OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES
Underneath It All
The Space Between
Underneath It All – The Walsh Series #1
If I had known I’d have a hot architect balls deep inside of me before the end of the weekend, I’d have made time for a pedicure. Also, a little chat about not losing my shit at all the wrong moments.
Hindsight was a bitch, and karma…well, I didn’t know her story yet.
Meet Lauren Halsted.
It’s all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I fell ass-over-elbow into Matthew Walsh’s arms.
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming.
Meet Matthew Walsh.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers to count, and she wasn’t letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn’t looking for me and I sure as shit wasn’t looking for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together. Other times, it throws them down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a bruised and bloodied heap.
The Space Between – The Walsh Series #2
Some lines are meant to be crossed.
That fucking hair.
It was everywhere, always, and I wanted to tangle my fingers in those dark curls and pull.
And that would be fine if she wasn’t my apprentice.
Andy Asani was nothing like I expected. She was exotic and scary-brilliant, and the slightest murmur from those lips sent hot, hungry lust swirling through my veins. Outside my siblings, she was the only person I could name who shared my obsession with preserving Boston’s crumbling buildings.
My wants were few: good eats, tall boots, sweaty yoga, interesting work. One incredibly hot architect with the most expressive hazel eyes I ever encountered and entirely too much talent in and out of the bedroom wasn’t part of the original plan. Apparently he was part of the package.
Wine was my rabbi and vodka was my therapist, and I needed plenty of both to survive my apprenticeship. Especially with Patrick Walsh leaving love notes in the form of bite marks all over my body.
*This is the second book in The Walsh Series, though it reads as a stand-alone novel.
I was halfway through blending the modified mudslides when Sam placed his hands on my hips, his palms circling over my clothes. There was a hot insistence in his touch, and he soon dipped beneath my dress and inside my leggings.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
His body shifted, and he dropped to his knees behind me. True to his word, he peeled my leggings down, one aching inch at a time. His mouth moved over my exposed skin, kissing and licking, and when my clothes were bunched at my ankles, he pushed my legs apart. He drove his fingers inside me, stroking and thrumming my clit until I was bent over the countertop and begging.
And then Sam’s fingers were gone, abandoning me seconds before I came, and I was ready to scream.
Springing up, I rounded on him, my eyes as furious as I felt, and he just smiled. “That not go the way you wanted?”
“Rude!” I yelled. “Very rude!”
I was wet—not simply aroused—and I sensed my fluid coating my thighs. It was almost embarrassing, and I was somewhat convinced I’d find a puddle on the floor very soon.
“Maybe.” He grabbed a handful of my dress and yanked me against his chest. “You’ve had a rough night,” he said, and I nodded. “It’s going to get a little rougher.”
My default reaction to overwhelming situations was laughter, and when those words washed over me, I dissolved into giggles despite his dark, severe tone.
“Oh, Sunshine,” Sam hissed, slipping his fingers into my mouth. I tasted myself on him, and I wanted to be revolted but I was too fucking turned on to care. His eyes darkened as I sucked, his groan hoarse and exactly as desperate as I felt. “I am going to own you tonight.”
He pushed me against the refrigerator and freed me from my leggings and panties. Ducking under my dress, his tongue swirled over my clit and it only took a few well-placed licks to prime my body for explosion.
And once again, he stopped a minute too soon. Wailing, I beat my fists against the refrigerator. This was torture, and he knew it.
“Saaaaaaammm,” I moaned.
He offered a knowing grin and placed feathery kisses on my thighs and pelvic bone and just barely between my legs. “Do not doubt that I’ll gag you.”
“I’ll finish this myself,” I said, but the threat sounded whiny and petulant.
He chuckled, his warm breath tickling my leg, and he continued teasing. He didn’t believe me.
Unable to see past the screeching urge for release ringing through my body, I bunched my dress at my waist and brought my hand to my center. I’d barely grazed my clit when Sam’s hand curled around my wrist and pinned it to my side.
“Don’t you dare,” he said. He stood, leaning into me while I squirmed, angling for his hard length where I needed it. “I’llmake you come. Only me, and only when I’m ready.”
“You’re such a dick,” I yelled, burrowing into his shoulder.
“And you love it.” He dragged his scruffy chin across my chest, inflaming my nerves and drawing out a shiver that didn’t seem to stop. “How long should I make you wait?”
I shook my head, whimpering, “No more.”
“Should I fuck you right here?” Sam asked. He lifted my hands above my head and speared his hips against me, and the impact sent vibrations rippling through my body. “Or against the counter? Your ass looked fucking edible bent over like that.”
He traced the line of my arm, over my breast and belly, and brushed my folds. It was a delicate touch, like he was stroking something incomprehensibly fragile, and desire sparked in my veins until I was trembling.
It was an agonizing, throbbing need, but Sam didn’t stop. His body trapped me there, his chest flush with mine, his grip tight on my wrists, and I could feel the drumbeat of his heart pounding in time with mine. He whispered filthy things about how much he loved touching me and teasing me, and how he wanted my arousal dripping all over his wrist, and that my pussy belonged to him.
I hated hearing those words—my ladybits were my own, thank you—but I craved them, too. It was primal and animalistic, and if my hands were free, I would have closed my fist around his cock and said the exact same thing.
I took tremendous pride in belonging only to myself, but right now, with my body heaving in spectacularly painful need, I wanted to be Sam’s. He could claim my pussy, my orgasms, my everything.
“Do I need to restrain you?” he asked, and even the scrape of his teeth on my earlobe was too much stimulation.
“Sam,” I rasped. “Please.”
He released me, but I didn’t have long to miss the weight of his body. He led me into the bedroom, yanking the rest of my clothes off in the process. His were quick to follow, and then he was over me, his palm splayed between my breasts, pressing hard.
He pushed into me, slow and deliberate, and he kept me anchored in place while he stroked all the way in, his hips snug against mine, and then all the way out. I didn’t think it was possible for him to torture me any more than he had, but this—this was the most licentious torture imaginable.
Eventually, he shifted his hand down my body until the heel of his palm rested over my mound. When I edged up to meet his thrusts, that pressure sent hot, crackling snaps of electricity through me.
“Oh, fuck, Sam,” I cried, my shoulders digging into the mattress for more leverage.
“You want to come for me, sweetheart?” he asked, as if I’d been holding out on him. I made some hysterical, mewling sound and he smiled, nodding. His jaw locked, his strokes deepening, slamming into me as I arched my back.
I knew the minute he came because his face always took on the same expression of serene suffering, and he’d groan my name, low and gravelly, like a secret prayer. I let myself believe that moment belonged to me, that his body couldn’t possibly react that way to anyone else.
Just as I was pulled under by that warm, soothing orgasm, he ground his palm against me, and that wave morphed into a fucking tsunami. Every muscle twitched and sighed, the spasms rolling through me as if they’d never stop.
Kate Canterbary doesn’t have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean–Pacific or Atlantic–is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people–be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane–ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn’t writing sexy architects, she’s scheduling her days around the region’s best food trucks.