When Hailey crashes a Half-Life
after party, she expects to find the bastard who knocked up her little sister.
Instead she meets the sexy front-man who agrees to give her access to his crew
if she gives him access to her body.
All Lock demands in return is
three days of complete control over the Sunday School teacher. With a contract,
because he’s been
burned before. One misstep could send the band—and
his tenuous sobriety—up in flames.
Hailey and Lock push each other’s
limits… Against the penthouse window. Backstage. In the limo
and on the elevator. But as the contract counts down, neither are ready for the
party to end.
Lock
managed not to jump the sexy little Sunday school teacher the second her pen
left the paper. Her hand had been shaking as she’d
signed, and she wasn’t ready for sex. At least not the way he
did sex. So he showed her into the restroom and let her freshen up. Meanwhile
he conferred with the concierge to get her bag brought up and her car moved to
a VIP spot.
When
she emerged from the bathroom, he knew she was ready. He knew by the fresh
lipstick on her full lips and the resolved set of her chin. But most of all he
knew because of the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Under the fear, she
wanted to know what came next.
He
crooked his finger and beckoned her to him.
Her
breathing was shallow, her cheeks flushed, and she kept running her fingers
through her hair, touching herself. That long blonde hair cascaded around her
face in a messy tumble. Bed head, and they hadn’t
been anywhere near a bed. Wouldn’t be near one anytime soon if he had
his way. Which he would. This was his show.
She
tugged the hem of her short skirt so it covered a sliver more thigh, drew her
shoulders back, and crossed the room, steady on her bare feet. She should be
plucking daisies, not padding across the plush carpet of his penthouse suite. “Your wish is my command.”
No
more preamble. If she was really going to do this, he’d
know now for sure. “I’m
going to fuck you against that window over there, and I’m
not going to be nice about it. Do you like to hurt, Hailey?”
Her
name was a weapon on his lips. A sharp thing he could use to lash her. Every
time he said it, he watched her tense. This time she wobbled, her answering nod
barely perceptible, her coltish legs giving way under the weight of his regard.
And he liked it.
She
wanted this thrill, and at the moment finding her sister’s
baby daddy didn’t have much to do with it. Her eyes held wariness and
guilt—but most of all,
excitement. As if his proposition had jolted her awake. More awake than she’d
ever been in her drowsy little East Podunk life, he’d
lay money on it.
He’d
woken up on stage like that, the whiskey haze parting long enough for fear to
creep in, adrenaline spiking into his bloodstream as he fumbled for an instant
and then…click. Everything
slipping into its proper place. The music. The band. The crowd. All of it more
alive, more real, brighter and sharper because he’d
come so close to disaster.
Do
you like to hurt, Hailey? He’d
asked her, and she could only nod.
He’d
hurt her so good she’d give voice to that desire before he was
through. She knew it. He knew it. The subtext breathed in the air around them,
a living thing, that damned contract come to life. She wants this. She wants
the lurid celeb fantasy. The shock, the pulse-pounding vibrancy that
only exists on the edge of a bad decision.
He’d
take her there.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, a little too
harshly, his urgency coming out as hard-edged gruffness.
It
didn’t
scare her away. She wants that too. She fingered the button of her
cardigan, uncertain, and then popped them all in a rush, exposing a silver tank
that dipped low over her cleavage. Fuck. Surprisingly lush curves on her
willowy frame, and smooth, pale skin.
He
shifted in his seat, imagining his cock between her breasts. Making them slick,
squeezing them together, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting until he came all
over her neck. Jesus, he hadn’t even seen them yet. She put a hand
to her throat as if she could read his mind. As if every dirty thought he’d
ever had was flashing on his face. And she knew. Why was she taking so fucking
long to undress?
Amber Lin writes erotic romance
with damaged souls and deep emotion.
Her debut novel, Giving It Up,
received The Romance Review’s Top Pick, Night Owl Top Pick, and 5 Blue Ribbons
from Romance Junkies. RT Book Reviews gave it 4.5 stars, calling it “truly extraordinary.” She
has been published by Loose Id, Carina Press, and Entangled.
Amber married her high school
sweetheart, birthed a kid who’s smarter than she is, and spends her nights writing
down her dirty thoughts. In other words, life is good.
***
Shari Slade is a snarky optimist.
A would-be academic with big dreams and very little means. When she isn’t toiling away in the non-profit
sector, she’s
writing gritty stories about identity and people who make terrible choices in
the name of love (or lust). Somehow, it all works out in the end. If she had a
patronus it would be a platypus.
This Book Blitz is brought to you by Between the Sheets Promotions
No comments:
Post a Comment