They liked to call me names. Manwhore. Slut. Player. But I
make wrong look so right…
He's a flawed perfectionist…
I can read women better than any blueprint. I understand
their thoughts and feelings, their secret desires and insecurities, and I know
how to get rid of them once I get off.
But all bets are off when Tiel Desai slams into my life. She
redefines what it means to be friends, and she makes it sound like the
filthiest thing I've ever heard.
I can't read the gorgeous conservatory-trained violinist,
but she's the only one keeping me from shattering by small degrees, and I can't
let her go.
She's wildly independent…
My past—and New Jersey—are far behind me, and now my life is
blissfully full of music: playing, teaching, and lecturing, and scouring
Boston's underground scene with an annoyingly beautiful, troubled, tattooed
architect.
I'm defenseless against his rooftop kisses, our nearly naked
dance parties, the snuggletimes that turn into sexytimes, and his deep,
demanding voice.
I have Sam Walsh stuck in my head like a song on repeat, and
I'm happy pretending history won't catch up with me.
The one thing they have in common is a rock-solid disregard
for the rules.
They find more in each other than they ever realized they
were missing, but they might have to fall apart before they can come together.
It's the wrongs that make the rights come to life.
AMAZON US -
Books in the series
Underneath It All
Amazon:
The Space Between
Amazon:
Underneath It All - The Walsh Series #1
If I had known I'd have a hot architect balls deep inside of
me before the end of the weekend, I'd have made time for a pedicure. Also, a
little chat about not losing my shit at all the wrong moments.
Hindsight was a bitch, and karma…well, I didn't know her
story yet.
Meet Lauren Halsted.
It's all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept
promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh's arms.
I couldn't decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip
his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest
with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run
screaming.
Meet Matthew Walsh.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was
fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers
to count, and she wasn't letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn't looking for me and I sure as shit wasn't looking
for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of
wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together.
Other times, it throws them down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a
bruised and bloodied heap.
The Space Between - The Walsh Series #2
Some lines are meant to be crossed.
Patrick
That hair.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers
in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn't my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and
scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust
swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could
name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston's crumbling buildings.
Andy
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga,
interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel
eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom
wasn't part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed
plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh
leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
*This is the second book in The Walsh Series, though it
reads as a stand-alone novel.
I was halfway through blending the modified mudslides when
Sam placed his hands on my hips, his palms circling over my clothes. There was
a hot insistence in his touch, and he soon dipped beneath my dress and inside
my leggings.
"Don't move," he ordered.
His body shifted, and he dropped to his knees behind me.
True to his word, he peeled my leggings down, one aching inch at a time. His
mouth moved over my exposed skin, kissing and licking, and when my clothes were
bunched at my ankles, he pushed my legs apart. He drove his fingers inside me,
stroking and thrumming my clit until I was bent over the countertop and begging.
And then Sam's fingers were gone, abandoning me seconds
before I came, and I was ready to scream.
Springing up, I rounded on him, my eyes as furious as I
felt, and he just smiled. "That not go the way you wanted?"
"Rude!" I yelled. "Very rude!"
I was wet—not simply aroused—and I sensed my fluid coating
my thighs. It was almost embarrassing, and I was somewhat convinced I'd find a
puddle on the floor very soon.
"Maybe." He grabbed a handful of my dress and
yanked me against his chest. "You've had a rough night," he said, and
I nodded. "It's going to get a little rougher."
My default reaction to overwhelming situations was laughter,
and when those words washed over me, I dissolved into giggles despite his dark,
severe tone.
"Oh, Sunshine," Sam hissed, slipping his fingers
into my mouth. I tasted myself on him, and I wanted to be revolted but I was
too fucking turned on to care. His eyes darkened as I sucked, his groan hoarse
and exactly as desperate as I felt. "I am going to own you tonight."
He pushed me against the refrigerator and freed me from my
leggings and panties. Ducking under my dress, his tongue swirled over my clit
and it only took a few well-placed licks to prime my body for explosion.
And once again, he stopped a minute too soon. Wailing, I
beat my fists against the refrigerator. This was torture, and he knew it.
"Saaaaaaammm," I moaned.
He offered a knowing grin and placed feathery kisses on my
thighs and pelvic bone and just barely between my legs. "Do not doubt that
I'll gag you."
"I'll finish this myself," I said, but the threat
sounded whiny and petulant.
He chuckled, his warm breath tickling my leg, and he
continued teasing. He didn't believe me.
Unable to see past the screeching urge for release ringing
through my body, I bunched my dress at my waist and brought my hand to my
center. I'd barely grazed my clit when Sam's hand curled around my wrist and
pinned it to my side.
"Don't you dare," he said. He stood, leaning into
me while I squirmed, angling for his hard length where I needed it. "I'llmake
you come. Only me, and only when I'm ready."
"You're such a dick," I yelled, burrowing into his
shoulder.
"And you love it." He dragged his scruffy chin
across my chest, inflaming my nerves and drawing out a shiver that didn't seem
to stop. "How long should I make you wait?"
I shook my head, whimpering, "No more."
"Should I fuck you right here?" Sam asked. He
lifted my hands above my head and speared his hips against me, and the impact
sent vibrations rippling through my body. "Or against the counter? Your
ass looked fucking edible bent over like that."
He traced the line of my arm, over my breast and belly, and
brushed my folds. It was a delicate touch, like he was stroking something
incomprehensibly fragile, and desire sparked in my veins until I was trembling.
It was an agonizing, throbbing need, but Sam didn't stop.
His body trapped me there, his chest flush with mine, his grip tight on my
wrists, and I could feel the drumbeat of his heart pounding in time with mine.
He whispered filthy things about how much he loved touching me and teasing me,
and how he wanted my arousal dripping all over his wrist, and that my pussy
belonged to him.
I hated hearing those words—my ladybits were my own, thank
you—but I craved them, too. It was primal and animalistic, and if my hands were
free, I would have closed my fist around his cock and said the exact same
thing.
I took tremendous pride in belonging only to myself, but
right now, with my body heaving in spectacularly painful need, I wanted to be
Sam's. He could claim my pussy, my orgasms, my everything.
"Do I need to restrain you?" he asked, and even
the scrape of his teeth on my earlobe was too much stimulation.
"Sam," I rasped. "Please."
He released me, but I didn't have long to miss the weight of
his body. He led me into the bedroom, yanking the rest of my clothes off in the
process. His were quick to follow, and then he was over me, his palm splayed
between my breasts, pressing hard.
He pushed into me, slow and deliberate, and he kept me
anchored in place while he stroked all the way in, his hips snug against mine,
and then all the way out. I didn't think it was possible for him to torture me
any more than he had, but this—this was the most licentious torture imaginable.
Eventually, he shifted his hand down my body until the heel
of his palm rested over my mound. When I edged up to meet his thrusts, that
pressure sent hot, crackling snaps of electricity through me.
"Oh, fuck, Sam," I cried, my shoulders digging
into the mattress for more leverage.
"You want to come for me, sweetheart?" he asked,
as if I'd been holding out on him. I made some hysterical, mewling sound and he
smiled, nodding. His jaw locked, his strokes deepening, slamming into me as I
arched my back.
I knew the minute he came because his face always took on
the same expression of serene suffering, and he'd groan my name, low and
gravelly, like a secret prayer. I let myself believe that moment belonged to
me, that his body couldn't possibly react that way to anyone else.
Just as I was pulled under by that warm, soothing orgasm, he
ground his palm against me, and that wave morphed into a fucking tsunami. Every
muscle twitched and sighed, the spasms rolling through me as if they'd never
stop.
Kate Canterbary doesn't have it all figured out, but this is
what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems,
living on the ocean--Pacific or Atlantic--is the closest place to perfection,
and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She
started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when
people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously
interviewing people--be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane--ever
since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the
Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's
scheduling her days around the region's best food trucks.
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