“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat.”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
WORTH THE RISK, le tout dernier roman de K. Bromberg, vient tout juste de sortir; découvrez un extrait après le résumé:
This whole contest was supposed to be easy. I know, I know. Famous last words.
It’s a long story, but I messed up at work. Big time. To earn back the trust of my boss, I promised to save one of our magazines. Yep. That Hot Dad contest you’ve seen advertised all over the place was my idea. And if I’m successful, if I’m able to increase our online readership, then I get a shot at my dream job.
But the one thing I never expected to happen, happened: Contestant number ten, Grayson Malone. Hello, Mr. Difficult. And did I mention sexy as hell?
Unfortunately he knows me. The old me, anyway. And while we might be older now, I remind him of before. Of the woman who broke his heart, who hardened him, and who left him alone to raise the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen.
But I don’t want a relationship. And I definitely don’t fall for single dads with baggage. Even ones with chiseled abs and killer smiles.
But he got to me. They got to me. Him and his son and their messy, crazy life. But I got to him too. I see the stolen glances. I feel the walls he built start to crumble. I recognize that there’s an unexpected beauty to the chaos in his life.
And now that the contest is about to end, we’re left to decide whether the last six months were just fun or if what we have is worth risking it all?
But by the time I reach her, my blood boils with irrationality spurred on by too much alcohol.
“Can I have a moment?” I ask as I walk up to her and grab her elbow, pushing her down the darkened hallway.
“What is your problem?” She hisses as she fights me every step of the way.
We get looks. I get looks. I don’t care because all I keep seeing is Vince’s hands on her arm. His eyes on her tits. His bullshit game I can spot a mile away.
I find the closest door down the hallway leading to the bathrooms, and it opens. I push her through it, barely noticing that it’s an office of sorts before the door is shut, her back is up against it, and my mouth is covering hers.
Goddammit. That’s my only thought as I fit my lips to hers and take out my anger on her mouth with tongue and teeth and every fucking lick and nip in between.
“I’m so pissed at you.”
It’s all I say. It’s the only chance I give her to come up for air before my lips are back on hers. Before my tongue wars with hers. Before my body admits it would beg, borrow, and steal in order to taste every other part of her.
I swallow the tiny sound she makes in our kiss as my hands hold her neck still and my lips wage an all-out assault. She hesitates—just a split second—before she reacts. Before her body bows into me, and her mouth argues back.
Her hand in my shirt. Her other hand at the back of my neck as our bodies meet—pressed knee to chest. Her perfume in my nose. Her hair tickling my cheeks. The feel of her tits against my chest.
I can’t get enough.
I’m mad at her.
I want her.
I don’t want to want her.
Christ, do I want her.
“Gray.” A murmured protest.
I tear my lips from hers, shove off the door I have her pressed against, and stride to the other side of the room.
“You are . . . you just . . .” It’s as if I can barely breathe. Christ, I’m mad at you.”
She stands there, lips parted, chest heaving, and golden brown curls messed from my hands, but her eyes look hurt. A hurt I don’t want to see but can’t deny.
“You did this,” I accuse as I try to manage the anger that’s waging a war against my desire.
“Did what?” Her eyes narrow. Her hand goes to press against her chest.
“Made me want you.”
Suivre K. Bromberg: