Desiree Holt | USA Today & Award-Winning Author

Controlled Burn

Montana Wade was home after writing off the past ten years of her life, but she needed one more night of courage before she faced her family. Boone Crider, hotshot firefighter, was burned out from the rash of malicious fires. They thought one night as strangers would cure them both, but the fire they started between them soon became a barely controlled burn.

Note: This book has previously been published in the “Five Alarm Alphas” collection.

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She didn’t recognize the bartender, a man with graying hair and bulging muscles. She only knew he wasn’t Pete and, frankly, she didn’t care. He tossed his bar towel onto his shoulder as he moved to stand in front of her.

“Name your poison.”

“Jack Black. On the rocks.”

If she was going to do some serious drinking, Jack Daniel’s Black Label was her liquid of choice. A couple of those and she ought to be ready to conk out for the night.

He lifted an eyebrow then nodded and took down a bottle to fill her order.

“You must be of a mind to do some serious drinking.”

Montana blinked. The voice, deep and raspy, came from the man sitting next to her.

“Excuse me?” Turning her head barely enough to catch a sideways glimpse, a pulse she’d thought in deep freeze thundered through her body. The owner of the voice had a face defined by a rugged jaw and piercing black eyes. Hair equally as dark hung barely to the collar of a dark tee shirt  stretched across broad shoulders and accented muscular arms. His smoky essence teased at her nostrils. When he lifted the beer bottle to take a drink, she noticed how long and graceful his fingers were, fingers capable of playing play a woman’s body like a guitar.

Really, Montana? You can think about that now?

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired grin. “Most of the women I know only drink something from a bottle with a cork in it.”

Montana knew exactly what he meant. Women in the California culture thought wine was the only acceptable drink. How she had missed her bourbon these past ten years.

“You obviously don’t hang out with too many Texas women,” she told him.

“Or else, the wrong ones.” He said it as a joke, but she had a feeling, tonight at least, he wasn’t feeling very humorous.

When the bartender placed her glass in front of her, she lifted it and took a healthy sip. The rich blend slid down her throat like a fiery caress, waking up all her senses. Wait! This was supposed to soften everything, ease her tension, prepare her body to crash for the night. Instead, it made her hyperaware of the man next to her who she was sure had to be emitting pheromones at an alarming rate. It had been so long since she’d felt real sexual attraction, she thought her body had forgotten how.

But here she was, sitting next to a man she’d met seconds ago, and all it took was his gravelly voice, fuck-me eyes, and masculine nearness to wake up her body. A sudden ache danced through her breasts, her nipples tingled, and, between her thighs, the pulse in her cunt throbbed with the insistence of a jungle drum. And, ohmigod! Were her panties wet after a few words and less than sixty seconds?

Girl, you are in bad shape.

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Desiree Holt
March 29, 2015

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