Monica James brings readers THE HUNT in this playful enemies to lovers romance.
This Hard Love romance is NOW LIVE!!!
This Hard Love romance is NOW LIVE!!!
My name is Hunter O’Shea and I have a confession to make…I’ve met a girl who consumes me.
I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary “Lamb” Mitts has the power to bring me to my knees…it’s just too bad she hates my guts. But that’s okay, because I hate hers, too.
I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary “Lamb” Mitts has the power to bring me to my knees…it’s just too bad she hates my guts. But that’s okay, because I hate hers, too.
SNEAK PEEK
Something is happening and I have no idea what. Mary’s eyes drop to my lips before she uneasily licks hers. Her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and heavy breathing all point to one thing—but that’s not possible. This woman hates me, all delicious, lithe five-foot-four of her wants me dead.
So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the brakes because I don’t kiss—ever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?
I’m rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I don’t touch her, I’m going to explode.
Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the contact, and when she parts those lips, I’m as good as gone. “Hunter, wh-what are you doing?”
My name has never sounded sweeter. “Shortcake, I don’t know…you tell me.” The ball is in her court. I’m liquefying and my brain turned to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so I’m in no state to be the one calling the shots.
“I…I…” she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.
“You what?” I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear, before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign she’s about to either surrender, or flee.
“I…oh god,” she whimpers, biting her lip when I work my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.
“You have three seconds…three seconds to stop me before I part those lips with my tongue, and I won’t be gentle about it.”
So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the brakes because I don’t kiss—ever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?
I’m rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I don’t touch her, I’m going to explode.
Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the contact, and when she parts those lips, I’m as good as gone. “Hunter, wh-what are you doing?”
My name has never sounded sweeter. “Shortcake, I don’t know…you tell me.” The ball is in her court. I’m liquefying and my brain turned to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so I’m in no state to be the one calling the shots.
“I…I…” she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.
“You what?” I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear, before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign she’s about to either surrender, or flee.
“I…oh god,” she whimpers, biting her lip when I work my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.
“You have three seconds…three seconds to stop me before I part those lips with my tongue, and I won’t be gentle about it.”
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MORE ABOUT THE HUNT
My name is Hunter O’Shea and I have a confession to make…I’ve met a girl who consumes me.
I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary “Lamb” Mitts has the power to bring me to my knees…it’s just too bad she hates my guts. But that’s okay, because I hate hers, too.
The fiery redhead stirs something in me that I can’t explain.
This temporary insanity could be due to the fact my best friend, who used to be a bigger player than me, is getting married.
That must be it.
I’m caught up in an Oprah moment.
The only solution is to get back in the game and forget she exists.
That theory is great—too bad I don’t want anyone else.
I…just…want…her.
I’m so screwed.
My name is Hunter O’Shea and I have a confession to make…I’ve met a girl who consumes me.
I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary “Lamb” Mitts has the power to bring me to my knees…it’s just too bad she hates my guts. But that’s okay, because I hate hers, too.
The fiery redhead stirs something in me that I can’t explain.
This temporary insanity could be due to the fact my best friend, who used to be a bigger player than me, is getting married.
That must be it.
I’m caught up in an Oprah moment.
The only solution is to get back in the game and forget she exists.
That theory is great—too bad I don’t want anyone else.
I…just…want…her.
I’m so screwed.
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☆☆☆☆☆☆
Monica James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.
When she is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration from life. She is a bestselling author in the U.S., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and the U.K. Monica James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
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When she is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration from life. She is a bestselling author in the U.S., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and the U.K. Monica James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
I Facebook I Amazon I Website I GoodReads I Twitter I
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