Once upon a time a directionally impaired author got lost in her own city. Since she’d forgotten her phone, and her vehicle pre-dated the existence of onboard navigation, she was forced to resort to the age-old method of finding her way home: asking for directions.
She pulled up at an unremarkable, shoebox-shaped building in a commercial district at the far edge of town. Pen and paper in hand, she pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped into a land plucked from her wildest fantasy.
OK. Maybe it wasn’t quite her wildest fantasy, but for the sake of keeping this PG-13, we’ll pretend that it was.
No, friends. She did not behold unicorns and rainbows, rivers of chocolate, or lollipop trees. There were no castles, fairies or handsome princes on white horses. Nor were there big couches surrounded by piles of books and waiters bearing snacks so that books could be read start to finish without interruption.
However, there were fighters. Lots of ‘em. Enough for her to share with all her friends, if she had been the sharing type. Which she wasn’t.
So entranced was she by the sea of glistening pecs, hard abs, taut bottoms, and tight shorts, that she barely registered her surroundings. There may have been carpet on the floor. It may have been brown. The gym may have smelled strongly of stale sweat and the florescent lights above her head may have flickered, bathing the gym in a greenish glow. She also may have licked her lips and tasted pure liquid desire. But who really cares about scenes and settings at times like these. Not her.
“Um…hi.” She spoke with the eloquence of an author who has mastered dialogue technique while wishing she had written herself some new clothes. Maybe not her husband’s plaid lumberjack shirt and those leggings that shrank two inches above her cankles the last time she put them in the wash, which, now that she thought about it was two years ago. And damnit. Sure those Birkenstocks were comfortable, but HELLO. PEDICURE. Overgrown toenails and chipped polish were just so passé.
Six shaved heads jerked up. Six tatted and ripped bodies turned in her direction. Twelve eyes (most in pairs) studied her from beneath the fringes of lashes.
She put one hand on her hidden muffin top, and one on her head, pretending to be toying with her hair while tugging out the pony tail holder and simultaneously smoothing the frizz.
And just like that, she was sucked into the vortex of an alpha-male testosterone frenzy.
Woman. Alone. Lost. Dark. Needs. Help. Can’t. Resist. Must. Protect. Save. Woman.
Her fairy godmother appeared and she dropped twenty pounds, lost the grey and her clothes were magically transformed into skin-tight gym-wear that showed off her taut, honed body. The fighters attacked each other, trying to prove themselves worthy of helping her find her way home.
Soon (but not soon enough for her) only one fighter remained standing: the dominant alpha male. He stalked across the gym and pulled her against his hard, sweaty body. Then he leaned down and sealed his mouth over hers, claiming her with a punishing kiss that took her breath away (as punishing kisses from alpha males often do).
“Mine,” he growled.
And they lived happily ever after.
OK. Maybe it didn’t happen that way. Maybe a skinny teenager at the front desk let her use his phone to check out the best route to get home.
But, damn. It gave her a good idea for a series about sexy alpha male fighters and the women who capture their hearts.
And really, in the end, it’s all about the story.
FULL CONTACT, the third standalone book in my Redemption erotic fighter romance series, is available now, and Ray “The Predator” Black, the ultimate alpha male, is awaiting your pleasure.
Ray wraps his arms around me and holds me tight as if something terrible has happened and he doesn’t want to let me go.
Full Contact. This is how Ray speaks when his emotions overwhelm him. I melt into his stillness. His body is hot and hard, his breath warm on my neck. He smells of leather and sweat, sex and sin. Nothing can tear me away.
When you can’t resist the one person who could destroy you…
Sia O’Donnell can’t help but push the limits. She secretly attends every underground MMA fight featuring The Predator, the undisputed champion. When he stalks his prey in the ring, Sia is mesmerized. He is dominant and dangerous and every instinct tells her to run.
Every beautiful thing Ray “The Predator” touches he knows he’ll eventually destroy. Soft, sweet and innocent, Sia is the light to Ray’s darkness—and completely irresistible. From the moment he lays eyes on her, he knows he’s going to have to put his dark past behind him to win her body and soul.
The Redemption Series
Against the Ropes
In Your Corner
Except for the White Buffalo’s cover of “House of the Rising Sun” playing in the background, there is no sound except the rasp of Ray’s breath as his chest rises and falls under my hand. Although I’ve done shoulder and pec tattoos countless times, the intimacy of this position sends a shiver through my body. Longing grips me hard and fierce, and I scramble to regain some semblance of control. Maybe a little conversation.
“So, did you catch your bad guy?”
“No. Still after him.”
When I look up, Ray is watching me. He is so close I can see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow, the thickness of his lashes, his eyes deepening to an azure blue. I force myself to look into them and swallow hard. “Everything okay?”
Apparently not. Jaw tight, muscles quivering, he captures me with his glance. “Your hair.”
I give my head a slight shake and my ponytail swings back and forth. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Take it down.” He fingers a loose tendril beside my ear, his authoritative tone sending a wave of heat raging through me. Read the rest of this entry »