***COVER REVEAL FOR AUTHOR’S DEBUT NOVEL UNDER PEN NAME***
Title: Secondhand Life
Author: L.M. LEE
Cover Artist: Pink Ink Designs
Genre: Erotic Romance
Emma Ross knew Oliver from the past, when they were younger, and he smiled. Gone for years, back to their hometown a widow, the Oliver she knew is gone. A hard man who consumes her is left in his place. A man who claims to hate her, but can’t seem to stay away.
Oliver Bentley remembers Emma as an unlikable girl, only the present Emma is nothing like her. He doesn’t want to find her desirable, but everything—from her inner strength, to her warm eyes, to the fierce love she has for her daughter, to his constant hunger for her—makes him want her more. The thing is…he doesn’t hate her at all.
My body turns into a mass of hypersensitive nerves under his scrutiny. “Oliver. Stop looking at me like that.”
Hearing the warning in my voice, Oliver drags his eyes to mine. His deep voice is quiet as he says, “Is it always going to be like this?”
Breaths coming fast, I hastily set down the stack of plates and reach for the bottle of wine. I notice the slight tremble of his hands, and am careful to not touch him as I take the wine from him. It would be easier to not be this attracted to someone. It would be easier, but I’m not sure I can say I have remorse over experiencing this. Easier isn’t always better. I know that. I’ve lived that.
“I don’t know. I’ve never…felt this before,” I answer honestly.
I wonder if he has, if he had this with his wife. If he did, I’m glad. I hope he did. But I’ll never ask, because I don’t want to know. I refuse to think about why I don’t want to know, telling myself every woman wants to feel like they’ve induced reactions in males no others before them, or after them, have. It’s silly, possibly childish, but women are insecure by nature.
Oliver moves closer, and to anyone watching, the scene would appear innocent. It isn’t. It’s tempting catastrophe. I smell cinnamon, and soap, each time I inhale. His breath fans my ear as he exhales. We are locked in a bubble, and the slightest wrong, or right, move, will cause it to burst.
With a stuttering pulse, I look into eyes as green and unending as a forest, and wonder what will happen if I step into them.
Things are simple between us. We have sex. One move a certain way, and everything gets complicated. Oliver Bentley is the last man I want to get complicated with.
“I want you. Always,” comes out in a hoarse, barely audible whisper.
His words echo through me, sounding sweet and new, even though I’ve heard them from plenty of men’s lips. But never this one’s, and never spoken so raggedly, or so regrettably.
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