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Drilled (Hard ‘n Dirty) from Ava Sinclair.

Drilled (Hard ‘n Dirty) from Ava Sinclair.

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I do find myself wondering about Cal Beaumont, however. When I first saw him, I’d pegged him as Latin with his dark good looks. And that body. Men back home spend hours at the gym for a look that he wears naturally. I had watched him remove the tire, admiring the back muscles visible through his shirt, his corded forearms. And those hands. I have a thing about men’s hands. I always look at them first. Most of the ones I look at are neat and soft. Cal Beaumont’s had visible callouses. Big hands. Hard hands. The hands of a working man.

“Go on,” he’d said when he’d directed me to the truck. It wasn’t a request. It was a command. His voice was deep and authoritative. What would he have thought if I’d told him then and

there that I was the company’s new spokesman? What would he have thought if I’d told him what he’d said made me soak my panties?

Part of being the perfect little Texas socialite has meant dating acceptable men with old money pedigrees. Even though my father is on his third wife, he’s keen on advising me on men with First Husband potential. I say “first” because I don’t know what a healthy marriage looks like. My father has always married for appearances. He expects me to marry for money and social standing, just like my mother and his other two wives did.

Regular men? Men without trust funds and country club memberships? They’re not even on the menu. In my world, size only matters if we’re talking about bank accounts. Big muscular men with big, dirty hands are non-starters.

Still, I can’t help but to imagine what it would be like to be a regular woman with a regular guy. Sex has always bored me to tears. I’ve faked every orgasm except the ones I’ve given myself, and none of my pedigreed lovers even knew it.

I can still see him in my mind’s eye, his sweaty shirt tight across his broad chest. What would it be like to have those roughed calloused hands sliding under my bra? I reach over and turn down the air conditioner, blaming the cold air for my suddenly hardened nipples.


Iris Tremaine is rich, sexy, beautiful, and way above my pay grade. But that’s not about to stop me.

The attraction is mutual and intense. Iris has never been with a man like me, a man who overwhelms her, a man who says and does things to her that her pedigreed boyfriends never dreamed of.

If her oil baron father finds out, losing my job will be the least of my worries. Roger Tremaine will never accept the thought of a common roustabout putting big, dirty hands on his little princess.

When Iris gets pulled into a plan to cover up the company’s poor safety record, she needs my help to expose the truth. Getting involved raises the stakes for both of us. When it comes down losing her inheritance or the rough love of the only man who’s ever given her real pleasure, which will Iris choose?


Variety is the spice of life and Ava Sinclair writes a little something for everyone, from dark romance to menage to kinky AF age play. But the one thing that is consistent in her books are strong storylines, alpha males, and strong women whose hearts and bodies aren’t given up without a fight.

Ava lives in southern Virginia, where she enjoys hoarding books, hiking, running, spoiling her cats, and spending time with her Eurasian eagle owl, Lucius.


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