Who wants to be a princess when she can be a cowgirl?
Toys are for men who don’t know how to use their hands.
The rancher and the wolf.
His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was as brazen and unforgiving, as terrifying and tantalizing as the electricity between them. She fell into the destruction before her, into him and the carnal desire between them that she knew would tear her to pieces even as the pleasure put her back together again.
Well, for her hormones, apparently all it took was saving her life, an unexpected kiss, and hauling her off like some sort of wolf caveman, to turn her into an adventurous vixen.
I warned you if you got any closer, I’d devour you.” He bent over her, dipping his head just above the tip of one of her nipples. “I intend to keep that promise.
In this fairy tale, I’m not the hero who scales the drawbridge. I’m the wolf who darkens the door.” He was so close now that he was nearly pressed against her. “And when I do valiantly scale bridges to save the princess, it’s only because I intend to burn those bridges down.
You have a reputation to uphold. Ask me that once more, and I might think you care about me.
He wasn’t the type of cowboy she was supposed to want, but to pretend she didn’t was a lie.
If there was one thing she’d learned about this wicked cowboy wolf, it was that he might have been a damn good villain, but when it came to protecting her, nothing would stand in his way.
A tiny cage of butterflies suddenly buzzed around the inside of her gut. Her superhot professor wanted to take a nighttime stroll with her and he was offering her his jacket. Before she could decide whether she wanted to be the type of girl who did that sort of thing with her professor, which was clearly inappropriate, she grasped the leather jacket in her hands and slipped it on. Aw, shucks, who was she kidding? She totally was that kind of girl.
There was something about decapitating an already dead woman, only to follow up with shared brownies with a witch he wasn’t sure he trusted and simultaneously wanted to do the horizontal tango with, that drained the energy from him.
Like something straight out of a B-grade horror film, a single arm shot up from the dirt, reaching and grabbing as it clawed its way forth from its earthen prison. Ash and Trent watched the monster struggle in silence for at least ten minutes, occasionally exchanging glances. Finally, after all the writhing, the zombie emerged. It stumbled out of its grave covered in dirt and gave an annoyed-sounding groan.
The touch sent a jolt of electricity through his skin, as if his arm were being charged by a live wire.
Make no mistake, Princess. I’m no hero.
The Rogue. The Dark Devil. The King of the Misfit Wolves. She’d heard the nicknames more than once.
He was the villain in all this, and when all was said and done, she’d hate him for it. Of that, he was certain.
The scars should make you terrifying, but to me they don’t. They only make you intriguing. It’s beauty with depth.
Nothing good ever comes from deals with a devil like me.
You’re playing with fire,” he warned.