“You’re okay, Smoke. So am I. It’s all okay.” The words are softly spoken. Soothing, like you would for a frightened child.

My heart hammers loudly in my chest, and it’s not just the adrenaline of the situation.

It’s the way I feel Smoke’s heartbeat beneath my palm. It’s the way his hand sits over mine, covering it completely, so strong and warm. It’s the way his thumb rubs over my fingers and the way his eyes darken with heat and arousal.

It’s his presence. The way we feel so…joined. His eyes raise to my lips as he runs his tongue over his lower lip.

Neither of us moves.

The world continues around us. Birds chirp, cicadas do their thing, but we’re stuck in a vortex. Swirling. Chaotic. All consuming.

“The prospects need to be protecting you,” he says finally.

But his voice is gruff, layered with nuance it’s impossible to interpret.

“And he was. Who was protecting you?”

“I don’t need protecting.”

I shake my head sadly. “I think you do.”

Smoke cups my cheeks before I have time to process, his hold firm.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, I think.

Then, he dips his head and kisses me.

And it’s everything I ever read about.

It’s angry yet filled with the kind of passion that sweeps you up and knocks you over into the tumble of a huge wave of emotion.

My treacherous body capitulates to every small movement.

His lips stroke my mouth; I open.

His hands wrap around my waist; I throw mine around his neck.

I struggle to see anything beyond the way he feels against me.

When I step up against him, his cock lengthens and hardens against my stomach. His whole body envelops me, showing just how disparate our size difference is.

He doesn’t ask. He takes. But I’m wholeheartedly a willing participant. If anything, I want more. Every part of my body meets Smoke. If he began to strip my clothes to take me on the parched ground, I’d let him.

“Quinn,” he mutters against my lips as his hands roam my body, familiarizing themselves with my shape.

I’m gentle where he’s injured, but I slide my hand beneath his cut, and I’m immersed in the scent of leather and tobacco and him.

“Shit. No,” Smoke says suddenly, lightly gripping my wrists before pushing me away from him.

The shift in his expression from need to disgust churns my stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I say, almost on autopilot, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m sorry for.

Hell, I’m not even sure how I fell headfirst into that kiss.

Smoke shakes his head. “Not your fault. Just—we can’t do that again.”

Unable to come up with anything else to say, I blurt one word: “Okay.”

Four letters that do absolutely nothing to convey the storm raging inside me right now.

“Okay,” he repeats.

But as I watch him stride into the house, ignoring the glass Shane left on the step, I know the fragile truce we were building is broken. And I wonder if we’ll ever truly be okay again.

She believes everybody deserves their love story to be told and loves her heroes on the rough and rugged side…and usually tall (because she married one of those 6ft 6” men you read about in romance books!). She’s an A-type personality and Scorpio star sign, so good luck getting her to do anything she doesn’t want to.

When she isn’t writing, she’s happy to talk about hot men and expensive shoes while drinking a cold gin and tonic. Don’t bring up olives. As far as Scarlett is concerned, they are the devil’s food. As long as you don’t bring up olives, she’s happy to hear from you any time.

She is represented by Louise Fury at The Fury Agency.