by Avery Aster
Xavier stands beside Ryder, looking elegant and stunning in his tuxedo.
My friend, Serena, stands on the other side. Along with Carlotta. I didn’t know Ryder had arranged for Serena and Carlotta to be here, and I’m thrilled. They are my bridesmaids and both look beautiful in flower-patterned sundresses.
Since this is my second walk down the aisle to the same man, I’m wearing a pink and blue sundress as I wanted a more casual and relaxed wedding. Though Eden’s Master, Mr. Vardalos sent a special bouquet for me—a bevy of perfect, pale pink roses.
Ryder grins as he sees me. Brides are supposed to glow but to me, Ryder is the one glowing. He looks so happy.
I hold Jakey’s hand and together my son and I walk to the man we want so much to have in our lives.
When I reach him, Ryder leans forward and he kisses me.
The minister clears his throat. He gives us a fatherly look of restraint, then a smile.
Ryder moves back, looking sheepish.
The first time we were married, it was in church and it rained. This morning, I’m getting married in paradise, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by the scent of flowers.
Ryder and I decided to repeat our traditional vows. We keep it short, and in mere minutes, Ryder is mine all over again.
When he said, “I do,” I think there was a tear in the eye of my tough fighter.
I take a quick look to take aim before I let Ryder sweep me into a kiss and I let the bouquet fly. I hear a masculine cry of “Hell” and I know I aimed right.
When Ryder sets me back on my feet, I see Xavier holding my bouquet, frowning.
The next hour is a whirlwind. Photographs. Hugging my mother and Jakey. Hugging Xavier. Then we’re whisked to the elaborate wedding breakfast set out by the pool.
While Ryder talks to friends, I realize Vardalos is standing at the back of the party, near a grove of bushes. I approach him. I don’t get too close. He obviously does not want people to look at him.
“Thank you, Mr. Vardalos. This was the most perfect wedding I could imagine.”
“You are very welcome. And you must call me Theo. I apologize—I must return to the castle. Urgent business. But remember, Ms. Tate, the island always gives you what you need.”
He turns and pushes the foliage out of his way, then hurries up the path.
I think of what he said. It’s the strangest thing…. Ryder needed closure, he needed to find his monster and defeat it. That has brought him peace.
If Ryder hadn’t brought me to Eden, would Stanton have made his move and taken Jakey? Maybe eventually.
I shiver, sensing something in the air. A kind of power, like sparks of electricity.
The island gave Ryder peace. It gave me my husband back, and it gave both Ryder and I our son, safe and sound.
“Thank you, Eden,” I whisper.
The air around me shimmers, just briefly, and returns to normal. I think the island might have said, “You’re welcome.”
“Tessa?” Ryder comes up to me. “What are you doing over here?”
“I saw Mr. Vardalos and thanked him for the wonderful wedding.”
Ryder grins. “You threw the bouquet to Xav deliberately.”
A smile plays on my lips. “I did.”
“Good. I’m sorry he ended up broken-hearted. But I hope he’ll find someone.”
“I think he will,” I answer. “Eden now knows what he needs.”
Ryder stares at me as if I’m crazy. Then he sweeps me into another kiss. As we break apart, we keep our arms wrapped around each other and both watch Jakey, who is playing with Mom. They are using wands to blow huge bubbles. When we go home, I intend to heal things between Ryder and his parents as best as I can.
I came to Eden hoping for a decadent sensual adventure.
I found that and so much more.
And two months later, back in Westingham, I know for sure the island has given us another gift.
In the master bathroom of our house, I set the pregnancy test on the counter of the bathroom. I plan to go and find Ryder, but the bathroom door opens just then and he walks in.
I hold up the test. “Guess what?” I ask.
“Are you pregnant?”
As I nod, he lifts me into a hug. He laughs with sheer joy, making me laugh too. Then he looks at me seriously. “After the baby, I’m going to take a break from fighting, Tessa. Look after Jakey and the baby, and let you finish college.”
My heart is bursting with joy. “Thank you.” I know that with Ryder in my life, I can do anything.
We fought for happiness. We fought to save Jakey. And I am so very happy that Ryder fought for me.
# # #
Thank you for reading Fight for Me, the first book in the Yardley College Alumni Series!
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About Sharon Page
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Sharon Page graduated with a degree in Industrial Design (School of Engineering) and worked for years, by day, in the structural engineering field. By night, her secret identity was “Romance Author”.
After selling her first book in 2004, Sharon has indie and traditionally published over 25 novels and novellas. Her books have won many awards including two RT Bookreviews Reviewers Choice Awards, two National Readers Choice Awards, the Colorado Award of Romance, and the Golden Quill. Sharon was nominated by RT Bookreviews in 2013 for Career Achievement in Erotic Romance.
Sharon is married, with two children, and now writes almost full time..
More Books by Sharon Page—Available now
New Adult Romance
One Hot Fall Term
One Hot Winter Break
Fast and Mine
1920s set Women’s Fiction/Romance
An American Duchess
The Heaven that is Home
The Worthington Wife—coming fall 2015
Regency Erotic Romance
A Gentleman Seduced
Escape with a Rogue
Sinful
The Wicked Dukes Series
Deeply in You - Book 1 of the Wicked Dukes Series
Rodesson’s Daughters Erotic Romance
Sin
Black Silk
Hot Silk
The Club
Engaged in Sin
The “Blood” Award-Winning Erotic Vampire Series
Blood Red
Blood Rose
Blood Deep
Blood Wicked
Blood Secret
Blood Fire
Blood Curse
Silent Night, Sinful Night
Wild Nights
Now for Some Excerpts of Sharon Page's Books...
One Hot Fall Term
Book 1 of the Yardley College Chronicles
Sharon Page
This is the erotic story of college student Mia and the choice she was to make—does she love small town, hot guy Ryan or Jonathon, the billionaire’s son?
Excerpt
It’s only the first weekend in September, but it’s cold out here on the dock. I undo my jeans and wriggle to push them down, exposing my butt in thong underwear to the frigid night air. I can see my breath, even though last week it was still summer. Goosebumps race over my bared cheeks. They already sprinkle my arms and chest, since I’ve stripped down to my bra and my t-shirt is lying on the planks of the dock, on top of my
shoes.
I stop and rub my arms, trying to warm up. Am I covered in bumps because I’m cold or because I’m nervous? When I’m finally naked, I’m supposed to jump into the lake. And that rippling, black water looks freezing. Waves slap against the side of the dock. The smell of smoke from the cabin’s fireplace fills the crisp air. Music sounds faintly from the cabin and laughter spills off the deck. The sounds of an end of summer party and I have to bite my lip because tears are burning in the corners of my eyes. I’m nostalgic at the best of times, and this weekend—my last before I leave for college—is killing me. In so many ways.
I have my back to Ryan, but I peek over my shoulder. In the pitch dark—clouds cover the sliver of moon—I can barely see him. I hear the boards creak under his feet and his fly unzip, and I hear his breathing. Ryan runs ten miles every morning and evening, and he never seems to be out of breath when he’s finished. But tonight, his breathing sounds fast and furious.
Just like mine.
"Whoa Jesus, that’s cold."
I take another peek and hear his footsteps as he walks to the end of the dock, out of my field of vision. I suppose I can’t ogle him until I get everything off and let him get a look at me.
I’ve never seen Ryan naked. That’s funny and strange, coming from me, but I promised I was going to be different—everything was going to be different when mom and I came here to Milltown to live. It was like starting over again. And by some miracle I found something I thought I’d never find, something I was too screwed up to ever have.
An amazing, sweet, decent—not to mention uber gorgeous—guy. When Ryan went west to do his tour of his future military college in the summer, he sent me a rose. A single, perfect red rose in a crystal vase, delivered to my front door by courier. Why? Because he was going to be away from me for two days and he missed me.
Even remembering it, standing freezing on the dock, I start blinking. Damn, the tears are starting. I promised I would get through this one night without crying. I’ve got lots of time to cry on the trip to Yardley College—two days to do nothing but think about Ryan.
Tonight I get to see him. I’m not going to screw that up by being sad a day early. Tonight I know exactly what I’m going to do. This is probably it for Ryan and I—he’s going to be in the state of Washington at a military school, I’m going to be at Yardley College, in New Hampshire. For tonight, I’ve decided to ditch the good girl thing.
I’m going to make love to Ryan for the first and basically only time.
I’ve got one night to throw away all my promises to be sweet and good—the exact opposite of what I really am. I’ve thought about sex with Ryan for months now, and I’ve restrained myself. But I don’t want to go the rest of my life wishing I’d taken the chance to make love to a guy I love.
So I commit. I shove down my jeans and kick them aside. Undies next or bra? I guess the bra, and it’s a fight to unhook it. Bras are my addiction. This one is candy pink with white lace and even though it’s dark, the bra practically glows. My breasts bounce as it comes off and tighten as a wave of goosebumps wash over them. My nipples go hard at once and I cup my boobs with my hands in the desperate hope to warm them.
Why—so the shock of the water hurts more?
I have to let my breasts go anyway to ditch the thong. At least I can see my bra, shining like a beacon in the night—like a lighthouse for crazy females about to skinny dip in frigid water. I know where to toss my undies.
Clouds part above me and shafts of silver-blue moonlight fall on us and the water.
"Mia—" Ryan’s voice, deep and sexy and low, stops abruptly. Nineteen—like me—Ryan possesses the hottest vocals of any guy at Hubert J. Rory High. Baritone tones and a deep, throaty laugh. The first time I heard him read a section of Shakespeare in English class, I swear I almost had a climax on the spot. And that was for MacBeth.
I turn quickly. A spike of fear—this is going to be it. We’re going to be a thousand miles apart. He’s going to break up with—
I forgot I’m naked. My breasts swing, nipples perky, the curves limned with silver. But I’m staring at Ryan. Seriously, I’ve seen David Beckham’s underwear ads, and Becks didn’t begin to look as good as Ryan. Bulging muscle define his straight shoulders, and his chest is broad and bronzed from the sun. A tattoo of a dragon perches on his left pectoral muscle. Just looking at his arm muscles makes me feel a tug deep inside. A hard, visceral tug telling me how much I want to wrap myself around him and take him deep inside me.
It is more intense when you’re in love. Now I know. The jolt of desire is so strong my legs shake with it. My gaze coasts down his amazing gut. His stomach is a flat plane, with an eight-pack instead of a six. Who knew there were that many muscles?
I let my eyes go a little lower—
“Mia, you’re beautiful.” Awe fills his voice. Awe that wraps around my heart and makes it feel warm and soft, like it did when I signed for my perfect rose.
He laughs. A rough, totally masculine chuckle that sends shivers through me.
“I—I’m freezing. You, however, are completely gorgeous.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to compliment him more. To say he’s huge. To gasp, or take another furtive look between his legs and marvel as though I’ve never seen a guy’s cock before.
I’ve never seen one like Ryan’s, I have to admit. It’s perfectly straight and points toward his navel. Blond hair skims down his stomach in an arrow then cuddles the hilts his erection with crisp curls.
He laughs, then sobers. “Do you really want to do this?”
I don’t know what he means. Get naked? We’ve just done it. Have sex? Oh God, yes I do. After all the times I’ve shut my eyes and pretended things weren’t happening, this time I want to open my eyes wide and savor every wonderful moment with Ryan.
“Are you sure you want to go swimming?”
Swimming. Oh yeah, almost forgot about that. “You did dare me,” I hedge. “I never turn down a dare.”
One Hot Fall Term is Book 1 in the Yardley College Chronicles series. Book 2 is One Hot Winter Break. Look for book 3, about Winter Term, coming in 2015.
Want it now? Want a longer excerpt? Check it out here.
An American Duchess
Sharon Page
A 1920s set romantic women’s fiction novel from Sharon Page and Harlequin HQN. For fans of Downton Abbey. Available in ebook and print.
Set on a crumbling English manor estate during the height of the Roaring Twenties, an American duchess must decide how much she's willing to risk for the life she truly desires…
It’s 1922, and New York heiress Zoe Gifford longs for the freedoms promised by the Jazz Age. Headstrong and brazen, but bound by her father's will to marry before she can access his fortune, Zoe arranges for a brief marriage to Sebastian Hazelton, whose aristocratic British family sorely needs a benefactor.
Once in England, her foolproof plan to wed, inherit and divorce proves more complicated than Zoe had anticipated. Nigel Hazelton, Duke of Langford and Sebastian's older brother, is as austere and imposing as the family's ancestral estate. Still reeling from the Great War, Nigel is now staging a one-man battle against a rapidly changing world—and the outspoken Zoe represents everything he's fighting against.
When circumstances compel Zoe to marry Nigel rather than Sebastian, their heated quarreling begets passion of another sort. But with Nigel unwilling to change with the times, will Zoe be forced to choose between her husband and her dreams?
Excerpt
When American Zoe Gifford meets the British Duke of Langford, Nigel Hazelton.
The duke sat on his horse, glaring at her—at least she believed he did since she could not see for the shadow cast by his hat—so she approached, putting out her hand. At this moment, she had no desire to curtsy. Not to a man who was peering down his nose at her.
The duke did not take her hand.
“Can you do anything about my car?” she asked, letting her hand drop to her side. “My mother is waiting ther
e for me to return. She’s afraid she’ll be stuck in the car overnight.”
“You should take better care on these roads.”
“Aye,” the farmer added, with startling clarity. The man drew on his pipe, before stating, “Aye, said that to the lass meself, Yer Grace.”
That was news to her. But the duke nodded, as did the farmer, and the two men seemed to share some sort of quiet communication about her inadequacy behind the wheel.
She pursed her lips. “America has some bad roads, I’ll admit, but your roads are horrible. There are sheep everywhere. I had to pull off to avoid a flock as I came around a corner, and then we ended up stuck.”
“Then perhaps next time you will know to slow down.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Your Grace. And while we’re discussing how things are done over here, doesn’t a gentleman tip his hat?”
The farmer let out a muttered sound of shock, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her where the duke believed he was positioned socially—she put no stock in that kind of thing. If he chose to be cold and austere, then she would choose to point out where his behavior was at fault.
“My apologies, madam. I am no longer in the habit of doing so—the War left me with scars and my face is not pleasant to look at.”
The farmer let out a sharp whistle and both she and the duke jerked to stare at him. The man tipped his cap, then lumbered away across his field. Again he whistled and a small black dog raced to his side, scampering around him as he walked.
Suddenly she and the duke were alone, surrounded by a patchwork of small, sloping fields and a wind that threw misty rain on them. “I think I will survive,” she said gently. “I don’t faint.”
With an elegant sweep of his long leg, the duke dismounted. Holding the reins in one large hand, he lifted his hat and gave her a bow that spoke of a lifetime of dipping his torso in this old-world greeting. She had to admit: experience and schooling could make a man’s bow positively dreamy.
It was her invitation to respond with a curtsy, but Zoe found she just couldn’t do it, despite the training she’d received before leaving New York. The duke’s bow was not really intended to show any respect. It was a perfunctory thing, offered only after she’d insisted on some basic courtesy.