THE HUNT
Monica James
THE
HUNT
Order Now:
Series: A Hard Love Romance
Genre: Rom-Com, Erotica
Release Date: October 30th
2017
BLURB:
My
name is Hunter O’Shea and I have a confession to make…I’ve met a girl who
consumes me. I know that makes me sound completely whipped, but Mary “Lamb”
Mitts has the power to bring me to my knees…it’s just too bad she hates my
guts. But that’s okay, because I hate hers, too. The fiery redhead stirs
something in me that I can’t explain.
This
temporary insanity could be due to the fact my best friend, who used to be a
bigger player than me, is getting married. That must be it. I’m caught up in an
Oprah moment.
The
only solution is to get back in the game and forget she exists. That theory is
great—too bad I don’t want anyone else.
I…just…want…her.
I’m so screwed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Monica
James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare,
and Emily Dickinson.
When she
is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a
balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent
stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration
from life.
She is a
bestselling author in the U.S., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and
the U.K.
Monica
James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie
of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and
secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
AUTHOR LINKS:
Instagram: @MonicaJames
Website:
monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au
Pinterest:
pinterest.com/monicajames81
EXCERPT:
Something is happening and I have no idea what. Mary’s
eyes drop to my lips before she uneasily licks hers. Her flushed cheeks,
dilated pupils, and heavy breathing all point to one thing—but that’s not
possible. This woman hates me, all delicious, lithe five-foot-four of her wants
me dead.
So why is she not slapping my cheeks and calling me a
dirty manwhore when I inch closer to her lips? And why am I not slamming on the
brakes because I don’t kiss—ever, but that rule seems to be obsolete when the
supplest pair of lips are a hairs breadth away?
I’m rolling in her perfume. Slathering it all over my
body and inhaling it like a new drug. She is all goddess, and if I don’t touch
her, I’m going to explode.
Placing my palm to her cheek, we both moan at the
contact, and when she parts those lips, I’m as good as gone. “Hunter, wh-what
are you doing?”
My name has never sounded sweeter. “Shortcake, I don’t
know…you tell me.” The ball is in her court. I’m liquefying and my brain turned
to mush about fifteen minutes ago, so I’m in no state to be the one calling the
shots.
“I…I…” she fumbles, never breaking eye contact.
“You what?” I ask, tugging at the lobe of her ear,
before tracing my pointer down her throat. Her pulse is hammering, a sure sign
she’s about to either surrender, or flee.
“I…oh god,” she whimpers, biting her lip when I work
my finger back up and paint over her jawline in a slow sweep.
“You have three seconds…three seconds to stop me
before I part those lips with my tongue, and I won’t be gentle about it.”
