You. Me. Bed. Now.

  You. Me. Bed. Now.

  Olivia T. Turner

  Contents

  Copyright

  About

  Come and join my private Facebook Group!

  Become Obsessed with OTT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Don’t be shy. Come Follow Me…

  need.

  Mr. CEOoooooo

  Copyright© 2019 by Olivia T. Turner.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, printing, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. For permission requests, email Olivia@oliviatturner.com

  Please respect the author’s hard work and purchase a copy. Thanks!

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, companies, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contains explicit love scenes and adult language.

  18+

  www.OliviaTTurner.com

  Edited by Karen Collins Editing

  Cover Design by Olivia T. Turner

  It’s my first day as the new reporter covering New Zealand’s famous rugby team.

  I’m an American who knows nothing about rugby, but after taking one step into the locker room after the game, I’m a huge fan.

  These massive tough men are true alphas.

  And there’s one who stands taller than the rest.

  Akea Saluni.

  The Samoan god.

  Covered in tribal tattoos, this chiseled man has muscles for days.

  He puts the moan in Samoan.

  He makes the Rock look like a pebble.

  He brings me to my knees.

  And once this possessive man lays his dark eyes on me, that’s exactly where I’m going to stay…

  Oh yes!!! We’re headed to NZ for a Samoan rugby player who is looking to score with his one and only! Over-The-Top. Insta-love. And of course a sugary sweet HEA guaranteed!

  You know how OTT does it. Grab this book and let Akea bring you to your knees…

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  OBSESSED

  By Olivia T. Turner

  A Mailing List Exclusive!

  When I look out my office window and see her in the next building, I know I have to have her.

  I buy the whole damn company she works for just to be near her.

  She’s going to be in my office working under me.

  Under, over, sideways—we’re going to be working together in every position.

  This young innocent girl is going to find out that I work my employees hard.

  And that her new rich CEO is already beyond obsessed with her.

  This dominant and powerful CEO will have you begging for overtime! Is it just me or is there nothing better than a hot muscular alpha in a suit and tie!

  All my books are SAFE with zero cheating and a guaranteed sweet HEA. Enjoy!

  Click here to get your free copy!

  Dedicated to my OTT Lovers…

  Who else would drool over pictures of rugby players with me all day long??

  Love you guys!

  Chapter One

  Zoey

  “Who’s the quarterback on this team?”

  The older sports reporter gives me a strange look.

  “Wrong sport, honey.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  He rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh.

  “You from America?”

  I nod. My stomach is so clenched up with nerves I can barely talk.

  “There are no quarterbacks in rugby,” he continues as he runs a hand through his thin white hair. “You’re thinking of the fly-head.”

  “A fly head?” I say with a chuckle. “Like a fly? Bzzzzzzz.”

  Oh my god, did I just flap my hands like a bug? Way to stay professional, Zoey.

  His wrinkly face creases into a frown as he stares at me like he’s wondering what kind of crystal meth I’m on.

  “How did you get this job?”

  “It’s a long story,” I reply even though it isn’t. I was working as a sports reporter out of Boston where I’m from and it was my job to cover the tennis matches. The owner of the network’s son took a liking to me. The feeling wasn’t mutual. So I got shipped all the way to New Zealand to cover America’s least popular sport after Toe Wrestling, Underwater Hockey (yes, both real things) and Cricket.

  I’m the brand new rugby reporter for Sports Coverage And Analysis or SCAA as we’re more commonly known.

  “Have you ever even seen a rugby game?” The older reporter is turned and now completely focused on me. We’re waiting outside the player’s locker room for interviews and the other reporters start turning around to stare at me too.

  Oh crap. I can feel my cheeks turning bright pink.

  “Yes,” I say, flashing them an indignant glare.

  “Besides the one they just finished playing.”

  “Oh, then no.”

  A few of them chuckle. More than a few roll their eyes.

  “Americans have no respect for the sport!” one huge guy says as he throws his hands into the air. He’s got the enormous body of a former player. “Do you have any idea how hard I had to work to get to this spot in front of this door?”

  I just stare at him, hoping he doesn’t eat me. I swear I start shrinking before him as he walks over. Or, maybe that’s just how I feel.

  “I played rugby my entire youth, in college, three years on a farm team.” He’s checking them off on his thick fingers as I stand there, wishing the universe would take pity on me and just swallow me up. “Six years professionally. Busted both knees, my elbow, broke my spine.”

  “You broke your spine? Ew.” It just comes out. Luckily, he’s too worked up to hear me.

  “Then I went back to college to study journalism, finished at the top of my class, worked five shitty jobs over six years at three different networks, then after another four years of busting my ass did I finally get this job covering the New Zealand Mostly-Grays.”

  He takes another step toward me and I gulp. “And you… You get assigned here as a punishment. It’s an inconvenience. I bet you can’t even tell me what a scrum is.”

  “Like the stuff in your shower?”

  He just shakes his massive head as he looks at me like I’ve ruined his whole day. “Not soap scum, a rugby scrum.”

  Potayto, potahto. I don’t know how they pronounce things here in New Zealand. What is he even talking about?

  “Do the lockers have a problem with soap scum or something?” I’m looking for any story. It’s a lame one, but so far it’s all I’ve got.

  Suddenly everyone is turning away from me and shaking their heads.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I whisper to the older reporter who I was initially talking to.

  He’s shaking his head, but he’s laughing. “You said so many wrong things. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “How about you start by telling me the fly-head’s name?”

  He smiles. “That would be Akeakamai Saluni.”

  I grab my pen and start writing it down. Akeycomguy Salami.

  He sees what I write and then grabs the pen out of my hand. “Not Salami. Saluni. And everyone calls him Akea.”

  He scribbles it onto my notepad and as I stare at all of the freaking K’s in his name, I start to realize how in over my head I really am.

  “So, what’s going to happen next?” I whisper.

  “Security is going to open the door when all of the guys are done showering and we can go in and interview whoever we want. Akea doesn’t take interviews even though everyone tries, but you can talk to anyone else you want. If I were you I would start with Jonah Riley. He’s a nice guy and he’s always up for an interview.”

  “Oh.” I chew on my bottom lip as I wonder what to ask a rugby player. What his hobbies are. His favorite movie. What his dog’s name is.

  I certainly can’t ask any rugby questions. I would say the wrong thing and everyone will know I’m a fake.

  I was good at reporting on tennis. I knew the sport inside out and I knew all of the players. Why the hell do I have to be here because I didn’t want to suck on Bryce Evans’ skinny little dick? Sometimes life is not fair.

  “All right folks and blokes,” the security guard says as he reaches for the door.

  The butterflies in my stomach are suddenly starting to feel like a flock of seagulls.

  “You guys know the drill.” His eyes fall onto me. “Are you new?”

  “Yep.” God, my throat is so scratchy.

  He tells me the rules, but I’m so nervous that I don’t retain any of it.

  And suddenly, the door is open and I’m being p
ushed in from behind.

  The locker room is big and airy, but it’s not as nice as some of the football locker rooms I’ve been in back home. Maybe they don’t have the same kind of budget as the NFL or maybe it’s because these are tougher men who don’t need any of the fancy shit around them.

  It’s loud and chaotic in the locker room with the press mixing in with the giant players who are all in various forms of undress. There’s a lot of high fives and hollering as they celebrate their win. The coaches look furious as they yell at a bruised up player who’s bleeding heavily from the top of his nose. He doesn’t even seem to notice the doctor putting stitches in it.

  I shrink back against the wall as I take it all in. The hoard of reporters that I came in with all scatter, grabbing players and shoving microphones and cameras into their faces.

  The majority of them turn left and rush to the locker at the end of the room.

  My core tightens and my heart starts pounding when I see who they’re surrounding.

  I can barely see him with all of the people and cameras blocking the view but the few glimpses I do get start to make my skin all warm and prickly.

  He’s at least a head taller than everyone else. Intense brown eyes. Short hair. Dark beard. Bronzed skin pulled tight over his big chiseled muscles.

  I swallow hard and clear my throat as my eyes roam down to his broad round shoulders. They’re covered in Samoan tribal tattoos.

  A reporter hoists up a big camera and it blocks my view.

  Shit. Come on, man.

  I’m standing on my toes, trying to get a better look when someone taps me on my shoulder.

  “Hi! I’m Jonah Riley. Want an interview?”

  The guy is standing there with a hopeful smile on his face. He looks a little goofy as he stands there in jeans and an Alanis Morissette t-shirt. This is the dude the reporter outside told me about.

  “Sure,” I say as I pull out my pen and notepad. I glance back over at the wall of reporters gathered around the sexy Samoan.

  “Don’t waste your time,” Jonah says. “Akea doesn’t give interviews.”

  “That’s Akea?” I ask, taking the opportunity to glance back over at him. I catch a glimpse of his ear and it makes my legs a little weak. Geez, this guy is going to give me an ear fetish.

  “You don’t know, Akea?” he asks, looking shocked. “He’s the best player in the league. Well, after me.”

  “What position do you play?”

  He shifts uncomfortably as his eyes drop to the floor. “I don’t really play a position per se. I’m more on the practice squad.”

  I want to laugh. A little first day hazing for the new reporter? I have to remember to thank my new friend for sending me to interview a bench warmer.

  “Do you want to start the interview?” he asks eagerly.

  “Sure.” Why not? It’s not like any of this is going to get printed anyway. Once my boss sees it, he’ll cut it all. Then maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll fire me.

  I have one eye on Jonah and one eye on Akea. Those reporters are getting me increasingly frustrated.

  Why don’t they just fucking move if he’s not going to talk to them? Some people over here wouldn’t mind feasting on the eye candy!

  “So, Jonah… What’s your dog’s name?”

  “I have a cat. His name is Sparkles.”

  “Sparkles,” I mutter as I scribble it down on my pad. I’m not even paying attention. My eyes are on the other side of the room and score! I just saw an elbow. A big sexy tattooed elbow.

  I swear, I’m going to leave this locker room with a whole list of weird body part fetishes because of this guy.

  “Ummm. You’re writing with the wrong side of the pen.”

  “Oops!”

  My cheeks go red as I turn the pen around and laugh nervously. Pulitzer Prize here I come!

  I scribble down his cat’s name and then glance back at Akea, hoping to see a pinky finger, an ankle, or some other future fetish. My body freezes when I see him staring back at me with a dark heated gaze.

  Ummm… Oh, God.

  He’s just staring at me. Intensely. Fiercely. Almost angrily.

  The buzzing reporters around him are all shouting questions at him, but he’s ignoring all of them and focused on me.

  Why is he focused on me?

  Someone has injected the butterflies in my stomach with steroids and I feel them. Big time.

  My breath has halted—time itself has halted—as his thick jaw clenches.

  I take a step back and hit the wall as he easily pushes through the wall of reporters and emerges in his full muscular glory.

  Holy shit balls.

  He’s so fucking hot.

  A Samoan god.

  He’s easily the biggest man I’ve ever seen with a massive chest and boulders for arms. He looks like he could bench press the team’s tour bus.

  Dark sexy tribal tattoos start at his thick wrist and snake their way up to his shoulders. They slither over his collar bone down to his huge pecs.

  He puts the moan in Somoan.

  He’s wearing nothing but a white towel tied flimsily around his waist. His stomach is shredded. Fucking shredded. He has so many rippling, clenching ab muscles that I’m sure he’s not anatomically correct. The biologists are going to have to change the textbooks.

  My wide eyes creep down to the carved V that’s pointing into his towel like lights on a runway pointing down to his cock.

  I somehow manage to breathe, but my breaths are coming out quick and haggard. He’s still looking at me. Why is he still looking at me?

  I’m not in the same league as this Samoan Adonis. I’m not even in the same sport.

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper under my breath when he charges over.

  He steps over a bench and the towel opens up long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his tree trunk legs. I bet he could squat an elephant.

  I’m suddenly intensely aware of my thundering heartbeat as he walks right up to me. He looks even bigger, even hotter, even everything up close.

  The water from his shower is still in his messy hair. It’s dripping down his tattooed skin and rolling over the tight ridges and firm valleys. He’s towering over me. My eyes are at the level of his nipples.

  This guy makes the Rock look like a pebble.

  He steps even closer and I can smell the soap he used. I can feel the heat of his breath as it comes out with the rhythm of his heaving chest. His body looks so hard. I bet sleeping with him would feel like fucking a statue.

  I’m all tingly and nervous and warm and lightheaded.

  It doesn’t even register that Jonah is still beside me, still rambling on about his cat.

  “And he loves to watch TV,” he says to the side of my face. “Are you going to remember all of this?”

  I just nod up and down as I stare into Akea’s eyes.

  “Oh, and I have a tattoo!” Jonah pulls off his shirt as he turns around.

  Okay, a tattoo of a cat named Sparkles on his shoulder? Akea is hot, but no one is hot enough to miss that.

  I turn and stifle a laugh when I see the tattoo of Sprinkles on his upper back. It takes up the whole top left-hand corner and there’s a pink banner with Sparkles written on it underneath the photo-realistic tattoo of the Ragamuffin cat.

  Akea doesn’t seem to like my eyes on anyone but him. He puts his hand on my chin and turns my head back. Gentle enough not to hurt, but just hard enough to let me know that he’s in control.

  And my body reacts. Big time.

  The heat swirling through me starts to settle between my legs. I can feel it pooling in my pussy and leaking out into my underwear.

  “I want an interview,” he says.

  His voice is so deep and growly. It sends warm shivers racing through me.