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About the author:
Kiki Leach was born and raised in Oklahoma City, OK where she still resides. As a child she was surrounded by books, pens, and notepads, all of which she quickly took advantage of from the time she could read and write. Her favorite past-time has always been telling stories and in college, was encouraged by her mother and professors to take her storytelling more seriously.
What inspired you to write your book?
I love reading MC novels and love writing about alpha males.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I glanced up at him through mascara smudged lashes and slightly wagged my head, then took the glass from his hand with ease and quickly lowered my eyes back down to the table in front of me.
Damn, he was beautiful; too much for me to even stare at for longer than a few seconds at a time, lest my entire body burst into a ball of flames where I sat. Because this man — and I do mean man in every damn sense of the word — was like a fantasy come to life right before my very eyes.
He had dark grey eyes that reminded me of an overcast on a gloomy winter morning or the aftermath of a full on rainstorm on a hot summer day in June; a thin layer of stubble covering all sides of a perfectly angled jawline that had been known to shatter damn near every fist that ever came into contact with it since the beginning of his time; thick rose-colored lips that I was all too desperate to know the taste and feel of as they kissed and suckled along every inch of my body, and skin so perfectly, naturally and evenly tanned that it looked as if he had literally been born beneath the sun and was raised in a field full of wheat. And for most of his life, wore nothing but overalls, grass and sweat before graduating to baggy jeans that hung just a few inches below his amazingly taut waist, showcasing the very top of a perfect V that led straight down to an all too visible bulge between his thighs, along with black leather jackets and white tanks that fit him like a glove.
Not to mention that thick head of hair; beautiful, jet black hair that often looked as if a woman had just threaded her fingers through every strand of it during sex and he never bothered to fix it right after, much like now; the broad shoulders that made me wonder if along with being a mechanic for the ‘business’ portion his MC (at least one aspect of it), he shuffled boulders across town on the weekends; the perfectly sculpted eight pack hidden behind the fabric of that crisp white tank that made him look as if he had been carved from pure stone and blessed with the personal touch of God Himself; and those thickly muscled arms, each laced with a spiral of tattoos that swam around his biceps like thorn covered vines and dipped straight down to each of his long, thick fingers like a set of blooming rosebuds.
My God. Just the thought of him dragging each one across my bare breasts while flicking my nipples with his tongue, against my stomach, between my thighs and directly inside my sex while making me scream out his name in every language I knew and even those I didn’t until I went hoarse at the exact same time, made my body quiver in places that I hadn’t felt react to even the idea of sex since I first learned what the hell went where and why, and maybe even longer than that.