Melt for You by J.T. Geissinger
Series: Slow Burn #2
Publication date: May 15th, 2018
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
A wallflower gets seduction tips from a playboy athlete--until love changes the rules.
Socially awkward Joellen Bixby has a date every Saturday--with her cat, a pint of ice cream, and fantasies of the way-too-handsome Michael Maddox. She'd given anything to win over the unattainable CEO of her firm, but how can she when she blends in so well with her cubicle? The answer may be closer than she thinks.
Cameron McGregor is a cocky, tattooed Scottish rugby captain who just moved in next door. He's not Jo's type--at all--but the notorious playboy is offering to teach the wallflower everything he knows about inspiring desire. Though a lot of women have rumpled Cam's kilt, Jo is special. Far from the ugly duckling she thinks she is, in Cam's eyes she's sharp, funny, and effortlessly sexy. Now, thanks to him, Jo is blooming with confidence and has the man of her dreams within reach.
Unfortunately for Cam, he's just helped to push the woman of his dreams into the arms of another man--and now he's in the fight of his life to keep this beauty from getting away.
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Excerpt
I jump at the sound of a woman's scream.
"What the hell?" I rush to the front door. My heart galloping, I flatten myself against the door and peer through the peephole. The hallway is empty. Warily, I ease open the door and poke my head out. Then I hear another scream, this one accompanied by the sound of female laughter and a chorus of male hoots.
The noise is coming from the apartment across the hall.
Relieved I'm not dealing with murder, only a house party spiraling out of control, I start to fume. I picture an inflatable kiddie pool filled with Jell-O in the middle of Kellen's living room, a pair of naked girls squirming around in it while a bunch of frat boys gleefully spray them with champagne and dollar bills.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm marching across the hall and applying my knuckles with vigor to Kellen's door.
The music doesn't lower, but after a moment, heavy footsteps approach. Then the door opens and I'm rendered speechless.
A man I've never seen before stands in the doorway. He's tall, broad, solid as a mountain and about as large. He has shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, lots of tattoos, and a devastating smile, which my brain notes at the same time it's trying to process that the man is wearing unlaced combat boots, a kilt, and nothing else.
You could get lost in the canyons between his abs. If he has any body fat at all, it must be hidden beneath the kilt, because his muscles are so defined it's like looking at an anatomical drawing.
Staring open-mouthed at his stomach, I say, "Uh..."
The Mountain says, "Can I help you, lass?"
Cannae help ye, lass?
Dear God, he's a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I'm curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.
"What the hell?" I rush to the front door. My heart galloping, I flatten myself against the door and peer through the peephole. The hallway is empty. Warily, I ease open the door and poke my head out. Then I hear another scream, this one accompanied by the sound of female laughter and a chorus of male hoots.
The noise is coming from the apartment across the hall.
Relieved I'm not dealing with murder, only a house party spiraling out of control, I start to fume. I picture an inflatable kiddie pool filled with Jell-O in the middle of Kellen's living room, a pair of naked girls squirming around in it while a bunch of frat boys gleefully spray them with champagne and dollar bills.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm marching across the hall and applying my knuckles with vigor to Kellen's door.
The music doesn't lower, but after a moment, heavy footsteps approach. Then the door opens and I'm rendered speechless.
A man I've never seen before stands in the doorway. He's tall, broad, solid as a mountain and about as large. He has shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, lots of tattoos, and a devastating smile, which my brain notes at the same time it's trying to process that the man is wearing unlaced combat boots, a kilt, and nothing else.
You could get lost in the canyons between his abs. If he has any body fat at all, it must be hidden beneath the kilt, because his muscles are so defined it's like looking at an anatomical drawing.
Staring open-mouthed at his stomach, I say, "Uh..."
The Mountain says, "Can I help you, lass?"
Cannae help ye, lass?
Dear God, he's a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I'm curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.
A former headhunter, J.T. Geissinger is the author of more than a dozen novels in contemporary romance, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense.
She is the recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book, the Golden Quill Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy, and is a two-time finalist for the RITA Award from the Romance Writers of America. Her work has also finaled in the Bestsellers' Best, National Readers' Choice, and Daphne du Maurier Awards.
Join her Facebook reader's group, Geissinger's Gang, to take part in weekly Wine Wednesday live chats and giveaways, find out more information about works in progress, have access to exclusive excerpts and contests, and get advance reader copies of her upcoming releases.
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