Sabrina: Good guys save the day and criminals go to jail. It’s not rocket science, people.
But then my father’s killed, I’m rescued by a thief, and my worldview is shattered. He takes me to his penthouse. His bed. I don’t have to like it but I can’t help it. His touch is everything a good girl like me shouldn’t want.
Anson: Good and bad mean nothing to a master thief. I take what I want, and what I want is vengeance. No more, no less.
Maybe the girl can help, so I’ll hide her. Protect her. And if I have to manhandle her to keep her quiet, she’ll deal. Hell, she might even like it. But she’ll learn fast that I make the rules.
Stop being so damn uptight.”
I spun around. “Uptight? You’re not taking this seriously! You’re joking around about flirting with Mrs. Pederson to get what you need? The woman irons her money, Anson. I’ve seen her do it. She has me cut her vegetables and chicken before I serve it to her like she’s a fucking two-year-old, and won’t eat anything with butter on it, or anything above 7.9 net carbs per meal. She’s maybe thirty years younger than Pederson and doesn’t even try to sheath her gold-digging manicured claws, but Pederson pampers her like a spoiled princess. Maybe she gives good blow jobs, I don’t know, but you think it’s something to joke around about, flirting with her? Like my job isn’t real or something?”
His eyes widened. “You’re jealous.”
“What?” I sputtered. “I’m not jealous. I’m pissed. You don’t take my career seriously, like somehow scaling the sides of building like you have a fucking superhero complex is superior.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “So jealous. I think I actually see a little green tinge right behind your ear there—“
I’d had it. I shoved my hands on his shoulders, making him stumble backward. I wanted to hurt him. He looked at me in shock then stood straight, and I reared my hand back to slap him. I’d never slapped a man, but I could almost feel the satisfying sting of my hand connecting with his stubbled jaw. I didn’t get the chance, though. Before I knew what was happening, he’d nabbed my wrist and held my hand in place.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” he warned, his eyes kindling. “You really don’t want to do that. You smack me, and then I will have to take you across my knee, and wouldn’t that just burn Xavier’s butter?” My heart thundered at his words, anger and uncontrollable arousal and frustration making me want to scream. He backpedaled me, still holding my wrist, and when my back hit the countertop, his strong hands pinned both my wrists to my sides. My chest rose and fell with the breaths I took, my need for him shocking me.
Shit, I liked it when he took control.
He was so close, his breath grazed my cheek as his eyes met mine and he whispered, “It’s okay to be jealous. When Caelan made you breakfast this morning, I wanted to beat his hospitable ass.” I blinked. What? But before I could process what he’d said, his mouth crashed down on mine, and my world turned upside down. I closed my eyes, moaning into his mouth as my knees buckled, but he held me up, knifing his leg gently between my thighs, supporting my body against his. His lips melded with mine, my breath mingling with his, my body electric at his touch. As he kissed me, my sex pulsed, pressure building between my thighs. I wanted his hand, his cock, his mouth there. I needed more.
He released one wrist only to bring his hand to the nape of my neck and squeeze, the possessive grip making me whimper. I’d never been kissed like this. Impossible power and energy and beauty entwined, as if the sun rose and set at once, my senses electrified. He could have asked me anything in that moment, and I’d have done it, bewitched by the power of that kiss.
Jane has been writing since her early teens, dabbling in short stories and poetry. When she married and began having children, her pen was laid to rest for several years, until the National Novel Writing Challenge (NaNoWriMo) in 2010 awakened in her the desire to write again. That year, she wrote her first novel, and has been writing ever since. With a houseful of children, she finds time to write in the early hours of the morning, squirreled away with a laptop, blanket, and cup of hot coffee. Years ago, she heard the wise advice, “Write the book you want to read,” and has taken it to heart. She sincerely hopes you also enjoy the books she likes to read.
Maisy is an unabashed book nerd who has been in love with romance since reading her first Julie Garwood novel at the tender age of 12. After a decade as a technical writer, she finally made the leap into writing fiction several years ago and has never looked back. Like her other great loves – coffee, caramel, beach vacations, yoga pants, and her amazing family – her love of words has only continued to grow… in a manner inversely proportional to her love of exercise, house cleaning, and large social gatherings. She loves to hear from fellow romance lovers, and is always on the hunt for her next great read.
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