*This book is #2 in the 'Bama Boys
series. While it can be read as a standalone, it is a continuation of book #1
and is meant to be read after Forever Red.*
Putting others needs before his own was
all Mike Carson had ever done.
First, it was the friends he loved more
than family. Then it was his country. By nineteen, he was a father, a husband
and fighting in a war not many people believed in. After an accident ended his
career and his life fell apart, he filled his days keeping screaming fans from
reaching the most famous country rock star in the world. And, pining after a
woman who would never love him.
Then, everything changed.
He thought he could handle anything
that was thrown his way. He thought running my security detail would be the
easiest job he’d ever had. He thought he’d be able to keep me safe without
getting attached.
He was wrong.
They call me reckless, selfish, and
slutty. In reality, I’ve just stopped caring what everyone else thinks. I’m
determined to have some fun, to live life my way, and to make Mike realize that
being a little selfish isn't the worst thing in the world.
I think we both have our work cut out
for us.
**Book contains
graphic language and adult content.**
Forever Red
ONLY
99C
She was out of it, ready to be tucked
into bed and spoiled. Our night was far from over, though. Straightening my
legs, I pulled a condom from my pocket and pushed it into her hands as her
hooded eyes lifted to mine. “Put it on.”
With shaking hands, she reached for my
belt. Fumbling at first, she managed to unbuckle it and open my jeans enough to
shove them and my boxers down my legs. When my cock sprang free, her fingers
closed around me, moving up and down slowly, taunting me. When they traced over
the tip teasingly, I bit back a groan.
She slid her body down my legs further,
holding my eyes as she dropped her head and pulled me into her warm mouth. My
hips jerked involuntarily, making her take more of me, shoving my tip down her
throat. She didn’t pull back, surprising me, and swallowed instead. I almost
lost it.
I pulled her away from my dick, yanking
her mouth to mine. Her taste, still on my lips, mingled with my taste on hers,
driving me even crazier. I deepened the kiss, getting lost in her until she sat
back. She opened the foil packet, rolling the latex down my shaft almost
expertly, causing a stab of jealousy to rock through me.
Before I could concentrate on the
unwanted feeling, she winked and positioned her body above mine. As she sank
down onto me, we both gasped. She didn’t move for a second, instead settling
onto me and squeezing me from the inside.
“Christ.” It was all I could say
because it was the only thought in my mind.
“Off!” she demanded as she pushed my
shirt up my stomach. “I need to see you.”
I sat up, intending only to grant her
wish, but the movement forced me deeper, making us both groan in pleasure.
Her nails moved along my bare
shoulders, scraping me gently, and she finally started to move. My eyes rolled
back into my head as she rode faster and faster, her mouth finding mine. I
tried to let her set the pace, but I needed more. Moving my hips, I met her
thrust for thrust, our pace quickening until we were both crying out in
pleasure.
Fighting the instinct to roll her onto
her back and pound into her so hard she’d feel it a week from now, I fell back
on the bed and gave her the illusion of control. When I sucked a nipple into my
mouth and played with the bar through it, she clenched tight around my cock.
“Come, baby,” I groaned into her ear.
“Come. Soak my dick.”
“Oh my God. Mikey!” She repeated my
name, the way one would a prayer. She started to come apart, never slowing her
pace. Instead, her fists braced against my shoulders and she rode me harder
than she had, determined to have me join her. This woman was born to fuck me
stupid.
My fingers curled into her hips again,
hard enough to leave nail imprints, and I took control. Her muscles tightened
against me, milking me, and my body couldn’t hold out any longer. “Fuck, Mols!”
I exploded inside her, making my entire body tingle in a way it never had.
She collapsed, falling onto my chest,
our bodies both soaked with sweat. I closed my arms around her, needing to hold
on to our connection for as long as I could. Once our heartbeats had returned
to normal, I rolled us to our side, wincing as I slid out of her.
I cleaned up as fast as I could,
covering us with a quilt and pulling her back into my arms as soon as I was
back in bed. I wasn’t the guy who cuddled after sex. Hell, Julie and I had used
two different blankets, barely touching unless we were fucking. I needed this,
though. I needed to hold her.
Kissing her shoulder, I buried my head
in the nape of her neck. Her breathing had evened out and she was relaxed
against me, so I assumed she’d fallen asleep when she asked, “Is it always like
that with you, Mike?”
“What do mean, babe?”
“That intense? That…” She trailed off,
but I knew what she’d meant. That perfect. That amazing. That addicting.
“No.” I cleared my throat, almost not
wanting to be honest and scare her away. “Never.”
“Me either. I don’t know what that
was.” She didn’t tense, but moved one hand over my body and grabbed my thigh as
if to hold on to me. I didn’t know, either. But it scared the shit out of me.
Carina Adams has been writing and creating
characters for as long as she can remember, allowing her to fall in love with
the next man of her dreams with every new story.
Thankfully, fate stepped in and granted her the
ultimate wish - a life full of men. Carina lives in a picturesque New England
town with her husband, the man who ruined the thought of all others, and two
amazing sons who always keep her on her toes.
Carina received her MBA in May, but would much
rather play with her imaginary friends (the voices in her head) than work her 8
to 5. When she isn’t trying to juggle being a working mom with karate and
football practices, surprising her children with her sci-fi movie knowledge, or
writing, you can find her with her nose pressed against her kindle, laughing
with friends, or living life vicariously as her Derby Girl persona, Writers
Block.
Carina is the author the of Bastards MC series and
best selling Forever Red. She is currently writing Out of The Blue, the follow
up to Forever Red. She loves to hear feedback from her readers, no matter what
type. You can email her at:carinaadamsweites@gmail.com
Author links
About Killer Instinct:
She’s not evil, but she has certain... urges.
Lane is a typical teenager. Loving family. Good grades. Afterschool job at the local animal hospital. Martial arts enthusiast. But her secret obsession is studying serial killers. She understands them, knows what makes them tick.
Why?
Because she might be one herself.
Lane channels her dark impulses by hunting criminals—delivering justice when the law fails. The vigilantism stops shy of murder. But with each visceral rush the line of self-control blurs.
And then a young preschool teacher goes missing. Only to return... in parts.
When Lane excitedly gets involved in the hunt for “the Decapitator,” the vicious serial murderer that has come to her hometown, she gets dangerously caught up in a web of lies about her birth dad and her own dark past. And once the Decapitator contacts Lane directly, Lane knows she is no longer invisible or safe. Now she needs to use her unique talents to find the true killer’s identity before she—or someone she loves—becomes the next victim...
Buy Links:
Amazon | Barnes and Noble
Exclusive Excerpt:
I study serial killers. They’re loners. Obsessive compulsives. People who lack emotion and fantasize violence. Intelligent people who on the outside seem normal.
Interesting thing is, I am those profiles. I have urges. I plot ways to violently make people pay for what they’ve done to others.
Nature versus nurture. Of course I’ve studied that. I’ve got good parents with decent genetics so for me I’ve always suspected it’s something else. Except . . . I have no clue what.
I don’t know why I am the way I am, why I think the way I think, why I do the things I do. All I know is that I’m different. Always have been. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know something was off in me.
At ten, when other kids were coloring with crayons, I started tracking serial killers and keeping details of their murders in a journal—a journal no one has ever seen but me.
Now, seven years later, most teens hang out with friends. I, however, prefer spending my spare time at the court house—with Judge Penn to be exact. He tries all the hard cases.
His staff expects to see me, believing my lie about wanting to go into law, and so I give my customary nod as I enter the back of Penn’s court and quietly take my usual spot in the left rear corner. I sit down and get out my summer reading just in case today’s log is boring.
It’s not.
A balding, short, pudgy, accountant type man sits beside a slick lawyer he’s obviously spent a lot of money on. The Weasel is what I decide to name him.
In the viewing gallery sit a handful of women, three are crying and two stoically stare straight ahead.
On the stand is another one of the expressionless ones and she’s speaking, “. . . classical music, a candle. He knew his way around, like he’d been in my house before. He handcuffed my ankles and wrists to the bed posts and stuffed gauze in my mouth so my screams couldn’t be heard. He cut my clothes away and left me naked. He wore a condom and was clean shaven, everywhere. He had a full face mask on.”
No evidence.
“He raped me,” she matter-of-factly reports and then describes in detail all the vicious ways he violated her.
“I’m going to be sick,” the woman in front of me whispers before getting up and leaving the room.
I continue listening to the details, mentally cataloging them. Details don’t bother me. They don’t make me sick. They don’t make me want to leave a room. If anything they draw me in because they are just that—details, facts.
A few of the women in the room sniffle and I glance to The Weasel. Although he’s doing a good job of keeping his emotions blank, I catch a slight smirk on his lips that kicks my pulse.
This is one of the things I consider a talent of mine. While some people show every emotion, I show none. And I can read others’ body language, others’ faces when they think they’re doing a stellar job of masking. The Weasel obviously thinks he’s getting away with something.
Thirty minutes later The Weasel is found not guilty due to lack of evidence. As he walks from the court room, his slight smirk becomes more visible when he glances at one of the sniffling women.
This is another thing people make the mistake of—confidence, cockiness, ego.
The Weasel will rape again. Of this I’m sure.
If it is my destiny to be a killer, I’m going to need a type. And today decides that my type will be criminals—specifically, those that have managed to avoid punishment.
I turn seventeen next week. The Weasel will be my birthday present to myself. I think I’ve just found my first victim.
S.E. Green Bio:
