I rec’d this book on my Top Ten a few days ago, but it’s just too sexy to ignore for Smex Scene Sunday.
Hero: Luke Turner. Underground Boxer. Massive, broody, intense.
Heroine: Bri Martin. Waitress. Sarcastic, cocky, doesn’t like boxers.
“Did you even see your cut man? What about your trainer? God, I don’t know, even your manager?” I asked and at this, he shook his head. “So, you could be bleeding internally right now and—” I was cut off by him gripping my ass, dragging me forward.
“It’s fine,” he rumbled. The pressure on my ass disappeared for a second and my panties were jerked down, pooling at my feet. I stepped out of them quickly. “So shut up.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist and stood, yanking his own pants down one-handed. Then he sat down again and pulled me to straddle his lap.
“Do you want this?” he growled.
I always hated talkers, but with Luke it was different somehow. It was words I’d heard before, from others, but they felt different coming from his mouth, almost as if they meant more.
I nodded quickly because while he was a talker, I wasn’t. My goal was to be fucked so thoroughly, I would be incapable of speech. And when he lifted me up and brought me back down on his hardness, I knew he was going to do just that.
“God!” I half moaned, half screamed and he grinned in a lazy, wolfish way.
“Move,” he ordered and I was nodding again, frantically, because, yes, moving was good. Moving was really good. His hands clamped on to my hips, fingers digging in, and he started rocking me back and forth rapidly. I didn’t think I imagined the stars exploding behind my lids.
“Damn it, Bri. Move.”
I gripped his shoulders and took over, that pathetic mewling sound escaping my lips every few seconds. His hands were everywhere, ghosting over my ass, running underneath my shirt to skate across my back, slipping around front to palm my breasts, twisting and pulling and squeezing. They slipped between us, touching me just above where we were connected, and I wanted to scream that it was too much but it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
One minute my shirt was there, and the next a ripping sound echoed off the cheap tile and it was reduced to shreds that hung from my shoulders. Even though I registered that I loved that tank, I didn’t care because I was yanking his shirt over his head and his skin was on my skin and that was all that mattered.
And the good news is that Luke’s massive, broody friends get future books.