Monday, August 29, 2016



coming September 22nd

Hot summer rain. That was the scent that drew me. The soulful amber-green eyes that begged to be loved kept me. One look and I knew I wanted Lany Harris to be mine. Convincing him of my good intentions might prove to be harder than trying to convince my superiors that someone was out to get us.
I was obviously insane.
Cinnamon and whiskey had a delicious scent and it was S.W.A.T. commander, Lt. Salvador Delvecchio. I wanted to roll in that scent, sink into it, and never come out. I wanted to be consumed by everything that was the lethal man who had rescued me and decided I belonged to him.
I was a hot mess.

There are times in life when clarity suddenly hits a person and one realizes that life is one fucked up mess after another. As I sat on the floor of some dive bar I had forgotten the name of, cradling my aching cheek in my hand, I realized this was just another dramatic moment in a long line of dramatic moments which seemed to plague me whether I wanted them to or not.
I was cursed. There was no other way around it. Either fate really hated my ass or I had done something horrific in every past life I had ever lived—if I believed in past lives, and I didn't—but still, how in the hell did this keep happening to me?
I didn't go looking for trouble. I never did. It just kind of happened to me. A simple trip to the grocery store turned into a hostage situation and then a shootout with thugs. Buying a new pair of shoes ended in using said shoes to run for my life when I witnessed an assault, and tried to stop it. But, hey, what was I supposed to do? Let the poor girl get kidnapped?
My last episode came from stopping in at a bar I was passing when I took a different route home from work. The front door had been propped open and the music from inside had poured out onto the streets, drawing patrons inside. The voices and laughter had drawn me more than the need for alcohol, and all I had wanted to do was soak in the atmosphere for a little while, a few minutes at the very least.
But desire to sit on the fringes of other people's happy lives led to some guy taking offense when I stared at the beautiful blond on his arm too long. If only he knew. Her breasts were big and perky—which was what had me staring in the first place because they defied gravity and I couldn't understand how.
Sexually, they did nothing for me.
If the guy hadn't been such a jerk, he might have gained my interest. When he had his two friends corner me in the bathroom before smacking me around, whatever interest I might have had in the well-dressed man shot away faster than the fist to my face. All thoughts of flirting with the guy evaporated with the first punch.
Okay, I wouldn't have flirted, but it was nice to think I might have. The guy had clearly been with the blond, and I didn't poach. I didn't do straight guys either. Which made flirting a useless action. My father hated useless actions. So, flirting with straight guys was out.
Well, I tried not to anyway. There was that one time and I honestly thought he was gay. It wasn't until I was running down the street pulling my shirt back on with Brian and his best friend chasing after me that I realized he was most decidedly not gay. In fact, he seemed a tad homophobic.
I didn't stick around to find out if I was wrong.
This time, I had not tried to get friendly with the pretty straight man. I hadn't tried to get friendly with anyone. I hadn't even talked to anyone except the bartender when I ordered my beer. I was just swinging around on my stool, people watching.
I like people watching. There were so many interesting people in the world and I liked watching them. And no, I wasn't a creepy stalker dude. I didn't follow people. Usually. I just sat and watched...fantasizing.
Everyone from my mother to my therapist said I needed to go get a life instead of fantasizing I had one. I didn't get it. I had a life. It just wasn't a very exciting life. For the most part, anyway. Times like this made me wonder.
I winced when one of the men reached for me, jerking me to my feet. It wasn't so much the pain that bothered me—although that kind of sucked—but more the knowledge that my pain was just beginning. I could see it in the gleeful twinkle in the guy's eyes. He was enjoying himself.
When he pulled back his fist, I raised my arms up in front of my face trying to protect it. I knew he would probably use that opportunity to punch me in the stomach, but I still had my glasses on and those things weren't cheap, especially not as often as I went through them.
My ophthalmologist knew me by first name.
I hated the fact that I could see through the small slit between my forearms. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I didn't see the fist coming at me.
They wouldn't close.
Terror stole my scream, as did the beefy hand wrapped around my throat. I was well versed in the excitement some people seemed to have when they were about to beat the shit out of someone else. I had seen it often enough. I could see it in the man's eyes.
I was gonna die.
"Is there a problem in here?"
My world stopped.
I rolled my head toward the door, following the deep timber of the voice that had spoken to a mountain of hard, bulging muscles. My eyes widened at the absolute power before me. The hard body stretching the seams of the guy's black tank top quickened my pulse. Despite the fear coursing through my body, I felt my cock harden in response to the sheer masculine beauty before me.
And he knew it.
One lone eyebrow rose, a peculiar smirk lifting the corner of the rugged man's face.
There were a great many things I was good at. Picking out the perfect china pattern to match a newly designed gourmet kitchen. Organizing a squad room full of testosterone driven police officers. Even duking it out over the phone with some schmuck who thought he'd get lippy with me because I was only an office assistant.
Hiding my response from this man was not one of those things.
The air hummed with tension, a hint of violence thrown in for good measure. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Terrified that the man who filled my every fantasy in one glance would join in on the beating that was sure to end my life, or hurt really bad at the very least.
"Come to me, caro."
Oh. My. God.

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