It wasn’t the look in the man’s dark, dark eyes—a look so wild it was nearly unhinged—or his size, which was substantial, or the charcoal drawing he held in one crooked, bandaged hand, or the way he’d demanded to know where the girl in the drawing now lived. It was the gun...
Snoring aside—soft and girly snoring, but still snoring nonetheless—she might be the most feminine woman he’d ever met, in spite of the tough-chick bravado she wore like a suit of armor. She was tender and passionate and surprisingly intuitive, guessing correctly that the feeling he got when kiss...
At some point in the night he’d carried her to the bedroom, but she wasn’t awake for that. She wasn’t awake when he tucked her into his side and pulled the blankets over them both, his arm around her, holding her close. His body was heat and muscle at her back, his legs drawn up behind hers. She ...
Or so angry. He kissed her. He forced her to Shift. In front of everyone. But the worst part, the most agonizingly wretched part, was the way she had responded. She hid her face in her hands and groaned as she remembered it. The way her skin began to tingle and flush even as she was trying to fig...
He paused intermittently between sentences as if he were listening. “Yes, I’m sure. I know. I did, but he’d vanished. I’ll try again in a few hours. I’ve been at it all night. Yes, she—no. No. Leander, that’s not—” He exhaled in a long, aggravated hiss, then fell silent. &...
Because it’s not a car. It’s a motorcycle. He informs me he doesn’t own a car. Item number four thousand seven hundred eighty-two on the list of things normal people own that A.J. Edwards doesn’t. “I can’t ride on that!” I stare at the ginormous black Harley parked in the back lot. It glitters wi...