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Excerpt from Manhandled:
Rolan Anthony Paxton’s dawn fantasy had him in a state of rapture.
“Rolan, sweetie?”
Stifling an automatic wince, he lifted one eyelid and looked at the blonde servicing him. Cindy-something, great boobs and a god-awful, high-pitched, nails-on-the-blackboard voice. He should have picked the other one.
“Hmmh?”
The yacht’s engines hummed to life, and the boat vibrated and rocked. An open porthole let Mediterranean brine into the room, along with an unexpected morning chill. Monte Carlo’s perpetual traffic buzzed in the background.
At least she hadn’t stopped using those wonderful hands, but that happy thought evaporated with the dig of a nail.
“Ouch,” he winced and glanced down. “Watch the nails, babe.”
“Oops, sorry.” She cupped a hand over her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.
A barrage of firm knocks hit the cabin door, and he cut to the sound, mood souring and lips curling.
Figured—it took him longer and longer these days, and the slightest mishap turned him off. Age, it had to be, since he was thirty-one and tired of the same old, same old.
Money, fame, success—he had it all and nothing counted anymore.
He knew he should be grateful. How many athletes made it to the championship, not once, not twice, but three times?
Startled out of his brooding by a repeat of rapping on the burnished mahogany door, he shot a look at the blonde and ordered, “Cover up.”
In a louder tone, he called, “Come in.”
Without looking up, he snagged the cover sheet and began drawing it over his calves. He stopped when an audibly gasped “Oh, no” penetrated the silence.
His head snapped up, and a stunned paralysis claimed his limbs.
He’d never forgotten those eyes, the color of liquid caramel, that wild hair, every shade of a fiery sunset, and a bottom lip so plump, so inviting that one night he hadn’t been able to resist nibbling on it for hours.
Sarita Khan, the nose-in-a-book classmate he’d been forced to serve four Saturdays of detention with during his last year in high school. The girl whose virginity he’d taken on prom night after breaking up with the captain of the cheerleading team. Those sweet elfin features haunted his dreams intermittently over the last twelve years. Adrenalin surged in his veins, and his heartbeat accelerated.
Sarita, his Sarita.
That bronze-dusted complexion paled beneath his scrutiny and she swayed. The breakfast tray balanced on her forearms listed back and forth. She swallowed, slapped a palm onto the table cemented to the left, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” He hopped out of the bed, oblivious to his nudity, and stalked forward. “Here, let me take that.”
For a few seconds she gripped the tray tighter, but she didn’t lift her lids. Then her hold slackened.
He tugged the tray away and set it on the table. Eyes Krazy Glued to her delicate, heart-shaped face, raking a quick assessment of the changes over the last twelve years, he forgot Cindy, the boat, the injuries plaguing his career—everything save Sarita and sweet memories. The compulsion to trace the soft curve of her cheek, cup her face, and suck that lower lip was defeated only by a nervous giggle in the background. Rolan stifled an internal groan, and he fisted his hands.
Excerpt from Sinner:
The first kitchen cabinet she opened yielded ten packs of candles. By the time Lincoln 
returned, Destiny had finished her list, and a dozen flickering candles imbued a soft golden glow to the main cabin.
Surveying the room, she sighed.
Wasn’t this every woman’s fantasy?
Stuck in a warm cabin in the mountains with a hunk who looked like he knew more about sex than Antonio Banderas. So he thought she was easy. It wasn’t as if they’d ever meet again in real life. And he didn’t seem to have any problem with her being ten pounds overweight. Okay, okay, maybe fifteen. But who would know? In four months she turned twenty-seven, and she’d never had torrid sex, never had a hot affair.
The wind howled and lifted the top of a snowdrift into the air when Lincoln, carrying a bundle of logs, kicked the door open. An icy finger sailed on the gust, trailing a chill around Destiny’s neck. She wished she’d packed a scarf, and tugged the blanket over one ear.
Lincoln used his boot to slam the door shut.
“Why didn’t you start a fire?”
“With what?” She’d held a dozen lit matches to one log, and the wood didn’t even catch a spark.
He looked to the ceiling.
“The normal tools—paper, logs.”
“Bite me,” Destiny snapped. All dreams of a romantic snowed-in couple of days went poof. What a bully.
He stacked the logs on the other side of the fireplace and, in less time than it took her to inhale, or so it seemed, had a blazing fire crackling and spewing sparks. The scent of pine infused the air.
“I will.” He stood and unzipped his parka. “You like it rough, I take it?”
Lincoln shrugged out of his jacket, stowed the garment on the three-hook wooden coat stand to the right of the door, turned to face her, and smiled.
She shivered. The man had a bone-melting, devil-may-care grin.
“What?” He couldn’t mean….
“You like to be bitten?” A forefinger stroked the cleft of his chin.
“None of your business. What are you? Into kink?”
“Depends on the kink. I’m not into pain, but I’m not averse to a love bite here and there. Or a few spanks.”
Spanks? She was in over her head. Cripes, she’d always wondered about that. Pervasive guilt from Sunday school lessons and spending three hours in a porn superstore made her blurt, “Look, let’s get a few points cleared up. Those toys and DVDs weren’t for me. I don’t do that kind of stuff.” She paused, trying to erase the image from her pupils of her over his knees.
“And here I was hoping that deep throat was your specialty.” He started unbuttoning his shirt. “Do we have food?”
***
Hope this jumpstarts your Magic Monday!
Cheers,
Jianne
