Are you ready?
You Sure?
Cover Information:
Model: Andrew England
I call him “Tool” because he’s a dick.
Gaige
O’Neal is nicknamed “Tool” because of what he’s packing. Rumor is that he’s
well equipped.
He’s
a cocky, entitled, insufferable a**hole who’s as reckless with women as he is
with that stupid motorcycle he races.
It's
been four years since I've seen him.
Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my
biggest confidant, my first love.
My
stepbrother.
It’s
just my f**ing luck that the first time I see him in four years, he’s buried
beneath three scantily clad blondes.
Now
I’m stuck here under the same roof with him while he recovers from a racing
injury. An injury that clearly hasn’t affected the use of his tool.
The problem
is, as much as I despise him, I just can’t help myself. I want to find out what
kind of tool he's working with.
Delaney
doesn't take her eyes off mine, and I watch as something changes in her
expression. A look of resolve, I think. She reaches inside my pants and wraps her
hand around my cock. "Then what do
you want?" she asks. Her voice is
low, breathy, and she looks up at me, her eyes wide.
"I
want whatever the hell makes you keep doing what you're doing," I say as
she slides her hand up my shaft, her touch light as a feather. When she reaches the tip, she stops, her
thumb rolling over the surface of the head, finding the tiny drop of pre-cum
that beads at the tip.
"I
don't know what I'm doing, Gaige" she whispers. "I don't know what we're doing."
"You're
always too much in your head, darlin'," I say, kicking off my shoes and
sliding my jeans down over my ass.
"So just stop thinking. Take
off those fucking clothes before I tear them off you."
Delaney's
eyes get big again. "Do you just
order women around like that?" she asks.
"Is that your thing?"
"My
thing? Fuck. I'm naked and you're still standing there talking," I say. "I will
rip your clothes off. Try me. It's not an idle threat."
"So
girls just do what you tell them to do?" she asks. But both of her hands are on the hem of that
silky-as-hell shirt of hers, paused as if she's deciding whether or not to
strip. I'm going to make that decision
real fucking easy, because I'm not playing any more.
"Stop
talking," I say, my hand on the base of my cock. "Take.
Off. Your. Goddamn.
Clothes. Now." I punctuate each word for emphasis, and I
swear to all that is holy, I am very close to tearing open her clothes like a
wild animal. I've waited long enough for
her. Four years. Four years and three months. Four years and three months and nine days.
Delaney
starts to lift her shirt, but she's too slow, and I reach for the material,
yanking it over her head in one swoop.
Her hair spills down her shoulders, strands tumbling down her
breasts. Taking a handful of hair at the
nape of her neck, I yank her roughly against my hardness. When she moans, it's almost my undoing.
I
kiss her, and it's nothing like the other times I've put my lips against
hers. All of those kisses were just a
prelude to this. This is the real deal. That
rush I get when I'm racing is like nothing compared to my tongue in Delaney's
mouth, my hand cupping her breast and feeling her melt against me. It sends adrenaline coursing through my
veins, the rush of arousal better than any other high in the world.
Delaney
gasps when I finally take my mouth off hers.
"Hell, Gaige," she whispers, putting her fingers to her lips.
"Shit,
you ain't seen nothing yet, darlin'," I tell her. It's part promise and part warning. I'm not sure what this girl is going to do to
me. I think she might fucking destroy
me.
Sabrina Paige writes about smart, sexy women and the hot
alpha males who love them. Outlaw bikers, cowboys, and military men make her
swoon. She has found her own happily ever after with her active duty military
husband and adorable toddler.
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