“Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.” ― Oscar Wilde
Author Nicola Royse dreamed of Scottish Highlanders as a teen then wrote about them as an adult. Always looking but never finding her own White Knight, she still held out hope that he would one day ride up on his trusty steed. He rode up all right, on a silver Harley with heat in his eyes and a detective’s badge on his hip while she and her friends plotted her first contemporary romantic suspense. Of course, life couldn’t’ imitate art without a killer on the loose, one that had Nicola and her friends in his sights.
Detective Dallas Vaughn dedicated his life to catching killers. Then one day he bumped into the girl-next-door, and all that changed. Now he’s her White Knight fighting against a Dark Prince—one who would love to see her dead.
“Sweetheart, I’m a cop. I don’t take anything at face value, nor do I assume. I’d been thinkin’ about the taste of your lips since the first time you spilled coffee on me. Since an opportunity presented itself, I took it,” he answered with a shrug. “As for yesterday, I decided I was done thinkin’ about the taste of your lips and was putting you on notice.” I didn’t know what to do with all that, but something he said caught my attention more than his thinking he could put me on notice—whatever that meant. And since I clearly liked to embarrass myself, and he was willing to answer, I decided to go for the gusto. Drawing in a deep breath for courage, I leaned forward and asked, “Um, how exactly did I taste?” I really needed to know the answer to this. I’ve written this scene a hundred times, the one where the hero talks about a woman tasting sweet like honey, and I had to know if it was true.
Dallas’ eyes seemed to turn from a rich honey to a darker amber color, and the air around us hummed with energy as he stared back at me. My heart started beating rapidly when he leaned forward, so only I could hear, and whispered, “Like apple pie and sex.”
“Really?” I whispered back as my gaze moved to his lips, wondering if he would ever kiss me again.
“Nicola.” “Yeah?” I answered as I thought about nipping his lower lip, then sucking it into my mouth.
“If you don’t stop starin’ at my lips I’m gonna haul you out of that chair and kiss you until your legs give out. Then I’ll carry you to my car and everyone in this place will know exactly what we’re doin’.” “Does that really happen?” I breathed out as my eyes shot to his.
Clearly, something about this guy brought out my inner hussy since the thought of sex in his car wasn’t exactly the deterrent he thought it was. I was honestly considering testing the truthfulness of his statement.
“Does what really happen?” “Being kissed so thoroughly your legs go weak.” “Babe,” was his only reply, as if I’d insulted his ability to kiss me senseless. “Oh, wow.” I sighed. His response . . . “You better fuckin’ believe it!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.P. Smith is a stay-at-home mom with a keyboard. She’s never serious and lives inside her head.
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