Tangled in Tinsel (The More the Merrier, #1)

by Trilina Pucci

They’re the kind of men you’d happily let destroy you because it’s better to get them for one night than for none at all. But that’s all you’d get—one night.

that exudes the kind of sex appeal that makes you wish he’d invite you to remove your panties. Because after a minute with him, you’d only need an invitation.

I can’t stay here with these four guys…for god knows how long. I don’t have a toothbrush. Or pajamas. Oh my god, what if I have to poop? I’m not pooping here. I’d rather brave the snowstorm. I’d rather

freeze to death like the homeless guy in Scrooged.

“I really hope there’s a detachable showerhead.”

Alec gently nudges my shoulder with the wineglass. “Take it. It looks like whatever’s in your head needs to be silenced.”

“All done. Now be good and get to work.” For fuck’s sake. Well, I guess we’re all going to get food poisoning. Because there’s no way I’ll be able to focus enough to make it through dinner without salmonella and E. coli gang-banging this party.

somehow, the idea of a gentleman mixed with a little thug makes my mouth water just as much as a rich, arrogant prick.

Have you ever been in a room in someone’s house that makes you feel poor? Because this bathroom would be that room.

It’s only a glance when you look away. This is ogling.

I’m too old to be a homie hopper. I’m thirty-two. Sometimes my back hurts when I work out too hard or if I lay in one spot so long that Netflix dares to ask if I’m still watching the show I’ve been binging.

Yes, I am, Netflix. It’s okay to have free time like four days a week. And on Saturdays. Shut up.

I’m sorry, Virginia, I have neglected your needs. I promise to re-up my Amazon prime membership and get those batteries coming in monthly.

Is this some kind of sexual, social experiment? Maybe a pornographic prank show? Where producers got together and thought, lock her up, and we’ll watch her either fuck everyone or implode.

Somebody stop me. Hit me with the pan.

“You’re into filthy shit you don’t tell anyone about? Am I close? Don’t lie.”

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. I think Jace’s soul wants to fuck mine. I grin. He’s a soulfucker.

I can’t decide which version of him is my favorite…sweet or saucy.

Page 5, paragraph 4: How to properly behave after you’ve attended a jizz convention.

I’m gnawing on the inside of my cheek, pondering longer than I should, but that’s me. Whatever. I’ll walk out there, and if they’re like, Hey, there’s good ole Samantha, then I’ll do the same. But, if I go out, and they’re like dirty-slut-suck-it-fuck-it, I’ll bookmark the sling and get straight to business.

It’s only been three days, and the bar for men has already been moved to an Olympics kind of high. Like the kind of high you see and think, “Yeah, someone might die making it over that bar.”

How fucking starved was my pussy? One dirty dip, and she’s a crack whore. Crack is wack. Whitney said so.

I should stop pretending that this is all about sex. It may have started that way, but I fear I’ve caught an STD of the heart, and no amount of penicillin will cure it.

she looks back at us—a bunch of fucking emotional grown-ass-man chickens.

I’m nodding. But at what? Because I don’t even know what she said. My head is exploding. And my mouth is so dry that I can barely swallow. I wish I could say something cute and dainty like butterflies swarmed in my stomach, but this feels more like my heart is about to drop out of my ass.