One + One = Three: A Novel

One + One = Three: A Novel

by Sasha James

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Former model Munro Sheridan has it all: beauty, brains, and a successful business. Her upscale lounge in Chelsea has quickly become the talk of the town and a hit among the A-listers. Munro is on top of the world! Not only does she have a swanky new hot spot, but two irresistibly handsome lovers – Dirk Baptiste, a Wall Street billionaire, and Rock Phillips a hunky Private Investigator, who just so happens to be Munro's best friend. Both are renown for their prowess in the business world, and are rumored to be conquerors in the bedrioom as well. Valuing his friendship, Munro had never allowed herself to discover the truth as far as Rock is concerned, until now!

Their one night quickly turns into something so much more and Munro couldn't be happier. Dirk and Rock bring Munro to heights of pleasure that she has never reached before. Soon she finds herself swept into a passion of loving two men that goes beyond what she could have ever imagined. But when danger arises, and her life is threatened, both men will do whatever it takes to protect the woman they love.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780312560157
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 08/04/2009
Edition description: First Edition
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Sasha James is a prolific writer, who paints pictures with her words. She's hard at work on the second addition to this exciting series. Sasha divides her time between New York, and Chicago.

Read an Excerpt

One + One = Three

By Sasha James

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2009 Sasha James
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-8621-2


"That's right. Back that thang up," Marco said, as he moved closer to Munro on the dance floor.

Munro didn't miss a beat. She instantly began grinding her ass suggestively against her dance partner, strictly as a dance move, not as a sexual advance. She was moving fast and furiously to the beat, feeling like a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, as if she were being judged for her abilities.

"I love this song!" she yelled over the music, and swung her long hair from side to side, as Jay-Z's latest record played.

Tonight was Munro's retirement party, and she had rented out The 40/40 Club — one of the hottest clubs in Manhattan — for the evening. No, this wasn't the typical old-fogey-get-a-silver-watch retirement party. This was a hip soirée for a former model.

Munro Sheridan was a towering figure of beauty, with her coffee-colored skin, warm brown eyes, cleft chin, and silky indigo hair. She was from the Midwest but had an exotic look, a result of her eclectic family lineage — Black, Native American, and West Indian. Even though her perfectly proportioned features had made her millions over the years, it was time to pass the torch to the next generation of long-legged models in the making. Munro had promised herself years ago that when she reached the young/old age of thirty, she would retire. She didn't want to be one of those models who relied on the scalpel to retain the semblance of youth.

"Come on, Baby, let's get out of here and go to my loft for some horizontal dancing," Marco said into her ear, so that she would hear him loud and clear.

"Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not screwing you? Not tonight. Not ever!" Munro had known Marco for years. He was one of the first photographers that she had worked with when she started in the business, and though he was a nice guy, she didn't find him attractive. Unlike some of the wafer-thin fashion photographers, Marco was a bit thick around the middle, top, and bottom. He was from Sicily and loved, loved, loved his pasta, and it showed. Munro liked her men lean. The only thing she liked fat was a cock — the thicker the better.

Marco had a firm grip on her narrow hips and held her against his groin. "Doesn't this feel good?"

Munro had to admit that his dick did feel good grinding against her ass, but she wasn't wanting in the lover department. Besides, the thought of digging through Marco's blubber to get to the goods was a serious turnoff. She quickly swung around, breaking the hold he had on her, and said, "Marco, Honey, you know I love ya, but it's not going down."

Marco looked wounded. "One day you're going to want the big man," he said, and huffed off the dance floor.

Munro shrugged her shoulders and kept dancing. This was her party, and she wasn't going to let anyone spoil her fun. The DJ mixed records smoothly, and now an old Biggie song was playing. Munro loved the late rapper's raspy voice, and even though he had been gone for over a decade, she still went wild when one of his songs played. Once the Notorious one stopped singing, she exited the dance floor and made her way to the bar.

"I'll have a shot of Patrón Silver, chilled with a lime wedge," she told the bartender.

"Looks like you're having a good time," said Rock, Munro's best friend.

"I am having a ball! What about you?"

"The night can't get any better." Rock smiled.

Rockmon Phillips, Rock for short, and Munro had been friends since grade school. They both came from a small town in Michigan, and both of their parents were farmers. Munro's parents worked a small farm, while Rock's family grew Christmas trees. They were two small-town kids who had achieved big-city dreams.

Munro Sheridan, born Margaret Smith, was a lanky, wide-eyed girl who wanted desperately to leave the country behind. She didn't have a clue how to change her life so that she wouldn't wind up shucking corn and chasing chickens the rest of her days. Then, on an annual shopping trip to Chicago with her mother, Munro was spotted by a local fashion photographer. He noticed her gazelle-like strut a mile away and asked if she would model for him. Her mother promptly told him no, but when he said that it would be a paying job and told her the rate, she changed her mind. In one day her daughter would make more than the farm grossed in a month. Soon, Margaret was signed with an agency. The second she graduated from high school, with her parents' blessing, she took the bus straight to Chicago and never looked back. Her agent insisted that she change her name, saying that her real name had no cachet. Using her existing initials, Munro Sheridan was born.

After Munro's departure, Rock's father encouraged him to also leave their small town. He wanted more for his only son than the Christmas-tree farm had to offer. Rock's father had never received a formal education, and as a result saved his hard-earned money in order to send his children to college.

Rock followed Munro to Chicago and enrolled at Roosevelt University, majoring in criminal law. He had always loved watching crime dramas on television, trying to solve the mystery before the end of the show. Shortly after graduation, Rock packed up his bags and moved to New York. Chicago was great, but he wanted to experience life in the Big Apple; besides, Munro was now there modeling for a top agency. He had thought about taking the bar exam, but wanted to be where the real action was, so he joined the NYPD. The pay wasn't enough to maintain the Manhattan lifestyle that he craved, so he opened his own security agency. Rock had seen his father work like a dog trying to provide for their family, and he never wanted to have to scrape by in order to make ends meet.

Rock's company helped to solve a few high-profile cases, making a name for himself and increasing his bank account at the same time. Rock was blazing the career path so fast that he began experiencing burnout. Needing a change of scenery, he closed shop and temporarily moved to London. He loved the UK; it was similar to New York, and the natives spoke English. But before long he was missing Manhattan, and his job. He went back to New York, dusted off his shingle, and went back into business.

"Not too bad for a couple of kids from the country," Munro said, looking around the fabulous party.

"You can say that again, Margaret."

"Enough with the Margaret stuff," she said, then threw back the tequila shot.

"Okay, Munro," he said, "but you'll always be Margaret to me."

"And you'll always be Rockmon," she said, knowing how much he hated his birth name.

"Touché," he said, tapping his wine glass against her empty shot glass. "How do you feel, now that your modeling career is over?"

"It's bittersweet. Modeling has really been good to me and my bank account." She chuckled. "I've been all over the world a number of times and have modeled for some of the best fashion houses this side of the sun, but I prefer to leave the industry before the fat lady starts singing."

"That's smart."

"Thanks. I probably have another five years before the camera starts zeroing in on those teeny lines under my eyes. Before that happens and AARP starts sending me magazines, I'm going to start the other phase of my life."

"Speaking of which, when does your new bar open?" Rock asked.

"It's not a bar; it's a lounge."

"Oh, excuse me, Ms. Hoity-Toity," he teased.

"Whatever!" she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She and Rock easily bantered with each other like only old friends could. "Anyway, the grand opening isn't for another week, hopefully."

"What do you mean hopefully?"

Munro exhaled hard. "At first things were running smoothly, but now I swear everyday is like a nightmare from hell. First the boiler went out, then I had a leak in the roof, and now I'm having plumbing problems," she said, shaking her head.

"Sounds like the issues of an old New York building," Rock said.

"I guess you're right. But the odd thing is that I had the building inspected before I bought it."

"Yeah, that is odd. Obviously, the inspector wasn't thorough. Well, the good news is that you're correcting the problems before you open. The last thing you need is a leaking roof after you've done renovations."

"This is true. I've already invested a considerable amount of money into this place. It's my baby, and now will be my sole source of income, so I need for everything to pan out perfectly," she said, smiling nervously.

Rock put his arm around Munro's shoulders. "Don't worry. I'm sure everything will work out fine. Come on; let's toast to your new lounge." Rock looked down the bar, and yelled, "Bartender, can you bring us two glasses of Dom?" Once their champagne was delivered, Rock raised his glass and toasted his friend. "To you, Munro: may your new venture be as successful as your modeling career has been."

She clinked her glass to his, took a sip, and said, "Thanks, Rock. That means a lot coming from you."

Being in such a competitive business, Munro didn't have many close female friends. She considered Rock her "rock." He had been there for her over the years, during good times and bad. Munro had cried on his shoulder many a night over a lost modeling assignment, or a lost love. Rock was a good-looking sounding board. He stood six-one, had a deep dark-chocolate complexion, a captivating smile, and the strong body of a quarterback. Rock bore a striking resemblance to Idris Elba, and often got mistaken for the actor. However, that wasn't always the case. Growing up, Rock was a skinny, pimply-faced kid, who had few friends. He was on the shy side, and spent most of his free time watching crime shows on television. Rock eventually grew out of his shell, and now was a stud.

Initially, Munro and Rock were strictly platonic friends, but that arrangement didn't last long once he moved to New York. Now not only were they friends, but also lovers.

"Enough sappy sentimental talk. Come on; let's dance," he said, grabbing Munro's hand, and leading her to the dance floor.

Rock and Munro danced the evening away, closing down the party. They ended up taking a taxi to Rock's loft for some serious lovemaking.


"That was one hell of a party," Rock said, unlocking the door to his spacious loft.

"Thanks. I aim to please," she said, suggestively. The liquor from the party had her horny, and she was ready to play.

Munro untied the belt to her Rachel Roy trench, shrugged the coat off her shoulders, and let it slide to the floor. She then put her right hand on her right hip and struck a pose.

"Hmmm," Rock moaned, taking in her toned physique. She wore a snug-fitting black evening gown with cutouts in the middle, showing off her slim waist.

She swiveled around on her four-inch heels so that he could appreciate the back view. Although she was slim, Munro had a tight, round butt. "Like what you see?" she asked, turning back around to face him.

"Umm-hmm." He nodded. "But I'd like it much better without the dress." Munro undid a few snaps and let the gown slip off of her body down to the floor.

"Now it's your turn to do a little striptease."

Rock didn't say another word. He began unbuckling his belt, and when it was loose, he unbuttoned his pants and let them fall on the floor next to Munro's dress.

She reached out and pulled him by the tie, which he still had on, along with his shirt. Once their groins made contact, they began grinding in their underwear. She knew that Rock liked to mix things up. Sometimes he liked to be teased until he felt as if he were going to burst a vessel. Sometimes he liked to make love rough, and ram her like a jackhammer. And then there were other times when he wanted to do it nice and slow.

Rock was making slow and deliberate moves with his pelvis. He wanted to take his time and not rush. Rock relished giving Munro pleasure.

She was enjoying his sensuous approach, and wrapped one leg around his butt, so that his cock was right in the middle of her punanny. They moved in slow motion, feeling each other up, until she could feel him getting harder and harder with each gyration. "Oh, Rock, Baby, your dick feels so good," she moaned with her eyes closed.

"You like it?" he whispered in her ear.

"No. I love it," she whispered back, while nibbling on his earlobe.

"You want it?"

"No. I need it!" she said, with emphasis.

"Now that's what I like to hear." Rock began peeling off her thong with one hand. He rolled the thin piece of fabric down her legs. When it reached her ankles, she stepped out. He then took off his boxer-briefs. Once he was naked from the waist down, he grabbed her thighs and hiked them up around his waist.

Munro didn't skip a beat. She clenched her legs around him like a vise grip, while he pressed her against the wall. Her twat was pulsating with anticipation. She wanted him inside of her, and could hardly wait much longer. "Come on, Lover, give it to me."

"Is this what you want?" he asked, sliding his rod into her juicy canal.

"Oh, yes!" she moaned.

Rock's slow deliberate moves quickly became piston-like thrusts as he picked up the pace and began ramming her faster and faster. He could hear his balls slapping against her ass, and the sound was turning him on even more. "Take ... all ... of ... this ... dick," he said, in between thrusts.

"Give it to me," she moaned back.

They each gave as good as they got, bucking back and forth like two prized steers.

"Oh yes, yes, yes, YES!" Munro screamed on the verge of cumming.

"That's it, Baby. Let's cum together!" After a few more heated moves, they exploded simultaneously. Rock then eased Munro down on the floor on top of their clothes. They were too exhausted and tipsy to move any further than the foyer, and fell asleep right there on the floor.


Munro was up bright and early the following morning, as if she hadn't touched a drink all night. She put her evening clothes back on, made a quick dash home to shower and change, then headed over to the site of her lounge. Located in the Chelsea area of Manhattan, near the modeling agencies and photography studios, Strutt was sure to be a hit, especially once word got out that Munro was the owner.

The main room wasn't finished yet. Munro walked in, past workers who were busy laying down the slate flooring, and went directly into her office. Thankfully, her office had already been completed to her specifications. The room was painted stark white, with white leather furniture. It was tonal, with touches of silver. She had wanted a sleek, European look, and that's exactly what the interior designer delivered. She plopped her mustard-colored Christian Lacroix bag on the white leather sofa, then slid behind her ebony wooden desk — the only dark piece of furniture in the room — and settled into her Echo fiber mesh chair.

Munro wasted no time getting down to business. Her first call was to the lounge's manager.

"Good morning, Jane. Did the plumber come in as scheduled?"

"Yes, he was here an hour ago and replaced a few rotten pipes. Everything is fine now," she informed her boss.

"Thanks, Jane," Munro said, and hung up.

Before placing her next call, she took a file folder out of her desk drawer and read over the invoices inside. She had to finish ordering stock for the bar, so she picked up the phone again and called the liquor rep. After the preliminaries, she began barking off her order.

"Yes, that's right, eight cases of Veuve; two cases each of the following Patrón brands — Burdeos, Grand, Silver, and XO Café; five cases of Belvedere; two cases of Cointreau; a case of Johnnie Blue; and a case of Courvoisier VSOP," she told the spirit rep, rounding out her order of high-end liquor.

After she hung up the phone, Munro leaned back in her chair, put her hands behind her head, and marveled at her latest acquisition. She was accustomed to spending thousands of dollars on designer labels, but those labels usually had names like Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Stella McCartney, and Tom Ford on them, not liquor brands.

With all the cash I'm spending, I surely hope this lounge is going to be a hit, she thought.

Munro had been on her own since she was a teen, and as a result she had developed a strong sense of independence. So instead of going the traditional route and getting a bank loan or partners for her business, she decided to go solo, so that she wouldn't have to answer to anyone but herself. Munro had poured a considerable amount of her savings into Strutt, and prayed that the returns would double within the first six months. She had a lifestyle to support, and operating a losing business was not in the plan.


"Jon, I've been going over the exit strategy for Romlatech, and the numbers aren't looking good for an IPO at this time. Maybe we should consider a strategic buyer, considering that the current climate in the market looks dismal," Dirk told his colleague.

Dirk Baptiste was a founding partner with the BLAC Group, LLC, one of the select few minority-owned private equity firms in Manhattan. The name of the company was an acronym based on the last names of the partners — Baptiste, Leighton, Allen, and Carver — but was apropos since all the partners were of African descent. Not exactly straight from the motherland, but a few generations removed. Dirk's father was born in Brazil — one of the major stops during the slave trade — but had moved to New York as a boy, where he met Dirk's mother, a Brooklyn native. The two married right after high school and started their family. Before Dirk's mother was thirty, she had three children — two girls and a boy, with Dirk being the youngest.


Excerpted from One + One = Three by Sasha James. Copyright © 2009 Sasha James. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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