A brand new standalone romance is coming in February 2018 from one of my fave authors, and I have the gorgeous cover and a little sneak peek for you.
He looks pained, then resigned, briefly closing his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, he reaches up and grasps my wrist.
I freeze. Then my heart starts thumping. I’m unused to physical contact, having gone without it for years, and Theo’s big hand wrapped around my wrist is all kinds of contact. It’s skin on skin, and a sudden sharp heat in the air, and a rushing noise like the ocean in my ears.
When his fingers press lightly against the pulse in my wrist, as if he’s timing the beat of my heart, I’m swallowed by a dark, painful déjà vu.
Cass used to touch me like this. His fingers always sought the places where my pulse showed itself—throat, wrist, the hollow between my thigh and hip—resting lightly against a throbbing vein until the blood beneath it quickened at his touch.
And it always quickened. The same as it’s doing now, jumping to life under the light, seeking press of Theo’s fingertips, beating and then beating faster until it’s a wild racing thing, uncontrollable, like a leaf spun high into the sky by a fierce churning wind.
This is the first time I’ve truly felt alive in years.
My intake of breath seems very loud in the quiet room. Theo watches my face with extraordinary focus. Our noses are mere inches apart. Under the burn of his eyes, I feel exposed, all my defenses laid bare, all my carefully constructed boundaries flattened like a house of straw blown over by the big, bad wolf.
I feel naked.
I yank my arm away and back up several short steps, the blanket falling from my shoulders and slipping to the floor.
Theo holds up a hand, fingers spread, like Stop. Or, It’s okay.
God, who am I kidding? I have no idea what he means. Maybe he’s telling me I’m a five on a scale of one to ten.
“It’s late,” I whisper, my mouth as dry as bone. Suddenly all my questions don’t seem nearly important as getting him out of my house so I can be alone with the boiling sea of fire raging in my blood. Sweat has bloomed over my chest, and I’m breathing so quickly I’m almost panting.
This isn’t fear, or shock, or anything nearly as simple as those. I recognize this feeling like I’d recognize the face of an old friend, glimpsed from afar after a long separation.
Desire has a particular flavor that, once tasted, can never be forgotten.
All from the press of his fingertips on my wrist.
He pushes away from the island, stares down at me for several beats in blistering silence, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. I’m glad for once that he doesn’t speak, because it means I don’t have to either.
I’m not entirely sure what words my mouth might form in the wake of the bomb that just detonated inside my body.