He turns his body back toward me, and I realize I have no fucking clue what to say next. I came here to ask you something? Of all the things that could have come out of my mouth, that’s what my brain settled on? The desperate, girly part of me that I don’t like to acknowledge wants to tell him that I love him and beg him not to move away. But then I’d have to go drown myself in the pool.
“Oh yeah?” Shawn asks, and to stall for time, I lean toward his ear. He leans forward to meet me, and as I breathe in the scent of his shower-fresh cologne, my mind goes completely blank. I’ve lost the ability to form words, even simple ones like thank you. He’s moving away soon, and I’m blowing my last chance to tell him how I feel. With my cheek next to his, I turn my face, and then Shawn’s eyes are right in front of mine and our noses are practically brushing and his lips are centimeters away—and my brain says fuck it. And I lean forward.
And I kiss him.
Not quickly, not slowly. With my eyes closed, I press a warm kiss against his soft bottom lip, which tastes like a million different things. Like beer, like a dream, like the way the clouds swept across the moon tonight. My brain is flickering between wanting to melt into him and needing to pull away when Shawn makes the decision for me.
When his lips open to mine and he deepens the kiss, my heart hammers in my chest and my trembling hands anchor themselves to his sides. His fingers bury in the thick of my hair, pulling me closer, and I’m far too lost to ever want to be found. My fingers fist in the loose fabric of his T-shirt, and Shawn breaks his lips from mine to purr low in my ear, “Come with me.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST, LET ME just say: I am an unintentional method writer. When I write, my heroine possesses me, and living inside Dee’s head was . . . an experience. Weekly meltdowns. Tons of attitude. Angst like nobody’s business. Writing her was a challenge—for me and everyone who had to breathe the same air as me. So a HUGE thanks to the man who had to live with me: my husband, Mike. And thanks to the four ladies who were always there to talk me off the ledge: Rocky Allinger, Kim Mong, Kelleigh McHenry, and my mom, Claudia.
Thanks to my agent, Stacey Donaghy, for crying ugly tears over the same scenes I did. Thanks to my editor, Nicole Fischer, for spending time with Joel even in her sleep. Thanks to Jay Crownover for spoiling me with kick-ass blurbs. Thanks to everyone at HarperCollins who works their magic on my stories to put them in your hands. And last but not least, thanks to each and every one of YOU who are reading this right now. You mean the world to me, and it’s because of you that I’m able to continue doing what I love. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
About the Author
Born and raised in South Central Pennsylvania, JAMIE SHAW earned her M.S. in Professional Writing from Towson University before realizing that the creative side of writing was her calling. An incurable night owl, she spends late hours crafting novels with relatable heroines and swoon-worthy leading men. She’s a loyal drinker of white mochas, a fierce defender of emo music, and a passionate enthusiast of all things romance. She loves interacting with readers and always aims to add new names to their book-boyfriend lists.
www.authorjamieshaw.blogspot.com
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By Jamie Shaw
Riot
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Available now wherever e-books are sold.
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Laura Simcox concludes her fun, flirty Various States of Undress series with a presidential daughter, a hot baseball player, and a tale of love at the ballgame.
“Uh. Hi.”
Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway—wearing a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a smile—was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”
He didn’t comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-too-sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least 6’3”, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn’t stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him to the glass wall but moved right back again.
“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow, deep Southern drawl. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”