Aline Hunter - Make Me Shiver

“If I die because of you, so help me God I’ll make you regret the day you were born, Scott Barker.” Lacey Walsh gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, trying to see past a windshield obscured by large flakes of falling snow. “I’m so coming back to haunt your no-good, lowdown, dick-dipping ass. Death will look like a walk in the park compared to what I have planned for you, you cheating bastard.”

Thirty minutes before, she’d gotten the shock of her life when she had decided to swing by Scott’s office. Now she understood why he’d always wanted her to call ahead before she came for a visit.

“Asshole.”

The image of Scott on his knees—his face buried in his secretary’s crotch—flashed in her mind.

Karen’s golden head was limp on her shoulders, her massive, silicone-enhanced breasts bared to the world. Her hands grasped the copy machine she was seated on, manicured fingernails shining in the artificial office lighting as her soft whimpers accompanied the slurps of what Lacey could only imagine came courtesy of Scott’s mouth and tongue.

“Skank.”

Lacey cursed when she hit a patch of ice and the wheels rolled, causing the car to slide. Easing her foot off the gas, she waited until the wheels caught and she gained control. Living in the higher elevations of Tennessee meant snowy drives were dangerous. When winter weather advisories came, it was best to raid the grocery store and prepare for what could be days being snowed in. Fortunately her job granted her the freedom to remain trapped indoors during the snow and ice. Writing children’s picture books allowed her to stay at home, work at her own pace and keep to herself. It was a fantastic way to earn a living.

Until you started dating the attorney working for your publisher and decided to take a drive into town to invite him over for the weekend.

Ugh, how ironic.

Here she was, ready to give it up, while he was getting his rocks off elsewhere. At least she’d never let him past second base. Just thinking of him coming to her after fucking Karen with his face, offering up a plate of sloppy seconds as a gift, made her physically ill.

Another slippery spot of ice sent the car veering to the left. She gripped the wheel and tried to bring the vehicle back to the road. Instead it plunged farther to the left, toward the guardrail. The airbag deployed the instant the bumper made contact and consequently gave way to the metal barrier. She screamed upon impact and the inflatable cushion slapped her in the face. The car came to a slow stop, the windshield wipers going strong as the motor sputtered and died. Her heart was hammering, her rapid, panicked breaths more like pants as adrenaline rushed through her and brought everything into focus.

Jesus. She really could have died. And for what? A man who enjoyed dipping his jimmy stick into God knew how many women?

Groaning, she shoved aside the slowly deflating bag and sagged into her seat when she saw the steam from the engine through a steady fall of snow against the windshield. Fabulous. While she didn’t know much about engines, she had a pretty good feeling that even if the car started she’d never be able to drive the damn thing.

Could things possibly get worse?

She reached for her purse in the passenger seat, retrieved her phone and unlatched her safety belt. There was nothing like calling a tow truck during a snowstorm. Not only would they charge her double the fee, but she’d have to stay in town until the roads cleared. There was no way they’d take her up the mountain to her home, not if it was already icing over.

Opening her cell, she grumbled, “Scott, I hope you get a massive case of dick-rot and suffer miserably,” and scrolled through the phone book, searching for the number she’d wisely programmed for emergencies just like this. When she got to the number she hesitated, a hot, undeniable flush settling over her.

Talk about serendipity.

She’d chosen Mike’s Wrecker Service as her tow of choice for one reason—the owner, Michael Gilchrist. He was total hotness, a glorious specimen of man, and absolutely not her type. Although she was normally drawn to the powerful men in business suits with manicured nails, pressed slacks and regular haircuts, Michael had shown her that a dirt-under-his-nails working man had the power to blow every fantasy she’d ever had out of the water.

From the moment she’d seen him two months before cruising inside the family-owned-and-operated Food Mart—dressed casually in faded and torn blue jeans, a black T-shirt and worn work boots—she’d been smitten. Unfortunately, she hadn’t even known who in the hell he was besides gorgeous and unforgettable. She had been too shy and nervous to approach him and introduce herself. Instead she had lingered behind aisles of cereal and gawked at him as he made his selections and strolled over to the checkout. It was like one of the romance movies she watched, where the heroine was too afraid to grow a pair. But she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t in her nature to strike up a conversation with a random Adonis in the frozen food section.

After he left she’d made a casual remark to the cashier and got a knowing grin and the man of her dreams’ name. Michael Gilchrist, owner of Mike’s Wrecker Service, a legend in his spare time and total eye candy. For days she had cursed her shyness and fear of rejection. At twenty-four, she wasn’t exactly new to the dating game. What was wrong with going up, saying hello and asking for his number?

Women did it all the time. It was a sign of the times. Because of her insecurity, she’d never know what might have been.

All because she was too afraid to grasp life by the balls.

Then one night, as if it were destined to be, Michael had strolled through the door of Haddie’s while she’d been on her lonesome. One too many cosmopolitans had lowered her guard and loosened her tongue, and she’d found herself not only talking to the god himself but flirting with him as well. It had been going splendidly, until she’d been ripped away from the bar by her college best friend, newspaper sleuth and resident local, Candice Bradshaw. One trip to the ladies was all Candy had needed to warn Lacey about what Michael looked for in a relationship, and it wasn’t just love, monogamy and vanilla nights between the sheets.

An electric charge ran down her spine as she remembered Candy’s quickly spoken words.

Whips, bondage, dominance… submission .

As Candy spilled, Lacey had listened, stunned and disbelieving. Sure, Michael exuded an aggressive and alluring alpha vibe. But a Dom?

Even more surreal had been her reaction to the revelation. She had started to sweat, her nipples had tingled and hardened into points and an all-revealing gush of wetness had soaked her panties. For a moment she had imagined what it would be like.

He was sexy as sin but giving orders, demanding submission…

Holy Hell, it made her hot. Sadly, even more than that, it scared the shit out of her.

Keyed up, yet mortified, she’d ditched her newly brassed balls, returned to the bar and thanked Michael for the drink, and left despite his offer to drive her home. It was always better to be safe than sorry when it came to things like this, especially as a new resident in an extremely small town. Once word got out about anything, everyone knew. Yet even after finding a certain relief in her decision, a nagging regret ate at her for weeks and refused to go away. In the end, it was impossible to stop obsessing over one very unforgettable, and undeniably sexy, Michael Gilchrist.