I’ll send the chapter out on my newsletter and post it on my group’s page. And you’ll be the first to know about my new releases, sales and other freebies. I’ve got a whole lot of hotness planned!
First Declan and Kara kicked off the Beg for It series with Unleashed. Then we met Ash and Ana in Undone, Heath and Violet in Untamed, and Colt and Caroline in Unbelievable. Gigi’s the last one standing in the Kavanaugh clan. But not for long. Keep reading for a sneak peek at the fifth and final story Undeniable (Dom & Gigi), to be released in October 2016.
I’m also excited to announce that I’m launching a new series of standalones. The first novel, In Deep, features an Olympic swimmer and releases on August 5th, opening day of the summer Olympics! Here’s a sneak peek at that one as well.
IN DEEP
He’s an Olympic swimmer going for gold. Focused, driven, intense.
She’s a blogger going for the scoop and she has the perfect in. She’s gotten herself hired as his massage therapist. With all that intimate time together, the secrets from his past don’t stand a chance.
And neither does she.
Note: In Deep is a standalone hot, contemporary romance. It’s the first of four standalones in the All In series, which can be read in any order.
EXCERPT
Emma
I’d thought I was a pretty experienced massage therapist. I’d earned my degree and worked full time for a few years now. I’d worked on a wide range of clients. I thought I’d seen it all.
I was wrong.
An Olympic swimmer’s body was next level, with defined muscle everywhere you looked and huge, broad shoulders tapering down into an insane V. Abs to make Superman cry with envy. Long, strong thighs and slim hips which were currently wrapped in nothing but a tiny white towel.
“Mrph!” I greeted my new client. I’d meant to say “hello” but the words weren’t forming right.
He stood there, all six foot two glorious inches of him, scrutinizing me. We were going to be spending a lot of time together over the next four weeks, leading up to and then through the Olympic games in Rio. I would be responsible for keeping him injury-free, relaxed and ready to push himself to the extreme physical limit.
I just hadn’t planned on him being so freaking hot.
“You’re my massage therapist?” His head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. He didn’t look thrilled with the fact.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m Emma Nelson.” I stuck out my hand with the intent to establish professional control over the situation. But then he slowly wrapped his large, warm hand around mine. I honestly had to lean a bit against the countertop at my side. Casually, I hoped. Swooning was not in the guidebook of establishing good client rapport.
I drew my hand away, looking down, trying to focus. Deep breaths. I could do this. I’d better be able to do this. I’d spent a good part of the past two months wrangling for this job. I liked working as a massage therapist, but if I played my cards right, this assignment would enable me to do what I loved for a living: blogging.
My best friend Tory and I had started our blog years ago, back when we were in high school. Scoop’d. We told stories, interesting ones about interesting people. She specialized in the trashy ones that, I’ll admit, brought in the readers. I liked the feature pieces, the focus stories on good people doing good deeds. You could say our blog featured the best and the worst of people. Together, it worked, and our little endeavor now had about half a million followers.
We both dreamed of quitting our day jobs and blogging for a living. Who didn’t? Set your own hours, work from home in your PJs, choose your own stories and write them however you wanted.
And we both agreed—covering the Olympics could be our tipping point. If we did it right, it would launch us over the top. We were going to cover the games, and we were going to do it in a way no one could match, from the inside out. Tory had gotten herself a job in PR, so she’d have access to all of the athletes at all hours. With her social butterfly personality, she’d be in on all the dirt in no time.
And me? I was going to go for the gold. The story everyone wanted. The scoop on swimmer Chase Clark, the gorgeous, mysterious favorite to win gold in up to nine events in Rio.
Everyone knew the rough sketch of his backstory. At 14, already a promising competitive swimmer, he’d almost drowned in a boating accident. But he’d overcome the setback, training relentlessly, driven toward one goal. In 2012 he’d had to sit out the London Olympics due to an injury. Now at 26 he was ready to ascend to the throne, the next Michael Phelps.
But how had he almost drowned? Rumors abounded. I’d heard one about a stolen boat, another about a friend on board who’d been critically injured. With him poised to win big, I wanted to find out the whole truth. The truth he never gave interviews about, had never shared with anyone else. We’d have an audience of millions if I pulled it off.
I had four weeks to scoop Chase Clark. This week we’d be at the US Olympic team’s session in San Antonio, before travelling to the Georgia Tech Aquatic Center in Atlanta. Then Rio, baby. And during those four weeks I’d take care of him, of course. He was a national treasure, practically able to fly through the water. I’d do my best as a licensed and trained massage therapist to help him achieve his Olympic dreams and make history.
But also, along the way, I would try to get to know him. Befriend him, even possibly gain his trust. I wanted to learn his secrets, on or off the record. I didn’t want to do anything capital W Wrong, like lie to him about my real identity to get under his tough exterior and learn the real story. But desperate times required desperate measures.
Chase Clark didn’t like reporters. He didn’t do interviews, stayed notoriously tight-lipped during team press conferences. He focused on his swimming and swimming alone. He couldn’t help it that most of the world’s population had a massive crush on him and treated him like a rock star. At the last team press conference, a woman had tossed him her bra. He’d watched it fall to the floor, then looked up with a coolly arched eyebrow. That photo of him had made it onto a whole lot of covers and front pages.
It only served to make people more wild about him. The unattainable, inscrutable, superhuman athlete Chase Clark. Standing before me in a tiny towel awaiting a full-body massage. Right.
“Why don’t we discuss your preferences and past injuries,” I said, tapping a stack of papers on the countertop as if I needed to do it. The papers had nothing to do with him. I just needed a prop, something to do with my hands instead of fanning myself.
“I don’t have time to go over all of that,” he informed me, clipped and curt. “My coaches should have provided you with all of that already.”
“Yes, I’ve reviewed your files. I know your health history. But I also like to get to know my clients. Especially ones I’ll be working with every day for the next month.”
We looked at each other, the strange feeling of a face-off between us. Why did it seem like he was unhappy with me in this role? I must just feel paranoid. I had all the credentials, and plenty of experience. I knew I could do this job well. Even if the real reason I was doing it had nothing to do with massage therapy.
“You want to know my preferences?” he asked, and I swear his voice dropped a notch lower. Yes, I did want to know how he liked it. His massage and more. His eyes were such an incredible shade of blue-green, the type of color you saw on the cover of a magazine and had to wonder if the shot had been air-brushed. Meeting him in person, it turned out he really did have eyes the color of an aquamarine tropical sea.
“I like it hard,” he said. I knew he was talking about the type of hand pressure he preferred in massages, but my breath caught in my throat. “I don’t like it light and gentle. You have to know how to get in deep.”
“Yes!” I tugged at my tank top, fidgeting. “Of course. I specialize in sports massage, so…”
I clapped my hands together. The sound seemed to echo in the room. I’d never felt so awkward with a clien
t. And he hadn’t even taken off his towel yet. That itty-bitty white thing he had wrapped around his completely naked, utterly perfect body.
I turned to straighten out the sheet on the massage table, giving myself a talking to. I pictured my toughest teacher in my degree program. She’d lectured all of us sternly about the importance of professionalism in client-therapist relationships.
But all I could picture was his glorious body, about to be bared completely for me to rub from head to toe.
Chase
I left the towel on.
I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d stripped down completely in front of strangers. When your body performed like mine, you were used to being treated like something of a racehorse. Doctors measuring your heart and lung function, physical therapists poking and prodding at you, coaches giving you pointers and corrections even while you stood buck naked in the locker room. Not to mention the tiny swim briefs I sported. Modesty was not my middle name.
But I also wasn’t used to sporting random, massive wood. I was 26, not 16. The time of inappropriate sprung-into-action moments had passed. Except obviously it hadn’t.
Because when I walked into the massage therapy room at the swim center and saw her standing there, I stood right up at attention, too.
She wasn’t wearing anything suggestive, not like the legions of female fans trying to capture my attention wherever I went. I was really good at blocking them out. You didn’t get to the top of your game like I had by getting easily distracted. If I stopped and got a phone number every time a woman flashed some cleavage at me, I’d never even get into the pool.
Emma wasn’t showing any cleavage. But I’d like to see it. She wore a simple white tank top, fitted enough so I could see she was slim and fit. I wondered what she did to workout? She didn’t have the classic swimmer’s build, her shoulders more feminine than those of my teammates. Runner, I’d bet.
But I didn’t ask her. I didn’t typically strike up conversations with the constantly circulating crew of professionals paid to tend to my needs. That sounded bad, but, again, it was simply truth. I focused my energies, all of them, toward one goal and one goal alone: gold.
Which was why I found it strange that I hesitated before climbing onto the massage table. “How long have you been working here?” I asked. I was sure team management had hired only the best to work with us. Three weeks before the games began, we now needed a crew who’d be with us every step of the way, traveling with us, managing the final countdown. But there was something hesitant, maybe a bit shy in her manner.
“I don’t work here in Texas,” she clarified. “I’m from Florida. Your manager hired me for the next month.” Then she straightened up, shoulders back, posture erect. Like something else under my towel.
“But I assure you,” she continued. “I’m fully qualified. I’ve been a licensed massage therapist for five years, specializing in sports massage. I’ve worked with a lot of athletes. I’m going to make sure you’re ready for the games.”
“Is that right?” I cocked an eyebrow, wanting to tease her a little. There was something sweet about her attempt to reassure me, as if she were trying to reassure herself as well. I didn’t doubt her credentials. What I doubted was my ability to stay cool, removed and professional while this pretty little thing put her hands all over me.
“Absolutely.” She nodded her head, so serious. I almost expected a military-style salute.
“So I can just put up my feet and relax for the next few weeks? No more workouts? You’ve got it covered?”
Her eyes widened, taking me seriously for a moment, before her face relaxed into a smile. It brightened her right up. She had toffee-colored hair, all sorts of sunshiny highlights blending in, plus golden flecks in her eyes.
“All right, then.” I climbed up onto the table, lying on my stomach. It seemed like the least X-rated option.
“We only have a half-hour today, so would you like me to focus on your back and shoulders?”
I grunted my “yes” as she placed her hands at the center of my back, starting with slow strokes.
“I’ll give you medium pressure to begin, and you tell me how much more to give. I want to get to know exactly how you like it.”
That sounded good to me. I closed my eyes and tried to release my tension. All the pressure, the years of training, the eyes on me, all leading up to eight days in Rio. Nine events, five individual, four relays. I wouldn’t let the thought of failure enter into my mind. I could see it all playing out exactly as planned. I ran it like a video in my mind, before I swam, before I slept, on a constant loop, visualizing my success. Always on, always going, always targeted toward my goal.
I groaned as she kneaded into the tired, sore muscles of my upper back. My rhomboid, deltoid, trapezius, how well I knew them all. And she seemed to know them intimately as well, her hands intuitively seeking out all of my aching spots, digging in with exactly the right touch to give me release.
“More,” I groaned, a few times, guiding her, letting her know exactly how I wanted it. She was good at taking direction. She seemed to know exactly what I needed.
I’d sent more than a few therapists packing, usually due to their overly light touch but sometimes because they seemed so fucking clueless. A good massage therapist was part art, part science. They needed all the training, the understanding of anatomy and hand techniques. But they also needed the skill to read their clients, being guided by not only verbal instructions but physical cues.
Emma fell into sync with me instantly, seamlessly, seemingly without effort. I could feel myself relaxing with her, giving myself over to her ministrations, letting my mind go free as she pressed and stroked, kneaded and coaxed the pain and tension from my overworked limbs.
“OK, that’s all we have time for today,” she said after what seemed to be about five minutes after she’d began.
“Yeah?” I asked, uncharacteristically disoriented. I didn’t usually lose track of time. Time, down to the fraction of a second, governed my life.
“Sorry, tomorrow we have forty-five minutes. But today I’m doing sessions with some other members of your team.”
“No.” The word came out before I realized what I was saying. I hadn’t planned on it, but I knew instantly those other sessions weren’t going to happen.
“What?” she asked, looking at me, confused. I sat up, keeping my towel wrapped around my hips as I looked down into her eyes.
“Tell me everyone you’re supposed to be working with.” I knew I could be commanding. Authoritative. Type-A. I’d heard it all. Show me a top-tier athlete with a passive personality? That wasn’t me.
“Um…” After a last, hesitant glance at me, she grabbed a clipboard with her schedule. I took it from her and looked down the roster.
Chris, I knew it. He was supposed to be on this table next. And Matt. No goddamned way. They were my teammates and like brothers to me, but they fucked their way through women like it was their job. They’d get one look at Emma and it would be all over. They’d be turning on the charm, conning her like snake oil salesmen, doing anything and everything to get inside her pants.
Fitted yoga pants, to be exact, hugging her lithe, shapely legs. Her round, tight ass. Damn it. I moved the clipboard down into a more secure location, covering up like a high school kid with a math textbook.
“I’m going to need you a lot more than planned.” I stood, towering over her, close enough I could tell she’d drawn in her breath. Did I startle her? Scare her a little? Or something else? I couldn’t read her, but I wanted to. That was unusual for me, too.
“I’m going to go make some changes to your schedule.” I strode toward the door, waiting to put down the clipboard until I’d turned my back to her. “I’ll be seeing you later tonight.”
“What?” I could hear her say before the door closed behind me.
Whatever the male form of a diva was, sure, you could call me that. But I had a lot riding on this next month. I had everything riding on
it.
And it wasn’t just me. My teammates were relying on me, countless companies wanting product placements, the PR crew working the games. Hell, millions of fans worldwide were counting on me to win.
All eyes were on me. I knew exactly what I needed to do to reach my goal. My coaches, my teammates, my rigorous, relentless training schedule.
And Emma. All to myself. Any time. Morning, noon or night.
I wasn’t going to share. She would not be working with any other members of the team. I didn’t expect much pushback from our managers, and definitely not from the coaches. They were much more used to me being dissatisfied with services.
The fact that I’d found someone so good I wanted her all to myself? They’d probably high five each other. Especially since I could bankroll any additional expense. I’d cover the cost of hiring on a replacement for the remaining team members, no problem.
Emma was mine.
iBooks: itunes.apple.com/us/book/
in-deep/id1120982833?ls=1&mt=11
GoodReads TBR: goodreads.com/
book/show/30359117-in-deep
UNDENIABLE (DOM & GIGI)
He’s the one she couldn’t have. She’s the one he couldn’t forget.
They haven’t seen each other in four years. He’s been serving with the Special Forces. She’s finished college. They’ve had time to move on. Neither one has.
Now there’s a death threat. Her family’s business has pissed off a drug cartel. Her life’s in danger.
They’re thrown together, on the run. He has to keep her safe from everyone. Including himself.
NOTE: Undeniable is a standalone hot adult romance. It’s the fifth story in the Beg for It series—which can be read in any order—about the dominant, alpha males in the Kavanaugh family and the strong, sexy women who make them finally meet their match.
EXCERPT
Gigi
Unbelievable Page 27
