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Someone who left him and did it leaving him broken. I slid them on, surreptitiously looking out the windows only to see Johnny had moved, but only to be in the act of lifting his coffee mug to his lips. The Hookup was emotional,heartwarming,intense,hot and sweet!
Although this is still sweet, it is most definitely a more erotic and sensual read. I ADORE the worlds and clubs and posses and chickdoms she has created. This was Vintage KA gold!
The Hook Up (Game On #1) by Kristen Callihan - We uses Search API to find the overview of books over the internet, but we don't host any files. She did not plead with him to give them a chance.
But I ride a scooter. And the bees kept to the flowers. The truth is, I stopped to down a Diet Coke and a bag of cashews before heading to class. Even so, I hate being late. It sets a bad precedent. I slide into a seat in the back just as a guy barrels down the aisle in the same hurried fashion and sits in the desk next to mine. Keeping my head down, I pull out my notepad and try to look organized and ready for the lecture. The shocked sound has me turning. The sensation is so unnerving that I can only sit there, my hand fluttering to my chest where my heart struggles to break free. Oddly, the guy gapes back at me, as if he too feels the strange kick. Which must be wrong; no guy has ever gaped at me. Stranger still, it feels as if I know him, have known him for years. Still looking at me, he suddenly speaks. And it causes a stir. People snap out of their morning fog, turn, stare, and start whispering among themselves. He ignores them, watching only me. His name is a ripple through the room. Disappointment is swift and sharp. I have zero interest in getting to know the star quarterback. Chest tight, I turn away and try to ignore him. Easier said than done. As soon as class ends, I attempt to flee. And nearly run into a solid wall of muscled chest instead. We stand facing each other in silence, me staring at his chest, and his gaze burning a hole through the top of my head. Annoyed, I straighten my shoulders and force myself to look aloof. I think my knees go weak. Heat and vitality come off him in waves. I think I sway a bit. He is close enough that I notice the faint stubble along his strong chin and the glints of gold in his brown hair. He wears it cut short, and thick clusters of it spike along the top and front. But I doubt that was the case, because he smells fantastic—like warm pears and crisp air. I almost lean in for a better whiff, but manage to control myself. I almost smile, start to rethink my earlier stance of avoidance. Then he opens his mouth and ruins everything. The warm cadence of his voice rolls over me before the words actually make sense. I gape up at him, too shocked to even form a proper glare. My mind is stuck on one thing. His comment is a punch to the gut. Yet not entirely out of left field. Having been chubby for most of my adolescence has left me sensitive. One stupid word from this guy and I feel the pain all over again, damn it. Somehow, I find my voice. I hate that too. Believe me, I was referring to the best of places. As he is staring, he sees and sucks in a sharp breath. This one far too pleased. I remember too, Anna Jones. Though it veers a bit too much toward sarcasm for my taste. His response sends a tingle through me. A pretty face is one thing. A quick mind is nearly irresistible to me. Especially when paired with that grin he wears. No anger there or even triumph, he simply waits for the next volley, enjoying it. Stranger still, I enjoy it. I fight to maintain my bland look as I respond. His scent and his heat surround me, making my knees weak as I finish. Those lines deepen now as his voice drops to a murmur. I grit my teeth. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath, and his gaze goes liquid hot. And somehow I walked right into his trap. Heat rises to my cheeks as I stand there, staring back at him. The next day, a box of Red Hots sits on my desk. Only I ruin this later, when, in the privacy of my room, I open the box of Red Hots that I bought and pop a handful into my mouth. It would be when I fell in love. Life, she insisted, is how you live it and who you live it with, not what you do to make a living. Given that she told me this when I was sixteen, I basically rolled my eyes and worked on practicing my pass fakes. But my mother was insistent. One day, love will creep up and smack you upside the head. Love, when it came for me, did not creep. It did, however, slap me upside my head. More like shot down. Cut off at the knees. Whatever you want to call this disaster. Because the object of my affection hates me. I still cringe at the memory of when I first laid eyes on her at the beginning of the semester. And though it sounds like an awesome thing, it gets tiring. When the roll call reached the back row, a soft voice, rich and thick as maple syrup, slid over me. It was like a hot finger stroking down my spine. My head snapped up. I might as well have been sacked. Breathless, my head ringing, I could only gape. With a helping of right-the-fuck-now on the side. At first, those eyes appeared brown, but they were really bottle green. She glared at me. One word was playing a loop in my head: mine. I watched Anna Jones like a condemned man getting his last view of the setting sun. While she tried to ignore me. The second class ended I shot up, and so did she. We nearly collided in the middle of the aisle. And then it all fell to shit. Because at that moment, I became a bonehead. To be brutally honest, my life has been fairly insulated. God help me if she noticed that twitch. What the holy hell had I done? My mind screamed, Do something, you idiot! I swear I could practically hear an alarm blaring, a call to activate shields and arm the photon torpedoes. But no, I just stood there and forced a grin as heat flooded my face and a sweat broke out on my back. I was that cool. Her dark green eyes had flashed in outrage. And then she let me have it. Needless to say, I hobbled away from that encounter and remain among the walking wounded. Instead, I just sit next to her during every class, silently pining.
Sebring by Kristen Ashley
He was protective, possessive, loyal, kind-hearted, caring, sexy, swoony, sometimes infuriating but humble enough to admit his mistakes. That morning, it was the second kind. Therefore, it came out kind of squeaky when I asked, Did you. Or the prime, talented con artist who eventually falls for the girl and gives up the grift. Gonna have to break you of that. I just want to reassure you and promise that there is no triangle. No man in real life had a name like that. And he met my eyes. Eliza let him go. He was twisted partially at his trim waist so I had a clear view of his muscled lat and shoulder. He does break things off with the h, but that is because he thinks she deserves better and not because he is pining over the OW.
