Authors in the Spotlight
Book Title: MAKE MINE A BAD BOY
“Come on now, Hope, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what we used to play.”
She stopped twisting the steering wheel, and her hands tightened on the hard plastic. But she refused to look at him.
“Come on, honey,” he breathed as his arm stretched out along the back of the seat. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hope said as her gaze remained locked on the water cascading down the windshield.
Colt slid closer, blocking her view with miles of wet, black t-shirt. She now understood why men were so enthralled with wet t-shirt contests. Wet cotton made for some mouth-watering fantasies. Especially when shrink wrapped to the hard, chiseled body in front of her.
As her gaze got stuck on the tiny beaded nipples topping each perfectly-sculptured pectoral muscle, her breathing grew uneven. The seat was big enough that she could move back. Except a strange paralysis had settled over her, and she couldn’t move if she wanted to. Especially when his hand came to rest on the steering wheel and his other on the back of her neck. A chill spread through her body, which brought his droopy-lidded gaze sliding down her soaked dress.
“Sure you do,” he whispered as his breath wafted over her face. It smelled of mint toothpaste and cool rain. “You know exactly what I’m talking about—sophomore year behind the girl’s locker room.”
Hope closed her eyes and tried to get a handle on her suddenly topsy-turvy world, but lack of vision only made matters worse when a hot hand skated up her bare leg. Her eyes flashed open as she grabbed his wrist.
Those sensual gray eyes stared back at her from beneath lowered lids. “Come on, honey,” he coaxed as his fingers caressed the spot right above her knee. “Just a little peek.” He leaned over, and his cheek brushed against hers, not as prickly as it had been in jail but prickly enough to cause more chill bumps. “I promise not to tell a single soul—I never did.”
The man knew exactly what to say. Always had. If he took a notion, he could tempt a nun from her habit. And Hope was no nun, but she could count on one hand the times she’d had sex in the last year. So how could she fend off a desperado like Colt Lomax? A naughty outlaw who had no scruples about cornering her in an old Chevy while water cascaded down the windows like the best carwash fantasy she’d ever had?
So she gave in. Just a little. Just enough to let her eyes close in surrender. Just enough to lean into the mouth that trailed kisses down her neck. But she refused to let go. She might be sex-deprived, but she wasn’t stupid.