My next contemporary release is FIRED UP, an erotic contemporary novella (whew! say that fast three times!) releasing on 2/25. Hannah Green watches for wildfires from an isolated fire tower in Sequoia National Park by day and radios Cajun firefighter Cole Henry at night to share carnal fantasies hot enough to start a forest fire. . .
When Cole finally lays eyes on Hannah, things get lots hotter….
Unless Cole was seriously lost or the Park’s visitors were a way better looking crew than he’d run into before, his lookout was having herself a bath in the stream. As he came along the trail, eyes scanning left and then right, he caught the sound of a whistle. A little hum and splash, followed by an unmistakably feminine gasp. He’d bet that water was still a cold son-of-a-bitch despite the hot summer temps.
He didn’t need a porn star. That made for good times in his head, yeah, but what he really wanted—who he really wanted—was the woman standing watch at Widow’s Peak.
Tall, short, fat, thin—he wanted a face to go with the name and the voice.
Whatever she looked like, he’d enjoy her.
Silently, he prowled to the top of the trail. The stream was down and to his right, a real pretty jumble of mountain boulders and a nice, smooth entry. Despite the waist-deep water, the current was a lazy dog, rippling gently around a pile of boulders four feet in. Those rocks made a convenient waterfall for the mermaid washing her hair.
The buck-naked mermaid.
She was definitely okay. That was his first thought, followed by an adrenaline rush of relief that fucked with his knees almost as much as it messed with his head. Whatever had knocked out her radio, she was fine.
Hell, way more than fine.
His day had definitely improved.
His first view of Hannah Green was nowhere near as close up and personal as he’d fantasized, but his hard-on didn’t seem to mind. This close to Widow’s Peak, he figured his mystery bather had to be Hannah. There was no pack or gear in sight to mark a thru-hiker or even a daytripper. She was definitely local.
With her head back, the delicate arch of her throat tempted him to run his mouth over the vulnerable curve. Water-darkened hair spilled down a sun-kissed back, the soapy rush half-masking her body with a sudsy curtain. Her hands worked the mass of hair, separating the strands and, wouldn’t you know it, the water was clearly every bit as cold as he’d expected, because her breasts—Jesus, her nipples were hard, greedy nubs. He wanted to flick them with his thumbs, cup those generous mounds and tease her good.