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THE HUNT
Monica James
THE HUNT
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Series: A Hard Love Romance
Genre: Rom-Com, Erotica
BLURB:
My name is Hunter OāShea and I have a confession to makeā¦Iāve met a girl who consumes me. I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary āLambā Mitts has the power to bring me to my kneesā¦itās just too bad she hates my guts. But thatās okay, because I hate hers, too. The fiery redhead stirs something in me that I canāt explain.
This temporary insanity could be due to the fact my best friend, who used to be a bigger player than me, is getting married. That must be it. Iām caught up in an Oprah moment.
The only solution is to get back in the game and forget she exists. That theory is greatātoo bad I donāt want anyone else.
Iā¦justā¦wantā¦her.
Iām so screwed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Monica James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.
When she is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration from life.
She is a bestselling author in the U.S., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and the U.K.
Monica James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
AUTHOR LINKS:
Facebook: facebook.com/authormonicajames
Twitter: twitter.com/monicajames81
Goodreads: goodreads.com/MonicaJames
Instagram: @MonicaJames
Website: monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au
Pinterest: pinterest.com/monicajames81
EXCERPT:
Something is happening and I have no idea what. Maryās eyes drop to my lips before she uneasily licks hers. Her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and heavy breathing all point to one thingābut thatās not possible. This woman hates me, all delicious, lithe five-foot-four of her wants me dead.
So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the brakes because I donāt kissāever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?
Iām rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I donāt touch her, Iām going to explode.
Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the contact, and when she parts those lips, Iām as good as gone. āHunter, wh-what are you doing?ā
My name has never sounded sweeter. āShortcake, I donāt knowā¦you tell me.ā The ball is in her court. Iām liquefying and my brain turned to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so Iām in no state to be the one calling the shots.
āIā¦Iā¦ā she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.
āYou what?ā I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear, before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign sheās about to either surrender, or flee.
āIā¦oh god,ā she whimpers, biting her lip when I work my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.
āYou have three secondsā¦three seconds to stop me before I part those lips with my tongue, and I wonāt be gentle about it.ā