Educating Sophia by Alexis James blitz

Educating Sophia
Alexis James
(The Moran Family #5)
Publication date: August 7th 2018
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

I’m not a stalker.

I’m not. I promise.

College has given Sophia Moran the independence she craves. She has her own apartment, makes her own choices, and generally lives by her own set of rules.

She also has a very, very big secret.

Caleb Bonham is attracted to his young assistant, though he’s well-aware he shouldn’t be. He certainly doesn’t need to get involved in a forbidden affair with a student. He certainly shouldn’t get involved with her.

Sophia sees a kindred spirit in Caleb, but convincing him to give them a chance is more difficult than she realizes. Beneath his gruff exterior, is a warm, passionate man who sees only the best in her; a man she could easily love. A man, she believes, could be her forever.

This is the final book in the 5-part Moran Family series.

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—

EXCERPT:

Prologue

February

I’m not a stalker.

I’m not. I promise.

Peering around buildings, hiding behind trees, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of him as he walks to his car or to the faculty building … it’s so out of character for me, but that certainly hasn’t stopped me from watching him—daily, I might add—for the entire school year.

I drop my backpack onto the grass and plop down next to it, putting in my earbuds. Music is a good distraction from the voices in my head reminding me that I need to be studying for a midterm. Those same voices also call me a stalker and tell me how out of control I’ve become.

It was not my intention to fall headlong into Stalkersville. Truth be told, there was nothing intentional at all. It was as if some unknown entity, an act of Mother Nature perhaps, steered me in his direction—something like lightning, thunder, possibly even an earthquake that swept me off my feet.

I saw him.

And I fell.

I fell hard. Painfully, all-in, no turning back.

Grimacing at my incredible idiocy, I dig around in my backpack for my notebook and a pen, watching out of the corner of my eye just in case he should decide to leave early today. How sick am I that I know his schedule, his patterns, his movements? I should. I’ve followed him long enough to know a whole lot of things: I know he carries a worn, leather briefcase—the same dark brown as the shoes he wears more often than the black ones; I know he prefers his herringbone jacket over the solid one he wears once in a while.

I know he rarely smiles. And when he does, it looks pained … and forced.

I know he drives a fancy, expensive car in a slate gray color that matches some of the streaks running through his wavy hair. I know he prefers to nod instead of speak and that he moves swiftly, eyes straight forward as if he can part the sea of students with his only his gaze.

I know he’s beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful.

I know that his eyes are sometimes green, sometimes blue, and sometimes gray, depending on what he’s wearing—and his mood. I know I could get lost in them, if given the chance.

I know he’s untouchable.

I know he used live in California and that he moved here the beginning of the school year. I know that you can find out a lot of personal information on the internet. I know I prefer him with a bit of scruff on his regal chin, but the beard he’s been growing for a few weeks looks sexy as hell too. I know I’ve never liked men with beards. Until he came along.

The air around me crackles with awareness and right on cue, the building door is shoved open. He walks out onto the stone steps, squinting at the bright afternoon sunshine, briefcase in his right hand and his phone in the left, pressed to his ear. His harsh scowl tells its own story; he’s pissed, irritated and impatient with the person on the other end of the line.

I know he’s like that most of the time.

With one more curt word that I cannot hear, he shoves the phone into his jacket pocket and begins to move with purpose, striding right past me without any acknowledgement. Not that I expect it. He never sees me, not like I want him to. He doesn’t even know I exist. I’m simply one of many nameless faces at this school where I’m a student and he’s a teacher.

What a cliché, I muse as my eyes follow him until he disappears from sight. It’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, I have. Many, many, many times. But then he passes me in the hall, and he might nod or just lock eyes with me for a brief second or two, and when that happens I’m convinced there’s something more going on between us. Sure, maybe I’m the only one who feels it, but it’s there nonetheless.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

Author Bio:
Alexis James lives on the beautiful Central California coast. When she’s not spending time with her hubby of almost 30 years or her amazing kids, you can find her tapping away on the computer. She loves reading, spending time with family, reading, camping, reading….and writing too! She enjoys a good date night, an inexpensive glass of wine, and any story that can make her smile and/or cry.
Alexis’s first novel, “Losing Faith”, was released in September 2014. Her second novel, “Loving Emma”, is a standalone, though it does feature some characters from “Losing Faith”.
She invites you to visit her author pages on Facebook and Goodreads, and her website: alexisjamesauthor.com. You can also follow her on Twitter (@alexisjames27) or you can email her at: alexisjamesauthor@gmail.com.

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Shifting Auras by Claire Davon

Shifting Auras

The Universe Chronicles

Book One

Claire Davon

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Soul Mate Publishing

Date of Publication:  July 25, 2018

ISBN: 978-1-68291-725-1

ASIN: B07FDV6TDQ

Number of pages: 203

Word Count: 60,000

Cover Artist: Ramona Lockwood

Taglines:

When Maya gets yet another call to retrieve her drunken roommate, her mind shows her a hot, amber-eyed Universe operative.

Once before, Ian failed to protect a sensitive from a brain-scrambling attack. He will not fail Maya . . . if it means using his talent—or his body—to stop a bullet.

Book Description:

Maya Wingfield was raised to trust no one—least of all the dueling U.S. and Russian paranormal agencies, Universe and Night Stars, who’d love to harness her mind-reading gift.

She thought Richmond a safe place to escape their influence and hide from a rising psychic malevolence that drove her out of San Diego. But when she gets yet another call to retrieve her drunken roommate, her mind shows her an amber-eyed Universe operative with an impenetrable net around his deepest secret—and a voice that sends shock waves of awareness down her nerve endings.

Maya’s curves and aquamarine eyes aren’t the only things that jolt Ian Sanderson’s mental shields, bringing sexual tension thrumming back to life. It’s a power his Universe-trained mind knows he shouldn’t trust. And a vulnerability that makes his telekinetic power burn in his palms to protect her.

But to Universe, she is just one of too many unanswered questions. A target for Whisper, a shadowy new group of paranormals with powers beyond anything Universe has ever seen. Once before, Ian failed to protect a sensitive from a brain-scrambling attack. He will not fail again . . . if it means using his talent—or his body—to stop a bullet.

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Excerpt:

The metallic
squeal in the distance indicated the train was arriving. A light in the tunnel
swept across the concrete wall as it rounded a curve and the brakes continued
to shriek. People began to crowd the yellow line, jostling for position, trying
to determine where the doors would open so they could leap on and get a seat, a
premium on the Metro.

By now the train
was visible, moving at a rate that didn’t seem normal. His experience with the
Washington Metro was limited, but the tube in London would have been slowing by
now.

Awareness flowed
through the air, and there was a shift in the commuters as they began to
understand that something wasn’t right. Ian released Maya and shoved her behind
him. People scattered as the train started screaming into the station at too
high a speed.

“Bugger all,”
Ian said and reached out with his talent.

Without warning,
Maya was yanked from behind him and hurtled toward the moving train before he
could halt her.

He split his
mind, one focusing on the subway cars and one on her. People were flowing
around her, one or two pausing to try and help the woman jerking past them.
Maya careered forward, out of their grasp. Sparks lit the tracks as the wheels
lifted off the rails, the engineer no doubt applying the brakes in an effort to
make the cars stop.

Ian’s talent
blazed through him, starting in his belly and moving up his body. It pulsed and
crackled, filling him with power fueled by fury and desperation. He reached out
his hand, the palm glowing red as his ability hissed out in an arc. Maya halted
on the demarcation line that had just been vacated, her eyes wide and staring.
Her body was stiff, and her head was bent backwards in an attempt to clear it
from the path of the oncoming train.

Beads of sweat
broke out along Ian’s body as he found the train’s brakes on the wheels,
applying pressure via his telekinesis. The conductor was already applying
everything to the pedals, but they were going all the way to the floor.
Instead, Ian focused everything on those pads, stomping down as if he were
physically there. The train lurched and made a shrieking sound as it slowed. It
slid by Maya, her hair blowing back from the rush of displaced air.

For a panicked
moment, Ian saw Maya falling onto the tracks in his mind’s eye. Inside, the
people standing were thrown forward and then back as the brakes caught. The
train shuddered and ground to a halt.

Ian stumbled
when he released his grasp on the train. Maya ran to him as he slumped, his
shaking hands still glowing with red light. Energy drained from him but all
that mattered was Maya, safe.

The train doors
opened, and frightened passengers disembarked rapidly. The tourists had wide
eyes and open mouths while the regulars seemed more sanguine. They were used to
the vagaries of the subway and to them it was nothing more than a bad stop. A
very bad stop, to be sure, but just a random day on the Washington Metro.

“Ian?” Maya
asked, and he tasted the acrid, metallic scent of fear. It had been a long time
since anyone had mattered.

“What did you
sense? Anything?”

“I . . . it was
so brief. Someone surfaced and before I could react to his mind—it felt like a
he— I was being shoved forward. I reached out and tried to stop him, but I
didn’t know how. It had to be a telekinetic, right?” By her expression he
didn’t think she expected an answer. “It was only a flash, and then it was
gone. Why, Ian? What did he want?”

The oath on
Ian’s lips was savage. “I don’t know who it was, but they won’t get away with
this. Blast. Yin was right. You’re in danger.”

About the Author:

Claire can’t remember a time when writing wasn’t part of her life. Growing up, she used to write stories with her friends. As a teenager she started reading fantasy and science fiction, but her diet quickly changed to romance and happily-ever-after’s.

A native of Massachusetts and cold weather, she left all that behind to move to the sun and fun of California, but has always lived no more than twenty miles from the ocean.

In college she studied acting with a minor in creative writing. In hindsight she should have flipped course studies. Before she was published, she sold books on eBay and discovered some of her favorite authors by sampling the goods, which was the perfect solution. Claire has many book-irons in the fire, most notably her urban fantasy series, The Elementals’ Challenge series, but writes contemporary and shifter romances as well as.

While she’s not a movie mogul or actor, she does work in the film industry with her office firmly situated in the 90210 district of Hollywood. Prone to breaking into song, she is quick on her feet and just as quick with snappy dialogue. In addition to writing she enjoys animal rescue, reading, and movies. She loves to hear from fans, so feel free to drop her a line.

Newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/ClaireDavon-Newsletter

Website: www.clairedavon.com

Blog: http://clairedavon.com/blog/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ClaireDavon

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ClaireDavonindieauthor/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7915840.Claire_Davon

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B00IMP2KSU

Interview with Claire Davon

Do your characters seem to hijack the story or do you feel like you have the reins of the story?

Often my characters surprise me and take the story in a direction I did not expect. But I’m a pantser and often only know the characters, the rough plot, and how the story should end. That allows me, and my characters, to go to those unexpected places without damaging the structure of what I had intended. Sometimes, though, if I have written a scene out of sequence and have to back into it, the characters can go on right turns to what was intended and then I have to rethink the ideas.

Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.

Who doesn’t love a British guy? From Colin Firth to Prince Harry, the Brits are wonderful. Add in superpowers like psychic powers and telekinesis, as well as shadowy government agencies with unknown agendas, and the recipe for a good mystery unfolds. Then there’s two people falling in love while they try to solve the mysteries surrounding them. And, of course, some good sex in the mix!

Have you written any other books that are not published?

Oh yes! So many! I was writing quite a bit twelve or so years ago but after a few failed attempts to get published I just…stopped. The books sat there for a few years before I kicked my heinie into gear and went back to the computer.  I just did a rough count and there are about sixteen stories that are waiting for their next draft. Some, like the next Elementals books and Universe Chronicles books, are on the list to move forward, others have taken a back seat while I focus on these series. If only I had a clone…

Pen or type writer or computer?

If you could see my penmanship that wouldn’t even be a question! I used to write in longhand and have some of my old notebooks to prove it but I am a total advocate of the computer. Not only can I read what I write but I can save old snippets and edit without pain. If I am somewhere without a computer I will take notes on scraps of paper but I also use the “color note” app on my phone to store story ideas. The invention of word processing, for me, was the best day ever!

Anything you would like to say to your readers and fans?

Thank you for your support! I love when people tell me they can’t wait for more. I love hearing from people in general, so please feel free to reach out, if only just to say hi!

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Dark Ride by Angela Smith

Romantic Suspense

Date Published: 8/7/18

Adrienne Fuller is used to working late hours and long nights. As a nurse, her job is to save people, but when she witnesses a wreck on the road in front of her home and sees the men involved leave a dead body in a crumpled car, saving anyone is the last thing on her mind. This was no accident, and she’s already learned a hard lesson about the criminal justice system. She vows to tell no one what she saw, even the cops who come knocking on her door the next day.

Henry “Zan” Duncan is deep undercover investigating a human trafficking ring, and in his line of work he has to pretend to be the bad guy. During a horrendous car chase, it’s either kill or be killed. When he spots a woman with fiery red hair hiding in the bushes, he goes back the next day to save her life, unaware he just raised the stakes on his mission, blew his cover, and failed in his effort to never fall in love.

Dodging bullets, fights, and explosions, Adrienne must learn to trust the man who claims he wants to protect her, and Zan must open his heart to the woman he is starting to love.

Excerpt

She pulled on shorts and a t-shirt. A racket made her flinch—the wind against the window—but when she shifted the curtain to peer outside, not even the tree branches moved.

Her blood pounded. She was just being paranoid. Her mental fatigue weighed heavy on her and her thought patterns were going way too negative. Tonka hadn’t budged. If Tonka hadn’t heard anything—

The bathroom door crashed open. Tonka bolted.

Adrenaline, thick and heavy, infused her. The man from last night loomed in the doorway. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t allow room for weakness. She dove for the shotgun, stumbled over the dirty clothes pile, and managed to catch herself on the corner of the counter so that she didn’t fall or, worse, hit her head.

He held up his hands as if to ward off blows. Good idea. Find something to throw at him. She reached for her hair straightener. Strong, heavy metal. Maybe it would do some damage. If only it had been plugged in and burning hot.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice, a refined edge of rasp, incited horror. Scared was an understatement.

This man had killed someone last night, and now he was here to kill her. Her throat clogged with a silent scream. Black shadows hazed her mind, an orbit of acceptance and denial, accession and refusal, fight and surrender.

She’d fight.

She yanked the straightener from the shelf and aimed it at his face. He shifted to avoid the blow. It thwacked on the wall and slid to the floor. She grabbed a makeup jar to throw at him. Again, he sidestepped her blow. Why had she kept the shotgun too far from reach?

“Please, woman. I’m not going to kill you. Obviously I should have planned this better.”

He’s dead. His voice, so gut-wrenching, ripped out her confidence. Her body trembled. She hurled a lotion bottle at his head. It smacked the wall and fell, spewing its contents all over the floor. Sweat pooled on her forehead, her wet hair channeling water droplets down her shirt.

She clenched the counter behind her as she leaned to reach the gun.

“I’m a cop. Please, I’m not going to hurt you. But I think I was followed, and whoever followed me probably does intend on hurting you. Please don’t attract any more attention.”

The bathroom was too big. Why did it have to be so big? The gun so far away? She hurled a shampoo bottle and was pleased when it hit his chest. Still, he didn’t move. She lunged for the shotgun and managed to aim it at him without dropping it, even if it wasn’t cocked.

He kept his arms up. “Put the weapon away. I’m not going to hurt you, but someone is coming who will.”

Her pulse beat at her temples. Her legs weakened, but she held on, refusing to allow herself to crumble.

“Don’t you hear that?” he asked when the front door slammed and footsteps pounded against the floor, stopping and starting in heavy exploratory drifts. Whoever was in her home was looking for something. Probably her.

But this man was not a cop. And if he was, she definitely couldn’t trust him. Not after what she’d seen last night.

“I’m sure it’s my boyfriend,” she lied. Her voice was a high-pitched whine, and she swallowed. Nervousness was not the way to win this battle.

“You don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Yes. I do. He’s big, and strong. He likes guns. And he has a dog even bigger.”

The man blinked, his sneer not one of amusement. “No, you don’t. Come on, I don’t want to hurt you. Or scare you. But I don’t plan on dying today so as long as you don’t, you need to come with me.”

It sounded like a bulldozer was destroying her home. But she couldn’t go with this killer. She’d seen him. He wasn’t the one who’d been driving, who’d hurled Bill Dane into that tree, but he had been there, in the car following afterward, like a horror movie becoming real.

She remembered that frame, that hair. That walk. Although she hadn’t seen his dark brown eyes, now they were familiar, as if they’d flamed bright out of a blackened night and branded her with only a look.

His jaw clenched. “My God, woman. You’ll kill us both.”

About the Author

Angela Smith is a Texas native and was dubbed most likely to write a novel during her senior year in high school since she always had her nose stuck in a book. Although high school was decades ago, the dream began when her mom read ‘Brer Rabbit’ to her and her sister so often they could recite it back to each other before ever learning to read. Research is one of her favorite parts of piecing together a story, and she loves creating new characters. Angela started with writing romantic suspense and is branching into other genres, but she hasn’t been able to write one yet where falling in love doesn’t come into play. She works as a certified paralegal and office manager at her local District Attorney’s office and spends her free time with her husband and the animals on her small farm. Although life in general keeps her very busy, her passion for writing and getting the stories out of her head tends to make her restless if she isn’t following what some people call her destiny.

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See You Soon, Afton by Brent Jones

See You Soon, Afton
Brent Jones
(The Afton Morrison Series #2)
Publication date: August 7th 2018
Genres: Adult, Thriller

Somebody is watching. Somebody isalways watching.
A teenage girl in Wakefield has been abducted, and tracking her down not only tests Afton’s moral limits, but threatens her freedom and her life.
Suspected of murder by local police, and under the watch of a menacing figure in the shadows, Afton’s search and rescue effort unravels dark secrets from her own past. Familial secrets her mother took to the grave, more than a decade ago.
See You Soon, Afton is the second of four parts in a new serial thriller by author Brent Jones. Packed with grit and action,The Afton Morrison Series delves into a world of moral ambiguity, delivering audiences an unlikely heroine in the form of a disturbed vigilante murderess.

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EXCERPT:

Sleep was elusive, if not impossible, in an apartment upended and torn to shreds. My refuge no longer, but a foreign wasteland of fucking chaos. Rest had to wait, in favor of order and cleanliness. Sweeping up what remained of broken dishes. Returning books to shelves. Disposing of sopping electronics, ruined in the tub. Straightening furniture tossed askew. Returning area rugs, bedding, and garments, to their rightful homes. Dusting, mopping, scrubbing, until my hands were sore, my back ached, and my fingers turned red and raw. Whispering countless cries of apology to Twinkie, who, no doubt, had felt violated by the upset to his extended environment, beyond the four glass walls he called home.

And then, just as the night was shattered by the first traces of dawn, I crawled into bed, praying to a God I didn’t believe in for meaningful slumber. And yet I tossed and turned, my mind addled with an inescapable truth, that I was at the mercy of a man I couldn’t pick from a lineup, with a name I couldn’t verify. And that, having been foiled in my attempt to locate him, I’d been responsible for another night Kim would spend away from home. She was sick, I imagined. Hungry, cold, and uncomfortable. Filthy, bruised, and terrified that each moment might be her last. And that was the least of her tribulations, knowing the proclivities of her captor. All-out brutalization was probable by this point, leaving her bleeding and violated. Dead, even.

I took a certain undeniable pleasure in death and gore, but not when it came to Kim. She didn’t deserve it. I craved violence, so long as I could detach myself from the recipient. When it happened to them, or they, or someone else. People who, when alive, had caused others to suffer, or whom, at the very least, I hadn’t come to hold in a high regard. I considered that internal conflict with disdain, that degree of hypocrisy, while staring up at the ceiling.

The key to my survival, I had always known, was to choose targets with care, and to take every available precaution to avoid detection. To be meticulous. If I were to approach a murder without cold calculation, I’d be as vulnerable as those we see on the evening news, prone to the errors associated with erratic human behavior, most often motivated by passion or opportunity.

The problem with crimes of passion and opportunity is that they’re predictable and boring. Yes, boring. A trait that, until his menacing phone call, I’d never associated with myself. And behaving in a fashion both predictable and boring results in mistakes being made. Perhaps that’s just what Ray wanted. Not to harm me in a direct sense, but much like Animus, to bait me into recklessness. To overwhelm my better judgment with temptation and impulsiveness.

Close to ninety years ago, there’d been a convict by the name of Kürten, who was about to be beheaded by guillotine. Legend has it, right before meeting his demise, he’d asked an important question. He wondered if, even for a second, he might be able to hear the sound of blood spurting from his own neck once his head was removed. He claimed that it would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.

It was a sentiment I could appreciate at that moment. Self-preservation was a powerful force, but nowhere near as commanding as the thirst for blood and violence. Two impulses, forever in competition, at least for those of us with the desire to kill. And, feeling helpless in my futile pursuit of both Kim and Ray, that competition had me hurtling downward toward despair and madness. I was sweating through the sheets, twitching for no obvious reason, tweaking like a junkie desperate for her next fix. I was alternating between fevers and chills, scratching at my scalp until it burned, ripping the sheets off the bed, wishing that it had been me who’d twisted those shards of glass into Kenneth’s throat.

I was, after all, a self-proclaimed vigilante murderess, even if without deeds to match her intent. I suppose, if I were to be sentenced to death one day for the heinous slaughter of Kenneth Pritchard, I’d be wishing for the very same thing as Kürten in my last moments. The pleasure of being able to see it all come to an end.

It was with that image—me, with my head secured in a guillotine, taking my last breath—that my mind faded to restless sleep …

Author Bio:
From bad checks to bathroom graffiti, Brent Jones has always been drawn to writing. He won a national creative writing competition at the age of fourteen, although he can’t recall what the story was about. Seventeen years later, he gave up his career to pursue creative writing full-time.
Jones writes from his home in Fort Erie, Canada. He’s happily married, a bearded cyclist, a mediocre guitarist, and the proud owner of two dogs with a God complex.

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Unseen Heart: Part 1 by Elena M. Reyes

Title: Unseen Heart: Part One

Author: Elena M. Reyes

Genre: Contemporary/Erotic Romance

Release Date: August 6, 2018

Love sucks.

It’s an emotion that can cripple you—make you weak—something that pisses me the hell off each time I see the object of my desires.

It was never my intention to fall in love, but I did, and most of all with her.

She takes over my every waking moment and dominates my free will.

A woman whose world revolves around a man that will never see her as more than his best friend.

We are reliving the same story, yet this time, with a different protagonist.

You meet and fall into lust.

Play that dangerous game of cat and mouse that makes the spoils of victory worth it. You chase and she, the coquettish viper, enthralls you with her every smile. With the sway of her enticing hips while she stupidly follows the impossible: he will never be hers.

I hate her.

I love her.

F*ck you, Ashley.

“Your name.” Ashley wasn’t asking, her big doe eyes glued to the bulge inside my pants.

“Tex.” Her head snapped up then; recognition flashed in her eyes, and I became nervous.

“Do we know each other, sweetheart?” I asked, my brows furrowed in concentration, trying to decipher if I had met her before.

Had I fucked and ducked on this beauty? Cause I’d kick my own ass for that brand of stupidity. That was one face a man could never forget.

Her cheeks bloomed the softest shade of pink then for some unexplained reason. “No, but I know of you.”

“How so?” The soft scent of vanilla hit my nostrils then, and they flared. I inhaled deep and took her into my lungs, holding her essence there. Sweet. Delicious. Pulse throbbing.

“It’s my job to know everything about Deep.”

“Are you with the press?” Because she sure as all fuck didn’t look like a music exec. Maybe she works here as a secretary? It’d sure make the late-night sessions interesting while we recorded our first album.

I’d all but demand they add her into the contract. That she’d work when we were scheduled in.

The high of being discovered was new. The ink hadn’t dried on the dotted line yet, and barely anyone outside of Los Angeles knew our name. But I’d make her my first groupie, invite her to travel with us while I sampled every inch of her soft flesh.

The boys wouldn’t mind. They’d just be pissed I got to her first. That this beauty was mine...

Mine? The fuck. I didn’t do possessive. Or relationships.

They’d never work in this career.

Not when you travel and live out of a suitcase most of the year. Not when every night pussy is served on a silver platter and in variation. It wouldn’t be fair to put someone through that.

I’d never cheat on a woman. But I wasn’t ready to settle down with one flavor for the rest of my life either.

“...I’m fine, Tex. Just waiting on a friend to come back.” She tossed her hair back and away from her face. “He asked me to wait here for him.”

Him? Who the fuck was him?

The next thing I recognized was the sting of my fingernails embedding themselves into the palm of my hand. How labored my breathing was. How irate I suddenly felt.

What the fuck?

“You okay there, stud?” Ashley looked up at me from beneath her long lashes. Coy. And yet, her blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

As if she was privy to something I wasn’t.

For some reason, that move felt as though the tables had been flipped on their proverbial tops.

“Fine,” I answered through gritted teeth. Conversation with this doll had me feeling off. As if I’d been on a rollercoaster.

Want.

Need.

Run.

“Doesn’t seem that way from over here.” She smirked, just a small little upturn to the corner of her upper lip. “You look lost. Confused as to how I know so much about the band’s bassist. The womanizer from Houston, Texas.”

“Care to share with the class, Ashley? And by the way, I’m from Brenham, sweetheart, a city near Houston.” Taking the remaining steps between us, I paused just in front of her. Tipped her chin up with the pad of my index finger. Didn’t miss the eruption of goosebumps that arose at my touch.

“Strike two, sir,” she whispered, her sweet breath fanning across my lips. Jesus, I could faintly taste her in the air.

“What was number one?” My hand came up of it’s own volition and cupped her cheek, thumb caressing the soft skin. “Answer me.”

Ashley swallowed hard. “Scaring me.”

“You’d never have to fear me.”

“Bullshit.” Moving closer, she pulled my face close to hers and kissed my chin. A harsh, uncontrollable shiver rocked my body. Jesus.

How could a touch so innocent feel sublime?

“Tell me...” I had to stop and clear my throat while my other hand clutched her hip. Held her against me. I didn’t give a solid fuck if it was too forward on my part. Let her feel me. “Who are you here with?”

“You know him well.” Small fingers reached up, and she ran them through my shoulder-length hair. Tugged on the strands, eliciting a low groan from me.

“Give me his name.” Bending my head, I kissed her forehead. “Who am I stealing you away from?”

“Hands off my best friend, Miller.” Motherfucking son of a bitch. It had to be some kind of joke.

I felt as if I’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. Of all the people. Of all the warnings he’d tossed at us all week long before his best girl was to arrive, and I hadn’t put it together.

“You’re with this asshole?”

“Not like that.”

“Back off,” they spoke in unison. Chester was overprotective of her, and I understood. He was as much a dick as I was and didn’t want her hurt.

“Understood.” Didn’t address either of whom the answer was meant for. For now, I’d behave. Wouldn’t make a move on this stunning creature.

For now, I’d let it all go and focus: on our music, career, and enjoying this new path we were set on.

For now being the operative words.

I’d let my interest go until the time was right.

Until they both trusted me. Until we were both ready for more.

And that time would come.

The good Lord above wouldn’t place this decadent morsel of sugar before me if she wasn’t meant to be mine.

Elena M. Reyes was born and raised in Miami Florida. She is the epitome of a Floridian and if she could live in her beloved flip-flops, she would.

As a small child, she was always intrigued by all forms of art—whether it was dancing to island rhythms, or painting with any medium she could get her hands on. Her first taste of writing came to her during her fifth-grade year when her class was prompted to participate in the D. A. R. E. Program and write an essay on what they’d learned.

Her passion for reading over the years has amassed her with hours of pleasure. It wasn't until she stumbled upon fanfiction that her thirst to write overtook her world. She now resides in Central Florida with her husband and son, spending all her down time letting her creativity flow and letting characters grow.

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