My next contemporary release is FIRED UP, an erotic contemporary novella (whew! say that fast three times!), releasing on 2/25 (so really, really soon! squee!). 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. . .
Cole’s even better in person…
The man lounging on her steps was one hell of a welcoming committee. As her brain pinwheeled frantically, trying to process his presence, her libido registered his body. His large, well-muscled, hard body. He had to be well over six feet tall, and she drank in every inch, starting with the T-shirt pulled tight over his chest and then moving down over his Nomex-clad thighs. Given the way he was sprawled, there was no missing his package. He sure had one hell of a welcome for her.
Handsome, laughing eyes examined her from an even better looking face, his skin sun-bronzed from hours outdoors. Dark hair brushed against his jaw in thick waves, but stubble roughed his jaw from at least a day on the trail. His watchful attitude screamed former soldier, but that hair was pure bad boy. No standard military issue there. He flashed her a wicked hint of a dimple as he winked, confirming her rule breaker impression, and he’d have laugh lines before he was forty from the smile lighting up his face.
“Wow.” She watched her stuff hit the ground in slo-mo and hoped like hell her jaw hadn’t followed. She hadn’t expected company, with the next supply drop not scheduled for another two weeks, so this man was an unexpected bonus. Hopefully, the bottle-green Nomex he was sporting meant he was Forest Service and not some random hiker who’d found his way to her watch tower. She’d relax more if she could pretend someone, somewhere, had checked into this man’s background and bona fides before unleashing him on the world.
“Truer words.” He grinned at her, a slow, sexy tug of his lips, and leaned forward, snagging the satin cups of her bra. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that she’d passed on the practical white cotton or that she had the underwear taste of a high-class hooker.
He extended the bra to her, like she didn’t have a shotgun trained on him. “Yours.”
“Thanks.” She was fairly certain her face was on fire, but not dropping the towel was paramount. Yet the longer she looked at him, the more she wanted to peel that Nomex right off of him and kiss her way south. Three words and his Cajun accent melted her.