Sidra Campbell lives by a hump-him-and-dump-him rule. No love, no messy emotional strings, means no chance of losing control – again. She came to L.A. to support her cousin Liza, but she’s also running from the vicious cycle she left behind in Pennsylvania.
Unfortunately for her, two men aren’t making life easy. One invokes the haunting nightmare of a past she’s fought hard to be a survivor and not a victim. And another so tempting, so persuasive, she reinforces the wall around her heart and dons her mask to keep the behemoth out. To everyone else, she appears confident and happy, but they’re always the ones hiding the deepest pain.
Xavier Stone, former drummer to one of the greatest rock bands, Corrosive Velocity, has suffered loss after loss. Finding himself a full-time dad and in threat of losing once again, he’s barely hanging on.
There’s one woman who creates a spark of interest so strong he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. She hates him. At least, that’s what the mask of insults and indifference she wears wants him to believe, but her kiss tells another story. Xavier has lost too much. She may not be happy about it and can run all she wants, but Xavier’s done losing.
When two explosive personalities collide, one runs and the other snares.
“Are you smelling me again?” I accuse.
“I warned you I would keep doing it until you told me the scent.”
His arms come around me, causing me to tense. Dipping his hand between my thighs, he arranges my left leg over the seat.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls me back against his chest.
“Teaching you how to drive,” he states, taking my hands and putting them on the handles.
“Uh, no.” I shake my head. “I prefer riding bitch.”
I try to stand, but he pulls me down by my hips.
“Sometimes I like to ride a bitch, too,” he says low in my ear.
“You’re a bitch,” I snap, my first reaction to his innuendo.
“Is that your way of asking to ride me later?” he tosses back before turning on the snowmobile.
I’m stunned silent and I hate that he did it. Looking down, I see a decal between the windshield and gas cap. Gas or Ass. No One Rides for Free.
I roll my eyes, turn my head, and say sarcastically, “Nice decal.”
“I’m glad you saw that. Now we don’t have to discuss payment for the mountain tour. Will it be gas or ass?”
“I’ll pay the same way your daughters do,” I retort.
“They have their own snowmobiles,” he answers, an edge to his response.
“Do they charge in ass, too?” I ask, a little too snotty.
I can’t stand how he gets to me. I don’t get snotty. Bitchy, yes, but snotty and stunned silent, never.
“That’s not funny,” he growls.
“Hey, I figure you’re leading by example,” I quip, giving a small shrug.
Grabbing my hands again, he places them on the handlebars.
With his hands over mine, he shows me how to use the throttle, brakes, and how to maneuver. Thankfully, he never leaves me to drive on my own. We’d both be dead.
After taking us to another ridge, this time seeing mountain goats, and driving through an open area for me to practice, we arrive back to the cabin.
I climb off so he can put the snowmobile away in the large shed and his hands slide over my ass, squeezing.
“Hey!” I jump away from him.
“Ass,” he calls out, wearing a large grin.
I’m a self professed foul mouthed, book nerd who seeks world domination with her sinister side kick, evil minions, fatal depth dwelling feline, hell hound, villainous lagomorpha and fanged lagoon creature.