Ball Peen Hammer
Lauren Rowe
Release Date: July 25, 2016
Ball Peen Hammer is a sexy romantic comedy about a stripper
who will make you swoon!
Meet Keane in this STANDALONE Romance
Releasing on July 25th!
(No Prior reading required)
Add it to your TBR
Blurb
Keane Morgan wouldn’t return any of my calls or texts, and I
was pissed as hell about it. I didn’t want to drive from Seattle to L.A. with
the guy any more than he wanted to drive with me, but I had no frickin’ choice
in the matter--at least, not if I wanted to use his brother Dax’s coveted parking
spot at UCLA.
Okay, so it turned out Keane was objectively gorgeous, and,
fine, pretty funny, too. But did he have to be so damned in love with himself?
I mean, jeez, the cocky way he flashed those dimples was just so orchestrated.
And, honestly, what kind of guy uses the phrase “baby doll” with a straight
face? Oh, that’s right: the kind of guy who’s a male stripper.
Yup, the cocky jerk turned out to be Seattle’s answer to
Magic Mike, a stripper known as “Ball Peen Hammer”--which meant Keane Morgan
was emphatically not the kind of guy I’d ever fall for.
Not. At. All.
No freakin’ way.
Well, until Keane convinced me to fall for him, that is.
Which I did.
Hard.
Excerpt
Keane looks around the small motel room while I sit in a
rickety chair, watching him. He seems nervous, though I can’t imagine why.
Isn’t this what he does for a living?
“There isn’t a lot of room to maneuver in here,” Keane says,
biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m not gonna be able to do most of my usual
moves.”
“No
judgment here,” I say. “Just jiggle a little bit and I’m sure I’ll be duly
impressed.”
Keane
rolls his eyes. “I don’t jiggle, Maddy. I dance.”
“Okay, gyrate. Writhe. Shake your booty. Whatever. I’m just
saying I’m easy to please.”
Keane twists his mouth, still surveying the small space. “I
can’t do any of my acrobatics or flips in here. This is gonna be pretty lame,
actually.” He sighs. “And I’ll definitely have to use the bed for some stuff.
Okay? Otherwise, there’s no place to maneuver.”
I bite my
lip, trying not to smile. “Do whatever you think is best,” I say. “I won’t know
the difference. It’s my first lap dance, remember?”
Keane
furrows his eyebrows adorably. “Okay. But just so you know I’m usually way more
exciting than what you’re about to see.”
I purse my
lips and flare my nostrils, trying to keep a huge smile at bay. Why the
heckity-heck does Keane seem so freaking nervous? “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll
mention the cramped performing space when I write my Yelp review.”
“Hang on.” Without warning, he leans over me, giving me a
whiff of his delicious, soapy scent, grabs ahold of either side of my chair,
and rotates me a quarter turn so I’m facing the length of the narrow “alley”
between the beds and the dresser. “Okay, that’s better,” Keane says. “Gives me
a little more room to work with.” He grabs a shirt from his duffel bag and
throws it over the lamp on the nightstand, further dimming the already low
lighting in the room. “Can I use your laptop to play some music?”
“Sure.” I motion to my computer on the bed and tell him the
password.
After calling up something on my computer, Keane places the
laptop onto the dresser to my left. “Press play on the song when I cue you,” he
says.
“Yes, sir.”
Keane positions himself a few feet in front of me, his head
bowed, his hands clasped in front of his crotch, his legs spread into an
athletic stance, but before he can do anything else, I burst into a manic
giggle.
Keane looks up. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I just realized I’ve paid a male stripper for
a private lap dance in a motel room.” I snicker. “Okay. I’m good now. Proceed.”
I exhale and shake out my arms.
After a beat, Keane puts his head down again, but then
immediately raises his face to look at me again. “Picture colorful lights
swirling around the room, okay?”
“Ooooh. Aaaaaaah. Pretty.”
Keane levels me with the most hilariously annoyed expression
he’s ever flashed at me (which is saying a lot). “Are you gonna be sardonic
this entire time, or can you at least try to act like a normal pickle with a
dollar bill?”
“Sorry. I will most definitely relax and act like a normal
pickle with a dollar bill, starting now.”
“Thank you.” He takes a deep breath, shakes out his arms,
clasps his hands in front of his crotch again, and lowers his head. “Cue
music,” he says.
I dutifully reach over to my computer and press play on the
song Keane’s got cued up on YouTube: “Pony” by Ginuwine, of course.
The song begins blaring in the small room. But Keane doesn’t
move. To the contrary, through the first familiar chords of the iconic song,
Keane remains stock-still, apparently letting anticipation build the same way
Channing Tatum did when he danced to this song in Magic Mike. And I must say
his tactic is working like a charm: I’m transfixed.
But, still, Keane doesn’t move, other than to subtly flex
the muscles on his forearms.
Finally, after a few bars of the song, Keane begins moving
his hips and slowly touching his chest over the fabric of his tight black
T-shirt—an understated move that most definitely piques my interest—and when
the song reaches Ginuwine’s vocals, Keane’s magnificent body finally springs to
animated life, jerking and gyrating to the beat of the music.
Whoa.
Hotness. I had no idea Keane could move like this. He’s as fluid as mercury.
“Woohoo!”
I scream. “Yeah, baby! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”
Keane
smirks at me, as if to say, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He thrusts his pelvis
in rapid succession and then glides back a step, his body shuddering.
“Channing’s got nothing on you, baby!” I shout.
Keane’s
body is bending and twisting now, undulating like an upright worm along with
the song.
“Yeah, baby!” I shout.
In one easy motion, Keane leans completely back, touches the
ground with his fingertips, and then pops back up to standing.
“Wow!” I
scream.
Keane’s
suddenly on his hands in the tight space and then back on his feet, and then
he’s dry humping the floor with jaw-dropping thrusts, much to my shrieking
delight. Then he’s back on his feet, peeling off his T-shirt while thrusting
his pelvis into the air like he’s in the throes of extremely rough sex. Holy
hell, Keane’s sweatpants are riding so low on his hips, it’s a wonder they’re
not falling off when he’s moving like that.
“Woohoo!”
I shriek, laughing gleefully.
Keane
throws his T-shirt onto the bed and shoots me a smolder so intense, my
breathing hitches.
“Sexy,” I
whisper, my voice barely audible, though I’d intended to scream the word.
In a
flash, Keane’s standing over me as I sit in my chair, his body heat wafting
over me. Right in time with the music, he picks my chair up off the ground with
me in it, making me shriek, and then quickly releases my seat to the ground
while holding my body up by my ass.
I open my
mouth to say, “Hey, I remember that from the movie,” but before I can get the
words out, Keane’s got my thighs on his shoulders and my crotch in his face.
“Oh my . . .” is all I can manage to eek out as Keane shakes
his head into my crotch like a voracious dog with a bone. But before I can say
anything more, Keane’s strong arms are cradling my back and lowering me
confidently onto the bed.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Wow.”
In a flash, Keane’s on top of me, his forearms resting on
either side of my head, his pelvis dry-humping me to the beat of the song.
“Whoa. At least buy me a drink first, big guy,” I say.
Keane flips me onto my stomach and, an instant later, his
pelvis is driving into my ass in cadence with the sexy music.
“Okay, now
I’m gonna need dinner and dessert,” I say.
Keane
exhales from behind me and stops moving. After a beat, he flips me over onto my
back and straddles me with his strong thighs, his knees on either side of my
hips, his sweatpants riding low. “Are you not feeling this at all?” he asks,
his breathing labored.
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. I feel my cheeks blush a deep
crimson. “Am I supposed to be reacting differently? I’m sorry.”
“No, I just mean . . .” He stares down at me for a long
beat, his blue eyes blazing, his muscles tensing. “This isn’t turning you on at
all?”
“Oh. Um. Of course, it is. I mean, you’re gorgeous. Look at
you. And your smoove mooves are amazing. I especially liked that
back-door-action simulation.”
There’s a
long beat of silence as Keane stares at me, apparently rendered speechless.
Damn. I feel like I’m saying exactly the wrong thing here.
“And, hey, you did that oral-sex simulation from the movie even better than
Channing Tatum,” I add, filling the awkward silence.
Keane’s eyes are burning. Wordlessly, he grabs my hands and
places them above my head on the bed, his eyes boring holes into my face like
laser beams. But he doesn’t speak.
“Um,” I say. I swallow hard. Whoa, this is kinda hot all of
a sudden. “And, um, when you ripped off your shirt,” I whisper, my heartbeat
suddenly raging in my ears, “that part was really . . . ” I trail off, too
flustered to finish my sentence. Wow, this is suddenly really, really hot.
Keane lets out a shaky breath but, still, he doesn’t speak.
He slides his palms into mine and clasps my fingers. “That part was really
what?” he finally asks softly, his eyes flickering with heat.
“Cool?”
Keane smirks. He releases my fingers and slides his palms
out of mine, down past my wrists and forearms, over my armpits, all the way
down to my ribcage, where he finally lets his hands come to a rest mere inches
from my breasts.
I open my mouth to speak, thinking I should fill the silence
between us, but I’m suddenly too overcome to form words. Every inch of the
flesh Keane just touched is tingling like crazy. And I’m hyper-aware of the
placement of his warm, strong hands on my body. If he moved them a mere inch,
he’d be touching my breasts.
“Did I do anything at all to get your motor running?” Keane
asks softly, his eyes locked with mine, his pelvis heavy on top of me.
I let out a long exhale to steady myself. I’m really not
sure how to answer Keane’s question. Honestly, this thing he’s doing to me
right now is getting my motor running ten times more than the actual “lap
dance” he performed a few minutes ago.
When I don’t reply to his question, Keane slides his hands
up from my ribcage—over my armpits, past the sensitive undersides of my arms,
across my forearms and wrists—and into my palms again.
But he remains quiet.
Good God, what’s he doing to me? He’s wreaking havoc on my
body with the simplest of touches.
Keane leans over me, his eyes burning like coals, his
fingers intertwined in mine. “You weren’t feeling it at all?” he whispers.
“Oh, no, I totally
was,” I sputter. “It’s just that . . . um . . .” I begin. I take a deep breath,
gathering myself. “When you did your whole stripper-thing, it felt like you
were doing a Channing Tatum impression—like you were playing a character,
rather than just being Keane.” I swallow hard. “And . . . um.” I shut my mouth.
Keane’s begun gliding his hands from my palms down toward my torso again, and
I’m too overcome with tingles to speak further.
“And . . ?” Keane coaxes as he runs his hands down and then
back up my arms, his body hulking over mine.
My heart is pounding like a freakin’ jackhammer. And so is
my crotch. What the heck is this shirtless boy doing to me, pinning me here on
the bed and caressing my bare flesh like that? He’s turning me into a freakin’
pile of goo. “And . . .” I swallow hard again.
“Tell me,” Keane says.
Shoot. I really don’t think I should say the words on the
tip of my tongue. Once I say them, I won’t be able to stuff them back in again,
after all—and, as sexy as Keane is—and, damn, he’s most definitely sexy—I have
no intention of nudging this friendship of ours outside the friend zone.
Or do I?
“And . . ?” Keane
prompts again, his face on fire.
I exhale a long, shaky breath. “And I think,” I begin, my
tongue thick and clumsy in my mouth. “Um. It turns out . . . I think Keane
Morgan is . . . much . . . sexier . . . than Ball Peen Hammer.” I take a deep
breath. “Much, much sexier.”
About Lauren Rowe
USA Today and international bestselling author Lauren Rowe
lives in San Diego, California, where, in addition to writing books, she
performs with her dance/party band at events all over Southern California,
writes songs, takes embarrassing photos of her Boston terrier, Buster, spends
time with her family, and narrates audiobooks. Much to Lauren’s thrill, her
books have been translated all over the world in multiple languages and hit
multiple domestic and international bestseller lists.
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