Beyond Me Countdown…

I’m excited.

5 more days till release of Beyond Me – part of the Sex on the Beach series with the amazing Jenna Bennett and Jen McLaughlin.

5 more days till the Facebook party of cocktails, giveaways, and fun.

5 more pages for you to enjoy. Now.

Love you my peeps! Stay tuned for teasers going up every day till release!
Enjoy…
*first 15 pages posted in my prior blog posts* – continuing in James’ POV:

The gorgeous, sleek line of her spine begged me to run my tongue down it until I stopped at the
sweet spot. “Maybe I’m tired of the same type of women all
the time.”
Rich hooted with laughter. “Gorgeous, smart, sexy women
who want to do anything for you? Yeah, cry me a fucking river.
I still think you won’t get anywhere with her.”
Adam poked my shoulder. “When was the last time you
got rejected? It’s good for everyone once in a while.”
“She won’t reject me.” The knowledge she was meant to be
mine roared in my blood, but it was such a ridiculous feeling
I decided to ignore it. She was probably playing games, and
once I delved deeper, she’d be like all the rest. I was so sick of
disappointment and emptiness beneath the surface. Not that
I was any better. In fact, I was probably the worst culprit of
all—an empty shell sucked dry of anything real for a long, long
time.
“Care to make a bet?” Adam challenged.
“What type of bet?” I asked.
Rich drained his beer and looked triumphant. “Great idea.
We bet you can’t bed her within the week. We’ll give you five
days.”
“Are we starring in some crap spring break movie?” The
crudity of such a bet was disgusting and I waved my hand in
the air, dismissing the idea. “I’m not into shit like that.”
Rich cleared his throat. “Because you know you can’t
succeed?”
“Because it’s a scummy thing to do. And none of your
business.”
“What if I put up something you’ve been wanting for a
while?”
I turned my head. Rich seemed pretty confident I’d jump
at the offer. I’d known him and Adam since high school. Our
parents belonged to the same clubs in Florida and were all
close friends. We’d grown up as trust fund babies, given pretty
much free reign and anything we wanted. We sailed yachts
together, travelled through Europe, and had been kicked out
of too many schools. Seemed like a fucking great life until we
got older and realized most of America didn’t live that way.
That there were things like real jobs and consequences and
morality. My parents had none of that. They gave to charity
because it made them look good, but turned their noses down
at anyone who needed to scramble or get a bit dirty. When I
hit about nineteen, I figured out they didn’t like me much, and
as long as I didn’t embarrass their public image, they couldn’t
care less where I went or what I did. I did all the normal shit
kids do to get attention—screwing up and trying to make their
lives miserable because I couldn’t please them. In return, they
threatened to pull my money once in a while, and continued
to freeze me out.
Once I reached drinking age, their attorney contacted me
while they were travelling London. He had me sign on the
dotted line, and all of my trust fund money was released, with
a legal disclaimer that once it ran out, they weren’t responsible
for me. I got the big picture. I was on my own.
Of course, I’d always been on my own. I just hadn’t realized
it.
I jerked my attention back to my friend’s proposal. “Trust
me, Rich, I doubt you have anything I want that much.”
He gave me a smug look. “How about Whit Bennigan?”
I cocked my head. I’d been heavy into art my whole life, but
done nothing with it. I calmed my mind by going to museums,
studying art history, and immersing myself in the visual world
of professional artists. I had a room stocked with my paintings,
but no one had seen them. No one really cared to. Whit
Bennigan was one of the most famous painters in the south,
and was making a name for himself to rival powerhouses.
Using an edgy style with bold colors, he was a mix of old and
new and was a master when it came to manipulating light. I’d
read everything I could on the reclusive man.
“What about him?” I asked suspiciously.
“He’s a close friend of my parents. He owes them a favor,
and I could collect. What if I was able to score you a private
lesson with him?”
I jerked back. “Are you fucking kidding me? One hour
in the room with this guy could change my whole approach.
There’s no way you can bring that, Rich. You’re full of shit.”
“I’ll bring it. You get Miss Snobby Pants into bed within
five days, and I’ll get you that lesson.”
I turned and studied her. Back ramrod straight, dark hair
spilling over her shoulders, looking at something I couldn’t see
out in the distance. I wanted her. Would’ve gone after her with
or without a stupid bet, but at this point, what did I have to
lose? I needed to have her, and a lesson with my mentor would
be an added bonus. “What if I fail?”
The guys laughed. “We get your bike,” they said in unison.
Ah, shit.
My motorcycle was Harley, custom made, and sweet as
sugar. It had an engine that revved like a thing of beauty, was
badass black and chrome, and had every extra gadget I could
squeeze on there. It had taken more than a year for them to
make it to my specs, and it was my pride and joy.
“She still worth it?” Adam asked.
Yeah. She was. This was a bet I couldn’t lose.
“Are we on?”
I turned to Rich, who’d asked the question. Glanced at the
girl. And nodded. “Yeah. We’re on.”
Without hesitation, I pushed myself away from the bar
and headed toward her.

Quinn
His voice was rich and deep, and made my stomach flip
when I thought of all the things he could whisper to
me. Naughty things. I felt my cheeks go pink. Damn that inner
voice. Now I looked like some crazed idiot.
“Umm, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
He made a point to look at the empty space around me.
“Who?”
I frowned. “Someone,” I said stubbornly. “Did you need
something?”
He laughed. His eyes were even more spectacular close up,
an aquamarine so clear and blue I felt like I could dive in and
get lost. His hair was curly, and the color of yummy bittersweet
chocolate. The strands fell over his forehead in a messy
sexiness that looked made up. Yeah, he was way too perfect.
Even his cheekbones and jaw were sharp and definitive, giving
him an older, commanding look. Way out of my league. I self consciously
tucked a long strand of my hair behind my ear.
“You’re the real welcoming sort, aren’t you? What’s your
name?”
I paused for a beat. Just enough to get my point across—I
was in charge of this conversation. My body disagreed as a
strange heat pumped through my veins and itched under my
skin. “Quinn. Quinn Harmon.”
“Hello, Quinn Harmon. I’m James Hunt. It’s nice to meet
you.”
I gazed at him with suspicion from under my lashes. “You
too.”
“Are you always this open and cheerful on break? I haven’t
seen you around—do you go to school in Florida?”
“No, I’m with two of my girlfriends for the week. We’re
from Chicago.”
“Ah, the Windy City. I’ve been there a few times. State
University?”
“Yes.”
The conversation was painful, but he seemed delighted by
my one-word answers. I wondered what his game was. Those
full lips quirked slightly upward as if my crankiness made him
happy. No wonder I couldn’t get laid. I was more comfortable
having a conversation regarding misplaced false teeth and
what foods had to be avoided because they cause gas. Maybe
working in an elderly home in my spare time wasn’t such a
great idea. Of course, soon I’d move into rehabilitation and be
around alcohol and drug addicts. Probably not much better.
“Am I boring you already?”
I blinked. Did my blush deepen? “Oh, sorry.”
He waited for more but I stopped. Stared at him. Our gazes
locked and a weird, tight tension pulled between us. I forced
down my impulse to take a step closer to soak up his body
heat. He didn’t smell of beer or smoke, but the clean scent of
pool water and soap. “Are you enjoying the party?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”