curl of his lips, to his smug, knowing looks. Jaxson was irresistible . . .and
I fell hard.
to finish a job that began nine months ago. An unauthorized assignment that
turned horribly, devastatingly wrong. My miscalculation. My fault. My heart
left shattered into incomplete pieces which will never wholly fit back together
every move, who’s been inside my head, who owns my heart.
wet and weary. Beyond weary. Tired. So bleeding tired of fighting battles no
twenty-three-year-old should ever face. But these are the cards I’ve been
of rain, I ignore the black sedan and the gravel it’s kicked up as it passes by
me. Dismiss the red glare of its taillights, faintly visible through the rain.
Pay no heed to how the sedan is backing up as quickly as it’d sped by me.
darkness, where for a split second everything is calm before all hell breaks
loose. But I’m a native Oklahoman, where tornados crop up like spring
daffodils. Where quick thinking and survival know-how are the name of the game.
wheat field bordering the road.
the waistline and hauled up off my feet.
ruined his faded white T-shirt. Before he can grab me, I dash into the
thickest, healthiest crop of stalks, which better conceals me.
night, the stars would guide me to safety. Today’s nothing except another
miserable Shelby day. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I become.
Really? After the day I’ve had? It’s barely past seven a.m. and two Shelby
goons decide I’m their next source of amusement.
to Dayton’s Boxing and Mixed Martial Arts Club. Sticking my nose in a book used
to be my thing. But I can’t concentrate; I’ve lost the simple pleasures in
life. Now I get my kicks by kicking ass. I’m a natural, or so my trainers tell
me. Comes in handy when dealing with the Shelbian riffraff. Still, the odds are
against me. Two men to my one woman.
difficult to hear anything besides the rain. Have they given up? Has my
perfectly aimed cock-kick and a broken nose discouraged them? Caused them to
move on to a less-pissed-off victim?
run right into it. On contact, the man’s chest flexes beneath my breasts. I
jerk back, but instead of glaring up at him, my eyes are drawn to the little
green horse embroidered onto his pale pink polo shirt. A jockeyless pony
situated on the upper swell of what is the tightest, brawniest, most muscular
display of pecs around, the tight pull of his shirt across his chest leaving
nothing to the imagination.
man isn’t one of Dayton’s gym jockeys . . .
knee connects with his hard, chino-clad thigh. Pain jolts through my leg and up
my spine. I grit my teeth, pissed off and slightly unnerved. I send an elbow up
toward his jaw. This move’s brought many a man to his knees, but he swats my
elbow away. I feel his control, his power. And I know I’m in trouble.
bread?” he asks, his tone deep, rich like chocolate, smooth like truffles. His
voice is amused. His words grate on my nerves.
obscuring the little pony beneath his muscular arms. I stare at the spot,
wondering why a preppy like him is after me. “What do you want?” My eyes skim
upward and I’m greeted by smug, self-assured tilt of his lips. You, his smile
seems to say. I want you.
perfectly shaped chin, accompanied by high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and as
my gaze flickers across his face, deliciously full, kissable lips. He’s fair,
like me. Except he’s sporting a fine line of five-o’clock shadow.
knocks the wind out of me. Sexual magnetism. It’s like the air’s supercharged,
undergoing some kind of chemical reaction, hot and bubbly and ready to explode.
And, as that lazy smile of his broadens,
in a hoarse tone. Far too affected by him than I care to admit. He makes a
sound deep within his throat and I swear the crotch of my shorts are instantly
been writing romance since her first publication in 2012. A multiple recipient
of Romantic Times Magazine’s prestigious TOP PICKS distinction,
Michele’s books always pack a punch, leaving readers laughing out loud, or
swooning and biting their fingernails at all the appropriate times.
she’s written contemporary sports and spicy, enemies-to-lovers romances with a
heavy dose of suspense. Her books have been sold in print, digitally, and on
lives on a mountain overlooking the Delaware River, where she can be found with
a glass of Riesling in her hand and a laptop on her lap. Find her online at: http://www.michelemannon.com