If you want to read one of my reviews of her books you can click
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Here's an excerpt from her new book, I have not read it yet and you might ask how I can recommend it??????
It's because of my experiences with her other books. I will read it as soon as I can and then review it.
I point to the guy behind the glass. “You want Peter’s number?”
“I don’t know. Do you think he likes piňa coladas and making love in the rain?”
For a flash second, a burst of wildfire curls through my veins. It feels like white-hot jealousy. Which is ridiculous since she’s not making love to Peter.
Or me, for that matter, obviously.
I fight off the envy with a full dose of sarcasm. “Have you ever noticed you never have a good pair of headphones when you need them?”
She huffs. “Message received. I’ll just shut up and read a book.” She reaches for her phone on the seat, but accidentally knocks it to the floor of the car. I lean down to pick it up, and when I hand it to her I see her playlist.
Nena’s “99 Luftballoons.”
The Go-Go’s “Vacation.”
Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”
I smirk. That’s too fucking adorable. “You like bubblegum pop?”
Her cheeks go red. “There’s nothing wrong with bubblegum pop,” she says as she tries to grab her phone from my hand.
I. Can’t. Resist.
I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the way this girl needles me. It’s her French maid routine. It’s her pushing all my buttons. It’s the way she detests me.
I hold her phone behind my head.
“Max,” she says, in a perfect plea. God, it’s hot. I can hear her saying it in bed.
I feign surprise. “Oh, did you want your phone back, tiger?”
Her eyes widen when I use that word. Frankly, I’m surprised I said it. But she is a tiger, especially right now as she leans across the seat, reaching for it.
Damn, I’m an asshole. And yet, I can’t seem to stop playing keep-away with her phone, jamming it far behind me so that it hits the side of the car. She lunges for it, thrusting her arm out, but only hitting my forearm.
She swats me. “Give it to me.”
My brain short-circuits. She would sound hot saying that bent over the bed.
Then in a flurry, she unbuckles her seat belt and lunges at me.
Foul play indeed.
She’s on me. She’s fucking on me. She climbs, stretching high, her tits near my motherfucking face, so help me God. They are saggy, drooping, ugly breasts.
Except they’re not.
They’re perfect. Lush, ripe.
Like her sweet perfume scent. Like her cinnamon breath that flutters across my cheek as she rises higher. As she reaches, her T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of her stomach.
I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
I simply try not to grow more aroused. But then she wraps one hand around my wrist and pries the phone with the other as her breasts smash against my eyes.
Man down.
Heat by Opal Carew
