Yay! My first novel, Chasing Sisyphus has arrived. It’s available now on Bookstrand, and coming soon to other good ebook retailers.
Here’s a steamy little preview:
Detective Carver stepped toward her. He held out a cup and motioned for her to take it. She tucked a finger in the handle and clutched it in both hands. A dark crack streaked the rim like a wrinkle in a knuckle. Meanwhile, her own knuckles were pale.
“I guess I should thank you”—he smiled—“you know, for saving my life.”
“Don’t mention it,” she whispered, vision clearing as she sucked in a breath of fresh motel air.
The detective’s shirt hung, still wet, on the back of a chair. The contours of his chest and abdomen showed through his dark undershirt, accentuated by the sheen of composite fabric under lamplight. A shallow dimple creased the edge of his smile.
They’d come so close to not making it. But he’d cuffed her round the front. He was the sort of cop who’d do a thing like that. And the few seconds it bought made all the difference.
That’s why she went back.
He stood in front of her and knocked back his shot, the muscles in his wrist and arm flexing and twisting with the motion.
“Hey”—he looked at her—“something the matter?”
Heart racing, she downed her drink without a word and reached for him. She pulled his face to hers. His skin was warm. His breath was warm. Beneath the smell of liquor and earthy river water lurked the aroma of another person. A breathing person who caught her as she fell into him, as she kissed him, fumbling for something to hold onto.
The detective let go of his cup. It landed next to hers on the carpet. She kicked them both away. Her lips recognised him, recognised the sensation of life breathing between them both. Only this time, he was alive, too, hot and moving. His arms gripped her, holding her as she pushed her body toward him, against the growing need under his clothes. She was a buoy, slammed into him by waves in a storm. He clung to her, seizing fistfuls of her hair.
“What are we doing?” he gasped.
“We almost died tonight.”
She kissed him again, seeking his tongue where their lips met. Her nimble fingers worked the clasp of his belt. When it was undone, she peeled his undershirt from his muscular torso. His skin was cold beneath her touch, or were her hands hot from the shower? She looked at him. Right in the eye. She guided his hands up her waist and watched him intently.
“Fuck that, right?”
“Yeah”—he nodded—“fuck that.”