by Kati Wilde
“Put me down,” I say again. “Then you can chase me.”
Because his beast loves that. And I love what happens when Gideon catches me.
Though they are the same man. This I know with a certainty through to my bones. They have the same heart, the same soul. Whatever the beast is, he’s not something that came from outside of Gideon. Instead it was a part of Gideon that was unleashed.
Still, the beast that he is never relinquishes me easily. This time he sets me on my feet for only a moment before he grips my waist and easily lifts me straight up into the air, thick muscles bulging in his shoulders and arms, my body dangling in front of him. Through a haze of arousal, I look down at those shining green eyes—and at that wolfish grin as he nuzzles the glistening curls between my thighs.
And he licks. And licks. And licks, his rough tongue slipping through my drenched folds and over my swollen clit, over and over, until I’m muffling my screams of ecstasy against my hands and writhing helplessly against him. Only after I come does he slowly lower me to my feet again, my legs trembling and aftershocks quaking through my body.
Then he growls against my ear, “Run, wife.”
I do, racing for our bedchamber—and I know he gives me a head start. Just as he often used to when we raced as children. But he doesn’t let me win.
Instead he catches me as I leap onto the bed, the beast in midair but it’s Gideon who comes down over me. I land on the mattress breathless and laughing…then moaning in sheer ecstasy when he spreads my thighs and his rigid cock pushes deep inside me, his thickness stretching the taut inner walls of my sheath.
“Gideon,” I breathe, and when he kisses me I taste my pussy on his tongue, taste the cold night and the moonlight and the feral fire that burns within his wild heart. My husband, my beast.
And in his arms is the place I’ll always call home.
Inspired by the story of Beauty and the Beast, four authors offer their sexy interpretations of the classic fairy tale…
Don’t miss the entire Beauty series!
Beauty in Spring by Kati Wilde
Coming March 31st
Beauty in Summer by Ella Goode
Coming April 7th
Beauty in Autumn by Ruby Dixon
Coming April 14th
Beauty in Winter by Alexa Riley
Coming April 21st
Turn the page for an excerpt from Faking It All, the newest release in the Hellfire Riders MC romance series…
Everything about me is fake…
I’m a small-town nobody named Olivia Burke, but I look exactly like a Hollywood somebody—that somebody being Keri Bishop, one of the most famous movie stars in the world. Now a threat against her life is going to change mine, freeing me and my little sister from my stepfather’s abusive control. All I have to do is pretend to be the actress until the danger is eliminated. I won’t even be in the public eye; I’ll be hidden away in a remote location owned by the Hellfire Riders—a motorcycle club hired by Keri’s husband to guard me—and under the personal protection of a sexy, lethal biker named Duke.
…except how fast I’m falling for him.
I can’t tell anyone who I really am—not even the man protecting me. His stormy gaze threatens to pierce the glamorous mask I’m wearing, but if Duke discovers the truth, I’ll destroy my chance to escape the hell I’ve been living in. Yet I don’t know how long I can keep this secret. Because Duke’s got demons of his own, and I’m desperate to soothe his tormented soul with my soft touch, with a lingering kiss. But I’m impersonating a married woman. And if I slip up even once, I risk losing everyone I love…
Starting with Duke, when he finds out how badly I’ve deceived him.
Faking It All is a completely standalone romance within the Hellfire Riders series. You don't need to have read the previous books in the series to enjoy this story.
Available on Kindle and FREE to borrow with a Kindle Unlimited subscription!
Excerpt from Faking It All
Olivia
My teeth are so white.
Whenever I catch a glimpse in a mirror, I have to stop myself from staring at how dazzlingly bright they are. Two days ago, I considered my teeth fairly white. Or at least ivory. But now they could light up a room—or a biker gang’s clubhouse, like the one I’m in now. I’m sitting at the bar facing a mirror and the flash of my teeth in the reflection keeps surprising me.
I thought my new eye color would be the hardest to get used to. Contact lenses have transformed my irises from hazel to Keri Bishop’s famous sky blue, but although the difference was startling at first, I’ve already become accustomed to that change.
But I can’t get over my teeth. Maybe it’s not because of how white they are, though. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop smiling.
Maybe because I’ve never had so much to smile about.
I shouldn’t be smiling. The threat to Keri Bishop’s life must be serious. Her husband, Ivan Tataurov, is spending a fortune to keep her safe—and that includes the small fortune he’s paying me to impersonate her.
Not that I’ll see a cent of that million dollars. But I don’t care.
I don’t care about the money or the suitcases full of designer clothes and shoes that I’ll keep when this is done. I don’t care about the jewelry—including the wedding and engagement rings adorning my finger—that I’ll be able to sell for another small fortune.
I care about the custody agreement that Ivan’s lawyers are drawing up—and I care about my stepfather’s promise to sign it as soon as I hand over the million dollars.
And finally, finally, I will take Erin and get as far away from him as we can.
Just the thought of escaping my stepfather fills me with so much emotion, so much relief and joy, that I’ll either laugh or cry. But crying would ruin the carefully applied makeup that subtly contours my nose and reshapes my eyes to more perfectly match Keri Bishop’s. So instead of crying, I’ve been smiling more than I should.
More than Keri should, considering the circumstances. And of course Ivan notices that I’m not playing my role.
His grim look immediately wipes away my smile. Softly I bite my bottom lip, trying to appear as a woman like Keri would appear at this moment, when a psycho stalker is bent on killing her. I don’t really know the details. But I know she loves Ivan, and he’s supposedly leaving her in the protection of these bikers so that he and his security team can hunt down the threat. So I should appear apprehensive—not particularly worried for my own life, because I’ve been assured the psycho won’t find me here—but terrified for Ivan. I should be clinging to him, milking every drop of emotion from these final moments together because I love him so desperately.
The truth is, though…I’m not a very good actor. I don’t think Ivan is, either.
I don’t really know what he is, aside from ruthlessly driven to protect his wife. Which is admirable. Beyond that, however, there’s not much information out there about him.
Not that he doesn’t show up on a Google search. He does. But every article and photo relates to Keri, not Ivan. Before they started dating—and before their marriage—he might as well not have existed. He owns a hotel and casino in Las Vegas, but an online search doesn’t reveal much else. Just that he’s a wealthy businessman.
A businessman I recognized when he showed up at my stepfather’s door five days ago. Nothing Keri Bishop does passes me by, though not by my choice. If she hits the gossip blogs or releases a new movie, half my customers at the diner will mention it at some point during my day. So when she got married, pictures of Ivan and the happy bride were constantly shoved into my face.
I used to amuse myself thinking that Ivan was kind of a lookalike, too, because in all of his photos there’s a strong resemblance to Alexander Skarsgård. That resemblance fades away in person. Not that I’ve seen the actor in person. But I don’t really think Ivan looks like Skarsgård anymore.
Instead Ivan has started to remind me of my stepfather. Not violent,
necessarily—Ivan’s not, as far as I’ve seen. But just that I feel safer when his attention is somewhere else. And I don’t ever want to find out what his reaction might be if I mess this up or if I cross him, because I have a feeling it won’t turn out so well for me.
But I won’t mess this up. I can’t. My stepsister is counting on me to protect her. And I will, just as I always have. No matter the cost.
If everything goes as it should, that cost will only be a million dollars.
And I really need to stop smiling whenever I think about that custody agreement.
A quick glance at Ivan tells me he didn’t notice this time. His focus is directed across the clubhouse, where it sounds as if a herd of buffalo is tromping down the stairs.
I look over my shoulder—carelessly, as a glamorous movie star would, though the small-town waitress I really am burns with curiosity.
Not a herd of buffalo. Just a dozen bikers. They were having a meeting upstairs but apparently that’s over. Earlier I was briefly introduced to a bunch of them, but there are a couple I haven’t met yet heading this way now. One’s a bearded giant who appears mightily amused as he looks me over, which is preferable to the hungry, measuring glances a few of the others gave me before. The second guy is tall, too, though not as massive as his companion. Nor is he as hairy. His angular jaw is clean-shaven, and his dark blond hair is cut short. And he’s not looking at me hungrily, either.
Instead he looks as if he wants a sinkhole to open beneath my feet. His pale green eyes rake the length of my body, his expression set like stone, his mouth thinned into a grim line.
A shiver races over my skin. Instinctively I shift closer to Ivan, which is crazy, because I don’t exactly feel safe with him. But no matter how much disdain Ivan sometimes aims toward me, the bare fact is that he needs me to do this job. He might not like me but I’m necessary. So Ivan doesn’t look at me as if he wishes I didn’t exist—or as if he’ll help me along to a state of not-existing.
The biker’s jaw clenches as my bare arm brushes Ivan’s sleeve. Razor sharp, his green gaze slices over to meet my fake husband’s.
“You’re Tataurov?” His voice is like a glacier, all slow-moving ice and gravel, and another shiver raises goosebumps across my skin. His big hand shoots out to shake Ivan’s. “Duke. I’ll be in charge of looking after your wife.”
He says the last word like he’s chewing a bite of something that he’d rather spit out.
Ivan doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care. Instead he frowns. “Your club’s president is not in charge of her security?”
“He’s in charge of deciding who we watch. I’m in charge of how we watch them.” Duke withdraws his hand, not looking at all bothered that Ivan didn’t take it. “And the prez is a busy man. Whereas me, this is all I do. But if you want someone with a thousand other demands on his time to look after your woman, just say the word and I’ll go see how he feels about spending the next few days babysitting.”
I’ve met the Hellfire Riders’ president, who seemed steely cold and unimpressed by Ivan—which is a far cry from the regimented deference Ivan’s own security shows him, and a far far cry from the fawning obeisance shown by the bevy of stylists and aestheticians who’ve spent the past three days transforming me into Keri Bishop. Indeed, all of these bikers have seemed unimpressed by Ivan, as if they don’t give a single damn about him or his wealth. With me—with Keri—some of their badass attitudes have cracked a little, but still their responses are nothing like the overwhelming reactions I’ve gotten from strangers who mistook me for her before.
Yet this biker, Duke—his attitude goes beyond unimpressed and straight into wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. Because Duke basically just told Ivan that if his being in charge is a problem, then Ivan can take his twenty-thousand-a-day and go screw himself with it.
I’m not sure if the best person to protect me is someone who doesn’t give a flying flip about me. But apparently this guy’s response satisfies Ivan.
“No distractions, yes?” he says.
Duke nods. “None.”
“That is very good.” Ivan’s fingers lace through mine and gently squeeze, which probably appears affectionate, but his voice is stiff and his faint Russian accent deepens as he adds, “My beautiful Keri must be kept safe.”
A noncommittal grunt is Duke’s response to that. His attention shifts to the bearded giant—Bull.
I really appreciate how all of these guys wear their names on their vests.
“Will you see her settled in?” Duke asks him. “I’ll round up the brothers I’m bringing in on this.”
The giant nods easily. “I’ll do that.”
Duke’s gaze skips over me and lands on Ivan again. “Bull will take care of her. Anything else I ought to know before you hand her off and head out?”
“Only that I do not tolerate failure.” Although it sounds like a line from a villain in an action movie, I don’t think Ivan’s acting.
I also don’t think his message is only for Duke.
A sardonic smile twists the biker’s mouth. But he doesn’t respond to the implied threat. Instead he simply gives a short nod before turning away, his long strides carrying him past Ivan’s hulking security guards as if he doesn’t notice—or care—that they’re there.
As soon as he goes, the tension tightening my skin eases, but I still can’t tear my gaze from his retreating back. Over the years, I’ve developed a sense about some men. Guys like my stepfather, like Ivan—my gut warns me to tread warily around them. Now my instincts are screaming that Duke’s a danger to me, too…but it’s not the same kind of danger. I don’t know how to categorize it because I certainly haven’t felt it before. Because with my stepfather, with Ivan, I feel a lot safer when their attention is elsewhere. And Duke…
I want him to look at me.
But he doesn’t glance back. Instead he stalks through the clubhouse’s front door and the night swallows him up. Faintly I’m aware that Bull’s saying something to Ivan—that maybe Ivan would like a few minutes alone with his wife before leaving.
His wife. That’s me. And I’m supposed to be in love with him, not staring after another man.
So I gaze adoringly up at Ivan’s handsome profile. “A few minutes alone would be lovely, Bull. Thank you.”
And I screwed that up. Because Ivan’s fingers tighten on mine and faint disapproval firms his mouth. “We will take a moment out by the vehicles. Walk with me outside, love.”
He doesn’t finish talking before tugging me forward, and I have to race-walk to keep up with him—not easy to do in these shoes. The Jimmy Choo sandals are more comfortable than any heels I’ve worn before, but I’m still adjusting to the height of them. Keri is about an inch taller than I am, so every bit of footwear Ivan bought for me increases my height by that difference, plus two or three more inches. And although I’m used to spending all day on my feet, it’s usually in sneakers, not peep toe sandals with needle-thin heels.
Outside, the chill night air immediately sinks through my thin silk dress. I don’t remember which designer label was sewn into the inside seam, but whoever made this white silk sheath obviously pictured summer days in Los Angeles, not September evenings in central Oregon. When we arrived at the clubhouse late this afternoon the air was much warmer, but now it’s a little too brisk for my Louisianan blood.
Even before Ivan stops, though, I realize my Louisianan blood is the problem, because it spills out in my accent. Try as I might, I can’t speak in those flat tones that the California-born Keri does. We’ve already concocted a story as cover—that Keri is practicing her Southern accent for an upcoming film—but if Ivan had his way, I’d spend the entire time here with my lips sewn together.
“Give us space,” he orders the security following at our heels, and they immediately back off. Ivan keeps going, past the SUVs that brought us here, almost to the end of the clubhouse building, where the angle of the vehicles and a pool of shadows conceal us from the men standin
g back near the entrance. Probably everyone thinks that he’s giving me a passionate good-bye in private, but I know he won’t kiss me. The one good thing I can say about him: he’s devoted to his wife. In all this time, he’s only touched my hand, and only does that for show.
Now he pivots to face me, his voice low and dangerous. “There’s only one thing you need to remember while you’re here, and that’s to keep your stupid mouth shut. Can you do that?”
Anger spits fire through my veins but no matter what Ivan believes about my brainpower, my mama didn’t birth a stupid baby. I keep my mouth shut and simply nod. Because he’s not just talking about my accent—he’s talking about the warning he drilled into me over and over the past few days: No one can know you aren’t Keri. If you tell a single person or do something to reveal yourself, the deal is off. No money, no custody agreement. Nothing.
I can’t afford to ruin this deal. Erin can’t afford for me to ruin it.
And he’s not done. “You are Keri Bishop,” he reminds me. “You are a goddess who walks red carpets. Men crawl at your feet. Women dream of being you. You have nothing to say to this biker trash and nothing in common with them. Can you remember that?”
Again I nod. This time it’s not enough.
His eyes narrow. “Let me hear it, then.”
I can’t keep the acid off my tongue. “I’ve got nothing in common with this trash,” I say in my accent that gives lie to every word.
Because I’ve got nothing in common with Keri, except a face. And even though I’m more than two thousand miles from Winnfield, Louisiana, these bikers are a lot closer to home than my new Jimmy Choos are.
“So you don’t cozy up to them and you don’t run your mouth, and everything will work out as it should. Understood?”
“Understood,” I echo woodenly.
His cold gaze searches my face. Finally he nods and calls out to his security team that he’s ready. “You had best head back in,” he tells me and looks toward the clubhouse entrance, where Bull is waiting for me to return.
