Happy Release Day Melanie Harlow!
SOME SORT OF CRAZY IS LIVE!
When a psychic tells Natalie Nixon her life is about to be upended by a mysterious stranger, she laughs it off. After all, she has everything she’s ever wanted—a successful bakery, the perfect boyfriend, and the keys to her dream house. Who could possibly make her want to throw all that away? Then Miles Haas comes back to town. But he’s no stranger—they’ve known each other since high school. Plus, he’s only around for the summer, he’s still a shameless playboy, and he makes a living writing articles for a men’s magazine with titles like 'Should You Bang the Boss’s Daughter? A Flowchart' and 'Butt Stuff for Beginners: A Field Guide.' He’s not the man of her dreams, and she’s not about to abandon everything she’s worked so hard for just for a little fun. Except he makes her laugh like no one else, smells like heaven, and wears panty-melting glasses.
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The light was off in my room when I returned, and I could barely make out her shape under the blanket. Leaving my glasses on the bedside table, I slid between the sheets, careful to stay on my side. When was the last time a woman slept in my bed without orgasms being involved? I couldn’t think of one time, actually. I didn’t even know what to do with myself. I lay there for a while on my back, hands beneath my head, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to stay calm. But I could smell her perfume, and it was making me hard again. Fuck! Was she asleep already? Could I rub one out without her knowing? I braved a look at her, and my eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see that she was facing away from me, curled up on her side. Long, agonizing, minutes ticked by, during which I imagined rubbing my cock along the crack of her ass, which was sticking out in my direction. Taunting me. “I lied to you last night.” Her voice was so soft, I thought I might have imagined it. Or dreamed it. “Huh?” Stop thinking about her ass. She rolled to her other side and faced me, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. “I lied last night. I told you I didn’t remember what you said to me the night we said goodbye. The night before you left for school.” I blinked in surprise. “Oh.” “Did you really mean the things you said?” “Of course I meant them. I stand by every word I’ve ever said to you.” And my cock is standing straight up right now. So if you could please stop being beautiful and sexy and vulnerable, I’d appreciate it. Thanks. She took a shuddery breath. “And yet…tonight, you wouldn’t—” “Tonight was not about us, Natalie.” “But…what if it was?” She paused. “What if it could be?” Fuck, was she serious? Because I wanted that. I wanted a night that was just about us, wanted to show her what it was like to be with someone who appreciated her. Just one night, even if it was all we ever had. But I couldn’t be the one to initiate it, not without knowing it was really OK. “Natalie,” I started, but she interrupted me. “I’m lying here thinking, a week ago my life seemed so complete, everything in order. My relationship. My business. My house. I had everything I wanted.” “And now?” “Now I feel like I’ve been missing something. Like maybe I was wrong about what I wanted. I feel…lost.” She looked at me with her huge, round blue eyes, making my whole body heat up. “You’re not lost.” Rolling onto my side, I met her forehead with mine. “You’re right here with me.” And I kissed her. Just like that, I kissed her.
ABOUT MELANIE HARLOW
Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her heels high, and her history with the naughty bits left in. When she's not reading good books, she gets her kicks from TV series like Game of Thrones, Boardwalk Empire, Masters of Sex, Deadwood, Mad Men, and Downtown Abbey (although she wishes it were more HBO and less PBS).
Melanie is the author of the FRENCHED contemporary romance series (FRENCHED, YANKED, FORKED, FLOORED) and the sexy historical series SPEAK EASY (SPEAK EASY, SPEAK LOW), set in the 1920s.
She lifts her glass to romance readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI, where she lives with her husband and two daughters.
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