A book full of filthy sex and beautiful tortured romance. Why Him? is a standalone novel with a tear-worthy HEA, no cheating, no cliffhangers, just all yes. Keep the fan handy, you’ll need it.
A long low whistle sounded behind me, and it could only be Jude. I swallowed hard, my back arching instinctively as if he’d caressed the center of my spine.
Spinning slowly, I steeled myamzn.to/2LS2bWlself against all the sexual promise he so easily exuded. Standing there, he was framed in the archway to the living room. Jeans clung to his thickly muscled thighs, and rolled up shirtsleeves bared the sinewy tendons of his forearms.
He didn’t move a single inch, yet I felt his roaring need just as surely as if he’d pinned me to the wall with his larger, harder body.
“It’s Thursday,” he said.
Combustible heat coursed all over my body in an instant. “Is it?”
His low chuckle made my toes curl. “Don’t pretend you forgot.”
I swallowed again, every single part of my body clamoring for him.
“The boys are next door, swimming at the neighbors with strict instructions to be home by six thirty for dinner.”
“Good.” I dragged my gaze from him. “Then you can show yourself out. I’m going to have a bath.”
“Or I could join you.” He crossed over to me so swiftly, I had no chance to escape.
Maybe I didn’t want to.
“Jude . . .” Cornered, I kept my hands flat on the wall at my back.
“It’s Thursday. Do you know that’s been the only day I cared about for two months because of you?”
“We can’t anymore.” I shook my head.
“Bullshit. Being around you every day. I just want you more.” His lips lightly nipped the pulse point at the hollow of my neck. “Feel how fucking hard you make me, Cady.”
Taking my hand, he placed it on the thick erect flesh, the hard hot roll barely withheld by his jeans.
I moaned before I could stop myself, curling my fingers around the rigid shaft.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Being here all the time. Torturing me all the time,” I accused, but I didn’t pull my hand away. My fingertips danced lower down the inseam of his pants, all the way to the swollen-hard head of his cock.
With my wrist locked in his hand, he barged right up against me. “You know why I’m not enjoying being around you like this, Cady? Because I can’t fuck you or kiss you or get you down on your knees so I can watch you pant for my cock and my cum.” He nipped at my chin then tongued around one earlobe, giving me the soft with the sting always.
“I can’t rip off your panties and spread your legs so I can lap that sweet wet cunt of yours like I’ve done countless times.” Jude’s growly voice sent shivers down my spine. “I can’t get you out of my head. My dick’s about to burst every time I’m around you, but I’m not gonna jerk off because next time I come it’ll be with you, and the load I’m gonna give you will make you plead for more.”
Ripping free of his grasp before I crumbled completely, I rushed upstairs. Inside my bathroom, I hit the taps on the bath and swilled in a generous helping of bubbles.
I didn’t lock the door.
Looking in the mirror, I pulled pins from my hair, letting them fall to the vanity with little pings of sound.
I knew I was tempting danger and everything I’d sworn off.
My dress swished in a circle of fabric at my feet.
The doorknob turned.
He entered. He shut the door. He grabbed my reflected gaze with his before his eyes dropped to my shoulders, to my breasts cupped in the pink silk, to my panties.
He took a step toward me.
Strong. Sexual. Everything.
In the bathroom filled with steam.
“Time to pay up, Cady.”
I don’t want to know his full name.
I don’t even want his phone number.
In fact, the only thing I want from Jude is the filthy hot sex the masterful hung stud delivers on a weekly basis. He’s way too young for me . . . and much too good at fulfilling my every dirty desire.
He definitely isn’t supposed to show up one morning on my doorstep with an offer I can’t refuse.
Now he’s in my life on a daily basis, and I can’t shake him no matter how hard I try. He’s absolutely unsuitable.
She’s everything he knew he wanted from the first moment he saw her.
A Yankee transplant via the UK and other wild journeys, Rie happily landed in Charleston, South Carolina, with her English artisan husband and their two small daughters--one an aspiring diva, the other a future punk rocker. After earning her degree in Fine Arts, Rie promptly gave up paintbrushes and canvas for paper and pen (because she decided being a writer was equally as good an idea as being an artist, of course it was). That was fifteen years ago, her writing career started! With a manuscript of super epic proportions! Safely stored under a lace doily in a filing cabinet. Possibly in England . . . Since then she's done this and that, here and there, usually in the nonprofit arena, until she returned to her dream of being a writer. Even though Rie basks in the glorious southern sunshine as often as she can, she's mostly a nocturnal creature adjourning to her writer's atelier (spare bedroom) in search of her next devious plot twist or delicious passionate tryst. No matter what genre or gender pairing she's writing, she combines a sexy southern edge with humor and heart--and a taste of dark.
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