Catching Carly...

 

My name is Carly Porter... And I’m really good at bad decisions.

How do I know this, exactly? Well, not including the time I accidentally bleached my eyebrows or sprained my ankle changing a lightbulb...

I had sex with my best friend’s brother.

Zeke Elliott has been a thorn in my side for eleven years. A very sexy, very tempting, very freaking annoying one. With big…hands.

And now my clitoris has a crush on the guy.

Seriously. I can’t look at him without my vagina performing accidental kegels. Which would be fine, but he’s Cain’s brother. I hate him. He’s off limits, right?

Right.

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“Don’t blame me,” he says. “You’re easy to rile. You rise to the bait every time…Like a pretty little piranha.”

“Did you just—” I spin, the wet cloth in my hand, and stare at him.

He’s holding my cake. And he’s bitten into it. The frosting is on his nose.

I respond the only possible way. I throw the cloth I’m holding at his face. It’s a damn good shot, because it opens up mid-air and covers half his face, leaving one of his eyes uncovered.

Brooke coughs and looks away.

“Thanks.” Zeke wipes his face off with the cloth and chucks it back to me. “I needed that. The damn frosting gets everywhere.”

“My frosting,” I shoot at him, turning the tap back on. “My cupcake, my frosting, your karma.”

“You two are exhausting.” Brooke sighs, joining me at the sink. “You either need to be separated on a permanent basis, like three-year-olds, or just have sex.”

My stomach loop-the-loops. “Unless he comes with batteries, I’m not interested.”

“I don’t need batteries,” Zeke offers, his sexy grin now an even sexier smirk. “It’s pretty easy to keep going when you’re being prayed to mid-fuck.”

“Why? Because you’re a god?” Brooke asks dryly. “How original of you. That’s never been used by a guy in the history of ever.”

Well. In all fairness, I might have begged to a deity once or twice when we…Never mind.

Not thinking about that.

“Can we not talk about sex?” I look around the room.

“Why?” Cain grins. “Aren’t you getting any?”

I look him dead in the eye and say, “I don’t need any.”

Zeke snorts. “People always need sex, Carly.”

I turn my attention to him and raise my eyebrow. “No. People need oxygen and water and food. You don’t even need sex to make babies now. Your point is moot.”

By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.

Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.

She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.

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