I'm used to getting what I want. I've always taken what I wanted. No apologies. No excuses.
I know what it feels like to be betrayed, when someone else is calling all the shots. I've been down that road, and I'm not going there again. I've got my family, my friends, and the brotherhood. That's all I need.
I believe in Fate. Everything happens for a reason. But what do you do when Fate kicks you in the gut, plays a cruel joke on you?
When I met Quincy Priest, she was a flame I couldn't put out. A freakin' wildfire. She blew in to my life, burned it to the ground, then left me standing in the ashes. Gone as suddenly as she came. I'm not sure if I should love her or hate her… But I don't hate her. I could never hate her.
What do you do when the person who broke you may be the only person who can put you back together?
Can you run from Fate?
Do you even want to?
This is Brody's story.
“So, what am I doing here, Brody?” Her voice cracks, like she’s nervous or scared of me. “You confuse me. I’m not really sure what you want from me.” Well, that’s an easy one. Walking toward her, I hold out my hand.
“Quince, it’s not about what I want from you. It’s about what I want with you.” She hesitates before reaching for my outstretched hand, and I pull her to stand in front of me. With her boots on, she's a little taller and a helluva lot sexier. I draw her close, her body perfectly aligning with mine. Indecision floods her eyes, warning me that I will scare her away if I move too fast. So instead, I begin to sway with the music that penetrates the walls. She moves with me, setting a slow, seductive rhythm, her hips gently swaying to the beat. And when she lays her head on my chest, I wonder if she can hear my heart, pounding inside.
I feel her breath on my neck and her body flex as she rises to her toes, just before her lips touch the sensitive spot just under my ear. Breathing in deep, I tilt my head back, giving her control. Her lips part, and her tongue glides over my skin, blazing a path down my neck. My hands are suddenly in her hair, tangled in it, urging her on. “Fuck, Quince. You are driving me crazy,” I whisper. My voice is deep and hoarse. This is sweet torture.
My words seem to ignite something in her, her hands finding the bottom of my shirt and tugging it up. Her movements grow more hurried, more needy, and her breath comes in short bursts. I think Little Miss Perfect likes dirty talk.
Sydney Lane lives in Nashville, TN with her husband and children. Growing up in Smalltown, USA, Sydney dreamed of being a writer. After spending an obscene amount of money to go to college, Sydney finally decided to follow her heart. With her babies in bed and husband neglected, she worked by the light of her laptop and wrote Choices. Sydney is very active in charity work for anti-bullying and depression awareness groups.
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