Some men think with their cocks.
You know the type. Quick smooth-talkers, shifty eyes always scanning for a nice pair of legs, a set of full tits, or a tight arse they can pant after.
Other blokes think too much with their brains. You know that type too. Annoyingly careful, slow-moving, constantly parsing their words like they already know whatever they’re saying is going to come back and take a bite out of them.
I’m not either of those.
I always go with my gut. When it clenches with a warning, I act—no hesitation. When it tugs and nudges, I pause and reevaluate. When it twists and writhes, I know, guaranteed, I’ve cocked up big-time.
My gut is my best friend, my conscience, my most lethal asset.
And it has never let me down.
It’s my gut that drags me to her door. That roots me in place as I knock. That gives me the words—pleading, unfamiliar remorseful words—I’ll gladly say to make this right.
To get her back.
Because while my gut is brilliant, sometimes I can be a real fucking idiot.
Yesterday was one of those times.
“Ellie. It’s me—open up, we need to talk.”
I sense movement on the other side of the solid oak door—not in sounds or shifting shadows beneath it, but more of an awareness. I can feel her in there. Nearby and listening.
“Go away, Logan.”
Her voice is tight, higher-pitched than usual. Upset.
“Ellie, please. I was a twat, I know . . .” I’m not keen on begging from the hallway, but if that’s what it takes . . . “I’m sorry. Let me in.”
Ellie is difficult to anger, quick to forgive; she just doesn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. So her next words fall like an axe—cutting my legs right off from under me.
“No, you were right. The princess’s sister and the East Amboy bodyguard don’t make sense—we’ll never last.”
Did I actually say that to her? What the fuck is wrong with me? What I feel for her is the one thing in my life that makes sense. That matters.
But I never told her that.
Instead . . . instead, I said all the wrong things.
I brace my palm against the smooth wood, leaning forward, wanting to be as near to her as possible. “Elle . . .”
“I’ve changed my mind, Logan.”
If a corpse could speak, it would sound exactly like my Ellie does now. Flat, lifeless.
“I want the fairy tale. I want what Olivia has . . . castles and carriages . . . and you’ll never be able to give me that. I would just be settling for you. You’ll never be able to make me happy.”
She doesn’t mean that. They’re my words—the insecurities I put on her—that she’s hurling back in my face.
But God, it fucking hurts to hear. Physically hurts—stabbing deep into the pit of my stomach, crushing my chest, grinding my bones. I meant it when I said I would die for her . . . and right now, it feels like I am.
I grab the doorknob to walk inside, to see her face. To see that she doesn’t mean it.
“Don’t come in!” she screeches like I’ve never heard her before. “I don’t want to see you! Go away, Logan. We’re done—just go!”
I breathe hard—that’s what you do when pain wrecks you, breathe through it. Then I swallow bile, straighten up, turn around and walk down the hall. Away from her. Just like she wants, like she asked. Like she screamed.
My brain tells me to move faster—get the hell out of there, cut my losses and lick my wounds. And my heart—Christ—that poor bastard’s too battered and bloody to say anything at all.
But then, just over halfway down the hall, my steps slow until I stop completely.
Because my gut . . . it strains through the hurt. Rebels. It shouts that this isn’t right. This isn’t her. Something’s off.
And even more than that . . . something is very, very wrong.
I glance up and down the quiet hall—not a guard or a maid in sight. I look back at the door. Closed and silent and still.
Then I turn and march straight back to it. I don’t knock, or wait, or ask for permission. In one move, I turn the knob and step inside.
What I see there stops me cold.
Because whatever I was expecting, it sure as fuck wasn’t this.
Not at all . . .
Emma Chase is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the hot and hilarious Tangled series and The Legal Briefs series. Emma lives in New Jersey with her husband, two children and two naughty (but really cute) dogs. She has a long-standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.
From New York Times Bestseller Kendall Ryan comes a sexy new stand-alone novel in her Roommates series.
The smoking-hot one-night stand I was never supposed to see again?
Yeah, well, I might be pregnant, and he’s my OB-GYN.
Get ready to fall head over heels madly in love with the hottest OBGYN doctor you have ever met! This full-length standalone contains the most hilariously awkward lady-doctor visit, lots of playful banter and some good ol’ fashioned baby-makin’!
A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of more than two dozen titles, Kendall Ryan has sold over 2 million books and her books have been translated into several languages in countries around the world. Her books have also appeared on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists more than three dozen times. Ryan has been featured in such publications as USA Today, Newsweek, and InTouch Magazine. She lives in Texas with her husband and two sons.
Jorinda Pearce thought she did everything right – graduated from college, married her long-time sweetheart, established a career. But what does she have to show for it now? A degree she doesn’t use, a job she hates, and an ex-husband that broke her heart.
Looking for a long overdue adventure, Jorie takes a walk on the wild side and attends a masquerade event at The Wicked Horse Vegas. It’s exactly the escape she’s looking for, and even better, she can explore anonymously. Drawn to the man masked in black leather with the body of a god, Jorie finds the greatest pleasures of her life at the hands of a stranger.
Walsh Brooks is the most sought after man in The Wicked Horse. Sex is nothing but a game to him and he’s the type that will always leave at the end of the night without looking back. Unfortunately for Walsh, there’s no way he can walk away from the mysterious green-eyed beauty behind the mask of sapphire feathers, because he knows exactly who she is.
Jorie is his best friend’s little sister and there’s not another woman in the world that’s more off limits.
“Want another drink?” I ask Micah as he lounges on my couch and takes the final swallow of his scotch. He flew in about an hour ago, and we’re waiting for Jorie to arrive to go out to dinner tonight. My nerves are on edge. I definitely want another drink.
“Nah, man,” Micah says as he pushes up from the couch and moves to take his glass back into the kitchen that opens straight from the living room. “Tonight’s not about getting drunk. It’s about hanging out with my two favorite people in the world.”
I smile at him and nod, my stomach clenched.
“But just so you know,” he says with a laugh. “Jorie’s my first favorite, you’re my second.”
“As it should be,” I reply, and hope that sounds casual enough.
Micah rinses his glass out and sets it on the counter. As he walks back into the living room, he says, “And besides… I figure tomorrow night, you and I are going to hit the town, right?”
“You know it,” I say as I push up from the chair, head straight to the wet bar, and replenish my vodka. There is not enough alcohol in the world to get me through this weekend. I take a healthy slug as soon as I cap the bottle.
“Dying to go to The Wicked Horse,” Micah says with excitement in his voice. “Want to meet Jerico, too. He and I have been emailing about testing out some more of my designs in his club. Plus, you and me, dude… we haven’t had a woman together in a long time. Your stories about the stocks… we’ve got to hit that, man.”
My shoulders tighten and my gut rolls with nausea. How in the fuck I am going to weasel out of this is beyond me, but I’ve got to figure something out. I don’t want another fucking woman other than Jorie.
“Walsh?” Micah says in question, and I turn to look at him. “We good with going there tomorrow night?”
“Damn straight we are,” I say with a smile. “A night of debauchery for the both of us.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Just then, the elevator doors give a slight hiss as they open, and Jorie is standing there. She looks fucking amazing, wearing a dress done in large black-and-white zebra stripes that’s loosely belted around her waist and comes down to her knees. She’s got on a pair of sexy-as-shit taupe heels to go with it and my mouth waters as I take in what they do to her legs. Hair in that sleek, angled bob that hangs halfway in between her jaw and shoulders, and that thick crop of bangs straight across her eyebrows make her green eyes brighter than ever.
I swallow hard and try to appear casual.
Her eyes go immediately to Micah, and she gives a squeal of excitement. He rushes to her, picks her up, and swings her around. The skirt of her dresses rises a bit in the back, and I look away guiltily.
“God, I missed you, squirt,” Micah says with a choked voice. My guilt intensifies over the naked display of love and affection he has for his sister.
Jorie’s voice quavers with equal love. “I missed you, too.”
She hugs him hard and looks over his shoulder at me. Her eyes are wary and nervous.
When Micah releases her, I step up and casually say, “Got a hug for me?”
It’s a shameless move to touch her, but not something that would raise Micah’s eyebrows. I’ve hugged Jorie a million times over our lives together growing up.
“It’s good to see you again,” she says to me as she walks into a very brotherly hug. I make the mistake of inhaling her scent, and I’m hit with a jolt of lust for her.
After we quickly release each other, she steps back and surveys my apartment as if it’s her first time. She told Micah we met for breakfast one day, but he sure as shit doesn’t know I’ve fucked her on almost every piece of furniture in this apartment. He’ll never know she went to her knees right where we’re standing in front of the elevator and swallowed every drop of cum I gave her.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I have an overwhelming urge to fake a stomachache, a migraine, a goddamn stroke for all I care at this moment, and beg off from this entire weekend.
Instead, I put a smile on my face and tell them, “Come on. We’ve got prime seats in Moulineaux tonight. I’ve not eaten there yet, but heard it’s amazing.”
Jorie smiles back at me before turning to hook her arm through Micah’s. She leans over and puts her head on his arm as she’s too short to reach his shoulder. They both stroll into the elevator.
This night can’t get over with fast enough for me.
Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel, Off Sides, in January 2013, Sawyer Bennett has released more than 30 books and has been featured on both the USA Today and New York Times bestseller lists on multiple occasions.
A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone.
Sawyer likes her Bloody Marys strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active toddler, as well as full-time servant to two adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great work-out, cake, or a combination of the two.
Most of my youth came with spiral notebooks filled with doodles, wedding plans,
and “Janelle York” looped in bubbly handwriting.
However, one night in Vegas changed everything.
I woke up to more than just a fantasy of my brother’s best friend.
Five years later, I’m standing on his doorstep confronting him about the secret
he kept from me.
If you think this is the story of how we rode off into the sunset together…
You’re so wrong.
But if you think this is the story of how Holden blackmailed me into living
You couldn’t be more right.
She often calls writing her therapy, using it as a way to deal with issues through the eyes of her characters.
She is now a mother of three girls, leaving her husband as the only man in a house full of females.
The decision to publish her first book was made as a way of showing her children to go after whatever it is they want to. Love what you do and do it well. Most importantly Leddy wanted to teach them what it means to overcome their fears.
by Christina Elle
Under Covers #2
Publication Date: July 31, 2017
Genres: Adult, Entangled: Select, Suspense, Contemporary, Romance
With a deadly target on his back, DEA agent Luke Calder’s plan is to drink away his impending demise. Except instead of getting blessedly drunk, in walks a woman with a much deeper story than she’s leading on. And he definitely wants to know more. Especially when he learns she might have intel he needs. He’s not cool with lying to her, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And what starts out as simple surveillance turns into so much more.
Cassandra Stone is having a bad night. Her boyfriend’s been cheating because she’s not “adventurous enough” in bed. So, she does the next logical thing—she goes in search of a dark, dangerous one-night stand. Instead, she finds smoldering eyes, deep dimples, and the killer smile of a guy who won’t leave her alone. Damn him. He says and does all the right things, making Cass believe that good men still exist. Until she learns why he took an interest in her in the first place.
Luke strode around to Cass’s side of the table. “All right, ladies, I think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“No!” all female voices said at once.
“We’re ssssstill playing.” Cass looked up with pleading green eyes that made him want to carry her straight downstairs and not go to sleep. If she was up for it and wasn’t forty sheets to the wind, he might consider doing just that.
“I’m winning,” she said, holding up her hand. “See? I’ve got thhhhhhree aces and two nines.” She squinted and pulled the cards closer to her face. “Or is that four nines? Yes! Four! I see four of them!”
The rest of the women slapped their cards down on the table and chose to pour another round into their empty glasses.
“Does that mean the game’s over?” Cass looked around the table with an innocent expression that made him chuckle.
“Yes,” Estelle said, searching her small purse. “You cleaned us out. I ain’t got another nickel to my name.”
“Like that’s different from any other poker night,” Rose said, lifting her whiskey to her mouth and taking a sip.
“Come on,” Luke said with a hand out to Cassandra. “Bedtime.”
“Again?” Cass pouted. “Why do you always tell me what to do? I’m purrrrrrfectly capa-bobble. Cape-ab-able.” She cleared her throat. “Cap-a-ble to get myself to bed on my own.”
He signaled toward the door to the basement. “By all means.” This should be good.
Her lips bunched and she crossed her arms. “No.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “You h-heard me.” Hiccup. “I’m not ready for bed.” A snicker sounded from the other end of the table.
Daring a glance, he caught Ash’s shit-eating grin. “Oh, you’re de nitely ready,” Luke said, reaching for her elbow.
She jerked away, tilting her head to the side and lifting her eyebrows in challenge.
Lips of those seated around the dining room table danced.
“Cass,” he said. “You’re drunk. You’ve taken all their money. It’s time to go to bed.”
“Fine,” she said.
“Good.” He reached again. “Let’s—”
“You go,” she said, leaning away from him. “I’m f-fine with my ffffriends.”
He inhaled two deep breaths. When that didn’t calm him down and she didn’t show any sign of getting up, he said, “I’m going to count to five and if you’re not up, so help me…”
She hesitated, not out of panic, but in defiance. Then she reached for her shot glass that had been refilled.
“Don’t you dare,” he said in a voice he hoped was like steel.
A devious grin curled on her lips. “Or what?”
“Or…” Christ, he didn’t know. He’d spank her? Yeah, that would go over really well for the both of them. Her heated stares and the hard-on he was trying like hell to cover up would love a good round of spanking. But hell, why not?
He bent close to her ear, lowering his voice so their audience couldn’t hear. “Or else I’m going to take you downstairs, throw you over my knee, and spank you.”
She turned slowly, wearing that sex kitten expression again. The stop-him-dead look. “Do you promise?”
God. Damn it.
Blood rushed from every extremity and pooled right where it was biologically designed to. He quickly dropped to his knees so no one at the table would get a front-row glance at his reaction.
“Cass,” he said in a soft, low voice. “You’re killing me.”
She must have heard his plea, because her expression changed to something much less stubborn. “Good.”
He pulled back, waiting to see if she’d smile or laugh. Something to show she was joking.
She didn’t. She stared at him straight-faced without fidgeting.
“Good?” Luke whispered to Cass.
“Mmm-hmm,” was all she said.
“That’s it? You’re going to make a comment like that, all serious, and then not elaborate? Why?”
Hiccup. “Isn’t it obvious?”
See, this was why he didn’t tangle with women. They were crazy and confusing and never knew what they wanted outside of the bedroom. Hell, half the time they didn’t know what they wanted in the bedroom until he showed them.
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“You’re confusssssing me,” she said. “A lot.” She punctuated the word with a poke of her finger to his chest. “How do I know you’re nnnnot like the resssssst of them.”
The rest of who? Other men?
He waited, figuring she’d go on. Seemed like he was going to wait awhile because the
only thing she was communicating was a puzzled expression. The wheels were turning, but he didn’t think the hamster was still on the wheel. Probably fell off and passed out after the third or fourth shot of whiskey.
“Cass,” he said through a sigh.
She stood from her chair. “Forget it.” Hiccup. Then a swift nod to the others at the table. “Good night, ladies. It was fffffun.”
Christina believes that laughter really is the best medicine, which is why in her stories she blends a healthy dose of hilarious hijinks with gritty suspense.
When she’s not writing fun contemporary romance or quirky romantic suspense, Christina can be found devouring books in every genre, watching Chris Hemsworth on TV, playing board games with her family, working out, checking out Chris Hemsworth on Facebook, napping, stalking Chris Hemsworth on Instagram, and shopping…for Chris Hemsworth’s latest DVD.
Christina lives near Baltimore with her husband and two sons, who give her an endless supply of humorous material to write about.
She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Maryland Romance Writers.
She lives in Colorado working for a small IT company, managing her household
filled with three confused dogs, her geek husband, two daughters wrought with
fandoms and a son who thinks he’s the boss of the house. To survive she works
continually to find purpose for the voices flitting through her head, plus she
consumes high quantities of chocolate to keep the last threads of sanity