“Kenner may very well have cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for them …” RT BookReviews (on Heated by J. Kenner)
Check out the review … and today’s excerpt as we countdown to the release of Heated next week!
Check out the awesome review of Heated in the June edition of the RT Bookclub magazine! And I’m so excited that we are just one itty-bitty week away from Heated’s on-sale date!
To celebrate, here’s a snippet!
“I hope your room’s close,” I said lightly, determined to steady myself. “It’ll be nice to kick off these heels.”
He glanced down toward the foot I had helpfully extended to show off the seriously uncomfortable strappy sandals and shiny new pedicure. “Lovely. But I might prefer you keep them on,” he added, and there was no mistaking the heat in his voice. “Everything else can go.”
Oh, my. So much for getting steady. He’d very soundly knocked me off balance again. I licked my lips. “Is that a particular fetish, Mr. Sharp?”
“A rather common one, I believe.” We were near the lobby’s plush couches, and he gestured for me to sit. When I did, he took a seat next to me, then lifted one of my legs and rested my ankle on his thigh. My hem hit just above my knee, and I wore no stockings. Fingers of cool air crept under the folds of my dress, soothing my already overheated skin.
Not that Tyler was helping to cool me down. Just the opposite. Slowly, he traced a path along my hemline, his fingertip burning a trail along my bare thigh. “It’s not, however, one of mine.”
“Tyler.” I couldn’t manage any more. I was surprised I’d managed that much.
“You really should stop.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t want to.” His attention turned to the back of my knee, his clever fingers stroking a spot so delicious the sensation pooled between my thighs and I actually moaned.“I’ve had you,” he said. “But I haven’t yet savored you.” I looked at his face, and the pure, open desire I saw there was as deep and vivid as my own.
“Please,” I whispered. I meant to say please stop.At least I think I did. But it didn’t come out that way.
His hand cupped the back of my leg and stroked down my calf slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly.
“Please,” I said, trying again. “People will stare.”
“People might. I don’t believe you care much. I know I don’t.”
I closed my eyes. He was right.
Finally, his fingertip brushed lightly over my ankle, then skipped over the leather of my sandal before finding the arch of my foot and gently tracing the edge. On any other day, I might have cringed from being tickled. But right then I wasn’t remotely ticklish. I was too damn turned on.
“No,” he murmured, as he carefully returned my foot to the floor. “I don’t have a foot fetish. But if I was going to develop one, I would surely start with yours.”
“So you have no interesting proclivities?” I teased, trying to sound bold so that he wouldn’t see how well he’d twisted me up. And, yes, trying to get a sense of what he intended for me once we reached his room. “No fetishes of your own?”
“I didn’t say that.” He stood, then held out a hand to help me up.
“If not feet, then what?” I asked, appreciating the firm way his fingers closed around mine.
His gaze skimmed slowly over me, the inspection both unnerving and very, very erotic. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Leave a Reply