and what things are not.

  That brings me to the concept of true love.

  Is true love real?

  Is it possible?

  Ironically, the most truly content and happy couple I know are Eugene and Calvin, my gay friends who were finally able to get married just a few years ago, opposed mostly by those very same religious people that claimed they are loving and kind.

  Is giving time, money, and energy to the conquest of true love a fool's errand?

  I’m not sure yet, but I hope not.

  I’m on a quest to date fifty-two men. I’ve dated eight so far, six of whom are no longer on my radar. Of the two that I’m still interested in, one is Peter Gray, a cosmetic surgeon who lives in Beverly Hills. The other is Kirk Lucas, who lives in Hartford, Connecticut, currently, but has accepted a job in California.

  I’ve never been in two serious relationships at the same time, so this is new territory. What happens if I end up in a love triangle? What about a love square?

  I don’t know.

  I do know that I’m simply doing what men have done since the beginning of time.

  I’m playing the field.

  In case we haven’t met yet, my name is Jessica Lestat Rogers. I’m the first woman to win the main event at the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas, and I’m still riding that high (and spending the money). I’ve never married, but my end goal of seeing so many men is to find the right guy.

  The One.

  Mr. Right.

  My Soul Mate.

  Okay, maybe I’m stretching it on that last one, but I’m hopeful that a truly intimate and loving relationship is possible with the right man.

  That’s why I’m maintaining profiles on so many online dating sites. My live-in, a seventy-year-old Japanese woman named Midori, who I simply adore and can’t imagine living without, thinks I’m trying too hard. She’s a firm believer in serendipity. I’m not there yet. I think you should work hard at the things you want and I want a good man.

  My best girl friend is Audrey Kelly. She’s a wannabe actress. I tell her nearly all my secrets. I’m not sure if she understands my quest, but she’s supportive and always ready to talk and gossip about my dates and my sex life.

  As to sex, that’s probably why you’re here, right?

  Well, part of the reason.

  True love, too. Ha-ha...tell me it exists...

  I think so, and I hope you do as well.

  I like talking about sex; I believe that it's a vital part of life.

  I’ve decided that I want to be good at having and enjoying sex.

  Why not?

  I’m studying and doing my Kegel exercises. Shouldn’t you do the same? Of all the things we work hard at in this world, it surprises me that we take fucking so for granted.

  I’ve been in love before. I suffered a couple of broken hearts. Okay, full disclosure, I’ve broken more hearts than I’ve suffered myself. Men get attached to me easily enough, I’m attractive (so I’ve been told) and confident (you can’t win at poker without being aggressively confident).

  When I open the door to a man, he usually walks in. This may sound like heaven to some, but it’s not all roses and champagne, relationships can be tricky, difficult, and emotionally draining.

  Maybe true love comes naturally and easy?

  Maybe the idea that you have to work hard is a myth?

  Maybe soul mates sail through life and face the storms together as opposed to most couples I know who deal with difficulties as if they are opposing football teams?

  I decided to be open minded in my quest. I'm not restricting myself to gorgeous white males who are all six-foot tall plus and have traditional corporate jobs like I’m living out a pulp romance in which the male stars are all football players, firemen, or wealthy real estate investors with big cocks and six pack abs.

  But let’s face it: I am looking for a man who has an income and sexy looks.

  And, more importantly, he must possess empathy, kindness, and a good heart.

  I want Mr. Nice, sure, but he’s also going to be a strong alpha, a good thinker, a good conversationalist, and Yes! Yes! Yes!

  The sex has to be insanely intoxicating.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes serendipity is just intention unmasked.

  ~ Elizabeth Berg

  I HAD GONE OUT A FEW TIMES with Brad Cox before agreeing to cruise on his dive boat for an adventure in the Pacific. We headed out to Catalina Island, which is about thirty miles from Long Beach, where Brad lives. February is too cold to swim without a wetsuit. I don’t own one myself, but he had several spares and one fit me well enough. We went on a short snorkeling adventure around Catalina. The highlight was seeing Garibaldi, the official state marine fish of California, a state that for some reason needs two state fishes. The other one is the golden trout because I guess, one state fish isn’t enough? Or nobody wanted to discriminate against a freshwater fish?

  Our state reptile, because I know you’re wondering, is the desert tortoise. There’s only one state reptile, which seems unfair, because we have two state mammals. The first one is the California grizzly bear—ironically it’s extinct—which makes me wonder why we don’t have a state dinosaur?

  The second is the California gray whale, which is odd because it doesn’t live in California. The whales travel past the state on their way to and from the Bering Sea to their mating grounds in Baja, Mexico. But they don’t stop here. They don’t live in California. So it’s kind of like going to Disneyland or the airport and naming tourists the official state human.

  Our state bird is the California quail, which makes perfect sense, but our state pet is the 'shelter' pet. That seems, to me, to be taking this state thing too far. It’s like naming the state sport a ball.

  WE LEFT THE COLD WATER of the Pacific and stripped out of our wetsuits. I started shivering because of the temperature drop.

  Brad held me.

  His touch made gave me goose bumps. He turned me around and kissed me. He had a firm, strong mouth. I was warming up.
/>   He worked his way around my face and neck, ending at my nipples, which were hard and sensitive. The cold water we’d just left had them tingly. He was, gratefully, gentle. He slowly worked his tongue around each erect point, occasionally stopping to suck and flick them with his tongue. I dropped my hands to his ass to squeeze and knead. He had firm glutes that matched the rest of his rugged and trim body.

  “Hey, how come you have no tan lines?” I asked.

  “I lay out on the boat.”

  That settled, we got back to business. I’d felt his swollen cock against my stomach (he’s got a few inches of height on me) as we kissed. I was ready to play a more aggressive role in our fresh-out-of-the-water dance.

  Unlike the gray whales, I wanted to stop and enjoy the scenery.

  I dropped to my knees and surprised him with how well I can multitask. I moved my body to his side so that I could reach my left hand around his leg and cup his balls in my hand. There’s a spot right there, between the balls and the stick, where you can massage and stimulate the prostate. If you can do that right, while sliding your finger nails down his nuts, while working his shaft like you’re a machine that doesn’t tire, well, let me just say that it’s a rare man that can hold off climaxing.

  “Let’s move to the bunk,” he said. Obviously, he was not ready to come, which was fine by me.

  He pulled back the blankets to expose freshly washed sheets. Either he’s a neat freak—or he’s a good planner—and he’d been thinking about fucking me since yesterday when I agreed to a time and place for this, our fourth date. I believe he’s a planner. I crawled onto the bunk, which wasn’t designed for two, and he grabbed my hips. I felt him slide into my port like a ship coming home from a long trip at sea.

  “Awwww, fuck. That’s nice,” he said.

  “Hmmmmm,” I replied. That was about as much of the English language that I could muster at the moment. I was so fucking wet before we’d even made it to the bed, by the time he plunged into my sweet pink pond, I was dying to feel his personal depth gauge all up inside me.

  The initial entrance accomplished, he began pounding me vigorously, hard, and deep. I was wet, horny, and ready to explode, so I didn’t discourage the vigorous thrusting.

  I encouraged it.

  “Fuck me. Harder. Harder. Drive that cock home.” I spread out my arms to get a better grip and found a pillow to keep my head from smashing into the wall—the hull—or whatever the fuck it was, like I said, my grasp of the English language was failing.

  “Oh! Jess. I’m so close, baby. Argh.”

  “Fuck me like a pirate, damn it, we are on a boat.”

  He started laughing uncontrollably and stopped pumping.

  “Hey," I complained.

  “Sorry, you made me laugh.”

  “Okay, comedy time is over, get back to work, or I’ll make you walk the plank.”

  “I’ll give you a plank,” he said.

  He turned me over, spread my legs, and dove into my pink flower like he was scuba diving. His tongue was forceful, and he flicked, sucked, licked, and moved it around my lips up to my clit and then gently circled my swollen pleasure center. My entire world and existence focused on that one spot. I think I forgot I was on a boat.

  I might have forgotten my name.

  I’d been close to climax before his laughing had stopped the doggie style pumping, so once he got down into my folds with his tongue, it didn’t take long to be right at the peak again. When he started working my clit, I began to breathe faster and deeper, and for a moment I thought I was going to hyperventilate and pass out.

  He put one hand under my ass and took hold of my cheek like it was a football. He headed for the winning touchdown and wasn’t about to fumble. His other hand moved to my pussy. He used his fingers to spread me apart so that his tongue could do more damage.

  “Oh, oh, oh, oh!” I breathed faster with each of his movements and approached climax. He started flicking my clit with his finger while working it with his tongue and as I peaked he squeezed my ass so hard, I thought the muscles would break. I arched my back and screamed out in a primal voice that I’d never quite heard come from my mouth before.

  “OoooooOooo! Aawwwwwh! Oooooh! Yes, yes, yes, awwwwwwwwww...”

  I was dead for a little slice of a second, and yes, heaven is real, I’ve been wrong about that, I’ll admit. I felt the joy of the universe at that moment, everything good about life, living, and being human was summed up in that nirvana of a moment.

  He let me recover, but then, as my breathing leveled, he plunged his cock into my pussy which was even wetter and more swollen than before, and I gasped. I’m always amazed when it feels like the first time again. It’s like I’m opening a present that I’d already unwrapped, yet I’m still surprised and enamored.

  I clamped down on his dick and held it tight inside me as he stroked. I watched him and listened. His eyes shut, his face contorted, and his breathing escalated.

  I grabbed his ass, using both of my hands, as he approached climax.

  He arched his back and thrust deeply. If I’d had any energy left, I’d have climaxed with him, but it felt good feeling him and watching him come. He made deep guttural grunts and finished in one last vigorous stroke.

  “Oh damn.”

  He rolled over next to me and was asleep in two minutes flat.

  I LET BRAD SLEEP and found something to eat. I didn’t know enough about boats to risk trying to drive us back towards Long Beach. Not that we were in a rush or anything. So I decided to get a little sun myself and enjoy the sights and smells of the open ocean.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There is more to poker than life.

  ~ Tom McEvoy

  WHEN TRAVELING IS PART OF YOUR JOB, you get used to airports, security, uncomfortable conversations, and all manner of people. Nice, polite, kind people and rude, arrogant assholes.

  I run into all kinds.

  I was traveling to Tunica for a World Series of Poker event. That meant flying to Memphis. I like Tennessee, it’s a pretty state, and nothing beats a stop at a Waffle House for some covered, smothered, and chunked hash browns and a pecan waffle. Yes, I know, a girl's gotta watch her figure...but without a little cheating, where’s the fun in life?

  I was sitting next to a married man on the flight. I can usually tell the difference between happily married men that are merely harmless flirts and those that are unhappy (or miserable) and would eat me up like chocolate chunks in a bowl of trail mix.

  “You headed to Memphis for business?” he asked me.

  “Tunica, actually.” I smiled in that noncommittal way I do when I’m not sure yet whether I want to engage in conversation or not.

  “I’m in Memphis for a few days,” he said. “I’m in sales.”

  “Poker,” I said.

  “No? Really?”

  I nodded.

  “Professionally?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s impressive. I’ve never met a professional poker player before.”

  “I’ve met lots of salesmen," I admitted.

  If you’ve ever read anything about how ‘players’ in the PUA community operate, you know that one of the tricks they use is to ‘neg’ good-looking women (the 8s, 9s, and 10s). The theory is that if you put a hot, attractive woman down—she’ll be more likely to want to prove to you that she’s worthy. That’ll get you on the path to bedding her, so they claim.

  I pretty much hate PUAs (Pick Up Artists).

  Their usually inadequate fucks.

  I’ve fucked for sport a few times in my life; it’s depressing once it’s over. I use the ‘neg’ now myself, not as a means to getting a man in bed—or to manipulate—but to see if a guy is a worth entering a conversation with as opposed to getting out a book.

  Take a note here, I’m going out with a lot of guys, but it’s not to use them for sex. I’m looking for a real honest relationship. There’s a world of difference between being a PUA Player and someone who is not wanti
ng a long term commitment and is upfront and honest about it.

  I don’t judge those just looking to get laid, although I suspect it’s a lonely life.

  The salesman smiled at me. “Yes, it’s a common enough job, but not everyone is good at it,” he said.

  “What do you sell?” I asked.

  He spent the next ten minutes explaining industrial chemical products. It’s probably a good thing I’m not a domestic terrorist because I think he has access to bomb making materials. I didn’t mention this fact, seeing as we were on a plane.

  When he finished explaining how he’d won sales awards and set various records, he asked me about my poker career. I decided he was interesting enough to chat with, so I left my book alone and answered his question.

  “I am the first woman to win the main event at the World Series of Poker in Vegas.”

  “The World Series? The main, main event? The one with the ten thousand dollar entry fee?"

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re…” He looked up in the air and put his hand on his chin.

  I remained silent.

  “Jessica, right?” he asked.

  “That’s me, Jessica Rogers,” I said.

  He put out his hand. “I’m John Walters.”

  I shook hands with him. “You’re married, I see.”

  “Yes, happily married. Ten years.”

  He seemed sincere, so I asked, “What’s the secret?”

  “To a happy marriage?”

  “No, to selling toxic waste.” I gave him a crooked smile.

  He laughed but then answered me. “I think it’s communication, empathy, and avoiding contempt at all costs. Well, and a healthy sex life and at least one hobby in common.”

  “Sounds reasonable," I said, "but is it possible?”

  “I have ten years. I’m not going to say it’s all been easy, but when it works, it seems to work.”

  “Kids?”

  “Not yet, no,” he said. “Maybe that’s the secret…”