Oilman Max inherits a passel of trouble when his boss passes away, leaving him a house in England and a heck of a lot of money. He’s thinking London is the worst place on earth… until he meets Morgan.
Colorful, carefree, and a little crazy, Morgan is just what Max needs, and the two set out on the adventure of a lifetime, chasing pleasure wherever it takes them, learning that together they can make anything fun… and sexy.
Too bad reality has to set in, and Morgan’s multimillionaire father has a lot to say about what reality looks like. Will their different worlds conspire to separate them like oil and water?
Buy links: Dreamspinner | Amazon
Cat gives this one 3 Meows with a 5 Purr heat index...
Max is an oilman that inherits his boss’s company and estate. He is having a drink in a pub in England where the estate is when a jingling man darts behind him hiding in the corner.
I liked Max. He is the level headed one of the two. But I loved Morgan, flashy and pierced and knows what he likes. He is very footloose and fancy free. The two are different as oil and water but are the perfect blend.
The story is mostly hot sex with lots of awesome destinations. I love these authors descriptions. I do wish there had been a little less sec and more to the story that came mostly at the last third of the book. I would have liked knowing more about why Max inherited the estate and not his bosses family but still it was a very hot, fun story to read.
Excerpt...
THE ONE thing Max could deal with about England was the beer. Sure, it was warm, but it had good flavor. He liked the pubs well enough too. Dark wood and dart boards and shit. Hell, if he kept his mouth shut, the folks were even nice enough. It was when he opened his fat yap and came off like the know-it-all redneck he was that he got in trouble.
Which was about every day.
Tonight he was all about the low profile. He’d gone for the tweedy cap instead of the gimme or the cowboy hat, and had even left the ostrich boots at home. He just wanted a nice, quiet drink, to be left alone for a bit, because God only knew, he wasn’t getting that at the stone monstrosity he called home these days. Damn that Morrie anyway for kicking off and making him a man-about-town in a town he knew nothing about.
Max settled in a corner seat and pulled his cap low, just grooving on the relative silence, even in a crowded, dimly-lit pub. No one was talking near him for a change, and that? He liked.
There was a ruckus at the door, a quartet of big, burly guys pushing people around and hollering, obviously looking for someone. Funny how assholes were universal.
Something brightly colored and tinkling—tinkling?—slipped beside him, ducked down in the shadows of the corner.
Either he was about to be assaulted by a midget clown or somebody quick and skinny had just slid right in between his legs and the wall. Now, he was usually one to get a bit upset about someone invading his space, but he had a feeling he knew who the jerks at the door were looking for, so he just leaned a bit to cover, sipping his beer again, casual-like.
The four spread through the pub, looking, growling. The presence behind him stayed quiet, pretty quiet. Well, barring the low-level tinkling that came with every shiver and shift.
Whoever it was back there sounded like Vixen or Blitzen or somebody, and was going to make those guys look at him funny for having a jingly ass in a minute. Max groped back with one hand, finding something, a shoulder maybe, and gripping tight to hold the… whatever still.
The jingles stopped, the fabric under his hand silky, the body bony and warm.
There. That was better. Max nodded as he met the eyes of one of the guys, trying not to be obviously sizing them up, but man, they were all fucking big. As in goddamned big. He wasn’t one to shrink from a to-do, even one that wasn’t his, but there was enough muscle there to make him just stretch out his legs and cross them at the ankle and make like a bump on a log.
He got two or three long looks, but the brute squad finally regrouped and headed out to the street, unhappy and pushing at each other.
“Dude. I so owe you, man.” A willowy guy unfolded from the corner, a bright belled and laced shirt bloused over the tightest pair of leather pants on God’s earth. “Seriously.”
Well, now. That was something he’d never expected to see, and the voice? Not a bit upper crust. Sounded like home, only without the hick. “Yeah. It’s not often I let someone slip into my back pocket.”
Which was about every day.
Tonight he was all about the low profile. He’d gone for the tweedy cap instead of the gimme or the cowboy hat, and had even left the ostrich boots at home. He just wanted a nice, quiet drink, to be left alone for a bit, because God only knew, he wasn’t getting that at the stone monstrosity he called home these days. Damn that Morrie anyway for kicking off and making him a man-about-town in a town he knew nothing about.
Max settled in a corner seat and pulled his cap low, just grooving on the relative silence, even in a crowded, dimly-lit pub. No one was talking near him for a change, and that? He liked.
There was a ruckus at the door, a quartet of big, burly guys pushing people around and hollering, obviously looking for someone. Funny how assholes were universal.
Something brightly colored and tinkling—tinkling?—slipped beside him, ducked down in the shadows of the corner.
Either he was about to be assaulted by a midget clown or somebody quick and skinny had just slid right in between his legs and the wall. Now, he was usually one to get a bit upset about someone invading his space, but he had a feeling he knew who the jerks at the door were looking for, so he just leaned a bit to cover, sipping his beer again, casual-like.
The four spread through the pub, looking, growling. The presence behind him stayed quiet, pretty quiet. Well, barring the low-level tinkling that came with every shiver and shift.
Whoever it was back there sounded like Vixen or Blitzen or somebody, and was going to make those guys look at him funny for having a jingly ass in a minute. Max groped back with one hand, finding something, a shoulder maybe, and gripping tight to hold the… whatever still.
The jingles stopped, the fabric under his hand silky, the body bony and warm.
There. That was better. Max nodded as he met the eyes of one of the guys, trying not to be obviously sizing them up, but man, they were all fucking big. As in goddamned big. He wasn’t one to shrink from a to-do, even one that wasn’t his, but there was enough muscle there to make him just stretch out his legs and cross them at the ankle and make like a bump on a log.
He got two or three long looks, but the brute squad finally regrouped and headed out to the street, unhappy and pushing at each other.
“Dude. I so owe you, man.” A willowy guy unfolded from the corner, a bright belled and laced shirt bloused over the tightest pair of leather pants on God’s earth. “Seriously.”
Well, now. That was something he’d never expected to see, and the voice? Not a bit upper crust. Sounded like home, only without the hick. “Yeah. It’s not often I let someone slip into my back pocket.”
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy's Girl, BA spends her days with her basset hounds, getting tattooed, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she's not doing that, she's writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA's personal saviors include her wife, Julia, her best friend, Sean, and coffee. Lots of good coffee. Y'all know that song, The Happiest Girl in the Whole USA? That's me, down to the bone.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the high desert and now lives the good life in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head.
enjoyed the review
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