Aria Cole's Blog - Posts Tagged "kindle-unlimited"
Mother Trucker + Riding His Iron are LIVE!
Check out the new excerpts from two of my favorite couples! The banter is off the charts, and as always: free to read in Kindle Unlimited or just .99 cents!
Mother Trucker:
getBook.at/MotherTrucker
“Isn’t there a rule about wearing white on rainy days?” The timbre of his voice tingled like sparks against my skin.
“This one took me by surprise,” I whispered, tucking soaking-wet locks behind my ear.
“You and me both.”
I narrowed my eyes, sensitive nerves pricking in places they hadn’t since, well, pretty much…ever. I felt his gaze crawl over me, the thin white cotton of my button-down shirt obviously see-through by now.
I gulped.
He backed away, adjusting the angle of his worn trucker’s hat.
Another crack of lightning lit the sky as I practically drooled over the startlingly golden-bronze shade of his skin, damp with rivulets of rainwater. The thundering in the distance was matched only by the thundering of my heart in my ear drums. Could he hear it?
God, I hoped not.
“My car stalled,” I finally blurted.
“You mean that golf cart you got there?” He assessed my trusty little blue demon behind me. “That thing brings a lot of words to mind, but car isn’t one of them. Piece of shit maybe, but not car.” He moved up the short driveway, slapping at the rusted tailgate of a vintage Ford pickup.
“And what do you call this?” I hollered at his back, rain still sliding down in determined drops, soaking into my bra and pebbling my nipples.
Or was it him, all strong and manly looking?
I hated it, either way. I vowed to banish all of the white shirts in my closet the minute I arrived home.
“This”—he smacked the truck—“is my baby.” He reached the door of the garage, eyes on me again. “If that old thing impresses you, you should see my big rig.”
My mouth shot open, embarrassment burning my cheeks as I thought I very well should turn around and stomp away, but I had no car and my phone battery was long dead. The sixty-minute drive home from work every day was a killer in the best of times, impossible on the worst days, apparently like this one.
“I’m not sure what’s worse: enduring this storm or your corny jokes.”
His chiseled features shot into an amused half grin that caused my heart to riot in my chest.
“You’d be wrong to assume you’ll be the only one suffering.”
His eyes made a point of coasting up and down my drenched form before he huffed and pushed off the doorjamb and descended into the darkness of the garage, door closing behind him. I frowned, missing his presence in a way I wasn’t altogether comfortable with.
“Mother trucker.” I pushed through the door he’d just disappeared behind, surprised when blinding white light blasted my eyes. Shiny chrome toolboxes towering over raw pine workbenches worn soft with years of use surrounded me.
“This is the cleanest garage I’ve ever seen.” I brushed my fingers along one pale workbench.
“This isn’t my real shop, just the one I use for filming.”
“Filming?” I raised an eyebrow. “Got a local cable show I don’t know about?”
“More like half a billion followers streaming online.” He slung one heavy, denim-clad thigh over the nearest Harley, settling himself soundly as if he was made to be there.
The broad stretch of his shoulders caught my attention. I fully appreciated the way his broad body swallowed up the space, so much so that the big bike looked small in comparison. A thrill of desire shot through me, blood hammering through my veins to a pounding rhythm.
My mouth was suddenly dry, pain cracking my throat as cartwheels bounced around my diaphragm.
Mother trucker.
“Gotta confess, sweetheart, you’ve had me pegged. I’m a Harley man at heart, but my specialty is trucks. Leno called me in to rehab a classic Ford, and the LA Times did a piece. It’s been a circus since.”
I gulped, taking in his words, still stumbling at how downright hot he made me under the engine.
I cracked a smile at my own pun, suddenly wondering why the hell I’d found myself at this garage during this storm. Served me right for taking a new way home from work, but flooding had already caused a backup on the bridge out of town, so I’d thought it might be worth my time to take the scenic route home. Well, now the bridge on the edge of town was washed out, and I was stuck on a tiny strip of land that separated the river from the ocean. The only establishment on the island? This one.
Luckily, from the outside it’d been well-lit, and with the promise of a power cord and a wrecker calling, I’d been fighting with my purse and about to knock on the door of his garage when he’d caught me outside in the downpour.
“This place is pretty incredible.”
“Thanks.”
His gaze followed me shrewdly as I wandered the edge of the garage, between the motorcycles, modern and vintage, finally catching sight of myself in a full-length mirror in the corner.
“Oh shit.” I crossed my arms over my shirt, horrified that I’d been so stunned by the perfection of this place that I’d forgotten I’d worn white and was soaked through. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Can’t blame a guy for enjoying the view while it lasts.”
I huffed, pulling down a coat that hung from a rack beside the mirror. I shrugged it on, folds of black leather swallowing me like a warm hug, the scent of what I imagined was him enveloping me, seeping deep into my bones and melting them like warm butter.
Prickles of desire spun up through my nerves, and I did my best to tamp them down.
“Do you have a charger?” I suddenly remembered my phone, pulling it from its place in my bag.
He was at my side a moment later, lazy grin holding me captivated until I was stupid.
“You look good wrapped up in my favorite jacket.” He winked once before spinning on a boot and leaving me all by myself, his scent clinging to me.
“Coming, sweetheart?” he threw from across the room, big shoulder resting on the doorframe.
“Name’s not sweetheart.” I followed, dragging my feet because I knew…I just knew that whoever he was, this wouldn't end well. There was no way. I’d had my fair share of run-ins with arrogant, gorgeous men like him. I’d learned to steer clear.
“What else should I call the lost little puppy that’s landed itself on my doorstep?”
I bristled at his words, the feminist brewing inside me dampened by his overt and rogue sexuality.
This son of a bitch was intoxicating.
I met him chest to chest, hovering a moment. “Call me Primrose Weatherford.”
His eyes grew ride, mouth popping open to respond before I moved without thinking and pushed past him and straight into his house, walking in like I belonged there, when really I felt for my own sanity that I should be running out.
“Prim, huh?” he sang from behind me. “Not even a little bit surprised.”
getBook.at/MotherTrucker
Riding His Iron:
getBook.at/RidingIron
“Is that your welding iron, or are you just happy to see me?”
Keene was bent over his workbench, freshly molded iron and a still red-hot poker at his side.
“Baby, if that were my iron, you’d feel it.” He spun on his chair, nailing me with his eyes, iron pipe in one hand. “I've got at least a few more inches in girth—” his grin tipped “—and length, judging by the way you’re walking this morning.”
I laughed, crossing the garage with the ache between my thighs a delicious reminder of him. “Thank God for the length and girth—you’d never get work as a comedian.”
He set the pipe behind him, shaking his head with amusement before pulling me onto his lap when I was close enough. He caught my head in his hand, pushing our lips together in a kiss that stole all of the air from my lungs. “Why are you always grinding my last nerve, woman?”
I grinned against his lips. “Funny… It felt like I was grinding your iron last night.”
His laugh echoed around the walls of the garage, hand swatting at my ass in amused punishment.
Sparks of arousal pulsed through my core.
This strong, gorgeous man had the ability to take my breath in just one hot look. Nerves sizzled as he rocked his cock against the seam of my panties, his hands pushing up the shirt I’d worn to bed.
“I could eat you for breakfast, you smell so damn good.” He fisted my ass cheek in one palm, grinding me against him and turning me up another notch.
“Well, before we get to breakfast, I have something to show you.” Excitement spun through my insides. “The delivery dude just dropped this off.” I pulled a rolled tube from behind my back. “The mock-up for the cover came in. I had my manager overnight it.”
My fingers worked the tape. Keene’s eyes were trained on mine.
“I haven’t seen it yet. I wanted to see it with you.” I popped the plastic top, tipping the tube and shaking out the rolled poster.
I swallowed. “Ready for the cover of Rolling Stone, baby?”
“Am I ready to share you with the world? Nope, not at all.”
I placed a kiss on his cute little frowning lips. “You already do, Reynolds.”
I unrolled the poster then, the image facing away from me and at him. I didn’t look at it, only held his eyes, searching for any registering of an emotion.
“Well?” I moved the poster at an angle I could see, taking it in for the first time. “Whoa.”
“Yeah,” he uttered, lifting me off him and setting me at my feet on the floor before he turned back to his workbench.
“We’re pretty fucking hot.” My eyes rolled up and down the poster. The way one of his hands rested on the throttle of the custom Harley, his other wide palm spreading across my upper thigh. Layers of pale purple and silver chiffon floated on the breeze, so soft and airy juxtaposed with his broad form—testosterone-soaked metal running through his veins. He was hot, and together, we were on fire.
I licked my lips, eyeing just the right space front and center between his big workbenches. I stabbed a few tacks into the corners, backing up to appreciate my addition to the space.
“I look like the big bad wolf that kidnapped the princess.” He was at my side, his growly voice rumbling straight to my thighs. “Plus, you’re doing that simpering thing. That’s mine. I don’t want anyone else to see the face you make when I’m sliding into you.”
“That’s what makes it hot.” I grinned, proud of what we’d done together. This man was inside my bones in inexplicable ways. We were opposite in every sense of the word, and yet something about us just worked.
“I’ll have to throw a sheet over it every time the guys come over.” He stepped closer, thumb dusting along the curve of my thigh in the photo. “I don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine.”
He turned then, eyes falling with intense emotion.
“Well—” I cupped his cheeks in my hand and placed a kiss on his cheek “—it’s mine too.”
His eyes burned back at me, as if he was warring silently with me in his head, before both of his hands spanned the tops of my shoulders, thumbs skimming the skin at my throat and then down the center of my chest.
When he reached my breast, he cupped it softly, thumbing at the nipple.
“I know it’s yours, baby. How could I forget, when you’re talking about running off to New York City?” His lips grazed my neck as his fingers twisted in the elastic of my panties and tore them easily from my legs. “So I’ve already made the decision to let you do whatever it is you want to do.” His digits swirled in my wetness, spreading it around as low growls puffed past his lips. “Whatever makes you happy, I support.” Both of his palms were at my waist now, grinding my lips against his. “But I don’t have to like it.”
He nipped, hands pushing up my T-shirt and alternating between tickling and tweaking my aroused flesh.
“Keene, oh my God.”
He lifted me onto the counter, spreading my thighs so he could fit between them snuggly. I sighed when his naked cock pressed against the seam of my body, silky hot skin nestling against mine and making me desperate for that full feeling of him lodged deep inside me.
“The only thing that makes me happy about seeing that—” he licked my nipple, teasing between words “—is knowing that I get the real-life you, and that’s even hotter.”
I sighed, lost for words as he worked me with his tongue, taming me in ways deep inside my soul he didn’t even know he was capable of.
Keene unleashed me, gave me all the freedom I wanted, and in return, I only wanted to give it all up to be his, right here with him, every day.
I’d found him out here a lot of early mornings. The idea that I was getting much more sleep than he was in his bed was purely laughable. My stomach fluttered, intense with butterflies most of the waking hours I was with him. That was one of the very reasons I’d been willing to leave for New York yesterday—my feelings for Keene were so intense, I was looking forward to a few days away to process.
But had I really been disappointed when the flight screen had flashed my flight to JFK from delayed to cancelled?
Not if it meant missing this view right here—him, soaking up me.
His hands linked with mine, sliding them over my head as his broad form collapsed into me, crushing me against the wall and pushing inside me in the same move.
I groaned, feeling the pinch of my still-raw nerves from the last time he was filling me.
“You feel so good, Keene.” My eyes slid closed as he placed kisses on my eyelids, stroking softly and working my body into a state of flushed arousal.
“So sweet and juicy, my beauty.” He nipped and licked, filled me and fucked me, his hips grating against the inside of my thighs as he buried himself deeply. “I've also made another decision about you and me.”
“Oh?” I cried out when his teeth connected with my neck and he nipped playfully. His hands ran up the length of my arms, lighting every nerve on fire before he brought my ring finger to his lips, sucking my digit and swirling his tongue around it until, with slow precision, he released my ring finger from his captive lips, and a raw pink stone twinkled in the morning light.
“I love the way you grind my iron, baby.”
getBook.at/RidingIron
Mother Trucker:
getBook.at/MotherTrucker
“Isn’t there a rule about wearing white on rainy days?” The timbre of his voice tingled like sparks against my skin.
“This one took me by surprise,” I whispered, tucking soaking-wet locks behind my ear.
“You and me both.”
I narrowed my eyes, sensitive nerves pricking in places they hadn’t since, well, pretty much…ever. I felt his gaze crawl over me, the thin white cotton of my button-down shirt obviously see-through by now.
I gulped.
He backed away, adjusting the angle of his worn trucker’s hat.
Another crack of lightning lit the sky as I practically drooled over the startlingly golden-bronze shade of his skin, damp with rivulets of rainwater. The thundering in the distance was matched only by the thundering of my heart in my ear drums. Could he hear it?
God, I hoped not.
“My car stalled,” I finally blurted.
“You mean that golf cart you got there?” He assessed my trusty little blue demon behind me. “That thing brings a lot of words to mind, but car isn’t one of them. Piece of shit maybe, but not car.” He moved up the short driveway, slapping at the rusted tailgate of a vintage Ford pickup.
“And what do you call this?” I hollered at his back, rain still sliding down in determined drops, soaking into my bra and pebbling my nipples.
Or was it him, all strong and manly looking?
I hated it, either way. I vowed to banish all of the white shirts in my closet the minute I arrived home.
“This”—he smacked the truck—“is my baby.” He reached the door of the garage, eyes on me again. “If that old thing impresses you, you should see my big rig.”
My mouth shot open, embarrassment burning my cheeks as I thought I very well should turn around and stomp away, but I had no car and my phone battery was long dead. The sixty-minute drive home from work every day was a killer in the best of times, impossible on the worst days, apparently like this one.
“I’m not sure what’s worse: enduring this storm or your corny jokes.”
His chiseled features shot into an amused half grin that caused my heart to riot in my chest.
“You’d be wrong to assume you’ll be the only one suffering.”
His eyes made a point of coasting up and down my drenched form before he huffed and pushed off the doorjamb and descended into the darkness of the garage, door closing behind him. I frowned, missing his presence in a way I wasn’t altogether comfortable with.
“Mother trucker.” I pushed through the door he’d just disappeared behind, surprised when blinding white light blasted my eyes. Shiny chrome toolboxes towering over raw pine workbenches worn soft with years of use surrounded me.
“This is the cleanest garage I’ve ever seen.” I brushed my fingers along one pale workbench.
“This isn’t my real shop, just the one I use for filming.”
“Filming?” I raised an eyebrow. “Got a local cable show I don’t know about?”
“More like half a billion followers streaming online.” He slung one heavy, denim-clad thigh over the nearest Harley, settling himself soundly as if he was made to be there.
The broad stretch of his shoulders caught my attention. I fully appreciated the way his broad body swallowed up the space, so much so that the big bike looked small in comparison. A thrill of desire shot through me, blood hammering through my veins to a pounding rhythm.
My mouth was suddenly dry, pain cracking my throat as cartwheels bounced around my diaphragm.
Mother trucker.
“Gotta confess, sweetheart, you’ve had me pegged. I’m a Harley man at heart, but my specialty is trucks. Leno called me in to rehab a classic Ford, and the LA Times did a piece. It’s been a circus since.”
I gulped, taking in his words, still stumbling at how downright hot he made me under the engine.
I cracked a smile at my own pun, suddenly wondering why the hell I’d found myself at this garage during this storm. Served me right for taking a new way home from work, but flooding had already caused a backup on the bridge out of town, so I’d thought it might be worth my time to take the scenic route home. Well, now the bridge on the edge of town was washed out, and I was stuck on a tiny strip of land that separated the river from the ocean. The only establishment on the island? This one.
Luckily, from the outside it’d been well-lit, and with the promise of a power cord and a wrecker calling, I’d been fighting with my purse and about to knock on the door of his garage when he’d caught me outside in the downpour.
“This place is pretty incredible.”
“Thanks.”
His gaze followed me shrewdly as I wandered the edge of the garage, between the motorcycles, modern and vintage, finally catching sight of myself in a full-length mirror in the corner.
“Oh shit.” I crossed my arms over my shirt, horrified that I’d been so stunned by the perfection of this place that I’d forgotten I’d worn white and was soaked through. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Can’t blame a guy for enjoying the view while it lasts.”
I huffed, pulling down a coat that hung from a rack beside the mirror. I shrugged it on, folds of black leather swallowing me like a warm hug, the scent of what I imagined was him enveloping me, seeping deep into my bones and melting them like warm butter.
Prickles of desire spun up through my nerves, and I did my best to tamp them down.
“Do you have a charger?” I suddenly remembered my phone, pulling it from its place in my bag.
He was at my side a moment later, lazy grin holding me captivated until I was stupid.
“You look good wrapped up in my favorite jacket.” He winked once before spinning on a boot and leaving me all by myself, his scent clinging to me.
“Coming, sweetheart?” he threw from across the room, big shoulder resting on the doorframe.
“Name’s not sweetheart.” I followed, dragging my feet because I knew…I just knew that whoever he was, this wouldn't end well. There was no way. I’d had my fair share of run-ins with arrogant, gorgeous men like him. I’d learned to steer clear.
“What else should I call the lost little puppy that’s landed itself on my doorstep?”
I bristled at his words, the feminist brewing inside me dampened by his overt and rogue sexuality.
This son of a bitch was intoxicating.
I met him chest to chest, hovering a moment. “Call me Primrose Weatherford.”
His eyes grew ride, mouth popping open to respond before I moved without thinking and pushed past him and straight into his house, walking in like I belonged there, when really I felt for my own sanity that I should be running out.
“Prim, huh?” he sang from behind me. “Not even a little bit surprised.”
getBook.at/MotherTrucker
Riding His Iron:
getBook.at/RidingIron
“Is that your welding iron, or are you just happy to see me?”
Keene was bent over his workbench, freshly molded iron and a still red-hot poker at his side.
“Baby, if that were my iron, you’d feel it.” He spun on his chair, nailing me with his eyes, iron pipe in one hand. “I've got at least a few more inches in girth—” his grin tipped “—and length, judging by the way you’re walking this morning.”
I laughed, crossing the garage with the ache between my thighs a delicious reminder of him. “Thank God for the length and girth—you’d never get work as a comedian.”
He set the pipe behind him, shaking his head with amusement before pulling me onto his lap when I was close enough. He caught my head in his hand, pushing our lips together in a kiss that stole all of the air from my lungs. “Why are you always grinding my last nerve, woman?”
I grinned against his lips. “Funny… It felt like I was grinding your iron last night.”
His laugh echoed around the walls of the garage, hand swatting at my ass in amused punishment.
Sparks of arousal pulsed through my core.
This strong, gorgeous man had the ability to take my breath in just one hot look. Nerves sizzled as he rocked his cock against the seam of my panties, his hands pushing up the shirt I’d worn to bed.
“I could eat you for breakfast, you smell so damn good.” He fisted my ass cheek in one palm, grinding me against him and turning me up another notch.
“Well, before we get to breakfast, I have something to show you.” Excitement spun through my insides. “The delivery dude just dropped this off.” I pulled a rolled tube from behind my back. “The mock-up for the cover came in. I had my manager overnight it.”
My fingers worked the tape. Keene’s eyes were trained on mine.
“I haven’t seen it yet. I wanted to see it with you.” I popped the plastic top, tipping the tube and shaking out the rolled poster.
I swallowed. “Ready for the cover of Rolling Stone, baby?”
“Am I ready to share you with the world? Nope, not at all.”
I placed a kiss on his cute little frowning lips. “You already do, Reynolds.”
I unrolled the poster then, the image facing away from me and at him. I didn’t look at it, only held his eyes, searching for any registering of an emotion.
“Well?” I moved the poster at an angle I could see, taking it in for the first time. “Whoa.”
“Yeah,” he uttered, lifting me off him and setting me at my feet on the floor before he turned back to his workbench.
“We’re pretty fucking hot.” My eyes rolled up and down the poster. The way one of his hands rested on the throttle of the custom Harley, his other wide palm spreading across my upper thigh. Layers of pale purple and silver chiffon floated on the breeze, so soft and airy juxtaposed with his broad form—testosterone-soaked metal running through his veins. He was hot, and together, we were on fire.
I licked my lips, eyeing just the right space front and center between his big workbenches. I stabbed a few tacks into the corners, backing up to appreciate my addition to the space.
“I look like the big bad wolf that kidnapped the princess.” He was at my side, his growly voice rumbling straight to my thighs. “Plus, you’re doing that simpering thing. That’s mine. I don’t want anyone else to see the face you make when I’m sliding into you.”
“That’s what makes it hot.” I grinned, proud of what we’d done together. This man was inside my bones in inexplicable ways. We were opposite in every sense of the word, and yet something about us just worked.
“I’ll have to throw a sheet over it every time the guys come over.” He stepped closer, thumb dusting along the curve of my thigh in the photo. “I don’t want anyone seeing what’s mine.”
He turned then, eyes falling with intense emotion.
“Well—” I cupped his cheeks in my hand and placed a kiss on his cheek “—it’s mine too.”
His eyes burned back at me, as if he was warring silently with me in his head, before both of his hands spanned the tops of my shoulders, thumbs skimming the skin at my throat and then down the center of my chest.
When he reached my breast, he cupped it softly, thumbing at the nipple.
“I know it’s yours, baby. How could I forget, when you’re talking about running off to New York City?” His lips grazed my neck as his fingers twisted in the elastic of my panties and tore them easily from my legs. “So I’ve already made the decision to let you do whatever it is you want to do.” His digits swirled in my wetness, spreading it around as low growls puffed past his lips. “Whatever makes you happy, I support.” Both of his palms were at my waist now, grinding my lips against his. “But I don’t have to like it.”
He nipped, hands pushing up my T-shirt and alternating between tickling and tweaking my aroused flesh.
“Keene, oh my God.”
He lifted me onto the counter, spreading my thighs so he could fit between them snuggly. I sighed when his naked cock pressed against the seam of my body, silky hot skin nestling against mine and making me desperate for that full feeling of him lodged deep inside me.
“The only thing that makes me happy about seeing that—” he licked my nipple, teasing between words “—is knowing that I get the real-life you, and that’s even hotter.”
I sighed, lost for words as he worked me with his tongue, taming me in ways deep inside my soul he didn’t even know he was capable of.
Keene unleashed me, gave me all the freedom I wanted, and in return, I only wanted to give it all up to be his, right here with him, every day.
I’d found him out here a lot of early mornings. The idea that I was getting much more sleep than he was in his bed was purely laughable. My stomach fluttered, intense with butterflies most of the waking hours I was with him. That was one of the very reasons I’d been willing to leave for New York yesterday—my feelings for Keene were so intense, I was looking forward to a few days away to process.
But had I really been disappointed when the flight screen had flashed my flight to JFK from delayed to cancelled?
Not if it meant missing this view right here—him, soaking up me.
His hands linked with mine, sliding them over my head as his broad form collapsed into me, crushing me against the wall and pushing inside me in the same move.
I groaned, feeling the pinch of my still-raw nerves from the last time he was filling me.
“You feel so good, Keene.” My eyes slid closed as he placed kisses on my eyelids, stroking softly and working my body into a state of flushed arousal.
“So sweet and juicy, my beauty.” He nipped and licked, filled me and fucked me, his hips grating against the inside of my thighs as he buried himself deeply. “I've also made another decision about you and me.”
“Oh?” I cried out when his teeth connected with my neck and he nipped playfully. His hands ran up the length of my arms, lighting every nerve on fire before he brought my ring finger to his lips, sucking my digit and swirling his tongue around it until, with slow precision, he released my ring finger from his captive lips, and a raw pink stone twinkled in the morning light.
“I love the way you grind my iron, baby.”
getBook.at/RidingIron
WICKED BRAT is LIVE!
#TabooSafeRead #FilthyTrickOrTreat #AgeGap #ForbiddenHolidaywww.amazon.com/dp/B07ZCCK4MF
Excerpt:
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
“I’m a wicked witch.” She curtsied, flipping the tiny black lace skirt she wore too damn high up her thigh for my liking. “It’s Halloween. Ease off, old man.”
She winked once, crossing her arms, enhancing her large, round breasts ready for a battle.
As her stepuncle, I couldn’t help feeling protective. As a man, I couldn’t help wanting to snatch her over my shoulder and haul her off to my cave.
My brother’s stepdaughter, Leigh, had been getting deep under my skin since the moment we’d met at the wedding. She was stubborn to the core, outspoken to a fault, and was very often in need of a punishment with the way she made my body react to her.
“You’re a wicked brat in need of a spanking if you ask me.”
Leigh’s icy gaze held mine. The fact that she was twenty-one years my junior didn’t seem to faze her a bit. “What’s that, Asher?”
She made my cock hard and my balls burn like she’d taken a baseball bat to them. I’d only come to town for this damn overblown Halloween party my brother liked to throw every year. He’d been beating me over the head with this tradition since we were kids, I was better off skipping Christmas dinner than the annual Hunt Halloween Bash.
That didn’t mean I hadn’t thought my way around how best to avoid her while I was here though.
Leigh Everett.
All grown-up and standing in front of me now in the shortest excuse for a costume I’d ever seen.
“You heard me, Wicked Brat.” I edged a little closer, invading her space.
She pushed her pert little lips out as if I’d annoyed her, but then it turned from pout to a cocked grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Asher.”
She licked her lips, gaze trailing across my face.
I must have looked weather-worn and aged like old leather compared to what she saw in the mirror every day. Her skin was creamy soft, a ripe sight for my eyes and begging for just a small touch.
“Salt and pepper looks good on you.” She grazed the pad of her thumb across my temple.
Fuck. Cool it, I said inside my head, doing my best to keep control when she was this fucking close.
“Don’t test me, kid,” I growled with warning. She didn’t know what kind of fire she was playing with.
“Or what?” Her smile was teasing, and her caramel honey scent was invading my senses and battering my insides with the need to have her again.
“The last time you were this close, my hands were on you.” The memory I’d been trying to choke out surfaced finally. The need to trail my tongue along her hammering heart felt like a damn vise grip to my balls.
“I was only eighteen. My memory could be faulty, but I seem to remember more than just your hands on my skin.” Her words were soft and breathy, meant to destroy me.
😈
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in KU: -> https://amzn.to/2J43HSL
#TrickOrTreat #DaddysHere #FilthySafeHalloween
Park Avenue Punk is LIVE!
Available free to read in Kindle Unlimited.Park Avenue Punk is for all of you that love a good bully romance but can’t stand a cheater. Angst without any OW or OM drama.
#SafeBullyRomance #SecondChanceRomance #FilthyTalker #FilthySweet #DirtyTalk #Instalove #BadBoy #GoodGirl #TorturedHero #FreeWithKU
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Buy The Book Here ➡️ hyperurl.co/knrfjy
She tasted like my bitter past and my hopeful future. I couldn’t get enough of her lips or the way she felt wrapped in my arms. All those years hurled back at me, the memory of her actually a reality. Something I never thought that I would feel again. She pushed me back, holding me at arm’s length. Her eyes gazed back at me. Those eyes that had haunted my dreams for the past five years.
“I can’t keep playing this game with you,” she said.
“Who’s playing games?”
“Come on, Jameson. Everything with you is a game. I am just another way for you to give the elite the finger.”
“I want to give you the finger. Maybe two or three. How I remember it, you really liked feeling full. Airtight, as they say,” I spat. The anger raged out of me. I wanted to hurt her because I wanted her so fucking bad that I couldn’t think straight. Shock sprang into her eyes, and then she cast them down. Her hands dropped to her sides and balled into fists. I knew I’d hit a nerve. I knew I’d hurt her, and I felt like a fucking prick. I never wanted to hurt her. When I was with Deven, it was the only time the pain died and left me alone. She silenced all the anger and lulled the voices in my head. When I was with Deven, I was Jameson, just a guy with the girl he loved. Not an angry, bitter dick with a chip on his shoulder. But we had a history—a fucked-up, tangled history filled with pain and humiliation, and no matter how much I wanted that not to matter, somehow it always did. The past was a tornado, and no matter how hard or fast I ran from it, it managed to catch up and swallow me whole. But I was tired of running, I was tired of hurting, and just for one second, I wanted to forget it all.
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