by Cara McKenna
And he so was the conquesty sort.
That settled it—I would not be acting on anything with Kelly. No contact beyond the bounds of restraint training. From what he’d told me at the bar and just now by the door, he probably treated women like gas stations, in and out and on his way, thanks for the lube job. I glared at the flowers he’d left behind, annoyed that he’d taken me for someone whose professional dignity could be bought for a secondhand bouquet.
“Nice try, Robak,” I told the flowers.
I went down the hall to scrub my face and brush my teeth, deciding it had been one of my lousier birthdays. And if I went to sleep imagining Kelly restraining me with his shirt off, it was entirely by accident.
Before becoming a purveyor of smart erotic romance, Cara McKenna worked as a record store bitch, a lousy barista, a decent designer, and an over-enthusiastic penguin handler. She loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes . . . and bring one another to their knees.
Cara now writes full-time and lives north of Boston with her bearded husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head, she can usually be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop, or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.
Connect Online:
caramckenna.com
twitter.com/caramckenna