Triple Play: MMF Bisexual Menage Romance by Cari Griffin out now!

Triple Play: MMF Bisexual Menage Romance

by Cari Griffin

Genre: M/M/F Bisexual Menage Romance

Length: Novel

Word Count: 61235

Page Count: 310

Price: 4.99

ISBN: 978-1-949719-97-0

Release Date:  10/30/2023

A sex toy designer seeking an investor. Two rival billionaires looking to invest. What could go wrong?

When Kyla Harper arrives at the ritzy Whitmore Hotel in New York for the Investor Bonanza weekend, she’s completely overwhelmed. Her suit is too cheap, her shoes are too tight, and she feels like a complete fraud. But she’s determined to find an investor for her new sex toy, the Partners’ Pleasure, and she’s not leaving New York without one. That’s if she doesn’t have a panic attack and die before she even checks in.

Then she meets Bo Reeves and Conrad Cross. The two rival billionaires stir up all kinds of feelings she shouldn’t be having—she’s looking for an investor, not a one-night stand. Still, she’s never had a chance to test the Partners’ Pleasure in an actual partner situation, and this might be her only chance to do that—not to mention live out her threesome fantasy with the two hot guys.

But a string of bad luck threatens to ruin everything. The overnight envelope with Kyla’s new credit card is late. Bo and Conrad might kill each other before dinner. And Kyla’s been outwitted by a six-year-old. And that’s before the real trouble starts…

Reader note: this M/M/F bisexual ménage romance contains a BBW heroine, rival billionaires, enemies to lovers, and male male love. Reader discretion is advised for hot romance elements

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Continue for an excerpt from Triple Play

CHAPTER ONE

KYLA

The Whitmore Hotel, New York City

Saturday, August 1, 3:05 p.m.

I force a confident smile as I enter the lobby of the exclusive Whitmore Hotel.

I so don’t belong here.

Subdued lighting makes the crystal chandeliers sparkle like diamonds. Throughout the lobby, tall, gilded columns reach three stories into the air. Everything looks like real marble, including the tiles set in a graceful geometric pattern in white, grainy marble, and gold beneath my feet.

I take a deep breath. I am smart. I am strong. I am successful.

I keep my confident face in place and try to ignore the butterflies engaged in mortal combat in my stomach. I wish Holly—my best friend and partner in crime—was here, but sending us both was way too expensive. I stand alone in my plus-size, discount-store suit—from the clearance rack, no less—among the high-toned guests, mostly men, milling through the lobby in designer everything with briefcases that probably cost more than my car.

But that will change. I am here at this Investor Bonanza weekend in New York City to find a big-fish venture capitalist to back my new product. And I will get one if it kills me.

I manifest success for myself and my business right now.

I raise my chin and roll my suitcase through the lobby, ignoring the grinding pain in the toes of my left foot from my new shoes. Goose bumps skitter over my skin, both from apprehension and excitement. The place practically reeks of hundred-dollar bills, fancy champagne, and success.

And I will leave here tomorrow night with all of it.

That is, if I don’t leave in a cab five minutes from now because my credit card is declined.

The front desk looms ahead, making my heart race with sudden, absolute panic.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit Holly’s speed dial.

She picks up on the first ring. “No, Kyla, the new business credit card still hasn’t arrived. And if you call me again, I’m going to block your number.”

“Give me a break. I’m freaking out here.”

Holly heaves a sigh. “Relax. If your personal card is declined, just call me and I’ll charge the room to mine over the phone. As long as it’s not over three hundred and sixty-seven dollars, cuz that’s all I have available after the web hosting and printing the business plans and brochures.”

I take a deep breath and try to slow my racing heart. “Hol, it’s not the Windy Butte Motel; it’s the Whitmore. It’s like nine hundred dollars a night.”

Holly is silent for a moment. A long, pointed moment. I know she has her arms crossed and is tapping her foot.

“No way,” I say. “Quit thinking it. I’m not calling my mother for money. This is a business trip, not summer camp.”

“Well, I don’t know what else to tell you. Maybe you should ask the universe to manifest it, right now.”

“Shut up. Are you still at the office?”

“You mean, your apartment?”

“You mean, the office?”

“Of course I’m still here. How else would I know FedEx hasn’t come yet? And no, I’m not calling them, so don’t ask.”

I close my mouth with the request unmade. “I wasn’t going to. Jeez.” Then, after a moment: “Can you track the delivery online one more time?”

Holly heaves a heavy sigh. More of a growl, actually.

“Please?”

“No. I’m putting my foot down. Tough love, Kyla. The last four times I checked it said out for delivery. That means it’s out for delivery. And no, I’m not going to go drive around and see if I can find the FedEx truck, so don’t even ask.”

I bite down on my reply. “I wasn’t going to,” I lie.

“How’s your foot?”

I gaze down at my shiny, cream-colored stiletto that cut off the circulation in my left toes two hours ago. “Gee, Hol, with all the panic over money, I’ve been so worried about having a heart attack that I’d practically forgotten about my foot. But thanks for reminding me. My toes are probably dead. I’ll probably get gangrene. They’ll probably have to amputate.”

“That’s what you get for not trying them both on.”

“Why the hell would I think they’d be two different sizes? They were connected by one of those little plastic price tag thingies.”

“I told you not to buy shoes at the drugstore.”

I glance around at all the opulence around me, at the bustle of all the professional-looking people and feel like such a fraud. I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “Where the hell else am I going to get shoes for under ten dollars? It was that or my flip-flops.”

“Bet you’re regretting that choice now.”

“Ha-ha,” I say. But I kind of am.

“See any women investors?”

“No, but I haven’t gone into the meet and greet yet. I’m too scared to check in.”

“Go on. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And if not, just call me and I’ll figure something out. We’re in this together, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. I’m hanging up now. Isabel just got here with my lunch.”

“At three o’clock?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Well, don’t you dare leave until the FedEx guy gets there.”

“She brought my lunch, Ky. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. And don’t have sex on my couch.”

“We’re so gonna have sex on your couch.”

I grimace. “Ew.”

“Hey, look at the bright side, Ky. Maybe you’ll meet some hot guys in the big city and have some mind-blowing sex of your own. Preferably the kind that doesn’t require the Partners’ Pleasure.”

“Oh my God, do you not even know me? Repeat it with me one more time: I do not need a man to make me, or my business, successful.”

“I’m not talking about success. I’m talking about sex.”

“Whatever.”

“You whatever. Isabel says hi.”

“Hi Iz!” I sing, then add, “Call me the minute FedEx gets there.”

I hang up and slip the phone back into the pocket of my red jacket, which is just slightly better quality than my shoes. A wisp of hair has come loose from my bun, and I sweep it behind my ear.

“Might as well get this over with.”

With a deep breath, I head for the front desk.

“Good evening. Checking in?”

The young man at the front desk gazes at me as if he knows by some kind of telepathy that my card will be declined. He even smiles at me, the vicious fiend.

“Um. Yes. Hello. Kyla Harper? I have a room reservation?”

He smiles at me again. “Welcome, Ms. Harper.” He taps on the keyboard for a moment. “I see you’re with the investment event.”

I clear my throat and smile broadly. “Yes, I am.”

I can do this.

“Are you an investor or an entrepreneur?”

Do I really look as if I could be one of those billionaire investors in their designer suits and European leather shoes that are both the same size?

“Entrepreneur,” I say. “For now.”

“What kind of business are you in?” he asks, still looking down at his computer and tapping keys.

I know this part will freak him out, but I don’t care. I give him my best smile.

“I design sex toys.”

He keeps typing. “How interesting. Is this your first time with us here at the Whitmore?”

“What?” I ask. “No pearl-clutching? No scandalized looks?”

He chuckles as he passes me the little paper folder containing my key card and turns a small tablet toward me. “This is New York. You’ll have to work a lot harder than that to shock people. If you’ll just sign here?”

“Don’t you need my credit card?”

“You booked your room with your event registration, so you’re all set.”

“Right. Of course.” I sign the tablet screen and smile, flooded with relief.

My business is manifesting wealth and success every day!

Take that, Holly.

“Thank you, Ms. Harper. I’ll have someone help you with your bags.”

“No need. I can take care of it myself. Thank you, though.” I grab my key card, collect my suitcase and oversized tote bag purse, and head for the bank of elevators to my left.

I don’t need a man to carry my bags. Or to have mind-blowing sex. Or to make my business a success.

I can do all those things myself.

All I need is an investor to fund the Partners’ Pleasure.

And maybe a new pair of shoes.

As I limp through the lobby, I notice a little girl, about six years old, sitting alone on a sofa near the front desk. She seems scared, gazing around with wide eyes and fidgeting with her fingers. The poor thing looks like she’s about to cry.

She’s way too young to be left by herself in a busy place like the hotel lobby. I look around for whoever might be responsible for her, but the only people around seem oblivious to her. She’s all alone in this sea of strangers.

I gaze at her another moment as my left foot screams to go upstairs and be let out of its half-size-too-small vinyl prison. But something makes me head for the little girl instead.

“Hi, there.” I crouch down to the child’s level and speak softly to put her at ease. “What’s your name?”

The little girl stares at me with wide eyes and trembling lips. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

“That’s smart. I can tell you mine, though. I’m Kyla.”

The girl hesitates, her eyes darting back and forth as if she’s unsure of what to say. “I’m Emma,” she finally stage-whispers behind a cupped hand. “I’m six.” She gives me a creepy jack-o’-lantern smile and points to the empty spot. “I lost a tooth.”

“So you did,” I say, glancing around the lobby. “Where are your mommy and daddy?”

She lowers her head, her lower lip quivering. “I don’t have a mommy or daddy.”

A rush of panic races through my veins. “You must have someone with you—a grownup who takes care of you?”

Emma shakes her head again, her eyes filling with tears. “No.” She looks down at her feet, which are dangling above the floor in their shiny black Mary Janes. “I’m an orphan.”

I glance nervously back at the front desk for help, but all the agents are too busy checking in guests to catch my eye.

“I have an idea,” I say, taking a seat next to Emma and unzipping my suitcase. From inside I pull the little stuffed shark Holly bought me to remind me of my goal this weekend. But in addition to the big teeth, it’s got fluffy pink fur, big, long-lashed eyes, and a sparkly tiara.

“I think my friend here is lonely,” I say. “Do you think you could keep her company?”

Emma’s eyes widen with joy, and she nods enthusiastically.

I hand her the shark, and the little girl pulls it in for a tight hug. “I love her. What’s her name?”

I glance back at the front desk, but the agents are still busy. “Uh…Miss…Sharkey Shark.”

Emma gives me a look of pure pity. “That’s not a very good name.”

“I know. Maybe you can give her a better one.”

“I’ll call her… Miss Pinkytooth Sparkleshark!”

“Wow. Good one.” I turn and see one of the front desk agents finishing up with a man in a tan overcoat. “You stay right here, OK? I’m just going to go talk to that lady at the desk, and I’ll be right back.”

Emma nods without looking up, her attention riveted on Miss Pinkytooth Sparkleshark.

I step up to the front desk, waiting a moment for the woman to finish tapping on her computer.

“Hello, checking in?”

“No, actually, I just noticed that there’s a little girl sitting there on the sofa all by herself. She says she’s…an orphan? I wasn’t sure what to do, but I thought maybe you’d be able to help.”

A frown of concern falls over the woman’s face. “An orphan?”

I nod and step aside, turning to point to the sofa.

It’s empty.

My heart leaps into my throat. A moment later, I see the little girl heading for the elevators with the man in the tan overcoat. He’s smiling down at her and pulling a black suitcase as well as a smaller Lilo and Stitch suitcase behind him. Emma bounces excitedly at his side, showing him Miss Sparkletooth Pinky-Whatever.

“Is that her?” the desk agent asks. “Her dad was just up here checking in.”

I let out a little laugh. “Her dad. Right. Looks like I just got scammed by a six-year-old.”

The woman scoffs. “Lucky she didn’t get your wallet.”

As I head up to my room, I tell myself that if a six-year-old can sell me the Brooklyn Bridge, then I sure as hell can sell my idea to an investor.

I’m smart. I’m strong. I’m successful.

Ten minutes later, I hobble through the door of my hotel room and kick off the shoes from hell.

I’m dying.

Suddenly, any thought of my toes completely vanishes.

The room is like something out of a fairy tale.

I set my suitcase on the stand as I gaze around. The room is bigger than my entire apartment over my parents’ garage. The bed alone is the size of my entire bedroom, which is also my living room, office, and a good portion of my kitchen. The bed is so tall I’ll probably need a set of those little steps to climb in, like my sister has for her Shih-tzu.

The voluminous down comforter is turned back, and there are little chocolates on the huge collection of pillows. Godiva. I unwrap one and pop it into my mouth. On the little table next to the window, a basket overflows with complimentary fruit, cheese, crackers, two glasses, and a bottle of red wine.

“Oh, hell yeah.”

I crack that baby open with the corkscrew from the basket. It’s only twenty past three, but I pour myself a big glass and dig into the crackers and cheese. I haven’t eaten since breakfast before I got on my first of three planes at 5:00 a.m., not counting the little pretzels I got on one of the flights and the lunch-size bag of chips some kid left in the seats at the gate, which I promptly rehomed.

I flop into the deep wing chair next to the table, chewing my cracker and cheese, and let my head fall back with a heavy sigh.

I made it.

I manifest success for myself and my business right now.

I take another sip of my wine, close my eyes, and let the tension wash out of me.

It washes out a lot faster after I down the glass.

I cheese another cracker and take a bite, sitting back with my eyes closed for another few moments.

All I have to do now is go down there and tell all these rich, snooty business investors—stuffy old men—that I design sex toys.

I’m gonna need more wine.