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Blurb:
He’s her captor, but the passion he ignites
within her is beyond anything she’s ever imagined…
When Bronte
Sheridan is kidnapped and taken to an isolated house in the Colorado woods, she
is determined to free herself from the wolf, Roark, who claims he is protecting
her. As the story unfolds, Bronte is stunned to learn there is truth to his
story. And even more shocked to discover the explosive sexual chemistry between
them.
Roark needs
Bronte for more than sex. She holds the key to saving his family. But what happens
when she discovers the true nature of the evil spell that has loomed over the
pack for a century? Human and wolf aren’t meant to mix, but the hot sex factor
is off-the-charts. Can either of them walk away from the magnetism, and
history, that draws them together? Can Bronte ever truly love a half-wolf?
Excerpt:
BRONTE
SNUGGLED DEEPER into the nest of pleasing warmth. She’d never felt such
comfort. Stretching her muscles, she
sighed languidly as a rush of indulgence whirled through her. The nightmare of
being held hostage by an arrogant ass couldn’t even fade the glorious feeling. No other time had she slept all night.
Rolling over,
her face pressed against something iron hard. Inhaling deeply, she froze. Her
heart skipped a beat. The smell was familiar—woodsy mixed with mint. And who
the hell was breathing in her ear?
Sliding one
eye open, she jerked. Shit! She
darted across the bed, pulling the red satin sheet with her. The kidnapping
wasn’t a dream. The arrogant ass was here, in bed, with her! Worse, she was in his
bed and he was sleeping soundly. Damn! He was naked!
She raked her
gaze downward, soaking up every inch of his nudity.
Hell, she
didn’t want to look at him, but for the life of her, she couldn’t help herself.
Admiring his physique broke some
unwritten rule about captive not ogling her captor, but if he wasn’t aware,
maybe it wasn’t so wrong. He was the description of perfect male, making her
self-conscious of her own less-than-perfect body. From his broad shoulders, over
massive chest, narrow waist, and—she jerked her glance away. Oh hell! He was hard and a size that
matched every other large part of him. It was so wrong that such a jerk had a body of
Adonis.
“Forget the
body,” she whispered. She wondered how he’d gotten naked. She lifted the sheet.
And how the hell did I get naked?
She was going
to be sick. Stomach twirling, she squeezed the bridge of her nose between her
forefinger and thumb. She couldn’t remember anything after he’d pulled out
needle and thread and—
Biting back a
moan, she held up her bandaged hand. With haste she’d never known, she tore off
the white gauzy material. Shit! Shit!
Her heart beat faster. She stared at her wounded hand neatly stitched and
covered in clear salve. Looking over at the sleeping man, her mind fabricated
ways she could teach him a lesson on boundaries, and so proudly flaunting his
goods. Her eyes naturally fell to his long cock. She should follow through with
a few of her own evil ideas. Wonder how
he’d like a few stitches in his tool?
No use. She was a wimp. At the mere sight
of blood she’d probably pass out, and ending up unconscious was the last thing
she wanted.
A horrible notion
flashed through her mind. Was it possible they had sex? If she was out while he
stitched her wound, anything could have happened. She reached down and touched
her inner thighs. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no swelling or
sensitivity, and with a cock his size, she’d have physical evidence.
Some tension
left her muscles. Although he didn’t violate her, would he next time?
How had he
knocked her out? Had he hypnotized her?
There was no
time to stick around and debate her questions. She knew this could be her one
and only chance to get the hell away.
Bronte gave
the sleeping figure one more glance. He still slept. His breathing was heavy
and his chest rose and fell evenly. As quietly as possible, she slid to the
edge of the bed, eased her legs over the side and placed her feet onto the cool
floor. She stood and wrapped the sheet
around her body as she scanned the room for her clothes. They were gone. She
guessed Roark had hid them from her, thinking she wouldn’t escape without
clothes. Dressed or not, she’d get out of this place. Nudity was nothing
compared to spending more time in Roark’s loony bin.
With a quick glimpse
over her shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, Bronte started across the
room toward the door. She took each tiptoed step with great care, but every
breath and every time her foot pressed against the wood, it sounded like an
explosion in her ears. I can do this. I
can do this. I can do this. Her heart fluttered at the possibility of
freedom. Reaching the exit, she placed her palm on the knob, twisted and her
hope dropped. Nothing happened. It was locked. The bastard! Maybe she could stand the sight of blood, just this
once, if it meant getting revenge. She turned on heel and ran into a wall of
flesh and muscle. Bringing her gaze up into an expression of pure wickedness,
she gulped loudly.
“You didn’t
think I’d allow you to walk out of here, did you?” His voice was husky from
sleep. He yawned and wiped his eyes.
His laid-back
attitude made her want to rip his eyes out. And having him stand there naked
and proud, made her fury multiply. How dare he be so smug! “You can’t keep me
here forever.”
“How long you stay is completely up to you,
sweetheart. You’re in control more than you think.”
Sounds like a winner
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