Long Shot by Lexi Whitlow
Staying away from him is a fight I can’t hope to win…
I haven’t seen my stepbrother since the night of my daddy’s funeral. He kissed me hard, turned around, and walked clean out of my life just when I needed him most.
While I’ve been working my ass off in medical school, he’s been fighting on the underground circuit…or so I hear. Probably drinking and womanizing too–it’s all he’s ever done.
Now I’m back in town, and I hope I never see him again. Even if I can’t get him out of my head.
But when Joshua “Long Shot” McRae shows up on my porch in the middle of a damn storm with a dislocated shoulder and a cut that needs twenty stitches, I can’t turn him away, can I?
It’s only just this once.
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Description
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About the author:
Lexi harbors a not-so-secret love for bad boys. She loves fighters, tough-as-nails cowboys, bikers, and criminals. Her husband is a scientist… but he has the heart of a bad boy for sure. She spends what little free time she has crocheting, painting, and going on long walks with her family.
What inspired you to write your book?
My husband was the one who gave me the idea for the plot of Long Shot. We love MMA, and he thought that an MMA fighter would be interesting as a main character. We talked about the contrast between a doctor and a fighter, and how that would be amazing to explore in a book. He came up with the title, and I started outlining it right away.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Let me go,” I say again.
“No, not this time. I’m not letting you go, Natalie.”
My body is on high alert, like there’s a coil growing tighter and tighter deep inside of my body, sparks radiating through me where his hands make contact with my skin. He slips his hand under my baggy UNC shirt and touches the small of my back, and a shock rolls straight through to my sex. The yearning I’ve felt since high school is apparently not going away, but I think, for one foggy moment, that I should pull away again, that I shouldn’t let this happen. But instead I moan, my lips parting slightly before he claims my mouth. And then the thing happens—the thing that’s happened only once before. He kisses me, hard, his tongue finding mine.
This time, though, it’s different. The kiss on the night of my father’s funeral was unprompted, hurried, probably drunk, full of bravado. But not this kiss. This kiss is long and full, deep and slow. It’s the kiss of a grown man, patient and tender, belying a passion I haven’t felt anywhere else—ever. I pull away and bring my fingers to my mouth, running them over the swollen bottom lip he took between his teeth. My body feels like it’s melting, and just like before, I want to sink into the wall.
“We shouldn’t, Josh. This isn’t—”
“It’s okay, Nat. I understand.” He brushes the thumb over the small of my back, and my sex throbs in response. We shouldn’t. But it’s not like I don’t want this. It’s not like I don’t want his lips again, not like I don’t want his hands on me, brushing over my breasts, taking my waist, moving lower. “I’ve been waiting for years, and now that you’re back, you’ll have to put up with me. I’ll bide my time until you tell me otherwise.”
“It’s not wise,” I say, because nothing else comes to my mind. His left hand still holds my wrist, and he kisses me there, on the pale, sensitive inside of my wrist. He pulls me in closer, his hand gripping my waist, and I feel his cock, hard and hot, pressing into my thigh. “I can see that—”
“That I’ve been thinking about you too, like you have been at night. See, I sleep light nowadays,” he says. He pushes into me again, and I think about what I wanted that night, what I needed to take the pain away. And I still want it. God help me, the need that pours through me nearly obliterates everything in my mind. My body pulses with it, reaching out to the man in front of me. Is that what he is now? A man?
My left hand still rests on his forearm, and I glance at my watch. “Shit,” I mumble, pulling away from him. “I have to go to my shift.” He nods, doesn’t say anything else. “I’ve gotta go to my shift,” I repeat dumbly. “When I get back, we’ll work on some more exercises…”
“Sure, Nat. Whatever you want.” He nods at me again, and I avoid looking down at his ever-present basketball shorts. If I think any more about his body, my brain will fucking explode. I grab my scrubs and stuff them in my purse, and I run out of the house because now I’m running late, and I never run late for anything.
What is he doing to me?
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