Review: Chore Play by Piper Rayne
Review By Heather ~
Welcome to Jaggerland! Or Chore Play, but I prefer Jaggerland! I feel like Piper Rayne was determined to make me LURVVVVE Jagger because early on I said, 'eh, I don't like him'. Well, now, I likkkkke him, maybe even slightly love him, but I'm not in LURVVVVE with him. You know what that means? I'm giving him to you guys! And it means I get more Vance ;)
Quinn and Jagger are perfect together. She doesn't take any of his &*(^% and he doesn't stop giving it. Though this is his way of showing Quinn his love for her. There is something so sweet (and a bit sassy) about this second chance kind of love.
The kind humbles both the characters and reader.
The kind that reminds us how valuable life is.
The kind that reminds us why we fall in love in the first place.
All this to say, their road isn't perfect or simple, but it's amazing and fabulous. It's exactly what we want and need from a Piper Rayne book!
Review by Lana ~ 4 Wicked Hot Stars ~ Good Reads Link
Jagger Kale is your typically cocky, arrogant douche bag who thinks he is Gods gift to women when in reality he is just a scared man hiding underneath a designer suit. He makes you love and hate him all at the same time.
Quinn Ryan has never forgotten the one guy who broke her heart all those years ago but a chance encounter has them meeting again. He sets out to prove to her that he has changed and can be the man she wants and needs. The back and forth banter between them is refreshing.
I was rooting for him to redeem himself and he did. Way to go Jagger!!
The Manny: She needed a nanny. I needed a lead actress. Somehow I became The Manny.
Secrets and lies are a killer way to start any partnership—especially a horizontal one.
Now, I’m a glass half full kinda of guy, so, after the ‘you’re fired’ speech was directed at me, I figure now’s the time to be the screenwriter I came to sunny California to be. Unfortunately, there are about as many people trying to sell a script in L.A. as there are vegans in the pacific northwest.
But lucky for me, a few weeks ago my agent found an investor for my script. Hooray, all my problems are solved! NOT.
Because the investor will only agree to fund my film if I use one specific actress. And that one specific actress? Well of course, it just has to be the same actress I screwed over only months before. But she doesn’t need to know about that one tiny detail, does she? All that matters is getting her to agree to do the film and I’ll do whatever it takes. We can leave the past, in the past, right?
I thought my charm would win her over. Never would I have been prepared for the terms she laid out on the table.
Doggy Style: Rumors never bothered me. If people want to guess at my sexuality because I design dog clothes for a living—let them. I know the truth.
I’m a red-blooded heterosexual male and just because I don’t have my tongue hanging out of my mouth around every female like my dog Cooper, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the female form.
Now with Teegan Lowery in my life I’m suddenly panting right next to Cooper, hoping for a taste.
I hired her for her stellar PR skills, but she’s slowly weaseling her way into a spot I’ve kept a NO VACANCY sign on for years. Everything about Teegan screams unavailable. The last thing I need is another dramatic, high maintenance woman in my life. Believe me, been there and done that.
But the sexual tension between us is like a game of tug-of-war and neither of us wants to lose.
I love dogs. She hates them. Turns out, we both love doggie style.
I roll over, pulling the covers up to my neck, burying my pounding head into my pillow. The pressure is like a steaming pot rattling the lid.
Flipping back over, I stare up at my ceiling. I focus on the fan above me, circling around and around. My body shivers from my fever and I can barely form a coherent thought, my head is so heavy with congestion.
From the bedside table my phone dings, no doubt my agent asking where the hell my book is. The lies are going to catch up to me now. Now that I can’t sit in front of my computer for the next twenty hours straight to get her a shitty draft.
I pop up in bed, my heart squeezing while the room spins.
I throw the covers off me, swinging my feet over the side of the bed. Staying as still as I can, I wait. Maybe it was Toby, the cat next door, snooping in the trashcans again. Or the mailman dropping a package by the front door. But it sounded like it was inside.
I freeze at the male voice that’s not coming from outside my windows, but inside my house. I look over at my nightstand to grab my phone and that’s when I remember…I left it downstairs on my kitchen table. Shit. Slowly, I pull the drawer open, grabbing the heavy-duty flashlight my dad gave me as a housewarming present.
My socks slide on the hardwood floors as I inch closer to my bedroom door, waiting for another sound.
“What?” the intruder asks, and my hair whips in my face as I spin around the door frame into the hall, half expecting to see him or his partner. Shit. There could be two of them. I find nothing.
“You’re a smart girl, you can handle it on your own. I’ll be in at noon.” The water turns on again and the man’s voice triggers something inside of me. Familiarity courses through me, but I remind myself I only know two people in this city and only one of them has a key. The other one wrote me out of his life more than a decade ago.
I tiptoe down the stairs, my hand sliding down the railing, my other hand raised with the flashlight in my grip. Adrenaline gives me the strength I didn’t have minutes ago to get out of bed.
The loud noises increase, coming from the kitchen, so I don’t have to worry about my approach. I round the end of my stairs, walk past my bookshelves and, grabbing every ounce of my Wonder Woman strength, I run forward and hit the man over the head.
He spins immediately. “Whoa!” His hands move up to block me, but I continue hammering away at him. Over and over again until he loses his footing on the floor and falls to his ass, his hands criss-crossed in front of his face. “What the fuck?” he screams.
Dropping the flashlight, I dart over to the counter and yank open a drawer, plucking a butcher knife out, holding it out toward him.
His arms slowly lower and the knife trembles in my hands, thudding to the floor. In my haze of recognition, he slides his leg out and kicks the knife away.
“Jagger?” My voice is like a scared mouse in front of a cat.
Confusion is etched in every line of his still-handsome face. “Belle?”
Rage over the nickname he used to call me because of my love for reading lights a fire in my belly. “Don’t call me that!” I imagine patting myself on the back. In my head, I’m bouncing from toe to toe like a boxer preparing to pummel her opponent. But my exhilaration slows as I really see him now.
Fourteen years later and he still has the ability to steal my breath away. He rounds to all fours and his large frame rolls up until he towers over me. At one point, I loved that about him. The way my head fit perfectly under his chin. The way his long arms encompassed my entire body, warming me like a blanket. The way his lips would brush along the top of my head, silently telling me no one would hurt me as long as I was in his arms.
His movements pause, and his gaze fixates on me. Too quickly, that look of surprise vanishes. “Let’s not continue with the dramatics, okay?” He raises his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. Condescending and arrogant—a side to him that once turned me on.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His gaze inspects my body like he’s trying to figure out what I look like under my pajama pants, t-shirt and sweater.
Fuck. I grab my stringy brown hair and pull it to the side, hoping to God I don’t look like I feel, which is beaten and left for dead on the side of the road.
The right side of his lips tip up like he’s enjoying what he’s thinking in that mind of his.
I crisscross the sides of my cardigan to cover myself. He can masturbate his dick off before he’ll ever get a look at me again.
Without a word he walks over to the counter, picks up a card and hands it to me.
“You hired this service?” He cocks an eyebrow.
In the haze of my illness, I never cancelled.
Piper Rayne, or Piper and Rayne, whichever you prefer because we’re not one author, we’re two. Yep, you get two established authors for the price of one. You might be wondering if you know us? Maybe you’ll read our books and figure it out. Maybe you won’t. Does it really matter?
We aren’t trying to stamp ourselves with a top-secret label. We wanted to write without apology. We wanted to not be pigeon holed into a specific outline. We wanted to give readers a story without them assuming how the story will flow. Everyone has their favorite authors, right? And when you pick up their books, you expect something from them. Whether it’s an alpha male, heavy angst, a happily ever after, there’s something you are absolutely certain the book will contain. Heck, we’re readers, too, we get it.
What can we tell you about ourselves? We both have kindle’s full of one-clickable books. We're both married to husbands who drive us to drink. We're both chauffeurs to our kids. Most of all, we love hot heroes and quirky heroines that make us laugh, and we hope you do, too.
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