Erin Upton is too embarrassed to tell the cops what she was really doing while her townhouse was burglarized, especially since the first officer on the scene is former nuisance next door Charlie Dwyer. Where’s the justice in the world when a neighborhood know-it-all grows up to be six-foot-three inches of solid muscle with gorgeous green eyes and a slow, sexy please-arrest-me-now-officer smile? It’s bad enough she’s wearing her robe and slippers—did he have to notice her fuzzy hand cuffs on the bathroom sink?He’s arrogant as he ever was, which is fine by her—she’s too busy with her dance studio’s grand opening to make time for a man. But they keep crossing paths, and when Charlie offers to help her put in new flooring at the studio one night, things go from hammering nails to hammering each other in a hurry. And about those hand cuffs…
They agree it’s a one-time thing. But when that becomes a two-time thing, then a three-time thing, Erin starts to wonder if maybe she and Charlie could be a life-time thing. Her best friends Mia and Coco found love in unexpected places. Is it finally her turn?
“Stop it. I’m not perfect. I’m not what you think.”
Charlie tilted his head. “No?”
I licked my lips. “You think I’m a joke. The “Teacher’s Pet. The Homecoming Queen. The Goody Two Shoes who likes everything just so, everything neat and clean. Well, I don’t, you know. Like everything clean.”
Charlie said nothing at first. But his stillness told me he was intrigued. A lovely little ache blossomed between my legs.
“You like some things dirty. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” I whispered, butterflies rioting in my belly.
“I’m not sure you do.”
Slowly, he came off the counter. Bracing my hands behind my hips, I opened my knees, and he stepped between them, sliding his hands up the tops of my thighs. He was so tall, I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close his chest was even more imposing, and his shoulders seemed to dwarf mine. Gooseflesh rippled down my arms, and my breaths came fast.
By contrast, Charlie seemed completely in control. His breathing was slow and measured, his hands moving over my hips and beneath my sweatshirt. His eyes stayed locked on mine as his palms slid up the sides of my ribcage and back down, spanning my waist. “Such a tiny little thing.”
“Scared you’ll break me?”
“Yes.” In the near dark, his blue eyes looked black.
In less than a second, Charlie pulled off three moves that had me gasping for air—he yanked me to my feet, turned me around, and kicked my heels apart so my legs were spread and I was bent over the island, arms pinned behind my back. His legs pressed the backs of my thighs, and his hips pushed against my ass.
He was hard.
The power went out completely.
Oh my fucking God.
“Panting, I lay my cheek on the cool marble, unsure of what to do next. Between my ears, the message was this is scary. Between my legs, it was this is hot.
“No, don’t give up. Fight me. Come on. Struggle.” His voice was different now—deeper, quieter even, yet more intimidating.
Adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart pounding with fear, with arousal, with shock. I tried moving my arms—he pulled them tighter, clamped my wrists harder. I tried moving my legs—he pinned my hips against the marble, his erection pushing firmly into my flesh. I flexed my fingers—he laughed softly.
“That’s it. Try everything. Scream if you like.”
I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. It felt like the darkness had weight, like it was bearing down on my back with a force stronger than gravity. Breathing required all the lung strength I had, and I wasn’t even sure I could keep that up.
“Tell me I’m hurting you.”
He was hurting me.
But I liked it.
He yanked my arms mercilessly behind me. “Tell me.”
“You’re hurting me,” I said weakly.
“Tell me to stop.”
“Stop.” Don’t stop.
“Tell me you don’t want this from me.”
“I don’t—want this—from you.” Each word was its own struggle. I meant the words, and yet I didn’t. I wanted him, but knew I shouldn’t. And was this only a game? Was he just testing me? Or, worse, was he back there laughing at me in the dark? I had no way to tell.
“Good girl. You don’t want this from me, sweet thing.” He backed off slightly and somehow imprisoned both my wrists with one of his hands. The other one snaked around to my belly.
And down the front of my pants.
Don’t miss the rest of the FRENCHED series
Frenched (Frenched Series Book #1)
When Tucker Branch, playboy heir to Branch Bolt and Screw, screws and bolts a week before their wedding, Mia Devine wants nothing more than to crawl under her newly monogrammed sheets and plan a funeral for her dignity. But her friends convince her that bitter tastes better when it’s drowned in Bordeaux, so Mia grits her teeth and packs her bags, determined to make the best of her luxurious Paris honeymoon—alone.She never planned on meeting Lucas Fournier.
The easygoing bartender’s scruffy good looks and less-than-sympathetic ear annoy her at first, but when she takes him up on his offer to show her around the city, she discovers that the romance of Paris isn’t just a myth.
Nor is the simultaneous O.
The last thing Mia needs is another doomed love affair, but since she only has a week, she figures she might as well enjoy la vie en O with Lucas while she can. But each day—and night—with Lucas is better than the last, and suddenly her heart is telling her this is more than a rebound fling.
Is it just the seduction of Paris…or could this be the real thing?
Twenty-eight year old Coco Thomas knows the recipe for disaster:1) Agree to plan last-minute engagement blowout for spoiled Mafia princess before you realize her choice of caterer is Nick Lupo, a despicably gorgeous young chef with a hot new restaurant in town, a reality TV show victory, and a romantic past with you—one that did not end well.
2) Strike a deal with Nick in which you agree to spend a weekend with him in exchange for his services, under the strict conditions there will be no talking about the past, no second chances, and definitely no sex.
3) Violate all three conditions within 24 hours and spend two glorious days remembering what made you fall for the sexy, egotistical bastard in the first place, and why it hurt so much when he broke your heart.
Add one road trip, plenty of good scotch, and endless spoonfuls of chocolate cake batter drizzled over your body and licked off inch by oh-my-God-yes-right-there inch, then just admit it.
You’re totally FORKED.
Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her lipstick red, and her history with the naughty bits left in. She lifts her glass to readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI.