by J. Kenner
"The best," he said, pulling her against him and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You know, once I wanted this house because it would be proof that I was worth more than where I came from."
"And now?"
"Now I want it because it's where I'm most at peace with you."
He felt her tremble in his arms. Then she tilted her face back, looking at him with eyes so full of love they humbled him. "Spencer," she said, "make love to me."
It was a demand he wasn't about to refuse, and he pulled her close, then kissed her gently, letting their passion build as they helped each other out of their clothes, spreading them out of the floor to make a pad in the middle of the house that would soon be their home.
“Now,” she said, tugging him down so that he was balanced on top of her, looking deep into eyes so full of love it filled his soul.
He took her tenderly, claiming her body under a battered roof with the wide blue sky above them, a shaft of sunlight cutting through the dust and making her skin glow.
And when she arched up, crying his name so that it echoed against those crumbling walls, Spencer knew that no man had ever been luckier.
Later, as he drifted off with Brooke in his arms and the old Drysdale place rising up around them, Spencer felt something shift inside him. A need settling. A monster sleeping.
He'd done it, finally. Spencer Dean was home and safe, wrapped in the embrace of the woman he loved. A woman who loved him right back.
Epilogue
The Night of the Mr. February Competition
Cameron Reed slid a Loaded Corona down the bar to Matthew Herrington, one of the regulars who owned a nearby gym where Cameron worked out. His attention wasn't on Matthew, however. It was on Mina.
He could barely see her from this angle. Just a few flashes of her midnight black hair, so sleek it seemed to reflect a blue hue under the vibrant stage lights. It was almost two, and the place had mostly cleared out, calm enough now that he could hear Mina laughing with Jenna, talking about how if they'd wanted drama in their first episode, they couldn't have planned it any better.
Cam had no idea what the whole thing had been about. All he knew was that Spencer had tossed aside the Mr. February T-shirt then leaped off the stage and landed a solid punch in some Robert Redford look-alike's face.
Everyone in The Fix had been shocked, but from the guy's expression, he'd probably had it coming.
Other than that, the only thing Cam knew was that Spencer had done it for a woman. That much he could tell from the look of adoration mixed with the shock in Brooke's eyes.
Cam sighed, wanting to see that expression on Mina. More accurately, wanting to see it when she looked at him. And only at him.
Tonight, he'd gotten the reaction he'd intended from her and the whole bar, but raucous laughter wasn't what he craved.
"You've got it bad, buddy," Matthew said, and Cam turned sharply to look at the gym owner.
"What? No. I'm just zoning out. Staring into space."
"Tell me another one."
Cam scowled.
"Better yet, tell it to the girl." Matthew lifted his bottle in a salute, then took a long swallow.
"That what you'd do?"
"Hell to the yes," Matthew said.
"How?"
Matthew leaned back. He had an angular face and eyes full of humor. Right now, those eyes were dancing with mirth. "Damned if I know, kid. But if you want her, you need to figure it out." He took another swallow. "Do you want her?"
Cameron looked out over the crowd, his eyes immediately finding Mina. "Hell to the yes," he whispered.
Now he just had to figure out how to get her.
A note from JK:
I hope you enjoyed Hold On Tight! Don’t miss Cameron and Mina’s story, Need You Now, book 2 in the Man of the Month series! Keep reading for a sneak peek!
And if you want your very own Man of the Month calendar, you can grab it now! (While supplies last!)
Guess what? I have even more exciting things coming in 2018, including more Nikki & Damien Stark! Keep reading for details!
Subscribe to my newsletter or text JKenner to 21000 so you’ll be among the first to know when fab things happen!
Check out all of my books at www.jkenner.com and be sure to join my Facebook fan group!
The Men of Man of the Month!
Are you eager to learn which Man of the Month book features which sexy hero?
Here’s a handy list!
Down On Me - meet Reece
Hold On Tight - meet Spencer
Need You Now - meet Cameron
Start Me Up - meet Nolan
Get It On - meet Tyree
In Your Eyes - meet Parker
Turn Me On - meet Derek
Shake It Up - meet Landon
All Night Long - meet Easton
In Too Deep - meet Matthew
Light My Fire - meet Griffin
Walk The Line - meet Brent
and don’t miss Bar Bites: A Man of the Month Cookbook that includes a short story featuring Eric, slices of life, and bonus scenes for all the men!
Want your own Man of the Month calendar? Grab it now! (While supplies last!)
Need You Now Sneak Peek
Please enjoy this fun, unedited peek at Need You Now!
Cameron Reed sat on the edge of the bed, every nerve in his body crackling with heat and anticipation.
It was finally happening. Mina. Thank God, she was finally his.
He shifted, and the springs in the cheap motel mattress squeaked, making him jump. He bit his lip, hating that he was so on edge. But this moment—this whole night—was momentous. The best night of his life. Hell, the best night in history as far as he was concerned, and Cam had read one hell of a lot of history books.
He’d been in love with Mina Silver for half his life, and he’d known her longer than that. She was his best friend’s twin sister, after all, so she’d been a constant presence. The girl they teased, the pest they shooed away.
Or she had been, until Cam had begun to notice her sweet smile, her quirky sense of humor. Until he realized that half the time when he went to Darryl’s house after school, his motive was less about playing video games with his buddy and more about catching a glimpse of Mina.
And then one day, he’d caught a glimpse of her making out with Tony Renfroe, the most popular guy in middle school.
That’s when the monster had stirred inside Cameron. A wild, craving beast that had wanted to lash out and knock Tony right off his pedestal—and out of Mina’s arms.
Except he hadn’t given in to that monster. Not then. Not later.
And Mina had dated Tony. Then Alex. Then Roger. And God only knew who else.
But she’d never dated him. Never even thought about him like that. They were friends—hell, they were practically family.
Until now.
He had no idea how he’d gotten so lucky to have finally caught her attention, but he had, and she was here with him now. In this motel. And sex was most definitely on the agenda.
He swallowed, nerves tingling as he waited. She’d disappeared into the tiny bathroom to get ready, and had brushed her finger over his lips with a promise to be right back.
Christ, the waiting was killing him. He was hyperaware of everything. The buzz of the air conditioner. The scratch of the rough bedspread. The sound of the water running in the bathroom.
And then—oh, God—the subtle click of the doorknob turning and the creak of hinges as the bathroom door opened.
She stepped out, clad in a short terrycloth robe that ended at the top of her thighs and revealed miles of perfect legs. She walked toward him, and he swallowed, knowing without seeing that she was naked underneath. That all she had to do was loosen the tie at her waist and open the robe to reveal herself to him. Her firm breasts, her flat belly, her entire body that he intended to drop down onto his knees to worship.
“Are you ready for me?” she whispered, and he felt his cock go hard.
He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. And when she took another step toward him and pulled loose the sash, he thought his heart might stop.
But that was nothing compared to when her hands went to the robe, and she started to pull it open. To reveal herself to him. To stand naked before him and—
Bang!
A wave of golden light burst from the robe, blinding him and knocking him backward.
And when he’d blinked enough to clear his vision, she was gone.
Just gone.
What the hell?
He tried to catch his breath and clear his muddled head. Slowly, he looked around his room, then gasped at what he was seeing.
His room. Not a rundown motel. Not a bed with squeaky springs. And most definitely not a room that Mina shared.
It had all been a dream.
A wonderful, delicious, incredible dream—and he’d awakened to a nightmare. Because he didn’t really have Mina—he never had.
But, goddammit, he would.
Enough waiting. Enough dreaming.
It was time for Cameron to get the girl he craved, or die trying.
Grab your copy now: Need You Now!
Who’s Your Man of the Month?
When a group of fiercely determined friends realize their beloved hang-out is in danger of closing, they take matters into their own hands to bring back customers lost to a competing bar. Fighting fire with a heat of their own, they double down with the broad shoulders, six-pack abs, and bare chests of dozens of hot, local guys who they cajole, prod, and coerce into auditioning for a Man of the Month calendar.
But it’s not just the fate of the bar that’s at stake. Because as things heat up, each of the men meets his match in this sexy, flirty, and compelling binge-read romance series of twelve novels releasing every other week from New York Times bestselling author J. Kenner.
"With each novel featuring a favorite romance trope—beauty and the beast, billionaire bad boys, friends to lovers, second chance romance, secret baby, and more—[the Man of the Month] series hits the heart and soul of romance." New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips
Down On Me
Hold On Tight
Need You Now
Start Me Up
Get It On
In Your Eyes
Turn Me On
Shake It Up
All Night Long
In Too Deep
Light My Fire
Walk The Line
and don’t miss Bar Bites: A Man of the Month Cookbook!
Want your own Man of the Month calendar? Grab it now! (While supplies last!)
Meet Damien Stark
Only his passion could set her free…
Release Me
Claim Me
Complete Me
Anchor Me
Lost With Me
Meet Damien Stark in the award-winning and internationally bestselling series that started it all…
The Stark Saga by J. Kenner
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Meet Damien Stark in Release Me, book 1 of the wildly sensual series that’s left millions of readers breathless …
Chapter One
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver, wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue-gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I’m determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture.
“Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the arts—and my hostess for the evening.
“I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don’t have sunsets like this in Dallas.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
“Hiding out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to my boss of three days.
“Nikki Fairchild.”
“I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?”
“Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she means.
She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fishing for investors and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who. And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a bit of a prick.”
“It’s the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks out a laugh.
The truth is that she’s right about me being the bait. “Wear a cocktail dress,” Carl had said. “Something flirty.”
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress. But I didn’t. Because I want this job. I fought to get this job. Carl’s company, C-Squared Technologies, successfully launched three web-based products in the last eighteen months. That track record had caught the industry’s eye, and Carl had been hailed as a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a man to learn from, and I’d prepared for the job interview with an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position had been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear something flirty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
“I need to get back to being the bait,” I say.
“Oh, hell. Now I’ve gone and made you feel either guilty or self-conscious. Don’t be. Let them get liquored up in there first. You catch more flies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I know.”
She’s holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one out, then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love the smell of tobacco—it reminds me of my grandfather—but actually inhaling the smoke does nothing for me.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to quit,” she says. “But God forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would burn me in effigy. You’re not going to start lecturing me on the dangers of secondhand smoke, are you?”
“No,” I promise.
“Then how about a light?”
I hold up the itty-bitty purse. “One lipstick, a credit card, my driver’s license, and my phone.”
“No condom?”
“I didn’t think it was that kind of party,” I say dryly.
“I knew I liked you.” She glances around the balcony. “What the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don’t even have one goddamn candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it.” She puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes closed and her expression rapturous. I can’t help but like her. She wears hardly any makeup, in star
k contrast to all the other women here tonight, myself included, and her dress is more of a caftan, the batik pattern as interesting as the woman herself.
She’s what my mother would call a brassy broad—loud, large, opinionated, and self-confident. My mother would hate her. I think she’s awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it with the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the catering staff, a girl dressed all in black and carrying a tray of champagne glasses.
The girl fumbles for a minute with the sliding door that opens onto the balcony, and I imagine those flutes tumbling off, breaking against the hard tile, the scattered shards glittering like a wash of diamonds.
I picture myself bending to snatch up a broken stem. I see the raw edge cutting into the soft flesh at the base of my thumb as I squeeze. I watch myself clutching it tighter, drawing strength from the pain, the way some people might try to extract luck from a rabbit’s foot.
The fantasy blurs with memory, jarring me with its potency. It’s fast and powerful, and a little disturbing because I haven’t needed the pain in a long time, and I don’t understand why I’m thinking about it now, when I feel steady and in control.
I am fine, I think. I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.
“Take one, honey,” Evelyn says easily, holding a flute out to me.
I hesitate, searching her face for signs that my mask has slipped and she’s caught a glimpse of my rawness. But her face is clear and genial.
“No, don’t you argue,” she adds, misinterpreting my hesitation. “I bought a dozen cases and I hate to see good alcohol go to waste. Hell no,” she adds when the girl tries to hand her a flute. “I hate the stuff. Get me a vodka. Straight up. Chilled. Four olives. Hurry up, now. Do you want me to dry up like a leaf and float away?”