Hitmen, Humor, Suspense
Hitmen, Humor, BBW
Marked for Love series
by Amie Stuart
Marked for Love Book Two
As a professional hit man, Will Collier has more secrets than most. But on a sweltering Texas night, the lives he's taken rank second place to the love he'd like to be making with a sensual Bohemian beauty.
Sabrina Walker is intimately familiar with the havoc Cupid can wreak. She's determined that love will never seduce her again, until she meets Will Collier and discovers that some secrets are better when shared.
Warning: This book contains a spunky, plus-sized heroine, a sassy Beagle named Scamp, and a sexually frustrated hitman who can't figure out what women want...Then again, what man can?
Please Note: While Hittin' It is book 2 in the Marked For Love series, each story stands alone. Also Note: This was originally published by Kensington in March 2009. It has been newly re-edited.
Genre: Contemporary Romantic SuspenseHittin' It Purchase links: Amazon ARe Smashwords iTunes Kobo B&N
Content/Theme(s): Hitmen, Humor, BBW, Interracial, Mystery, Rubenesque
Release Date: July 14, 2015
Excerpt, Nailed & More
Hittin' It Excerpt:
As much as I appreciated the ride, Roy’s grumpy “Stoic Man” act was a little off-putting. Then again, I wasn’t in a position to be picky. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to find a garage.
Gads, El Paso! It was so brown and taupe and dreary, the city bleeding into the surrounding landscape, letting the desert eat at it, suck it dry like a vampire. I shuddered, my fingers digging deeper in Scamp’s fur.
"Can you—" I pointed to the fancy control panel on the dash, “—turn the air down?” The arctic blast made me want to curl up in a ball underneath about a dozen blankets.
Grunting, he turned the knob and the air slowed to a Nor’ westerner.
I would have preferred the fresh air (even if it was hot as a jalapeño outside), but after two hours on the side of the road, I’d take what I could get. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t had anything to eat since the vending machine donuts I’d grabbed early this morning. No wonder I’d passed out.
“Just thinking about my poor van.” And my poor savings.
“Maybe it’s just a busted hose.”
“Huh, more like a busted engine.” I took another sip of my water, then let Scamp lick my wet fingers.
“You really think it’s that bad?” Roy asked, sounding genuinely worried.
Grimacing at the thought of costly engine repairs, I nodded. “Pretty sure. There’s a garage.” Pointing, I sat up a little straighter, and Scamp wiggled in my lap, scratching at the door.
“Sure that’s the one you want?”
“I don’t care as long as they can fix a Chevy van.”
“All right.” He flicked on his blinker and took the exit. He turned into the little all-purpose gas station (the kind you don’t see much of anymore), and jerked to a stop next to the pump. It was a concrete oasis with peeling paint and basic repair prices painted on the window.
“Will you watch Scamp while I see about a tow?” I scooted the puppy off my lap, holding him in place as I slid out. The Texas heat engulfed me, mercilessly driving away the chill brought on by the SUV’s air conditioner. It was an almost instantaneous combination of sweat and scorched skin.
Roy stared at me as if he wanted to say no, as if he’d like to push the dog and me into the gas station’s parking lot and take off in a squeal of tires, never looking back. “Sure.”
The aviator sunglasses and the bland expression he wore made him unreadable, but something about him made me shiver as I closed the door. Scamp whimpered, his eyes mournful and anxious through the tinted glass. “I’ll be right back,” I mouthed, lightly tapping the glass.
Inside, a window unit blew full tilt, pouring damp, dirty-smelling air into every corner of the empty room. Three chairs were carelessly positioned against one wall, a white counter smudged with grease-stains took up the other, and two metal stands held Thrifty Nickels and Greensheets. A rattling, gasping soda machine that looked almost as old as my van took up the remaining wall. The garage door opened with a cringe-worthy squeal.
“My van broke down outside of town. Can you give me a tow?” And please, God, can it not cost too much? I sucked in my gut and gave him my sweetest smile, hoping to win him over. “And take a look at it.”
Wiping his hands on a red rag, he looked me up and down, a slow grin crossing his sweaty, grease-encrusted face. He wasn’t bad looking, but it had obviously been a while since he’d gotten intimate with the Irish Spring and Mister Razor. He shrugged and glanced over my shoulder toward Roy’s SUV, then stuffed the battered rag into the back pocket of his overalls. “I’m alone today, and pretty backed up.”
Sighing, I forced myself to think of Scamp lying dead in the highway, and how horrible I’d feel if I lost my only friend. Tears filled my eyes and a lump clogged my throat, while my fingers knotted in my skirt. “I really…” I sniffed, waving my hands around helplessly.
“We close at six.” He moved closer, close enough for me to see the avaricious gleam in his clear blue eyes and inhale the scent of his sweat mixed with grease. “I can take you out there then. Check out your van.”
Check out my pussy was more like it. I bit my lip and raised my shoulder, getting ready to give him a nice healthy shrug, when the door jangled and Scamp barked.
“Your dog pissed in my car.” Roy stood holding Scamp like he was some sort of diseased rodent, one hand gripping the scruff of his neck, one under his belly. Scamp didn’t look at all contrite. Or happy.
“I...” I glanced from Roy to Scamp to Garage Dude. “I’m really sorry.” I reached for my puppy.
“What’s wrong with your van?” the mechanic asked.
“It overheated,” I said.
“I thought you said the engine was shot,” Roy added, taking away my chance to act dumb and helpless later when Garage Dude came to tell me that I’d probably blown the van’s heads. They’d been on their last legs anyway, but I’d hoped the engine would hold out until after the fair in San Antonio when I’d be a little more flush.
“I said I hoped it wasn’t.” I gave him a pointed look, praying he’d shut up before he cost me anymore money.
“Can you fix her van?” Roy demanded, brushing at the front of his immaculate yellow polo shirt.
“I already told her it’d be after six before I could even go out there and get it.”
Roy asked, leveling his gaze on me. “You staying here then?”
“I’m...yeah.” I nodded and sighed, glad I’d have Scamp for company. My options were stay here…or stay here, and it was going to be a long day, regardless.
“I’ll take care of her.” Garage Dude grinned, nodding in Roy’s direction.
I had a feeling the engine repairs were going to cost me big time. With one last sigh, I followed Roy outside. “Thanks again for the ride.”
He slipped his sunglasses off, revealing warm grey eyes and a fierce scowl. “You sure you want to stay here?”
Apparently, Roy wasn’t as dense as I’d thought back there in the garage. From the concern on his face, he’d obviously figured out exactly how much those repairs were going to cost me. And how I planned on paying for them. His concern caught me off guard and made me sad. I almost wished our ride had lasted a little longer. That I’d had a little more time to see what was under that stoic exterior.
“I’m sure. But thanks.”
Hittin' It Purchase links: Amazon ARe Smashwords iTunes Kobo B&N
by Amie Stuart
Marked for Love Book One
"Lay Low and Live" is what's kept Bonnie James alive for three years. As resident fix-it girl for a tiny apartment complex in an even tinier Texas town, she makes enough money to pay the bills, but being on the run is lonely. Then Bonnie's latest one-night stand turns out to be the bounty hunter sent to track her down, and more importantly, track down the sister she thought was dead.
Wynn Collier is in big trouble: He's got to find what Bonnie's hiding and deliver it to his latest client—On Time Or Else. Manhandling Bonnie violates his personal code, but Wynn is more than happy to use naughtier, more entertaining, forms of persuasion to get what he wants.
Living outside the law comes at a high price for the both of them…but so does settling down.
Note: This was originally published by Kensington in July 2008. It has been newly re-edited.
Genre: Erotic RomanceNailed Purchase links: Amazon ARe Smashwords iTunes Kobo B&N
Content/Theme(s): Suspense, Humor, Hitmen, Contemporary
Release Date: March 24, 2015
The sun had finally set when I stepped outside dressed in battered Sketchers, cutoff sweats, and a tank top with no bra. The barest hint of a breeze lifted damp pieces of my freshly washed hair and struggled to blow away the day's heat. A near impossible battle.
From the open window, Clyde meowed his protest of my desertion. You'd think he'd have gotten used to it after a year. Every night after dark, I walked the complex, greeting the occasional swimmers, and the few people who sat outside drinking beer, and I listened...and watched. My guilty secret. I refused to name it, to call it what it was.
I'm sure people who smoked crack said the same thing, but the first time had been an accident. Eight months ago, I'd been walking the back of the complex, working off nervous energy, the edge that had ridden my back ever since I first ran. The fear, the paranoia it had taken me nearly two years to shake, and even now, another year after, I still couldn't completely let my guard down. Where was I? Oh, yeah...walking. I'd rounded the corner and spotted a couple in a parked car. It had been fall, still warm in the evenings, but they'd had the windows up, and a hint of fog had obstructed my view. The movement of the car had said it all though.
Inside, a topless woman had been riding Dinky Smith like she was going for the Triple Crown, her ginormous breasts bouncing happily.
I'd been helpless to move, a prisoner of my body, of my need, of my own frustrations and loneliness. There I stood after two years of celibacy, watching Dinky Smith have something I couldn't...sex...intimacy...affection.
Call it whatever you'd like, the weight and depth of it all had almost killed me that night.
That had been a Wednesday. I'd gone out on Friday, to Busters, and picked up a tourist, thinking if I fucked him, I'd never spy on Dinky again.
I was wrong.
I found myself lying in wait for him (he apparently liked having sex in cars). Then I found myself following him, watching him. He'd never caught on...I'd been real careful. And, you know, he wasn't the brightest lightbulb in the package. The legality, or illegality, of what I was doing was irrelevant when held up next to the Big Picture.
Trust me on this.
After a while, the weather turned colder, and I'd gotten bored with Dinky. I found myself drawn to casually peeking in kitchen windows—a dark hoodie could hide a multitude of sins.
Anyway, the windows were huge, forty-eight inches wide and sixty inches off the ground. I'm 5'5" and that made us a perfect match. Not to mention,.
Then came the bedroom windows, listening, straining my ears in the dark to hear couples fucking and fighting.
Anyway, tonight was Thursday, and Darcy McKnight's boyfriend was coming over. Normally boyfriends were no big deal, but Darcy was cheating on her husband, Chris, and for the record, she wasn't the only cheater at Marquez Terrace.
Chris was a long-haul trucker who came in on Sunday and left first thing Wednesday morning. Darcy wasn't dumb enough to have her boyfriend come on Wednesday; she waited a day. No one ever told on her; no one dared. Chris was a giant who'd probably kill the bearer of bad news.
Guess you could say we had our very own Don't Ask/Don't Tell policy.
And besides, Darcy's peccadilloes weren't worth dying for, but her boyfriend Brad was.
He came by around 9:00 every night, slipped in her front door when most people were ending their day, and, well, Darcy had a bad habit of leaving the kitchen curtains open, and the window too.
My stomach was a tangle of excited nerves as I spotted Brad slipping into Darcy's apartment, the open door briefly spilling lamplight on the sidewalk. I walked the upper floors at a steady pace so as not to raise suspicion. Then I took the stairs, greeting Old Homer, who sat in a lawn chair he kept just outside his front door.
"Gonna be a hot one tonight."
"And sticky too," I said, pulling my T-shirt away from my body and fanning myself for effect.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I walked the front of the U-shaped complex, then circled around the back, taking my time. I knew already that Brad's truck was parked at the convenience store half a block down, and the owner was a friend of his.
The front of the complex faced the street with the complex's sign and the pool blocking the view of just about anyone from the road. An old SUV sat on the gravel shoulder across the street. Probably overheated, which was a common occurrence around here in the summer.
Down the side of the building I went, rubber soles silent on the hard-packed earth. I stopped at the back corner of the building to catch my breath and listen. All I could hear was the sound of the occasional cricket, the buzz of a mosquito that I swatted away, and someone's radio playing a Mexican radio station…all of that over the excited beating of my heart. God help me, I hoped Darcy never got caught.
One last glance over my shoulder, and I turned the corner, keeping a casual, steady pace. Three windows down, I stopped, my back pressed to the brick wall, and listened.
An immediate, "Oh, Brad!" prevented me from peeking in the kitchen window. It sounded like they were standing at the kitchen sink right under the window, though I knew they weren't. It sounded like he was spanking her with the spatula again.
And trust me, Darcy didn't mind. I sent up a little prayer of thanks as my curiosity got the better of me. I turned my head, raising up on my toes to find her bent over the little wooden kitchen table she'd refinished last summer, her bare-naked ass in the air, shining a sassy red.
Brad wore a faded black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and nothing else. I could see straight through to the living room where his jeans and boots and Darcy's clothes were scattered about. His muscular legs weren't very tanned. Brad wasn't the kind of man to lay around in the sun. His forearms were tanned, though, and his hands were huge and probably callused. His ass was lily white, two perfect, muscular half-moons, and his dick was beautiful. Hard and thick and strong, jutting out at an angle from a dark nest of pubic hair.
Beautiful enough to make me take my truck in to his garage every three thousand miles for an oil change just so I could watch him work and fantasize about his cock.
I'd tested the waters, flirting a bit to see what he'd do, and he'd responded, but I always seemed to chicken out when it came to asking him to dinner. Call me a chicken, call it self-preservation, but I'd reluctantly decided that fucking tourists was a safer bet for the time being.
Once Darcy's ass was nice and red, he fucked her from behind. I stood there growing hotter by the minute, my pussy throbbing as I watched his cock disappear between the cheeks of her ass. She squealed and chattered like a fucking angry squirrel.
"Brad, Fuck! You're so big!"
"You like that?" he asked, mashing his hand into her hair and holding her head against the table. "Huh, you little slut?"
"Better than your fucking husband?" he panted.
"God, yes! I love your cock. Fuck me...fuck me more!"
"Little dirty girl."
He'd call her a whore and tell her what a bad girl she was every single damn time, and I never got tired of hearing it. My hand slid up my thigh, into the leg of my shorts to massage my pussy lips, but that wasn't enough. I slid my middle finger deeper, circling my clit faster and faster, my lower lip caught between my teeth, my shoulder pressed into the brick wall. My toes curled, I closed my eyes and stroked myself, listening, imagining it was me.
Until a nonsexual sound penetrated my lust-filled brain. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut a moment in frustration before opening them again and licking my lips and slipping my hand out of my shorts.
I knew better than to act suspiciously. Instead, I moved slowly, turning toward the parking lot and scanning for movement. I didn't see anyone, but I'll be damned if it hadn't sounded like a cough. Maybe it had come from an upstairs apartment, but I wasn't about to risk getting caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. My happy interlude was over.
I backtracked to the corner of the building, detoured out into the middle of the parking lot, and continued my walk, slowly scanning the gloomy perimeter for signs of life. Nothing, no one, nowhere.
That feeling of unease that had ebbed and flowed the last couple of weeks, that same one that had finally subsided over the last year or so, had grown worse lately, leading me to believe it was almost time for Bonnie James to disappear and for someone else to take her place.
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Be on the lookout for Amie Stuart's future release(s): The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie coming October 2015 and Even Cowboys Get the Blues coming January 2016
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