With a Heart Forged in Steele
Boomer Steele is big. He’s bad. He’s the Retribution MC pres. He’s been dealt the worst hand imaginable and bears the scars inside and out. Not that anyone knows it. He’s watched his younger brother and sister hook up and hitch up with the loves of their lives, and now he’s the last Steele standing alone. Maybe he should keep it that way.
Then one feisty honey makes him feel, gets in his grill, pisses him off.
She goes by the name of Rayce. And that’s exactly what she does on her motocross bike when she’s not busy getting her hands dirty with her fellow grease monkeys as the only female mechanic at Stone’s Garage. She’s into fixing bikes, racing hers, and making Boomer’s life a living hell just for the fun of it. Oh, and she hates being treated like a girl.
Sparks flying? That’s an understatement where these two are concerned. Yet when Rayce needs a place to live, and Boomer offers her a room in his house, their unquenchable attraction wins out over antagonism. Sometimes. Rayce’s crappy upbringing makes her think love is for stupid fools asking for heartbreak. She’s not willing to go there for any man.
Not even Boomer Steele.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Note to readers: this book addresses the issue of domestic abuse.
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I waited an amount of time that almost did my head in. The idea of Rayce, in the same house, half-dressed . . .
I climbed the stairs. They were so delicate and fucking dainty I felt like a giant. At the landing, I hooked left, and immediately ran into Rayce exiting the bathroom on a cloud of total hotness.
The hallway was so small she banged up against me, but not before my eyes spun with the vision of her in a dress, and my tongue must’ve rolled out cartoon-style.
“Boomer!” She spread her palms across my chest where my heartbeat thundered.
She had on some sort of number that ended just above her knees, and it was curve-hugging until it flared at the skirt. The gray and cream pinstriped dress with a deep red belt looked vintage, classy, and I just didn’t have enough mother-lovin’ adjectives to describe it. A floral pattern overlaying the stripes echoed the charcoal-colored tats on her arms. Her tits overflowed the top. Her hips rounded out below the slim waistline. And her legs?
Fishnet stockings. And, for the first time, high heels. Make that ankle-length black leather high-high-high heeled boots with metal designs on the toes.
Her perfume dazed me.
Her dress goddamn amazed me.
She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You in there?”
“You’re wearing a dress.”
Genius, Boomer. You are truly a genius.
Rayce pivoted around, astoundingly graceful. The skirt flipped up to reveal seams on the backs of her stockings. “Like it?”
Liked it so much I was considering banging her against the bathroom door. “Yeah.” I rubbed a hand over my mouth. “You could say that.”
Then she did something entirely feminine, a side of her I’d never truly seen before, and performed a little twirl that lifted the skirt up her firm thighs before she stopped in front of me, her face glowing.
I started sweating, right then and there. “Jesus. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
“Serves you right, old man.”
“I wanna be your old man.” Growling, I scooped her into my arms. “Been missing you.”
I wouldn’t say I was at an impasse with Rayce, but I’d hardly seen her in several weeks. That was going to end tonight, after I watched Hunter either crash and burn or end up a happily married man.
My lips slid up the curve of Rayce’s neck, and her skin tasted like hot womanly sweetness. I licked the shell of her ear, ghosted to the corner of her mouth, and touched the point of my tongue against the seam of her lips.
She parted them with a gasp.
I looked down at her with heavy eyelids, our mouths separated by just a breath of space. “Been dreaming about kissing you. Feeling your lips on mine.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked, all throaty and sultry.
“You don’t want it enough yet.” I backed away from her.
She looked at me with glazed eyes, her lips moist and glistening.
Placing my hands against the wall behind me, I curled my fingers, desperate to touch her. “Is JB ready, because if she’s not I’m about ten seconds away from spreading your legs and getting my face on your pussy.”
Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series–a breakthrough trilogy that crosses traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Her latest endeavors include the Carolina Bad Boys, a fun, hot, and southern-sexy series.
A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.
You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website https://www.riewarren.com. She is represented by Saritza Hernandez, Corvisiero Literary