They call him “The Tempest.”
England’s most feared heavyweight-boxing champion.
He despises the fame and glory, but it’s nothing compared to the hate he inflicts on himself. All he wants is to be left alone to live on his boat in misery.
When I line up for his autograph, it’s instant fireworks. But not the beautiful stars-shine-bright kind. He’s rude. Heartless. A ticking time bomb of rage.
Luckily, I’m not afraid to put a lit match to his fuse.
I upload a private video of him to my one-million-subscribers channel. The video goes viral.
The ex-Royal Marine nearly breaks down my studio door to flag me inappropriate…
…while I’m in the middle of a live streaming event.
I don’t tell him. I don’t switch off the camera. I keep recording, secretly playing to my audience. He should have checked if the camera was rolling, right?
It should be a shipwreck from the moment the tempest hits.
And then … it isn’t.
Our attraction is painful, undeniable, and it’s like I am Eve and his lips are the apple, and damn if his tongue isn’t the snake.
I am the only girl who can put this broken man back together again.
But he knows the secret he is keeping will tear us apart. He knows it’ll force my hand to break ties with the only family I have left in the world.
But once The Tempest, the man with the iron heart, falls in love … he’ll crush anyone who dares to take me away from him.
I have no choice but to go down with his big ship.
Hook, line, and goddamned sinker.
The Tempest is a contemporary romance story of love, comedy and treachery.
No cheating. No OW/OM. Standalone. HEA. 18+
I straighten my spine. “I know what you’re doing,” I grumble, folding my arms in front of my chest. “Don’t think you’re clever.” I shake my head at him, but the sexy grin on his face just gets filthier.
“Tell me,” he prompts, his body conquering my personal space as he leans across to open the top cabinet for two coffee mugs.
“You’re toying with me because you think I have this silly crush on you,” I mutter. “And you’re trying to make me turn into some pathetic drooling fan who kneels at your feet. It’s your way to get back at me for the things I said to you at Box Fest.”
The way his lips continue their upward curl makes me want to smack the smirk right off his face … during a long session of angry sex.
“I think you have a crush on me? The way you’ve been looking at me — you’d think there was nothing above my waist.” My jaw drops to the floor. It is one of those wait, what? moments that prickle my cheeks with heat. And the wait, what? hits keep coming. “And I distinctly remember you shouting that I could, what was it…? Oh, yeah. ‘Hook, line, and fuck you any day.’ So don’t act shy, Felicity. I don’t do shy.”
He runs his finger over my exposed middle, and I groan, a pathetic sound in the back of my throat, and with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, just smelling his vagina-exploding scent makes me wet.
My fingers curl and uncurl pathetically, my breath becoming arduous. And then Lenic gets closer, towering over me, all lust and concern for his wayward guest, his sad little lamb who fell into the den with the lion — the lion I couldn’t ever hope to go up against. Not like this. Not when his touch is electric, hot and cold, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He watches me intently, fingers brushing the sensitive flesh on my stomach, waiting to see if I will make a move, waiting to see if I will try to escape. But I don’t do or say anything. I can’t do anything. All I can do is stand there, looking at him. Looking at everything: his face, his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. I can feel myself drowning in his eyes. I glance down at his thick calloused hand, caught in some kind of spell from his light suggestive touch.
“Today’s pretty good for me.” My eyes widen and my head shoots up in disbelief. He tugs me close to him, too damn close, until our noses are touching and our breath is caressing each other’s lips. He is close enough to see the tiny beauty spot by the corner of my eye, and I feel every inch the little girl who is cannon fodder to this steel giant. “You’re tight.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Your body. You must work out.”
He is shameless.
Is this the real Lenic Reevus? Is he a player? He hides his reputation exceedingly well if that’s his position. Maybe he dips his boat into a pool outside of town, a real Casanova across the borders of Stonebrook. I remind myself he is a stranger. Anything is possible.
“You’re filthy,” I breathe out. “You think you can do or say anything.”
“I’m the captain of this boat. Makes me in charge.”
“It’s rather a small boat, considering.”
He coughs out a laugh. “Don’t worry.” He flicks his gaze down on himself for a beat. “My other boat is bigger. Much, much, bigger. Plenty of seamen riding that one.”
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About Brit Constantine
Filthy British contemporary-romance author. I live only for big ships, packed to the brim with hot seamen.