I am desperate. For you. For touch. For a kiss. For the scrape of your hand down my stomach. For the slide of your lips across my hipbone. The sweep of your thigh against mine in the dulcet, drowning darkness. For the warm huff of your breath on my skin and the wet suck of your mouth around me and the building pressure of need reaching release...I am mad with need.
Wild with it.
I cannot have you. I have lost you, as I have lost myself.
And so I go in search. Of myself, and thus the man who might return to you, and take you in his arms.
I loathe each of the thousands of miles between us, but I cannot wish them away, for I hope at the end of my journey I shall find you. Or rather, find myself, and thus…you. Myself, and thus us.
I am taking the long way home, Ava.
* * *
I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how to stop it. I shouldn’t be writing to you, but I am. I’m friendless, loveless, and lifeless. You’re out there somewhere, and still you’re all I really have. I hate my reliance and dependence on you, emotionally and otherwise, and that reliance is something I’m coming to recognize. I hate that I can’t hate you as much as I want to. I hate that I still love you so much.
I hate that there’s no clear solution to our conundrum. Even if we could forgive each other, what then?
I hate you, Christian. I really do.
But most of all, I don’t.
Complicatedly (still) yours,
I’ve always been a one-night stand kind of girl, and sometimes I wouldn’t even stick around for a full night. Brock was supposed to be a one-night stand—that’s how it started out, at least. Only, what was supposed to be a fun one-time-only hookup with a hot local guy ended up with me discovering Brock’s potency six different ways by breakfast.
That was all it took. One night with Brock, and I was hooked. But hooked doesn’t mean ready for a relationship.
That’s what he wants. And deep down, I’m starting to fear that’s what I want too.
I’m just not sure I’m ready for it.
I mean, he’s the literal epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, plus he’s a pilot…with a six-pack and perfect hair and a smile to melt me from the inside out. How’s a girl supposed to resist that? I couldn’t. I can’t. I’ve tried, but I keep going back for more.
I’ve got it bad, real BADD.
I know it’s crazy, but I don’t give a damn
shouldn’t want you near me
but you’re inside me, can you hear me
I’m praying you need me, baby say you do
I’m laying in bed, dreaming of you
cuz I remember you moving, gliding
can’t get over you, baby I’m trying
why can’t I have you, why’s it have to be so complicated
the love I feel hasn’t faded
I wrote those lyrics for Jonny after he walked away.
It was never meant to be between us; I knew it, he knew it, we talked about it.
The trouble is, love never listens to logic. And for two people who have never really had a home or known love, logic is all that keeps us going: be smart, survive, do what has to be done. And, in my case, take care of my son. Forget my dreams, forget love…nothing matters but making it day by day.
But then I met Jonny, and everything changed.
* * *
I’m a vagabond. I’ve lived my whole life out on the ocean, surviving by my wits and my knowledge of the sea. I’ve never needed anyone, never stayed in one place long enough to let something like that happen.
Christian, the only person I’ve ever really cared about, goes missing and gives me a box of letters and makes me promise to take it to his wife, Ava. Problem is, when I get to her, Ava is missing too, and their condo is ruined by the same hurricane that claimed Christian. And then I meet Delta, Ava’s sister, Christian’s sister-in-law, and she changes everything.
It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Nothing was supposed to happen. We helped dig out survivors of the hurricane together, and that was it. Only…that wasn’t it. Something happened. And now I can’t get her out of my head, or out of my heart.
Even when I walk away, I can’t escape her. Especially when I hear her voice on the radio, singing a song meant for me:
You walked into my life, with your dark skin and brown eyes
I tried to resist you, tried not to kiss you
you speak soft and you move slow
you’ve got strong hands and few words
but I hear it anyway, everything you don’t say
I tried to resist you, tried not to kiss you
but god, your lips, the way you moved your hips
the way you said my name
and said you felt the same
the way you took my hand
Six-six, built like a god, red hair, blue eyes, and a tree trunk between his legs. Yeah. This is the guy I got kidnapped with. Phrasing is important there: kidnapped WITH, not kidnapped BY.
Fortunately, Duke Silver is a hard-core badass, because it's going to take every last shred of skill he has as a killer commando to keep us both alive, and even then, nothing's a sure thing.
Rugged and hot, heavy metal rockstar, Dred Zander is exactly the type of man that normally sends Pixie running. Not dreaming about running her hands down his washboard abs...and lower. The lead singer and guitarist for the band Preload embodies trouble behind his quick smile and guarded eyes, and Pixie left trouble behind her years ago along with the name Sarah Jane Travers and the pathetic trailer her mom called home. With her abusive past in her past, she has a new life, a new family at Second Circle Tattoos, and a dream of opening her own business. She needs capital and time. What she doesn't need is a tempting long-haired rocker or the paparazzi that follow him around.
But Dred has other ideas. Pixie's sweet hazel eyes, purple hair and kaleidoscopic tattoo of exotic flowers that swirl up her arm haunt his dreams, and he knows she wants him too. He just has to convince her. But as a juicy exposé threatens to expose their pasts, and a blackmailer terrorizes their present, Pixie and Dred have to decide what really matters and fight like hell to keep it.
Fall in love with The Purest Hook, a sexy, emotional, thrilling full-length rockstar tattoo romance from Scarlett Cole, the third book in her Second Circle Tattoos series that follows new couple Dred and Pixie, and don't miss the rest of the band Preload with Jordan Reclaimed, Elliott Redeemed, Nikan Recovered, and Lennon Reborn.
You are beneath me. You stare up at me. You gaze, lovingly, into my eyes, and you do not look away as you come apart. I see this moment, over and over and over again…
You whisper something, as the shudders wrack you, yet the words you whisper are lost to me. I want those words—they mean everything.
What is it you whisper in the moment of our most intimate completion?
My name, surely.
What is it you whisper, Ava?
Please, tell me. Whisper those sounds to me again, even just once, I beg you.
Come to me, and come for me, and come with me: I will hear those sweet, dulcet syllables blooming from your lips and I will know myself, and I will know I am home.
* * *
Memory is a harsh mistress: she embellishes the beautiful and serene, yet she also sharpens the edges of pain.
All I have left of my husband, Christian, is memory. Everything else is gone. Our son, Henry, conceived and cherished and born and grown in the fertile soil of our love…he is dead. He molders six feet under the black loam of a Florida cemetery. The home we created for ourselves, in Ft. Lauderdale, is a pile of rubble, demolished by a hurricane. That home, and everything in it, is utterly gone. Even the rubble, by now, is likely cleared away.
And all I know is, right now…I’m scared of letting myself grieve for Henry.
I’m scared I’ll never find Christian. And if I never find Christian, what will I do?
Who will I be?