Sweet
Surrender
By
Naima Simone
Genre: Erotic Contemporary Romance
Cover Designer: Debra Glass
Release Date:
August 15, 2017
Killing the messenger is frowned upon. Okay,
then... What about laying the messenger on the nearest flat surface and making
her scream with pleasure?
From the moment Hayden Reynolds
approaches Griffin Sutherland in the local, Florida dive bar, all he can think
about is fisting her dark curls and stroking those gorgeous curves. But hell
would freeze over before she allowed him to touch her because she’s the woman
he left behind five years earlier. And now she’s there to deliver a message—an
ultimatum—from his estranged father. Blackmail forces Griffin, black sheep of
his powerful Texas family, back home to play nice. But the terms of his bargain
say nothing about not satisfying his need for the woman he’s never
forgotten…never stopped wanting…
Hayden is no longer the naive girl who
once fiercely loved a golden Sutherland and believed he and a maid's daughter
could live happily ever after. Griffin broke her all those years ago, but she
forced herself to pick up the pieces and move on. Now he’s back in Texas,
acting the part of the proper, dutiful son. But there’s nothing proper about
the detailed—dirty—descriptions of how he wants to touch her…take her… Though
her body heats every time he’s near, she refuses to surrender to his special brand
of passion. Griffin may have returned home, but he's leaving again. And this
time he won't take her heart with him…
“You boys enjoy. Drinks on me tonight.”
She froze. That drawl. Slow, thick, and
warm like the dark gold, heavy Karo syrup her mother used to pour over
pan-fried cornbread when Hayden was younger. Delicious. Pure sin. And familiar.
Too damn familiar.
Her heart kicked into a dull, ponderous
thud in her chest. It’d been five years since she’d heard that voice. Since
then it had teased her, whispered to her…seduced her.
“Open up for me,
baby. That’s it. Let me fuck that pretty mouth.”
“This tight pussy is
mine. Mine. Say it.”
“I could fucking die
in you, baby.”
She blinked, beating back the memories
that molasses-and-sex voice stirred, locking them away in the vault they’d
somehow escaped from. Swallowing past the fist in her throat, she slowly
rotated in the direction of the bar.
Wide shoulders and a broad chest tested
the fortitude and determination of a plaid shirt stretched over a white
T-shirt. Long, thick, muscular thighs encased in sturdy but worn denim. She
could only catch a glimpse of his profile, but that small look revealed a man
bigger, more muscled than the one in her memories. The formerly short blonde
waves were now caught up in one of those pretty-boy man buns. Sure, this area
of Florida could probably claim more than one Viking among its population, but
only one man had ever incited the oh shit dip in her belly. Or that damn lick
of heat in her veins.
Griffin.
The man had eviscerated her soul to the
point that for a year after he left she hadn’t wanted to do anything but lie in
a bed and disappear under the covers. Yet, her body still recognized him as the
only man who’d ever made it sing like fucking Pavarotti.
God, how she hated him for it.
Hated herself for it.
But that was then. Now? She didn’t want
him, didn’t need him.
Sliding from the chair once more, she
straightened her shoulders, and strode toward the bar. The sooner she delivered
her message to the bastard, the sooner she could call this mission accomplished
and go home. Wishing she had a baby wipe to clean the scarred surface of the
barstool, she slid onto it.
“Hello, Griffin.” Griffin, not Griff.
Since they were no longer friends, she didn’t have the right, or the
inclination, to use the shortened, more intimate version of his name.
The blond giant next to her shifted, a
small smile already curving his lips. But she caught the moment recognition
entered his eyes, darkening them. That sensual but polite smile fell, leaving
an impassive, stoic mask she prayed to God she mimicked.
Five years had brought some changes. At
twenty-five, Griffin had been leaner, with the hard, beautiful body of a man
who spent time in a gym to let off steam. But at thirty, his wide shoulders
that blocked out her view of the room behind him, rock solid chest and thick
arms put her in the mind of someone who spent less time on a treadmill and more
on the sites of his construction company. Those were sweat-and-back-breaking-labor
muscles.
But some things had remained the same.
The impossibly blue eyes that were all the more brilliant because of his
sun-kissed skin and bright hair. The wide, almost-too-full-for-a-man mouth that
saved his face, with its chiseled, elegant planes and lines, from verging into
pretty boy territory. He still resembled an angel about five minutes after it’d
fallen: beautiful and fresh from sinning.
No, she took that back. Now he was more
like the huge, powerful, golden mythological creature he’d been named after. A
gryphon. Half lion, half eagle. Fierce. Dominant. Stunning in its beauty and
just as terrifying.
“Hayden,” he murmured, breaking the
quiet that had grown deafening with each passing second.
Just that.
What had she expected, really? Him to
fall out of his chair, delirious with joy to see her? He’d exorcised her out of
his life like she hadn’t existed. That spoke volumes.
Inhaling a deep breath, she dipped her
chin in acknowledgment. “It’s good to see you.”
He arched a dark brown eyebrow. “Is
that right?”
The lie had pretty much scalded her
tongue, and from the faint, wry twist of his lips, he’d guessed as much. “I
figured it was the polite thing to say.”
“Polite.” He picked up the brown beer
bottle on the bar in front of him, and tipped it to his lips, his hooded gaze
remaining fixed on her. “I’d say we’re far past manners.”
USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone’s love of romance
was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years
ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at
a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of
day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since
2009, she spends her days—and nights— writing sizzling romances with a touch of
humor and snark.
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof
equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect,
sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Email: nsimonebooks@aol.com
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