The Over Duet is a story of first loves, second chances, and hard truths. Ever Over After by J.A. DeRouen is the exciting conclusion to this emotional duet and is NOW AVAILABLE for $0.99 & FREE on Kindle Unlimited! Read an EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT & ENTER TO WIN a SIGNED SET of The Over Duet!
“Two minutes … tick tock.”
I huff in frustration and drop the dishes in the sink. I turn to her and cross my arms, matching her stance in battle.
“I just want a chance to clear the air … talk things through with you. Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes. One and a half minutes.”
“You can’t deny there’s unfinished business between us, Low. Words left unsaid. There are things that I need you to know.” The hint of pleading in my voice and the gentleness of my stance do nothing to weaken her resolve.
“Oh, well if you need it, then that’s what should happen, right? To hell with what I want or need,” she spits out. “And, by the way, it’s Marlo. No one calls me Low anymore. And your time is up.”
She turns on her heel and starts across the kitchen, and I’m desperate to make her stay.
“You know, it’s customary to kiss the cook,” I say, the challenge clear in my tone. Marlo never could walk away from a dare, and I’m counting on her competitive nature to win out.
She stops cold and stays with her back to me for long seconds. She turns around, shoots me a saccharine smile, and walks back to me, all sexy swagger and defiant eyes, clearly on a mission. Toe to toe with me, head tipped up to meet mine, her hand reaches out and palms the back of my neck. She pulls me to her, swift and hard, and our lips crash together like a clap of thunder.
And, just like that, I’m drowning in her. Smashing lips, crashing teeth, sliding tongues, and every single thing that is Low, consumes me to the point of drunkenness. I open my mouth, devouring all she is, gulping for the breath that’s been absent for Eight. Fucking. Years.
This. God, just this. If this is all I can have for the rest of my life, whether it be five years or five thousand, she is more than enough. My senses are overflowing after being starved for what feels like an eternity. The strangled groan vibrating deep in her chest pushes me further over the edge.
We pant into each other’s mouths, desperate and wanting. Our hands fist each other’s hair, grounding us, keeping us from being swept away by the undertow. It’s all too much and not nearly enough.
How will I ever get enough?
One of her hands drifts from my hair, trails my neck, and then lands flat on my chest. I place a hand on top of hers, crushing it to my galloping heart, wanting her to feel what she does to me.
She breaks free and travels down, down, down. She fists my straining cock in her hand, jacking once, twice before a I groan into her open mouth.
“Fuck, Low … fuck,” I whisper, swiping my tongue over her bottom lip before gently sucking.
She releases me, but keeps moving down, cupping my balls in her fist.
I push myself into her hand, craving the contact, craving her. The delicious squeeze of her fist gets deliciously tighter … tighter … tighter…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” I whisper, the air ripped from my constricted lungs, the pressure of her fist nauseating me as she crushes my balls in the vice of her steel fist.
Then her teeth sink into the meat of my bottom lip and the taste of metal bursts onto my tongue.
I huff in frustration and drop the dishes in the sink. I turn to her and cross my arms, matching her stance in battle.
“I just want a chance to clear the air … talk things through with you. Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes. One and a half minutes.”
“You can’t deny there’s unfinished business between us, Low. Words left unsaid. There are things that I need you to know.” The hint of pleading in my voice and the gentleness of my stance do nothing to weaken her resolve.
“Oh, well if you need it, then that’s what should happen, right? To hell with what I want or need,” she spits out. “And, by the way, it’s Marlo. No one calls me Low anymore. And your time is up.”
She turns on her heel and starts across the kitchen, and I’m desperate to make her stay.
“You know, it’s customary to kiss the cook,” I say, the challenge clear in my tone. Marlo never could walk away from a dare, and I’m counting on her competitive nature to win out.
She stops cold and stays with her back to me for long seconds. She turns around, shoots me a saccharine smile, and walks back to me, all sexy swagger and defiant eyes, clearly on a mission. Toe to toe with me, head tipped up to meet mine, her hand reaches out and palms the back of my neck. She pulls me to her, swift and hard, and our lips crash together like a clap of thunder.
And, just like that, I’m drowning in her. Smashing lips, crashing teeth, sliding tongues, and every single thing that is Low, consumes me to the point of drunkenness. I open my mouth, devouring all she is, gulping for the breath that’s been absent for Eight. Fucking. Years.
This. God, just this. If this is all I can have for the rest of my life, whether it be five years or five thousand, she is more than enough. My senses are overflowing after being starved for what feels like an eternity. The strangled groan vibrating deep in her chest pushes me further over the edge.
We pant into each other’s mouths, desperate and wanting. Our hands fist each other’s hair, grounding us, keeping us from being swept away by the undertow. It’s all too much and not nearly enough.
How will I ever get enough?
One of her hands drifts from my hair, trails my neck, and then lands flat on my chest. I place a hand on top of hers, crushing it to my galloping heart, wanting her to feel what she does to me.
She breaks free and travels down, down, down. She fists my straining cock in her hand, jacking once, twice before a I groan into her open mouth.
“Fuck, Low … fuck,” I whisper, swiping my tongue over her bottom lip before gently sucking.
She releases me, but keeps moving down, cupping my balls in her fist.
I push myself into her hand, craving the contact, craving her. The delicious squeeze of her fist gets deliciously tighter … tighter … tighter…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” I whisper, the air ripped from my constricted lungs, the pressure of her fist nauseating me as she crushes my balls in the vice of her steel fist.
Then her teeth sink into the meat of my bottom lip and the taste of metal bursts onto my tongue.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
ABOUT THIS BOOK
Marlo … wild-eyed, untamed, and every single thing I’ve ever wanted from this life. I wasn’t ready for her back then. I was a stupid boy with adult feelings and no idea what to do with them. I squandered away every chance she gave me.
Yes, love like ours either burns white hot or crumbles under the pressure.
And now I’m back to sift through the rubble.
Questions and excuses are two things I have in spades. What I need now are answers.
Answers and Low.
Always Low.
My name is Ever Montgomery, and this is my story of love resurrected.
Marlo … wild-eyed, untamed, and every single thing I’ve ever wanted from this life. I wasn’t ready for her back then. I was a stupid boy with adult feelings and no idea what to do with them. I squandered away every chance she gave me.
Yes, love like ours either burns white hot or crumbles under the pressure.
And now I’m back to sift through the rubble.
Questions and excuses are two things I have in spades. What I need now are answers.
Answers and Low.
Always Low.
My name is Ever Montgomery, and this is my story of love resurrected.
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Low Over High (Book One)
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I fancy myself a purveyor of truth, a sifter of lies, a cutter of bullshit. It’s not a gift, but rather, all skill, honed to a razor’s edge after one too many trips down the rabbit hole.
Some may dismiss my talent as misplaced and misguided cynicism, but they’d be wrong. Cliches about hope and faith in mankind are concocted unicorn farts, an effort to keep the dreamers dreaming. Experiences don’t lie—people do.
While I’m not proud of the circumstances that led me to this way of thinking, I respect the journey. The road to enlightenment can be dark and foreboding, but the destination makes it all worthwhile.
But funny thing about the past—it’s a defiant child refusing to stay in time out. No matter how deeply buried, it can always pop up when least expected, and sink its fucking claws into the flesh of your heart. No, not my heart—I no longer have one. I foolishly gave it away years ago, but I still feel the ripping in my chest as I fist the crumpled note left on my porch.
I’ve avoided this day, ran from it, for the past eight years. And still we meet again.
But to truly understand … to feel my dread and fear my future as I do, it’s important to know what happened in my past.
Or who ...
My name is Marlo Rivers, and this is my story of corrupted love.
Book 1 of 2 in The Over Duet. This book contains graphic content which may not be suitable for sensitive readers.
Some may dismiss my talent as misplaced and misguided cynicism, but they’d be wrong. Cliches about hope and faith in mankind are concocted unicorn farts, an effort to keep the dreamers dreaming. Experiences don’t lie—people do.
While I’m not proud of the circumstances that led me to this way of thinking, I respect the journey. The road to enlightenment can be dark and foreboding, but the destination makes it all worthwhile.
But funny thing about the past—it’s a defiant child refusing to stay in time out. No matter how deeply buried, it can always pop up when least expected, and sink its fucking claws into the flesh of your heart. No, not my heart—I no longer have one. I foolishly gave it away years ago, but I still feel the ripping in my chest as I fist the crumpled note left on my porch.
I’ve avoided this day, ran from it, for the past eight years. And still we meet again.
But to truly understand … to feel my dread and fear my future as I do, it’s important to know what happened in my past.
Or who ...
My name is Marlo Rivers, and this is my story of corrupted love.
Book 1 of 2 in The Over Duet. This book contains graphic content which may not be suitable for sensitive readers.
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J.A. DeRouen lives in South Louisiana with her husband, son (aptly named "The Professor), and her furry friend, Scout. She holds bachelor's degrees in psychology and nursing.
When she's not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women's health nurse. She's been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she's never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after.
Connect with J.A. Website | Newsletter | Facebook Author Page | Facebook Reader Group | Instagram | Twitter | Pinterest | Goodreads Author Page
When she's not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women's health nurse. She's been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she's never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after.
Connect with J.A. Website | Newsletter | Facebook Author Page | Facebook Reader Group | Instagram | Twitter | Pinterest | Goodreads Author Page
