BROKEN HEARTS (Hearts #2) by M. O’Keefe
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You’re a selfish prick. My father’s voice in my head was scathing. Ya always were. Only looking out for yourself. You’d fuck that girl into next week and never think twice.
But I always thought twice. Always. And this was a moment that wouldn’t come again. It made me feral. Wild.
I could hurt her.
She would like it.
The thought of her pleasure at the edge of my violence made it inevitable. I wanted to hurt her and be hurt by her. I wanted to drown in the pleasure and the pain we’d give each other.
And then I wanted to walk away and seal this part of myself, this weak and vulnerable part of myself, up like a brick wall so I never fucking felt this way again.
“Poppy.” That was all I said. Her name. But it was full of my intentions toward her. My wicked depraved intentions.
She stood to face me, breathing deep. Her nipples beneath the borrowed shirt she wore were hard, and if I got my hands inside those sweatpants, I’d find her drenched. For me. For this.
I could smell it in the air.
“You don’t scare me,” she whispered, though a little bit of her was lying.
“You’re going to give me some big speech about how you’re going to hurt—”
I cut her off with my fist in her hair. She gasped, going up on her toes. My desire was a tidal wave. An onslaught. “Say stop and I’ll stop.”
Her eyes went wide as if she was just understanding what she’d signed up for at this moment. And then I kissed her, open mouthed, my hands in her hair, holding her still. I plundered her. I sucked and bit and she let me. She bit back. Her tongue was in my mouth and her hands were around my waist, tangled in my shirt, holding onto me.
“Stop,” she panted, and I stopped. My mouth a breath away from hers. The only things moving were my heart pounding my chest and my blood filling my cock.
She licked her lips. “Just checking.” She grinned at me and I pulled her up and against me, refusing to laugh. Refusing to admire her. To fucking like her.
I rubbed my thumb over her lips, prying my way inside. Not that she refused me. Not that she had one single defense. “Suck,” I whispered, looking into her eyes, daring her to look away. But she didn’t. She looked right back at me and sucked on my thumb. Biting it with her teeth. “I’ve got twelve hours to fuck you until I don’t give a shit about you.”
His name thrums through me like a heartbeat.
I climbed out of the smoldering crater of my life only to find myself back in the middle of a slow-motion trainwreck. I’m hunted, torn between my past and present, ripped apart by two warring families. My husband is dead, and his killer is the only man who’s ever felt the deep well of emotion I keep hidden from the world.
Vicious and scarred—his rough touch is seared into my skin, but his soft caresses are what break down my walls bit by bit. Until there’s only me left. My soul in his bloody hands, and my broken heart beating just for him. Only him.
My shadowy protector, my phantom lover—kiss me or kill me, I don’t care. As long as you’re the one who does it.
About the Author:
M. O'Keefe can remember the exact moment her love of romance began--in seventh grade, when Mrs. Nelson handed her a worn paperback copy of The Thorn Birds. Writing as Molly O'Keefe, she has won two RITA Awards and three RT Reviewers' Choice awards. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and two children.