BOOK REVIEW: Stepdaddy Savage by Charleigh Rose

~Blurb~

You do not say no to Graham Savage, because Graham Savage doesn’t ask. Just like his name suggests, he takes, and right now, he believes I’m his. 

He is a cold, calculated, ruthless, formidable Irish mobster, and... my step-dad.

Regardless of the fact that it's nothing more than a business transaction, he's technically married to my mom. Even still, I find myself scared to be caught, yet even more terrified of being cut loose.

They say love is like a butterfly…well, we are about to prove to the world that it’s also like a punch in the face. Sometimes inevitable…and always painful. 

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~Review~

4 Stars

*This review may contain spoilers, but honestly I don’t think most prospective readers are picking this up for the plot twists.  Let’s face it, if you are considering reading this it’s because of the taboo smut factor. And if you’re reading the reviews it’s probably to decide how far out of your comfort zone this dirty read is going to push you.

None the less, I have to say aside from a few grammatical and minor continuity errors, this title was surprising well writing. It pulled me in right of the start, introduced intriguing characters, and built some major sexual tensions.

Does it deliver in the steam factor? Absolutely!  This book is hot! Like ‘wow is it warm in here?’ fans-self-hot.

“‘If you’re on fire for me now…Then wait till I fuck your brains out. You’ll motherfucking burn, baby.’”

Graham Savage, 32, most certainly rocks the ‘bad man’ (notice I didn’t say boy), take control, above the law, make no apologies, dark hero role. If you’re going to be a bad guy then own it, and Graham does. So I might have been crushing on him a bit myself. ;-)  And while Dahlia, 17/18, is a virgin, she wasn’t a weak, innocent, doormat heroine. Dahlia is sassy, smart-mouthed, and not above breaking the rules. Because of this, they worked together as a couple despite the age difference and the forbidden relationship as well as had some interesting “banter.”

“‘Good girl, Dolly. Now suck on how you make me feel.’”

There was one thing though that made me drop the rating from 5 stars to 4 stars. Surprisingly it was not:

The daddy kink—while I’m not typically a fan, it wasn’t too over the top. But more specifically I felt like Dahlia and Graham were role playing with it more than actually heavily into the idea since at several places they acknowledged the limited extent to their stepfather-daughter role. Bringing  me to the second thing that did not bother me…

Cheating—while I understand some readers won’t be able to get past the notion that Graham is legally married to Dahlia’s mother, I honestly didn’t find this an issue of cheating in this particular instance, nor did it gross me out since the marriage was never consummated. From what’s disclosed about Graham and Dahlia’s mother, their union is nothing more than a marriage of convenience, orchestrated by Graham to acquire citizenship and for some other benevolent reasons divulged in a romantic reveal. They do not sleep in the same bedroom nor have they ever had sexual relations, and once Dahlia is on the brink of turning eighteen, Graham begins the process of ending the marriage. Oh and Dahlia’s mother is screwing the pool boy. Bottom line, there’s no romantic or monogamous expectations in Graham’s on-paper only marriage.

What I did deduct a whole point for….
I was hugely disappointed when the overused, trite, h-is-about-to-get-raped by a creepy OM trope was introduced at 63%. To be clear, she thankfully is saved by Graham in time. But then of course, it continues the ridiculous resolution where the h is hardly traumatized and is still horny for the H. For authors who state in their bio that their philosophy is “fun, sexy, smut” that is “original” and that they “won't give you what you've already seen a million times before,” well they certainly missed those goals with this scene. This plot device isn’t original and has been done many times over.  But more importantly, attempted rape isn’t sexy!  I’ve ranted about books that use this unrealistic and unromantic plot climax in romance books before and it bears repeating. Rape/attempted rape/sexual assault does not belong in a romance novel and using it as simply a plot devices not only trivialized the real problem of sexual abuse against women, but contributes to a rape culture.  And from a reading perspective, it threw cold water on the build up to the H&h’s first time, completely taking me out of the erotic moment. Suddenly, I needed a sweater instead of a fan.

That scene aside, it was an engaging, taboo read told mainly by Dahlia’s first person POV (the epilogue is told by Graham). The main characters were great; they worked well together as a couple; the story was developed (even for being only around 100 pages); and I got a kick out of cheeky references like cum gun and Masturbationgate. The first in a standalone series, I’ll probably check out the next book, Savage Beast, about Dahlia’s friend and Graham’s "brother." 

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SALE: Prick Tease by Misti Murphy

Genre : Erotic Romance 

~Synopsis~

Claire Hadley shouldn’t even be on my radar.

There are a million damn reasons why I shouldn’t touch her. 

Her brothers are my best friends. We grew up together, under the same roof.

I’m supposed to think of her like a little sister.

I won’t break my loyalty for a f*ck. 

Razer Bennington forgot me when he joined the marines. 

One kiss. Seven years. I can’t get the taste of him out of my mouth. 

I’m meant to be the good girl. A virgin. A role model. 

I’m supposed to live up to their expectations.

Screw that… 

I’m going to get what I want. 

I should be careful what I wish for. 

***

Claire Hadley was about to check the perfect fiancé off her checklist. 

Until she found him underneath a hooker. 

Running home to her brother, she doesn’t expect to be rescued by Razer Bennington. 

Seven years ago he left her behind. 

But she hasn’t forgotten their last night together. Or the kiss they shared. 

Tired of living up to the expectations of others, she throws caution to the wind. 

This time she’ll get what she wants. 

Even if getting what she wants could destroy him

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Book Review

~FREE Sept. 28-Oct. 2, 2016~

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Misti Murphy is a sadistic b*tch who loves to emotionally torture fictional people. If she did that in real life she’d probably end up in prison or a psych ward so she prefers to create dirty talking alphas and the sexually frustrated women who fall into their beds. And if someone needs to be smacked upside the head before f*cking turns to love then that makes her very happy indeed. She’s a huge believer in flaws making us human, and that not everyone likes bacon. She’s also addicted to chocolate and scared of the effects of the coming shortage. She swears like a f*cking trooper, and thinks that graphic smuttiness should be as real in fiction as it is in real life. When she’s not writing she’s the perfect housewife and mother. Ha bloody ha! When she’s not writing she’s hiding in a cupboard with her kindle, scoffing chocolate, and stalking facebook.   Facebook Facebook Group Website    Newsletter Twitter Instagram

RELEASE/REVIEW: Dirty Neighbor by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Series: The Dirty Suburbs #1

Genre: Contemporary Romance

~Blurb~

Keeland Masters...Growing up, he was the boy next door, my brother’s best friend, the guy who asked me to the prom...and then stood me up. He just vanished into thin air.

Now that he’s back in town, he wants to come over to play. And I’m not talking hopscotch. But he’s hurt me once, so I’m sticking to my side of the fence no matter how good he looks pushing that lawnmower in all his tanned, toned shirtless glory.

Dirty Neighbor is book one in the "Dirty Suburbs", a series of stand-alone romantic comedies set in small town Illinois.

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~Book Review~

4 Stars

Keeland Masters, 27, is back in his old stomping grounds of Reyfield, Illinois after three years of serving time. He just wants a little peace and quiet, a warm body with no commitments, and to pull his life back together.

Sammie Trotten, 25, is the girl next door. Literally. She had a crush on Keeland in high school, but when he stood her up for prom, her affection turned to anger.

When they come face to face again after eight years Keeland is sure she’s the only woman he wants while Sammie must wrestle with the attraction she still feels towards him alongside the hurt that she hasn’t gotten over.

“‘Stop being a bitch to me. You know as well as I do that you just want to fuck me until you forget why you hate me.’”

Told via Keeland and Sammie’s alternating first person POV, all in all, I enjoyed reading about them. There are flashback scenes that are cute (Mrs. Masters) and help pull you into their romance, and some humorous ones as well (Reyfield Entertainment Network).  

Keeland is pretty hot. In the opening when he was just looking to get laid I was afraid he might be a real douche, but once it’s clear that he only wants Sammie and you realize how much Keeland has been burned and is also worried about putting his heart on the line, he becomes a much fuller character and a great catch.

“‘I’ve waited forever to do this. We’ll be at it all night, Sammie. All night.’”

Sometimes I felt a bit conflicted about Sammie and her choice of actions. Overall I understood her conflict though. Communication, however, could have gone a long way in avoiding the issues that plagued this couple so in that aspect they behaved a little immature. But they also have plenty of steamy adult moments too ;-)

“We fuck like we’re mad—mad at each other, mad for each other….We fuck like we hate each other. Like we’re trying to break each other.”

My read was based off an ARC version that was subject to additional edits. The formatting was not finalized and at times distracting; there were a few places where a wrong name is used; and there were several critical scenes/chapters that felt rushed or unresolved. A more polished version would have made for smoother reading and could have bumped up a quarter or half point in rating for me in regards to that last issue.

Not to be picky but there was also one other pesky thing that bugged me or more specifically distracted me. In the beginning, Keeland is fixing his bike on the lawn, the girls at the bar are wearing cut-offs and tanks, then Sammie wears a white sundress, and the next day she wakes up to a foot of snow! Upon which, Keeland comes outside in his boxers and barefeet! It felt like a major continuity error, but Keeland makes the comment, “the weather in Reyfield is schizophrenic,” so I assumed it was on purpose. And then a few chapters later they’re raking leaves on the lawn. Those details just seemed superfluous, especially considering there were more important scenes that could have stood to be further developed. Largely, it only accomplished pulling me out of the story to ponder the weather.

None the less, the story was engaging and when I had to put it down I looked forward to picking it back up again.  And it was refreshing that their sexually histories weren’t completely unbalanced.  I can’t express how relieved I was when Sammie didn’t turn out to be a pining virgin, holding out for her lost love. That troupe is way overdone these days, but you thankfully won’t find it here. 

99c AMAZON  US / UK / CA / AU
~Excerpt~

Keeland

I veer off of the I-96 and guide my Harley onto the off-ramp. I grin to myself as I glance up at the huge, green highway sign looming above the road.

Welcome to Reyfield, Illinois.

I never thought I’d ever feel so damn happy to see that sign again but after all I’ve been through over the past three years, I just want something simple and familiar. I want to be in a place where I don’t feel antsy, like I’ve got to keep looking over my shoulder.

Reyfield is it. It’s almost like coming home…

Almost.

I’m well aware that the Masters’ left a lot of destruction in our wake the last time we were in this town; unpaid bills, unsaid goodbyes and at least one very broken heart.

Maybe it’s time to pay old debts, heal old wounds and make amends as best I can. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start.

It’s a chilly night. Fall is creeping its way into town. I breeze through the streets and everything feels familiar. It all gives me a little thrill in the pit of my stomach. The gothic architecture of the Presbyterian church…The washed-out “Go Tigers!” banner hanging outside of our old high school…The field where we played football…The burger joint we used to go to for lunch when the school cafeteria’s offerings resembled road kill topped with warm dog food...

I take a left off of Clifford Boulevard and pull onto Hyatt Street. The corner store is right where I left it. I cut my engine in the parking lot and stroll through the front door. I give a quick nod to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the cash register and make my way down the narrow, brightly-lit aisles.

Man, it feels good to just walk down the aisles of a freakin’ convenience store. When you’ve been locked away for as long as I have, you learn to appreciate the simple things.

I stand in front of the chip display for a moment, trying to decide between vinegar and barbecue. “Fuck it…” I’m having both. And how about a bag of jalapeño-cheddar, too? I’m making up for lost time, after all.

I grab a case of beer — the cheap kind that we used to buy with our fake ids when we were teenagers. I’m feeling awfully nostalgic tonight. Then, I grab more chocolate-covered pretzel sticks than any self-respecting 27-year-old man ever should.

When I get to the condom aisle, I pick up eight three-packs of XL Magnums.

Yes, that might seem overly ambitious but I haven't had sex in three freakin’ years and whoever I take home with me tonight is in for a hell of a good time. The ladies don’t call me Master Kee for nothing. My main priority tonight is to drain the tank into the first acceptable-looking broad that comes my way and to be honest, ‘acceptable-looking’ is pretty much open for interpretation at this point.

Because I’m horny enough to fuck my way through the Reyfield phonebook.

I drop my goodies onto the counter and the cashier eyes me with an arched eyebrow and a subtle grin. “Exciting night planned?” she asks, tipping her chin towards the condoms. The innuendo in her voice is undeniable.

I give her a second glance. Is she Ms. Acceptable for tonight? Nah, she’s probably older than my mother and she smells like she’s been marinating in cigarette smoke and cheap perfume all day. My definition of “acceptable” may be loose, but not that loose.

I nod politely as I glimpse at the number glowing on the screen of the cash register and pull a $100 bill out of my wallet. She drags her long fingernails along my palm as she deposits the change into my hand.

Did my cock just twitch?

Down, buddy. Down.

“Have a good night, Big Boy,” she purrs as I give her a quick salute and duck out the door.

I store my goodies in my backpack and jump onto my bike. When I rev it, the poor thing lets out a choked straining sound. I’ll look into it first thing in the morning, but for now, I’m on mission to get laid.

ASAP.

Samantha

“Breathe in...hold hold hold...breathe out...Breathe in...hold hold hold...breathe out...Breathe in...hold hold hold...breathe out…”

I take long deep breaths, doing my best to synchronize my rhythm to the sound of Isla’s voice pouring into my ears. The cool morning breeze blowing over my face and the sun smiling down on my skin make it that much easier.

This is one of the few things that I absolutely adore about being back in Reyfield. It’s a quiet, serene town. Except for the occasional ruckus caused by the young children playing on the street and the yapping of the over-talkative Yorkshire terrier a few doors down, the place is a sanctuary. A slice of suburban perfection. The ideal place for soul-searching and self-reflection.

But Reyfield is just too slow-paced for me. Take Thornbush Lane, for example. The cul-de-sac is charming, for lack of a better word – the kind of place you’d go to raise a family or grow old, I guess. A cast of interesting characters occupy the lane. Nancy and Delores, the gray-haired duo who’ve appointed themselves as the two-woman neighborhood watch, the eccentric mailman who delivers my mail to the wrong house half the time, meddlesome neighbors who drop by unannounced when you least expect them. That all adds to the cozy feel of the place. But for an ambitious 25-year-old like me, Reyfield is nothing but a dead end.

Growing up, I couldn’t wait to get out of the suburbs. And that’s what I did as soon as I could. I moved 15 miles south, to Chicago for college and then took a job in the city. Everything was going relatively well until four months ago when I suddenly got laid off. Now, here I am, unemployed, single, broke and for the past six weeks, living in my parents’ house again.

Ugh.

Thank god mom and dad are staying in Florida with grams till next spring so at least I have the house to myself. I did not work my ass off for my certified internal auditor designation only to end up living with my parents forevermore. Basically, I need to find a new job stat so that I can move back to the city as soon as possible.

Anyway, Isla swore up and down that meditation would help with my job search. She says that I’m ‘scattered’ and that’s why I haven’t been able to find a new position since I got laid off. Her new meditation recording is supposed to help me find my ‘center’ and ‘recalibrate’ in order to attract a suitable employment opportunity.

Her words, not mine.

For weeks, I resisted. The old Sammie thought that Isla was delusional and maybe even slightly off her rocker. The new Sammie is so hopeless and desperate and sick of being unemployed that I’m pretty much willing to try anything to get a damn job. Sending out resumes, compulsively checking job-listing websites and waiting impatiently for the postman to show up with my mail every morning has proven to be an ineffective strategy.

So, it was time to try something new.

I’ve been using this meditation track for a few days now and if nothing else, it’s relaxing and distracts me from the ticker tape of worry, doubt and anxiety constantly running through my mind.

I shift my foot slightly, determined to ignore the itch prickling at my heel. I'm going to meditate the fuck out of it. Forget you, stupid itch. It's time to turn ‘inwards’ because my money’s low and I need a miracle right about now. I focus solely on my breathing.

Eventually, time and space slip away. I think I’m in that space that Isla’s always talking about. ‘The nothingness’ is what she calls it. I feel content. Satiated. That tiny, niggling voice in the back of my head gnawing at me to get off my butt and go search through the local classified ads again? I smother that bitch under pillows of bliss.

“Breathe in…hold hold hold…breathe out…”

Putata-putata-putata

What the fuck is that?

Putata-putata-putata

Is that a motorcycle? Who the hell on Thornbush Lane has a motorcycle?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to channel my inner yogi in a futile attempt to drown out the hiccup-hiccup of the engine as it sputters to death nearby. It seems like the harder I try to ignore it, the louder it gets.

I grudgingly yank out my earbuds and ease out of my cross-legged position on my oversized cushion on the back patio. I peer around the side of the house and notice a shiny black Harley Davidson lying on its side in the driveway just as a tall, shirtless figure slinks across the front lawn next door.

What the fuck? Nobody’s supposed to be over there.

As far as I know, dad tried to get that place rented for months before he finally gave up in defeat at the end of July. Illinois’s economy is bad and nobody wants to pay a premium to rent that crumbling, two-story colonial with its unkempt lawn and weather-beaten clapboards. Still, my stubborn father refuses to lower the rental. He’d rather the house sit vacant. I guess he can afford to be picky about his tenants. He doesn’t have a mortgage to pay on it since he inherited the house when his uncle Kramer died back when I was a kid.

I bring my attention back to the very bold intruder next door. I can’t see his face because the tall hedges now hide him from view. I should probably call the police but I decide to check it out myself. I grab a weapon – the rake leaning against the side of the house – as I inch cautiously towards the front yard.

I trek across the driveway separating the two houses, passing the beastly motorcycle and an open toolbox on the way. I stomp through the overgrown lawn and up the stairs to the front porch. The door is wide open and for some reason that puts me at ease. A burglar would probably be more discreet than that, right?

The knot in my stomach loosens a bit. This is probably all some huge misunderstanding.

I stick my head into the doorway without stepping inside, just as a precaution. “Hello?”

A shadowy figure approaches, moving down the long, dimly-lit hallway that leads from the kitchen to the front door. Sunrays slice through the kitchen curtains, illuminating him from behind and revealing his silhouette bit by bit.

And what a sexy silhouette it is.

My eyes climb his frame in slow motion.

His large, sturdy feet.

His long, muscular legs and the gray basketball shorts hanging low on his hips.

Well, damn…

The delicious V punctuating his washboard abs.

The colorful, intricate tattoos ornamenting his strong chest and those brawny arms.

Oh, wow…

His square, stubbly chin.

Those full lips slowly spreading into a wide smile.

My god — I can’t breathe…

Blue eyes, as pale and electric as a flash of lightening.

He shoves his large hand through his messy blond hair. “Hey…”

My heart stops cold in my chest and a shiver runs through my body. The rake slips from my fingers and lands at my feet with a metallic clang. I choke out his name.

“Keeland…?”

Cassie-Ann L. Miller is a contemporary romance author of the Esquire Girls series and the Esquire HEAT series available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

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~Giveaway~

a Rafflecopter giveaway

EXCERPT REVEAL: Savage Mafia Prince by Annika Martin

~Synopsis~

Where is Kiro?

He’s the lost Dragusha brother, heir to a vast mafia empire—brilliant, violent, and utterly savage…and he’s been missing for years.

Ann

I'm supposed to be doing simple undercover research at the Fancher Institute for the Mentally Ill & Dangerous, but I can’t keep my mind off Patient 34. He’s startlingly young and gorgeous, but it’s not just that. He’s strapped way too tightly to that bed. And there’s no name or criminal history on his chart. What are these people hiding? My reporter’s instincts are screaming.

Here's the other thing: the staffers here believe he’s so sedated that there’s not a thought in his head, but I catch him watching me when nobody’s looking. Our connection sizzles when I enter the room. When our eyes meet, I know he understands me in a way nobody else ever has.

I’m supposed to follow my editor’s orders—I have secrets, too—but everything about Patient 34 is suspicious. How can I not investigate?

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The savage arrives on October 11th! 

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~Excerpts~

“They’re ready for 34,” says Donny, creepy king of the orderlies.   

“Come on,” nurse Zara says.

“What’s 34?”

“Patient 34,” Zara says. “Come on.”

He doesn’t get a name? I grab the cart and push it down the hall to where three orderlies are assembled with stun guns out.

“What’s up?”

“We go three on standby for hellbeast,” Donny says, looking at me a little too hard. In addition to neon running shoes, Donny has several empty ear piercings and a strategy of showing you who’s boss by looking really hard at your tits. His eyes are small and frontally placed. Predator eyes.

He opens the door and the three of us file in.

I turn to the patient.

And the breath goes out of me.

Patient 34 has a violent halo of dark curls and a short, unruly beard. Sooty lashes line his amber eyes. His energy is…intense, wild, like he was created in some brilliant hellfire. I feel him like I’ve never felt anybody. He’s gorgeous in a furious way. A stunning, suck-you-in-and-spit-you-out way.

The highest restraint is a four-point restraint, but Patient 34 is in more like eight points, arms to waist, waist to bed, wrists to bed, ankles to bed, neck to bed.

He stares at a fixed point on the ceiling like the other B-52-medicated patients, but he feels utterly different, utterly alive. This guy is not blank.

I look up to find nurse Zara watching me sternly, like she caught me doing something wrong. Did I stare at Patient 34 too long?

I get ready to take his vitals, though I have half a mind to look around for a camera crew, like this is one of those elaborate joke shows where they play tricks and see what people do. He’s just…not at all like the others.

According to 34’s chart, he’s on B-52 plus a few muscle relaxants and something extra I don’t recognize. Enough medication for an elephant. I wrap the BP cuff around his shockingly muscular arm. Shocking, because this is the kind of guy who’ll be unhitched from that bed exactly twice a day. When and how is he working out? And what did he do to get himself this level of restraint?

The history section of his chart is blank. There’s no age, though I’d put him at twenty or twenty-one. I can’t even find his goals program chart. “Where’s his goals?”

Donny laughs from the corner. “He doesn’t get goals. He will never have his meds reduced, he will never have his restraints reduced, and the only way 34’s getting out of this room is feet first.” If I have anything to do with it is the unspoken part of it.

Donny returns his attention to his iPhone.

This guy—so heavily sedated and restrained with a man like Donny hating on him. How does he endure it? I lay a hand on his arm and feel the warmth of him through my latex glove.

“Escape artist,” Zara mumbles, not looking up from her phone. The people working on the wing aren’t supposed to have their phones, but they all do. They know how to avoid the cameras when they’re on them.

“What’s his escape technique?” I ask. “Does he turn into The Incredible Hulk?”

Neither of them responds. Well, I thought it was funny.

I slip the cuff around 34’s arm, rest my gloved hand on his forearm, and start pumping it

I look at his face again.

And the world stops.

Because 34 is there—really there. He’s watching me with intelligence, lips quirked like he thought my Hulk comment was funny.

My heart pounds madly. “Hey, I’m going to take your BP, and we’ll draw a little blood, okay?”

“He doesn’t know what you’re saying,” Zara says from the corner, like I’m this huge idiot. “He’s not going to answer. Read his chart.”

I read the fucking chart, I think at her. Why don’t you look at his fucking face? But when I look back down, 34’s eyes are blank again, and the shadow of a smile is gone. Was I hallucinating? “It seemed like he was there for a second.”

“He hasn’t had a coherent thought in his head for months,” Donny says. “And he never will again.”  

Asshole, I think.

I look back down. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling. Back to being a heavily sedated lion.

~

My mouth just hangs open.

“You’re my mate. I care for you,” he says, like that’s an explanation.

“Don’t you see how ridiculous this is?”

“You’re my mate. I care for you. You don’t like it now, but you will.”

“I very much doubt that.”

He brings me closer. “Do you? Do you really doubt that?”

“Really,” I say, belly melting. Fucking caveman, I tell myself. Not into cavemen.

Softly, gently, he takes hold of my hair. He pulls down, as if he wants my throat fully exposed to him. I shiver a little as he presses rough lips to my tender neck. The entire surface of my body flames up with nerve endings.

Not…into…cavemen.

I tell myself it’s the crisp outdoor air. The exercise. The fact I forgot about the kitten.

He slides his lips over my pulse point and up, then whispers low and rumbly into my ear, “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to catch a nice fat fish for us down there.”

“How?”

“With my hands.”

“What are you? A bear? You can’t catch a fish with your hands.”

“I can, Ann. Then I’ll make a fire.”

“By rubbing sticks together?” I ask inanely. Because the rumble of his voice is doing something to my mind.

He lets my hair go. “I’ll use the lighter.” His tone is a dirty promise. “But if we didn’t have that, I’d rub sticks together. I’m home now. This place is mine. Everything here is mine.”

I swallow.

“Then I’ll cook it. It’ll be delicious and juicy, and you’ll eat it.”

“O-kay,” I say sarcastically. But he has that look. I’m paranoid, suddenly, that my body is getting aroused and leaving my mind behind. And that he’s smelling it.

“I'm going to feed you.” My heart pounds as he slides his hands over my arms, looking down at me, beautiful and wild with those kissable lips. “Then I’m going to bend you over and fuck you.”

My belly drops through my shoes. “Um, excuse me?”

“You heard what I said. It’ll be best if you make yourself ready for me.”

“What? That’s what you think will happen here?”

The savage way he looks at me is a shot through my belly. “It’s what I know will happen.”

“And I’m going to make myself ready for you. That’s how you think this will work.”

His voice lowers. “You’re aroused already. I feel it on your skin. See it in your eyes. And your scent…”

Shivers come over me. “You’re dreaming.”

He puts a hand to the center of my chest and backs me up to the tree. He takes my hand and guides it toward my crotch. I pull, trying to reroute us, but he’s too strong. He grabs two of my fingers and moves them for me. I hiss out a breath as everything between my legs comes alive.

A few strokes, and I could totally get off.  

“Don’t resist me.”

“I get the idea. Make myself ready. I don’t need your demo.”

He keeps on, guiding my fingers between my legs.

I gasp.  “Higher.” He moves my fingers higher, and hits a spot that gets my mind melting.

“Shit,” I breathe, closing my eyes.

“Open your eyes. Open them.”

I keep my eyes closed. There’s not much he can do about it, being that he doesn’t have a third arm and hand.

He growls and bites my cheek. My eyes fly open. “Better.” He continues on, getting me off. Slowly, surely, I’m about to come.

“Feel it,” he says. “This is how you’ll make yourself ready for me.”

“For somebody who’s so sensitive about being as a savage,” I gasp, “you’re acting like one.”

“I think you like it.” He presses me more firmly to the tree. Bark gouges into my back as the pleasure rises between my legs. “This is how I want you. Ready for me to take you when and where I choose.”

I’m moving my hand on my own now, angling into all the best parts, because fuck it feels good. My breath heats up.

His breath tickles my ear. “This is how I want you getting ready for me, for when I bend you over.”

I’m angling to hit a certain spot, panting, mad with the buildup of pleasure. This is not me, turned on by a caveman like this. Mind and body taken over by a possessive brute.

His breath is velvet on my cheek. “There’s nowhere you can hide from me. No part of you can hide from me.”

~

He brings his lips close to my hair. His voice is deep and rumbly. “Open,” he commands.

I open my mouth and he feeds me another morsel. He watches me chew, arranging my hair around my shoulder. Because he wants to watch me eat the food he made for me. Because I belong to him.

The next piece is done. We eat it. Or more, he feeds it to me and himself. Eventually I feel full. “no more,” I say when he tries to feed me another.

He continues to eat. “Are you making yourself ready for me under there?”

“Excuse me? No.”

“Why not?” He sounds annoyed. “I told you I would fuck you, didn’t I?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“You know nothing of how it works.” He puts down the fish and presses a finger to my lips. I turn my head.

He grabs my hair and forces my head to turn back to him. “Suck it,” he says. “Make it clean.”

“I’m not your finger cleaning crew,” I say.

He touches my bottom lip with his pointer finger, holding me tightly. My belly feels animated with energy. Fuck—this is not turning me on. It can’t be.

He traces a finger around my lips. “Open.”

I stare into his amber gaze. His dark curls are caked with mud. It’s a fabulous look on him. OF course, everything’s a fabulous look on Kiro. He waits patiently, fingers at my lips. He’s willing to wait. He knows he’s in charge here.

I keep my lips zipped, heart pounding. It’s not that I don’t want to let his fingers invade me. It’s not that I don’t want him.

I want him too much. He’s too much—he’s too much man, too sexy. I’m too grateful. He’s too much in charge here. The balance of power is way too skewed.

He brings his face to my cheek. I stiffen. Will he bite me again? He can do anything he wants to me out here.

But instead, he presses his lips to my cheek. He kisses me softly. I didn’t even think he knew how to do that—to kiss not in a bruising, wild man way.

His voice feathers my ear with heat. “I know when you’re aroused. I hear it in the tone of your voice. I see it in the way your gaze changes, as if you see everything and nothing. The taste of your skin. And your scent…”

I let out a shuddery breath.

He presses his fingers along my lips, asking for entry. “Take me, Nurse Ann.”

It’s the need in his voice that gets me. The need tells me he’s a little out of control, too. I open.

He pushes his fingers in. “There,” he says. “Suck.”

I comply. His finger tastes mostly of…some spice. Thyme, I think. Maybe it grows wild. Maybe that’s what he used on the fish. To make it taste good--for me. He’d eat it raw, of course. And not in that sushi way.

“You’re not sucking it. Do better.”

I suck. I feel controlled, invaded. Wildly turned on.

“Take two.” He shoves in two, sliding them in and out, in and out, invading my mouth, exploring it, breath speeding. Then he puts in three. It’s a dress rehearsal to sucking his cock—we both know it. “Suck, Ann.”

I imagine him holding me down and shoving his thick, dusky cock into my mouth, taking his pleasure. And I would get a hand free and squeeze him at the root and make it feel really good. Has anybody ever sucked him really nicely and made him feel good like that?

Panting, he pulls out his fingers and slides them down my neck, leaving a cool, wet trail.

Start the series now!

Dark Mafia Prince

Wicked Mafia Prince 

Annika Martin is a NYT bestselling author who enjoys writing dirty stories about dangerous criminals! She loves helping animals and kicking snow clumps off the bottom of cars around the streets of Minneapolis, and in her spare time she writes as the RITA award-winning author Carolyn Crane.

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