by Angel Payne
Stall Girl yips out a laugh that echoes in the oddly uncrowded bathroom. The moment couldn’t be better timed. Reece’s verbal foreplay is causing blood to collect in parts of my body where it shouldn’t, and a full-on sprint out to Mr. Snarly and Seductive has started beckoning like the swoony romance-movie cliché it is. Maintaining my cool for the strange woman is really a blessing in disguise, especially because everyone wants—and expects—the whole passionate reunion thing between Reece and me now, with “EmRee’s” magic three-month mark just hurdled.
EmRee.
Seriously. That’s what they call us in all the papers and tabloids that seem to matter to people like Stall One Girl, who follows me out of the restroom and down the concourse.
EmRee.
It’s so stupid, it’s cute.
And still a little surreal. And definitely a lot of crazy.
But maybe that last part does fit. Because damn, am I crazy about this man—a truth never blazed so boldly into me than the moment I step out of the terminal and into the heat of an LA Indian summer day, only to be riveted by the one sight hotter than the heatwaves rising from the asphalt. Yet oddly, even in the charcoal suit precision-fit to the millimeter for his powerful torso, Reece stands as if he doesn’t know the meaning of the word sweat. He’s polished and tall and suave and perfect, long legs braced like a Viking atop an iceberg, with the wind blowing his mocha hair back with equal drama. I’m unable to see his eyes due to the photo-gray film on his glasses, but the subtle shift in the right side of his jaw already betrays how intense his silver gaze must be.
Holy. Freaking. God.
I stop for a second, visually pinned by him—until the ache of missing him is suddenly replaced by the need to be with him. Against him. All over him. The craving is so urgent, I don’t even care about the camera strobes and excited shouts suddenly surging around me. Thankfully, airport security is part of that tsunami, and I dash through the narrow gauntlet the officers create in the throng for me. Racing toward my peace in the storm.
Toward my hero.
“Velvet,” he grates into my hair, some of his volume stripped by my collision into him. I don’t think Reece minds. His answering embrace is a crush, and he tightens it until I’m a breathless mess. I pull away for air, but he’s already tucked his head in, lifting a hand to brace my jaw and position me for the kiss I’ve craved over every inch of distance between JFK and here. By the time his lips sweep down, mine are already parted, longing for the hot and heavy thrust of his take-no-prisoners tongue. He doesn’t leave me bereft. My mouth is filled with him. Assaulted by him. Sighing in utter bliss as he groans, sucking at me, before pushing in for more of my surrender.
Around us, cameras still shutter in a frenzy, and bodies collide as reporters jostle for the best angle of our mutual mauling. I’m beyond caring. As exhilarating as the last five days have been, they were four and a half days too long. We haven’t been apart for more than five hours since we finally decided to make this interesting relationship work—emphasis on the interesting. But that term came with its own definition in the world of Reece, who’d revealed to me that his bad-boy billionaire rep, while true at one time, had become the ideal disguise for his true identity as Bolt, LA’s lightning-pulsed superhero savior. And the oh, by the way he piled on top of that? Just the small matter of the lunatic scientists who’d used him as their bio-electrical experiment to begin with and who were still hunting down their rogue Frankenstein.
Needless to say, our first few dates were slightly more eventful than grabbing a pizza and a movie.
But that’s like another novel ago.
Right now, all I can think of is treasuring his muscular fullness in my arms, the powerful perfection of his mouth, and the feeling of his heartbeat next to mine again. Celebratory passion following what had to be the best business trip of my life.
The trip he made possible.
Thinking about it all—the phone calls he made, the emails he sent, the personal trips he took to shake hands with all the right people, to incite all the right kind of expediting—launches me to somewhere between giddy and euphoric. I funnel it all back into my kiss, showing him exactly how much joy he’s brought to every inch of my heart. He responds with a darker groan, twisting one hand into my hair and the other into my T-shirt, which sets off a new frenzy of flashing cameras and a new surge of ecstatic reporters.
“Sheez, Reece,” one of them finally shouts. “Give the woman a chance to breathe.”
He’s answered by one of the women in the throng. “Well, if a girl’s gotta meet her maker, that’s the way to do it.”
“Not before getting bolted in a big way,” a new female quips. Or is she new? I pull back enough from Reece to glance her direction. Sure enough, it’s Stall One Girl, now armed with a microphone and backed by a cameraman. My scathing scrutiny only incites her sorry-not-sorry shrug. Inwardly, I high-five myself for taking the icy professional path with her in the bathroom—not that it’s made a difference, since she adds with a smirk, “And I do mean a big way.”
Another reporter steps forward, seeming a little more on the sane side, until he taps his pen into the air and questions, “So what does comprise a Bolt-style homecoming for his best girl?”
“His only girl.” Reece yanks me in tighter while correcting the guy, his tone edging toward censure. “And the rest of that’s an irrelevant question because, as you all know by now, Bolt has taken an early retirement.”
A round of groans is his instant reply. Some of them resound with disappointment, but the majority are expressions of skepticism, verbalized by the persistent pen tapper.
“Right. Retired.” A pen materializes in his other hand—imagine that—to assist his air quote emphasis. “Just like all his badass stunts were simply elaborate ‘science experiments’ used in a real-life testing ground.”
“For which I’ve apologized to the mayor and made restitution to the city,” Reece fills in. “None of the trials should have gone to the level of realism that they did, and for that I am regretful.” His face takes on such somber lines, even I start to believe his ruse. “Of course, I’m also thankful. The DA has been lenient in not pursuing any charges in consideration of Richards Research offering to pay for all repairs to city property damaged in Bolt’s escapades.”
“Doesn’t hurt that he helped put away some nasty bastards in the process,” the reporter counters, supported by a round of nods from…well…just about everyone. “Including the creeps who tried to assault Miss Crist in the train station.”
“For which Miss Crist is deeply thankful,” I interject. “Along with the other victims of the other crimes for which Bolt made the perpetrators pay—even though he isn’t, and won’t ever be, a paid law enforcement official.”
I conclude by visibly squeezing Reece’s shoulder, answered by his tender “yes, dear” glance. The moment sets off another flurry of flashbulbs, confirming we’ve done our job in convincing them the cover story is real. It helps that most of it is. I really am beyond thankful for what happened in the metro station a week after we first met, when Reece swept in and put down the scumbags who had me in a corner. He really did do it with nothing but six months’ worth of martial arts and defense training under his belt, meaning the incident could’ve had a horrifically different result. And no, he’s not going to attempt something like it again because Bolt’s leathers have been retired for good.
The only thing the world doesn’t know—or need to know—is exactly why.
“So.” The declaration, issued from Stall Girl, all but lasers her question into the air. “What happens now, EmRee? Give us the scoop, you two. We’ve worked hard for it.”
I grimace. “Paging understatement to the white courtesy curb.”
She rewards my sarcasm with a cute wink, but isn’t deterred from continuing. “Are we talking…what…a reality show? Maybe a scripted series? Endorsement deals? A book contract?” She tilts her head as if that one’s rung a particularly loud bell. “Is tha
t why you went to New York, Emmalina?”
Reece lifts one hand, almost looking like a Bible School Jesus about to multiply fish for the masses. “As stated in the press release from Richards Industries yesterday, which you all should’ve had time to read by now”—he hooks a brow her direction—“Miss Crist was in New York in her capacity as the supervising director of Richards Reaches Out, the new nonprofit arm of our company. RRO is focused on giving back to youth across the globe, especially in helping hardworking young leaders who haven’t been given financial or social advantages to better themselves.”
Another reporter sidles forward, bumping shoulders with Pen Tapper. “So you’re actually contributing to social awareness beyond supporting the world’s vodka industry, Richards?”
Rage clouds the edges of my vision. The prick is as smallminded as his gossip-rag readers. Can’t they see that people can change when they really want to? That people grow up, man up, and want to take accountability for their lives? But the guy’s smug smirk already gives me the answer, which should be my cue to summon my Zen side.
Impossible.
Thank God Reece has had a lot more practice with this shit, as he demonstrates with a diplomatic spread of his hands while offering, “Fair enough question, Quinn—but wouldn’t you agree that turning over new leaves is a hell of a lot more interesting than digging through the worms beneath the old?”
The crowd buzzes louder as reporters order their cameramen to mark the time on their feeds. My man’s zinger at the annoying Quinn will be tomorrow’s leading soundbite—not that Stall Girl is going to rest on her laurels with that. Clearly, she’s after juicier material here.
“So that’s really just it for Bolt?” Her narrow face pinches into an accusatory pout. “We’re not going to get the behind-the-scenes on those effects? The explanation of how your ‘experimental’ lightning pulses took down all those criminals—and about how you survived all those showdowns?”
Reece flashes an indulgent smile. “Come, come, Blair. You write for Silver magazine. You know a good magician never exposes all their secrets. Everything we have to reveal at this point was contained in yesterday’s press release. When Richards Research has something new to share, you’ll all be the first to be informed. Until then”—he caresses my back, captivatingly possessive, inciting yet another burst of camera shutters—“I’m just a guy running a couple of businesses, dating the girl he’s crazy about, and enjoying life in La-La Land.”
He punctuates that by unhooking a couple of his shirt buttons, just enough to reveal the distinct purple and gold of a Lakers T-shirt beneath. A new round of laughter fills the air.
“Just like the rest of us, huh?” someone cracks.
“More than you think.” I snuggle closer to Reece, hiding any tells about my white lie by turning my face into his chest. Ironically, it’s the whitest fib of the bunch. Like them, Reece has good days and bad. He puts on his pants one leg at a time, struggles to tame his hair in the morning, and has true cosmic dilemmas about what to binge next on the Roku. They don’t have to know that between all that, he’s formed Richards Research as a front for keeping tabs on the whack-a-doodle scientists who call themselves the Consortium. Keep your friends close and your enemies on at least three different monitoring platforms.
And, oh yeah—between all that, be sure to pleasure your woman like the ever-charged battery you really are.
As that erotic thought heats my gaze, Reece’s nostrils flare. His gaze drops to my mouth—for the two seconds before he crashes another kiss on me, hotter and deeper and fiercer than his first. My balance falters. My world spins. He’s the rock in my storm, sheltering and crushing me at once, turning me into a helpless heap in his brutal embrace.
At the edge of the tempest, I hear the same reporter chuckle out, “Yeah. Sure. Just like the rest of us.”
Without breaking our contact, Reece deftly turns, trapping me against the car and deepening our kiss. The mob of media, receiving our messaging loud and clear, starts to dissipate. They’ve gotten what they came for—and with this hotter-than-hell kiss, we’ve probably even given my bathroom buddy her story—and are content to let us be just another couple indulging pent-up passions after being apart for too damn long.
I’m home.
* * *
Continue reading Ignite…
Also by Angel Payne
The Bolt Saga:
Bolt
Ignite (Summer 2018)
Pulse (Summer 2018)
Fuse
Surge
Light
* * *
Honor Bound:
Saved
Cuffed
Seduced
Wild
Wet
Hot
Masked
Mastered
Conquered (Coming Soon)
Ruled (Coming Soon)
* * *
Secrets of Stone Series:
(with Victoria Blue)
No Prince Charming
No More Masquerade
No Perfect Princess
No Magic Moment
No Lucky Number
No Simple Sacrifice
No Broken Bond
No White Knight
* * *
Cimarron Series:
Into His Dark
Into His Command
Into Her Fantasies
* * *
Temptation Court:
Naughty Little Gift
Pretty Perfect Toy
Bold Beautiful Love
* * *
For a full list of Angel’s other titles,
visit her at
AngelPayne.com
Acknowledgments
Where does a person start when trying to wrap gray matter around the concept that their dream book has finally become not only a reality, but the start to an entirely new romance fiction world? I think the answer is that they just don’t—and perhaps just try to stick to the singular overwhelming emotion at hand. Gratitude.
It’s the best word to describe what I feel when considering the incredible team—yes, it really does take a village!—who have taken the Team Bolt world from one little book into the start of a saga-length adventure.
None of this would be what it is without the diligence, dedication, and sheer brilliance of the Waterhouse Press team, starting with the stunning editing expertise of Jeanne De Vita and Scott Saunders. You two have not only caught every detail and nuance of this huge concept, but your insight has made my writing a thousand times better—and best of all, has made the hearts and souls of these characters shine. I could fill an entirely new novel with how much I love you two.
Just as importantly, to the entire “behind the scenes” team at Waterhouse: Not only have you believed in this project when even I had some doubts, but have proven so, over and over again, with devotion and passion that blows my mind and has moved me to tears on many occasions. From Meredith Wild’s artistic vision to the marketing genius of David, Jon, Robyn, Yvonne, Kurt, Amber, and Haley, I’m simply blown away. And to the rest of the crew who help make every cog turn and every gear hum—Jesse, Jennifer, and Jeff Jones himself—I thank you from the very depths of my heart!
Additionally, I have to thank the beautiful and insanely talented Regina Wamba, along with her team (Yuli! James! Peter!) and cover models Anthony Kemper and Hannah Lundquist, who turned one really long, very blustery January day into beautiful images that have brought Reece and Emma to life in ways I never dreamed. Our cover shoot had to be one of the coolest experiences ever, and I’m so grateful for everyone’s incredible enthusiasm. Here’s to big things and amazing futures for all of you!
Special thanks to the goddesses of the Payne Passion force. I cannot begin to tell you how much your humor, love, and support, especially when a lot of the world wasn’t “getting” this concept at first, have kept me going on a daily basis.
Last but definitely not least: No way would I be here now without the love and constant diligent support
, which may or may not include hand holding, tear wiping, ass kicking, and general talking-down-from-ledges duty, of my incredible circle of friends. Victoria Blue, Martha Frantz, Meredith Wild, Mia Michelle, Chelle Bliss, Lauren Rowe, Carrie Ann Ryan, Jenna Jacob, Crystal Burnette…you’re always there and always available, no matter how huge my meltdowns, and I truly, deeply appreciate you. Honestly, you ladies are the gold standard of friendship, and I love you so much.
Most importantly: Thanks to my incredible family. Tom and Jess, you are the rocks of my world. Mom: thanks for always telling me to strive for the special. And John and Sue: you’re both still buttheads, but you’re the buttheads I’m proud to call sibs.
About Angel Payne
USA Today bestselling romance author Angel Payne loves to focus on high-heat romance starring memorable alpha men and the women who love them. She has numerous book series to her credit, including the popular Honor Bound series, the Secrets of Stone series (with Victoria Blue), the Cimarron series, the Temptation Court series, the Suited for Sin series, and the Lords of Sin historicals, as well as several standalone titles.
Angel is a native Southern Californian, leading to her love of being in the outdoors, where she often reads and writes. She still lives in Southern California with her soul-mate husband and beautiful daughter, to whom she is a proud cosplay/culture con mom. Her passions also include whisky tasting, shoe shopping, and travel.
