PRETTY THREATS Excerpt!

 

 

Chapter 1

 Is something a sickness if it makes me strong?

I do dark things and never regret them. Where other people’s minds apparently crack and break down from the pressure of carrying violent memories, mine’s unfazed. 

I was probably born this way. If not, the fucked up beginning of my life twisted me into what I am.
My origin story isn’t something I dwell on. Wouldn’t think about it at all, except being a sociopath has cost me something… someone.

I can still get to my stepsister. That’s never gonna be an issue for someone like me. I can track anyone down eventually. And Raine, well, her movements are predictable. Usually. 

As I stand naked in the locker room, tearing a bag of lime tortilla chips open with my teeth, my phone pings. I pour some chips into my mouth, reaching for my phone as I chew. 

There’s a message on the WildSide app, which connects people who engage in deviant sex acts. I’ve only got two contacts on Side. The one who’s messaging me, NightOn, is a guy I met once while we were competing for the same play partner for a particular type of hardcore scene. I won. Apparently, there are no hard feelings.

For me, that night was an experiment. I wanted to see if very rough sex with a beautiful woman could satisfy my dark urges. The answer is no. My demons are fixated on one particular girl.

I tap to display NightOn’s message. 

NightOn: Never have I ever wished I was in college again until now.

There’s an image attached. A screenshot of a petite platinum blonde in a black lace carnival mask and matching bra and panties. The caption reads, Seeking: experienced play partner for cnc scene. If you have to ask, this message isn’t for you. 

A location marker hovers above Foxgrove. Granthorpe University, where I’m enrolled, makes its home in Foxgrove. 

I send a one-word response back.

BadW0lf: enjoy

NightOn: looks legit. u not interested?

I don’t respond.

Another beep. He’s persistent. As though we’re friends, which we’re not. Friendship isn’t really in my wheelhouse. Or that’s what I’ve heard. There were some mandated counseling sessions in high school when, according to the school, my high-risk behavior put other people in danger. My take on things? Anyone who can’t control their car at high speeds shouldn’t fucking drag race. That kid’s crash was Darwinian. But, of course, adults didn’t see it that way.

NightOn: someone with skilz should vet her, then make use of her. Shes in your backyard right?

I drop my phone on the bench, sit down and pour some more chips into my mouth. I’m fucking starving.

Unfortunately, I’m hungry for more than food. Rolling my shoulders, I glance at the ceiling. One of the things that hovers right beneath the surface is my thirst to trap a certain girl beneath me and fuck her like she has it coming… while she fights. 

I’m so fucking angry it eats at me. My mind is an even blacker place than normal.

I flex sore muscles and have a flash of Raine lying on her bed the last time we didn’t have sex.

I could’ve taken what I wanted. I’m six-three and solid muscle. If a girl gets away from me, it’s because I let her.

After I lick the salt from my lips, I glance down at my cock. I’ve got a semi from just contemplating her in bed. I guess I better borrow the dance team girl from my housemate, so I can get my cock sucked. 

Otherwise, my hunger could cause me to do things Raine would never get over. She hates me enough right now. I’m not gonna fuel that fire.

Plus, this isn’t the time to let outside noise fuck with my focus. I’m about to go on my first deadly work assignment.

I delete NightOn’s messages and close the app. While I’m pulling on my pants, my phone dings again.

Fuck him.

Ignoring it, I grab a black t-shirt from my locker. 

Fluorescent lights hum above me and cast a sickly glow on the gray concrete floor. The lingering scent of chlorine rises from my discarded trunks. I’m a rower, so I spend more time in the gym than the pool. But with my muscles recovering from yesterday’s workout, an hour in the cool water felt good.

After packing away some more food, I pull my t-shirt over my head. Then I toss my damp trunks into my duffle and zip it.

Another ding hits me like someone’s flicking my skin with their middle finger.

Fuck you.

Finally, I blow out a breath and drop onto the bench.

This time when I open the app, there’s a closeup of the girl’s chest, young tits straining against lace. She’s filling B cups at best, but the tip of one pink nipple pokes out through the fabric, drawing my interest. Pretty little nip, anyway. 

My finger slides over to delete the picture when I notice a tiny scar on the inside of her left breast. A scar I recognize. 

I’m instantly sucked into a black hole, and the world around me disintegrates.

No fucking way.

My fingers spread the image, blowing up that mark. My heartbeat thuds slowly, and my mouth goes dry.

The white-blond hair would have to be a wig. And I’d have to be in an alternate fucking universe for the girl on the WildSide app to be Raine. I suck on my lower lip slowly.

Can’t be. She’s still a fucking virgin. I’m almost positive. While I was away training, I couldn’t watch her in person, but I still hacked into her email accounts and socials. She’s innocent. I know it.

There is no way she’s fishing for a consensual-non-consent scene. She wouldn’t even know that phrase. 

When we played around, we never went that far and I never used the popular terms for anything. That would’ve brought the outside world in. It also would’ve been a reminder that there was a world outside her bedroom. A bedroom where I definitely didn’t belong.

But the tiny scar looks exactly like the one I made with my knife after she stabbed me. 

Memories from that night cause my muscles to flex involuntarily, as though readying me to reach out and grab her. Again.

My breathing turns ragged, and my cock’s full of dark blood.

Seconds tick by while I’m lost in my fantasies. Ones where she’s pinned down. Helpless.  And I’m driving into her.

It takes a while for the haze to lift. I run a hand through my hair and find it’s dry.
Yeah, I’ve been sitting here way too long. I stretch my neck slowly.

My obsession with Raine is something I’m working to destroy. But so far, no joy. I want to do bad things to her. All night and day.

I type a message and send it.

BadW0lf: Send me contact info. I’ll vet her.

That’s a lie. I’ll never get back to him about the girl in the picture, no matter who she is. NightOn is a guy in his late twenties who thinks graduating from the A-list college he was quick to name drop makes him cool. He’ll never be fucking cool. And he smacks his tongue in a way that makes me want to smash a fist into his face until it’s as swollen as a balloon. What did he say he does? Oh, right, software engineer. I said something about coding, and he jumped in to say we have two things in common. Yeah, right.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I look again at the girl’s picture. The shape of the face is right. My hunger builds. 

If it’s Raine, she’s in big trouble. 

First things first. I need to take down the WildSide ad before some clueless dick acts on it, and I have to hunt him down and cut his fucking throat.

I stare at the image, trying to see behind the mask. 

Could this really be her? Raine, of all people, would know how dangerous it is to play with fire. To send a message out into the void and wait for what reaches out of the darkness to grab her. 

Before seeing this screenshot, I’d have said there was no way she’d ever post anything like it.

It can’t be her. 

I click off the screen.

No, it better not be.

But as I slide the phone into my pocket, the sickness in me hopes it is.

Because that would give me the perfect excuse to finish what I started.

To keep reading, CLICK: Pretty Threats Amazon Link

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KNIGHTS OF WRATH - A NEW GU SERIES BEGINS!

My stepbrother is a sociopath. And I’m his obsession.

From the moment we meet, there's <i>something</i> between us. Killian is gorgeous, athletic and smart, which makes him hard to resist. For some reason, I'm the only girl who seems to interest him. It's exciting… At first.

One black night, he shows me who he really is. I become the keeper of his darkest secrets and the one who knows what the rest of the world doesn’t. He’s jealous and possessive. He’s deadly.

When Killian enrolls at Granthorpe University, my school, he forces his way into my new life.

I witness something, and he makes me his captive.
Now I'm afraid I'll never be free again.

Coming Soon!

 

The Sale is Almost Over!

 

 FREE: Indecent Demands (Book 1)

My stepbrother hates me. I need his help. What he demands in return is unthinkable.

Somewhere in the night there’s a predator called Casanova. He’s transformed a beautiful university campus into his hunting ground. The lavender rose I find marks me as his next victim… unless I’m willing to turn to the most powerful person I know.

My stepbrother is devastatingly gorgeous. And secretly dangerous. Our poisonous past has him bent on revenge, so if I want his protection, I’ll have to submit to his dark demands. From my knees.

SALE: Wicked Demands (Book 2) 

He has everything. Now he expects to own me, too.

Declan Heyworth is a star quarterback and the heir to a famous billion-dollar fortune. That gives him more power than one man should have.

When my family does something they shouldn't, he demands I make amends. Unfortunately, the only thing I have that’s of value to him is my body.

Someone is targeting me. At first, I think I'll be safer in Declan's world. Then I realize the more time I spend with him, the more danger I'm in.

Will I survive two weeks with the arrogant superstar? Or will this end as badly as it begins?

SALE: Twisted Demands (Book 3) 

I hate him. Now I have to live with him.

Erik Sorenson, the towering GU football superstar, got his nickname, The Viking, because he’s blond, brutal, and ice cold. 

After a sordid promise is broken, we spend two years silently ignoring each other. Even in the same room, there’s no conversation. No eye contact. Nada.

A serial killer is on a rampage. One day I see too much. And the killer sees me.

I’m forced to stay with the gorgeous Viking, and everyone expects me to follow his orders. Especially him. But considering what he wants from me… there’s no way.

Even while under threat, our chemistry is white hot.
It may burn until there's nothing left but ash.

* * * * * * * 

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They are beautiful. They are powerful. They are dangerous.
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NEW RELEASE! Ruthless Heart

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Ruthless Heart: An Age Gap Mafia Romance

I'm the only one who doesn't know who he is...

He's the sort of man you fantasize about. Gorgeous, strong, successful. But the Celtic tattoo on his hand is a clue that there's more to him than meets the eye.

Liam Callahan is one of the most powerful men in Boston. A boss in the Irish Mafia. I'm too naive to suspect. At first. On a night when I’m in danger, he saves me, and our connection is instantaneous. I'm innocent, but he knows what he wants and takes it.

When I learn one of his terrible secrets, I feel betrayed. I also become a target.

With a Mafia vendetta looming, I learn I'm pregnant. Now what I need to do is crystal clear… Run. Disappear. Don't tell him a thing.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

OLIVIA

I bite down on my lower lip as I glance in the rearview mirror. The glare of headlights causes my heart to pound harder.

When I left Belton Community College after my six-to-nine pm psychology class, I spotted a man loitering near the parking lot. He was tall and thin with wiry hair and a build to match. Probably around forty, with greasy waves hanging down over his forehead and flopping into his eyes as he moved. He followed me out through the parking gate, and he’s been riding my tailpipe for miles. At least, I think it’s still him. It’s dark, and with lane switches, I’m not completely sure. But if it’s not him, all the drivers tonight are following much too close.

The low pressure alert for my tires dings, and I nearly come out of my skin. Is that a coincidence? Or did the creepy guy do something to my car? I'm afraid to pull onto the side of the highway.

With a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, I exit the expressway at a familiar exit. The cafe where I used to work is closed at this time of night, but there’s an Irish Bar called Four Leaf that’s always busy. 

The tire alarm becomes louder and more insistent. And the car pulls to the right, causing me to wince.  

I need to stop now. I’m on a tight budget and buying a new tire would ruin the month.

Leaning forward, I stare straight ahead at the dark street and drive faster than is legal. As soon as I turn left onto Carelton Avenue, I see lights that blaze like a beacon, shining up at a four-leaf clover sign.

My tire starts to make a flapping sound. I slow to a stop farther away from the door than I’d like. A dark van approaches at highway speeds. It’ll be on me in seconds. 

Get out. Run!

As I jump from the car, I take nothing but my keys. My cheap white sandals slap against the concrete, and I hear loud breathing. A quick look over my shoulder reveals the man—it is him—jogging after me. Chasing me!

“Hey, your tire’s flat. You need a hand?” His tone is casual, as if he can’t see that I’m terrified.

“No,” I say breathlessly, sprinting the final ten feet to the door.

His footfalls are fast. He’s right behind me as I wrench the door open and fling myself inside. The ankle strap of my sandal snaps, and I stumble forward into a waitress. It upsets a tray of drinks, causing a tidal wave of beer and liquor to splash over the front of me.

I gasp as I crash down to my hands and knees.

From behind me, the guy’s hand grabs my shoulder.

He’s got me! But I’m here. He can’t just drag me out, can he?

My heart feels as though it’ll pound out of my chest as his fingers tighten. I jerk my shoulder and scramble forward until I ram into a pair of legs that are clad in dark gray trousers.

From above me, there’s a voice that’s smooth and deep, with a faint Irish accent. “What’s this then?”

I look up, and I’m stunned. Oh, my God. It’s him. The man I fantasize about. 

Staring up at his gorgeous face through my lashes, I mouth the words, “Help me.”

He’s blond and broad-shouldered. For a moment, his hard expression scares me, but then a large hand reaches down to gently touch my head as he moves around me, taking a position between me and my pursuer.

My head drops, and for a moment, all I can do is pant to catch my breath. When I look up, I realize half the bar is staring at me.

I clamber to my feet, shaky. I turn just in time to see the man who chased me rush out of the bar. Two men stand near the door and glance at the blond man in the dark trousers. He inclines his head, and they head out into the night, presumably to be sure the man leaves.

When the handsome man turns, his expression is dark.

“Sorry,” I whisper, crossing my arms over my chest where my sundress is wet and practically transparent.

His dark blue eyes take me in, from my straight blond hair and thin frame to my dirty knees and broken shoe. 

“Not a thing to be sorry about. The day I regret seeing a pretty girl at my feet is the day I best take to my grave.” The grim words are spoken so low that it takes a moment for them to register. At least he thinks I’m pretty.

My gaze drops to the dirt on my knees. I’m a complete mess. “I should go.”

“Nah, you should wait a bit. Give the regulars a chance to make sure the coast is clear. Then I’ll walk you to your car myself.”

“I have a flat tire… the guy might have done it.” I shake my head as my words tumble out. I’m still rattled.

“You’re all right now,” he says, putting a hand on my lower back and stepping closer. 

The heat from his body is so welcome it’s like collapsing in front of a fireplace on the night of a blizzard. 

I’ve seen him around the neighborhood often. He’s so gorgeous, but he never looks approachable. Too handsome. Too serious. Often engaged in what seem to be important business conversations.

Once though, there was a mom dealing with an issue with her newborn’s stroller, so she didn’t realize her toddler was heading right toward the street. This man had been on the phone when he spotted the little girl. He’d dropped his phone and darted forward to catch the toddler as she fell headfirst off the curb. He’d kept her from what I’m sure would’ve been a nasty cut since the remains of a broken bottle were in the gutter. The man’s trousers were sliced open from his landing, but the little girl never touched the ground. She was startled but completely unhurt.

Anytime I saw him on the street afterward, I wished he would come into the cafe, so I’d have a chance to meet him. This, though, is not the way I’d envisioned things going. I feel like I seem like a toddler falling down a curb, when I want him to see me as a woman.

“Come and have a drink with me,” he says, his serious expression unwavering. “We’ll get everything sorted out after.”

I lick my dry lips. “I should probably call for road service now. They can take hours sometimes. Except—” I glance down at my hands. One of my palms has an angry red knot from where I landed on my keys. “I jumped out of my car without my purse or my phone.”

“What’s your name?” He asks, leaning closer. The scents of smoke and masculine soap hit me all at once. He smells so good.

“Olivia.” I lick my lips nervously. “Liv.”

“Liam.” 

The hand on my back guides me deeper into the bar. “There’s no need to call road service or anyone else, Olivia. I’ve got you.”

* * *

LIAM

Young is my first thought. Maybe too young.  I’m twenty-nine, and the girl is, well… maybe a teenager. Until I establish whether she’s legal, my hungry eyes need to stay off her pretty little tits and their pointed nipples. 

With a jerk of my head, I signal for my brother to clear out of the booth. Aiden is a semi truck rounding a corner as he emerges, the sight of his size alone clears a path. He pauses a few feet from the booth to give the girl’s back a look before giving me a longer, more pointed one. It was only an hour ago that I gave him a caution about getting too chummy with the very young sister of a dangerous man we know. And now here I am, interested in someone innocent and barely out of high school. At least I hope she is. 

The difference is, this girl doesn’t have a cold-blooded killer with a marksman’s aim as her older brother. If she did, she wouldn’t be crawling across a pub floor begging strangers for help.

My suit coat is hanging from a hook. I grab it and hold it out to her. It’s summer, but the bar’s kept cool since it’s always full of people who’ve had glasses of fire poured down their throats in the form of whisky or whatever poison they’ve chosen for the night.

Liv’s pretty brows crinkle at the jacket, and she draws back. “It looks expensive. The beer will ruin it.”

My hand bobs insistently. “Come on. My clothes have seen worse than a little Guinness. And if it can’t stand up to that, well then, I’m due for new threads.”

A smile that’s like sunrise appears. “I love your accent.” She slips her arms into the sleeves which hang past her fingers. “Are you from Ireland?”

“In a way. My parents are. I was born here but spent a lot of time over there.” I don’t add the reason I was shipped over on more than one occasion was because I got in too much trouble locally, and the family thought it best that I go and knock about with relatives a good deal tougher than my aging father had become. The uncles in Ireland were quick to knock our heads together when my brother Aiden and I stepped out of line. Of course, their idea of stepping out of line was fairly limited, which I’m not sure my mother realized.

“Where were you headed tonight?” I ask.

Long strands of white blond hair fall over her shoulder. “Home to my apartment. I have a night class at BCC.”

“Night school?”

“No,” she says with a little chuckle. “College. My other two summer classes are Tuesdays and Thursdays during the day, but I have one six-to-nine on Wednesdays. That was the only time it was offered in summer.”

“So you’re going to school year-round?”

“Yes. Trying to get as many of the prerequisites out of the way at Belton Community College before I transfer to a university. It’ll save me a lot of money in the long run.”

“Hmm. And what year are you in?”

“Freshman. I’ll be a sophomore once fall semester starts.”

“And that makes you how old?”

“Nineteen.”

Thank Christ because I’m not completely sure I would’ve been able to resist even if she’d been seventeen. My eyes drop to her pale pink lips, which are the color of bubblegum. I wonder how they would look wrapped around my cock. 

“Good,” I say.

“Is it?”

My brows rise slowly. Can she be this innocent? And why is that thought more enticing than it’s ever been? 

“You look like you could be under eighteen, and that would’ve been a shame.”

“Because?” Her lovely brown eyes are wide, but I think she realizes what I’m getting at and just wants to hear me say it.

“Because you would be too young for me to take home tonight.”

Her pretty mouth falls open. “Take me home? That’s fast.” Her light chuckle is half nervous, half amused, and I like the way pink rises in her cheeks. She’s as fresh as a berry still on the vine. And I could definitely use a taste of that.

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Twisted Demands Excerpt

 

 

 

Click: TWISTED DEMANDS

 

Chapter 1

ARYA

 

The new year is cold, dangerous, and brutal. Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see him. The Viking. A man who epitomizes those things.

 

Staring fixedly at the silver doors of the Columbus Tower elevator, I purse my lips as he approaches. Erik Sorensen and I run in the same circles, but we never talk. Or even acknowledge each other.

 

I despise him. And the feeling is mutual.

 

At six-foot-nine, he towers over me, despite the fact that I’m five-nine today since I’m wearing boots with three-inch heels.

 

I resent his height. And his massive size in general.

 

The temptation to stalk away hits me hard, but I force myself to remain still. I’m determined to keep my appointment with a pair of Granthorpe reporters.

 

Last week, a dead girl washed ashore, and I have something I want to get off my chest about Casanova, the campus serial killer. The police don’t seem to be doing anything useful, so this is a last-ditch effort to get more eyes looking at a spot north of campus where I think I may have seen him.

 

I glance at the Viking, giving him the side-eye as I take stock. I had hoped that after football season ended, I wouldn’t need to look at him anymore. Not that it’s a complete hardship. Sorensen could be Thor… if Thor worked out more.

 

My teeth grind together at the thought of him being godlike, and I force my gaze back to the button panel. He looms above. Standing next to him, I feel an inch tall.

 

Lack of shaving or haircuts during football season means he looks less handsome than usual. But the rugged, maniac berserker-look has a pull, too. I wish it didn’t.

 

Right now, he stands near me with his ruddy beard, long unruly golden hair, and bruising under his eyes courtesy of the broken nose he sustained in the Palmetto Bowl. The image of blood pouring down his football jersey as he snarled up at the screaming fans is one I will never forget. Even standing still, he looks wild and lawless.

 

I shudder. I hate his fucking marauder vibe. Partly because it’s sexy. And partly because it is exactly that brutality that caused the perpetual frostiness between us.

 

His glacial blue-eyed gaze does a slow once over, pausing on my Cleopatra cuff necklace, gold knit shirt, and silver rings. His eyes return to my chest. I feel like saying, yes, they’re “C” cups, but you can stop staring because they’re not for you.

 

I wear sports bras a lot, so guys frequently get hung up on the difference when I wear anything that shows off my breasts.

 

My hand drops to the drawstring of my silk pants and plays with the knot. It does the trick of pulling his eyes down. Though now, instead of looking at my chest, he’s looking at the junction of my thighs.

 

Sexual awareness courses through me. Two and a half years ago, we almost had a night together when I would’ve found out whether his whole body is as big and hard as advertised.

My nipples tighten.

 

For fuck’s sake.

 

Today his thick blond hair hangs in a curtain past his massively broad shoulders, and because I’m tired and pissed, I can’t resist a jab. Staring straight ahead, I murmur, “Your hair looks like my Barbie’s. Gonna take care of that soon? Or is Rapunzel the look you’re cultivating these days?”

 

He licks his lips, giving me the side-eye without comment.

 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” My tone is half question, half accusation.

 

More silence. Usually, I give as good as I get with the silent treatment, but it’s unnerving to stand this close to him.

 

Finally turning in his direction, I say, “Did that last concussion do some damage to your brain’s speech center? I asked why you’re here.”

 

His cocky gaze moves slowly up and down me, settling on my face. And his expression feigns boredom.

 

“Charming,” I say when it’s clear he won’t speak. The painted black fingernail of my right index finger clicks against the elevator call button. It’s already lit, but I press it all the same.

 

The door opens and I push past him to enter, my black coat sleeve brushing against his elbow. “I have an appointment. Take the next one.”

 

I try to block his entry, but Sorensen uses his gigantic size to force me to the back of the car as he steps in.

 

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

 

“Tease.” The set-down is made in a gruff baritone I haven’t heard directed at me in a long time.

My response is instantaneous and clipped. “Not true.”

 

Our bitter anger at each other is over a sordid interlude that never happened. I stiffen, always unsettled when I think of that time.

 

His long finger hits the button for the top floor.

 

Just fantastic. He’s headed for the Granthorpe Daily Dispatch offices, too. Why is this happening? We avoided getting this close to each other for the entire football season while riding buses, performing in stadiums, and celebrating at parties. We were so good for so long.

 

“Move,” I say, my skin prickling at the charge in the air. Being near him is like standing under dark storm clouds before the first lightning strike. “I’ll get out.”

 

He doesn’t move.

 

Yeah, as stated, asshole.

 

I circle the edge of the elevator, but the door closes too quickly. Huffing out an impatient breath, I back into the corner, folding my arms across my chest.

 

The car rises a couple of floors and then jerks to a halt, causing me to bang against the wall. The lights go out. Oh, God. My breath catches at our sudden plunge into darkness, and my voice comes out agitated. “Shit. What the hell?"

 

Sorensen, the Viking action figure, must be as still as a goddamned statue because I hear nothing from him, not even breathing.

 

“There’s a phone in here, right?” I demand. “Make use of it please.”

 

As far as I can tell, he doesn’t move. There’s no rustling of clothes or shuffling of feet to suggest he’s gotten closer to the panel.

 

“If you’ve used up your allotted ten words for the day, move aside. I’ll find the phone.”

 

Silence.

 

I want to screech and attack like a vicious wendigo. I wish I was one. Then, if I were trapped here for a prolonged period, at least I wouldn’t starve. There’s enough muscle on his body to get me through at least March.

 

The thought of eating him makes me recall the source of our feud, and I chuckle softly at the irony of that twisted thought.

 

As I move forward, his monolithic stone impression thwarts my attempt to reach the control panel.

 

“Hey, Thing, can you move?”

 

“Thing?” The low disembodied voice strikes me as sinister and slightly sexy.

 

Do not go there, Arya. He is off-limits. Forever.

 

“Marvel? Fantastic Four? Former football star whose flesh turns to stone.” I push against his hard body with my hands, not even sure where they land.

 

His hand grabs my right forearm and closes around it. All the way, despite my puffy coat. He’s monstrous, and for some sick reason, I wonder how those fingers would feel inside me.

 

“Look,” I say, trying to pull my arm free of his grasp. “I just—”

 

“Behave yourself.”

 

When I speak, my tone drips acid. “Excuse me?”

 

I slap my palm against his chest, giving him a shove with enough force to throw anyone off balance. The Viking should have to catch himself, but his bulk doesn’t shift. It’s as though his goddamned tree trunk legs have grown roots into the elevator’s steel frame.

 

He crowds me, forcing my back against the wall. Heat radiates from him, warming my skin, and he smells like winter… spearmint and fresh ice.

 

Licking my lips, I tilt my face up. Even straining my eyes doesn’t show me a glimpse of his features. “What are you doing?”

 

“The agreement was you stay away from me unless you want trouble. You just broke the terms.”

“What terms? When did we agree to anything?”

 

“Heyworth House. October 24th. Freshman year.”

 

My brows rise in shock. October twenty… what?

 

“I don’t remember discussing—wait, was that Declan’s Halloween party? I was super drunk that night.”

 

“I know. Risky move while wearing a black leather jumpsuit unzipped to your belt buckle. Things could’ve taken a turn.”

 

“It was a costume,” I hiss, furious at the implication that a sexy outfit makes a girl fair prey. “I was also wearing a red wig and fake guns strapped to my thighs. I was Black Widow. Marvel Universe. Pretend you live in America.”

 

“You offered me a blow job. Again.”

 

I did what?

 

No way. I wouldn’t have. He’s lying.

 

“And you said no, of course.” My retort is quick, trying to distract from other things. “Do you hate pizza and tacos, too?”

 

“A blow job wasn’t the original agreement.”

 

“So you’ve said! But if you really said oral was out, I never heard you. Did you whisper it like a shy little girl on her first trip to an ice cream stand?”

 

“What’s an ice cream stand?”

 

His dry tone nearly makes my head explode. Slapping my hands against his chest hard enough to make a thwacking sound, I try to shove him back.

 

“Don’t crowd me, Viking.”

 

His arms jerk me toward him and then whirl me a hundred-and-eighty degrees. Setting me forward, he presses my body to the wall, so my chest and cheek are against cold steel.

“I don’t fight with little girls,” he says. “But I do punish them if they try to get violent.”

 

“Let go of me.”

 

“You done trying to throw your weight around? All hundred pounds of you?”

 

“A hundred pounds! As if. And I’m strong. I could put the point of my heel through your foot if I decided to,” I say, biting out the words.

 

“My quads weigh more than you.”

 

“Bullshit. I’m one-thirty. Get off.” I bang my body backward into his and step down on his foot with my sharp heel. I connect with a clinking sound. What is he wearing? Steel-toed boots? Like a construction worker?

 

My booted foot skids off, and it throws me off balance. His hands are all that keep me from falling.

 

Then he smacks my ass.

 

And smacks it again.

 

The air stalls in my lungs, and my muscles stiffen, but deep in my core there’s a pulse of something that’s not angry.

 

The cracking sound of a third slap echoes off the elevator walls. And heat spreads through my right ass cheek.

 

He hit me. Or more accurately, he spanked me.

 

More than once.

 

“What are you doing?” My voice is breathier than I want.

 

Gripping my flesh through the flimsy silk, he says, “Misbehave with me, and I’ll punish this ass.”

Heat licks up my spine, causing a flush I’m glad he can’t see.

 

“Let go,” I say, my voice firm, though inside I’m shaky. There is something about his voice and the way he uses it. My nipples bead and tingle.

 

“Gonna behave?”

 

The rage that consumes me is inexplicable. I’m pissed at him and at myself. I reach back and grab his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh. “Let go.”

 

He taps my ass, and then his fingers push into the crevice between my cheeks as he squeezes me. A riot of sensations courses through my pelvis, and I nearly push back toward him.

 

“Apologize.”

 

“No way.” I push his arms in a useless attempt to escape. He’s Stonehenge and I’m a toddler trying to topple a ten-ton stone.

 

Thwack. This one is harder and creates a cascade of heat, which causes my nipples to ache with sensations that are so fucking wrong.

 

A slow breath escapes. “Do not do that.”

 

He pushes his hand in front of me and tugs at the drawstring. I barely manage to grab the top of my pants to keep the silk from fluttering down to my ankles.

 

Jesus Christ!

 

I gasp as he slaps my ass again and his finger hooks the lace of my thong where it rests on my hip. I jerk forward, rising on my toes to prevent the fabric from riding up any higher.

 

“If I take these down, I won’t just slap your ass.”

 

The threat spirals through me, a mixture of menace and seduction.

 

“You can’t. Here and now? No way.”

 

“Apologize.”

 

“All right,” I huff. “I’m sorry. Let me go.”

 

He releases me slowly, and I scramble away and refasten my pants. Once the tie is cinched tight, I move into a far corner.

 

Sorensen doesn’t grab me again as I expect. Usually once a guy gets violent, he can’t stop on a dime. Men spiral out of control.

 

A metal hinge creaks, and emergency lights glow to reveal the elevator phone. He lifts it to his ear as the light fades.

 

“This is Erik Sorensen. I’m trapped in a Columbus Tower elevator.” He pauses. “Yeah.”

 

There’s a click as he replaces the phone.

 

“Fire department and Central Power are both already in the building. An hour or less, they think.”

 

Pressing my lips together, I glare in his direction.

 

“Which means…” His voice is deep and gruff. It’s exactly the voice a woman wants her man to have. Which is another thing about him that I resent. “If you start now, you should have enough time to give me the blow job you’re always pushing.”

 

I flip him off silently.

 

Always pushing? I haven’t spoken to him in two years.

 

Our silence stretches on as I check my phone every thirty seconds. I send a text message to Camrynn Reynolds, one of the reporters I’m meeting to discuss Casanova.

 

That name, Casanova, sends a chill coursing through me. He should’ve been caught. If someone other than twenty-something reporters were doing their jobs, he would’ve been.

 

After about five minutes, the lights flicker on.

 

“They were faster than advertised.” Sorensen straightens, looking me over. “Not always a good thing for a man to be.”

 

Heat floods my face at the double entendre. And I resent the flush, even though I doubt he can tell I’m blushing. My skin tone’s a light tan year round.

 

As the elevator shudders to life and rises, my hand clutches the rail to steady myself.

 

When we reach the top floor and the door opens, Cami Reynolds, star quarterback Declan Heyworth's latest pretty blond snack, is standing in the hall. I catch a glimpse of Declan as he disappears into the stairwell.

 

In addition to Cami, I’m here to meet the main journalist on the Casanova stories, the elusive S Riksen. He’s talented, but eccentric, apparently.

 

“Reynolds,” Sorensen says with a nod of acknowledgement.

 

My head tilts. He calls Declan’s latest plus one by her last name? What’s that about?

 

Cami nods at Sorensen and then smiles at me. “Hey, Arya. Thanks for meeting us here.” Her eyes dart over to the Viking. “Did you tell her?”

 

Uneasiness washes over me. Tell me what? What the hell is she talking about?

 

Sorensen’s gaze flicks to me. “I’m Riksen.”

 

My feet freeze to the floor, suddenly as heavy as lead blocks.

 

No. He cannot be Riksen. There are things I need to discuss with the reporter… things that make me feel scared and vulnerable. I am not confiding them to Erik fucking Sorensen.

 

Sorensen pulls a glass door to the newsroom open and holds it for us. Looking at Cami, he says, “Yeah, I told her.”

 

Cami smirks. “Better late than never, I guess.”

 

Fuck.

 

The prick who just smacked my ass and threatened to strip me in the elevator is Riksen? My last hope.

 

The realization makes my head want to explode.

 

Click: TWISTED DEMANDS

New Release: TWISTED DEMANDS (Dark Knights #3)

 

I hate him. And now I have to live with him.

Erik Sorenson, the towering GU football superstar, got his Viking nickname because he’s blond, brutal, and ice cold.

After a sordid promise is broken, we spend two years silently ignoring each other. Even in the same room, there’s no conversation. No eye contact. Nada.

A serial killer is on a rampage. One day I see too much. And the killer sees me.

I’m forced to stay with the gorgeous Viking, and everyone expects me to follow his orders. Especially him. But considering what he wants from me… there’s no way.

Even under threat, our chemistry is white hot.
It may burn until there's nothing left but ash. 

Wicked Demands (Dark Knights 2)

He has everything. Now he expects to own me, too.

Declan Heyworth is a star quarterback and the heir to a famous billion-dollar fortune. That gives him more power than one man should have.

When my family does something they shouldn't, he demands I make amends. Unfortunately, the only thing I have that’s of value to him is my body.

Someone is targeting me. At first, I think I'll be safer in Declan's world. Then I realize the more time I spend with him, the more danger I'm in.

Will I survive two weeks with the arrogant superstar? Or will this end as badly as it begins? 

 

Click: WICKED DEMANDS

 

 

C Crue Halloween

Trick and Laurelyn threw a party on Halloween, and the entire family dressed up. Laurelyn had initially planned safari-themed costumes for the family, but Trick vetoed that idea.

As a fan of The Mandalorian show, Trick dressed as Mando and had their little boy Sean dressed as Grogu (aka baby Yoda.) 

Laurelyn, who is currently pregnant with their second baby, expected to dress as warrior Cara Dune, but Trick had other ideas...

Is anyone really surprised that he wanted to see her in the Slave Leia costume?

Mandalorian