Title: Real
Author: Katy Evans
Date for Re-Release of Paperback: September 3, 2013
Publisher: Gallery Books
Blog Tour Hosted by: The
SUBClub Books
Synopsis
A
fallen boxer.
A woman with a broken dream.
A competition…
He even makes me forget my name. One night was all it took, and I forgot everything and anything except the sexy fighter in the ring who sets my mind ablaze and my body on fire with wanting…
Remington Tate is the strongest, most confusing man I’ve ever met in my life.
He’s the star of the dangerous underground fighting circuit, and I’m drawn to him as I’ve never been drawn to anything in my life. I forget who I am, what I want, with just one look from him. When he’s near, I need to remind myself that I am strong–but he is stronger. And now it’s my job to keep his body working like a perfect machine, his taut muscles primed and ready to break the bones of his next opponents . . .
But the one he’s most threatening to, now, is me.
I want him. I want him without fear. Without reservations.
If only I knew for sure what it is that he wants from me?
A woman with a broken dream.
A competition…
He even makes me forget my name. One night was all it took, and I forgot everything and anything except the sexy fighter in the ring who sets my mind ablaze and my body on fire with wanting…
Remington Tate is the strongest, most confusing man I’ve ever met in my life.
He’s the star of the dangerous underground fighting circuit, and I’m drawn to him as I’ve never been drawn to anything in my life. I forget who I am, what I want, with just one look from him. When he’s near, I need to remind myself that I am strong–but he is stronger. And now it’s my job to keep his body working like a perfect machine, his taut muscles primed and ready to break the bones of his next opponents . . .
But the one he’s most threatening to, now, is me.
I want him. I want him without fear. Without reservations.
If only I knew for sure what it is that he wants from me?
Excerpt
I
stare up at the ring as the guy whips off the red satin robe with the word riptide on the back, and the spectators
stand screaming and cheering as he slowly turns to acknowledge them all. His
face is suddenly before me, illuminated by the lights, and I just stare like an
idiot from my place. My god.
My.
God.
Dimples.
Dark
scruffy jaw.
Boyish
smile.
Man’s
body.
Killer
tan.
A
shiver shoots down my spine as I helplessly drink in the entire package
everyone else seems to be gaping at.
He
has black hair, standing up sexily as if women have just had their fingers
there. Cheekbones as strong as his jaw and forehead. Lips that are red-kissed
and swollen, and, as a souvenir from his walk to the ring, there’s lipstick on
his jaw. I look down his long, lean body and something hot and wild settles in
my core.
He’s
mesmerizingly perfect and incredibly hard. Everything, from his beautifully
slim hips and narrow waist to his broad shoulders, is solid. And that six-pack.
No. It’s an eight-pack. The sexy V of his obliques dips into his satin, navy
blue shorts, which gently hug his powerful legs, thick with muscle. I can see
his quads, traps, pecs, and biceps, all gloriously tight and cut. Celtic
tattoos circle both of his arms, exactly where his bulging biceps and the rigid
square deltoids of his shoulders meet.
“Remy!
Remy!” Mel shouts hysterically at my side,
hands cupped to her mouth. “You’re so
fucking hot, Remy!”
His
head angles to the sound, one dimple showing with a sexy smile as he faces us.
A frisson of nervous energy passes through me, not because he’s extremely
gorgeous from this perfect view—because he is, he definitely is, goodness, he really is—but mostly because he’s
looking straight at me.
One
eyebrow cocks, and there’s a glimmer of amusement in his entrancing blue eyes.
Also something . . . warm in his gaze. Like he thinks I’m the one who shouted.
Oh, shit.
He
winks at me, but then I’m stunned as his smile slowly fades, morphing into one
that’s unbearably intimate.
My
blood simmers.
My
sex clenches tight, and I hate that he seems to know that.
I
can see he thinks he’s the ultimate creation, and he seems to believe every
woman here is his Eve, created from his rib cage for him to enjoy. I’m both
aroused and infuriated, and this is the most confusing feeling I’ve ever felt
in my life.
Breaking
our connection, he curls his lips and turns when his opponent is announced with
the words “Kirk Dirkwood, ‘the Hammer,’ here for all of you tonight!”
“You
little slut, Mel!” I cry when I recover, shoving her playfully. “Why did you
have to scream like that? He thinks I’m the nutcase now.”
“Omigod!
He did not just wink at you,” Melanie
says, visibly stunned.
Oh
my god, he had. Hadn’t he? He did.
I’m
just as astounded as I relive the wink in my head, and I’m totally going to
torture Melanie because she deserves it, the little tramp.
“He
did,” I finally admit, scowling at her. “We telepathically communicated, and he
says he wants to take me home to be the mother of his sexy babies.”
“Like
you would have sex with someone like
him. You and your OCD!” she says, laughing her head off as Remington’s opponent
takes off his robe. The man is all beefy muscle, but not an ounce of him can
visually compete with the pure male deliciousness of that “Riptide.”
Remington
flexes his arms at his sides, stretches his fingers out and forms fists, then
bounces on the balls of his feet, his calves flexing. He’s a large, muscular
man but surprisingly light on his feet.
Hammer
throws the first punch. Remington evades it with a smart duck, and he comes
back up with a full swing that connects and knocks Hammer’s face to the side. I
inwardly flinch at the power in his punch; my body clenches at the sight of his
muscles contracting and tensing, working and releasing, with each blow he
delivers.
The
crowd watches, enraptured, as the fight continues, those awful cracking sounds filling
me with goose bumps. But there’s something else bothering me. The fact that
beads of perspiration pop on my brow, in my cleavage. As the fight progresses,
my nipples strain, ever more puckered and tight, against my top, pushing
anxiously against the silk of the fabric. Somehow watching Remington Tate pound
a man they call “Hammer” makes me squirm in my clothes in a way I don’t like,
much less ever expected.
The
way he swings, moves, growls . . .
Suddenly,
a chorus begins: “REMY . . . REMY . . . REMY.”
I
turn and see Melanie jumping up and down and saying, “Omigod, hit him, Remy!
Just knock him dead, you sexy beast!” She screams when his opponent falls to
the ground with a loud thump.
My
panties are soaked, and my pulse has gone haywire. I’ve never condoned
violence. This isn’t me, and I blink in stupefaction at the sensations whipping
through my system. Lust, pure, white-hot lust, flutters through my nerve
endings.
The
ringmaster lifts Remington’s arm in victory, and as soon as he straightens from
the knockout blow he just delivered, his gaze swings in my direction and
crashes into me. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, and something knots and pulls
inside my tummy. His sweaty chest rises and falls in a deep pant, and a drop of
blood rests at the corner of his lips. Through it all, his eyes are glued to
me.
Heat
spreads under my skin, and the flames lick me all over. I will never admit this
to Melanie, not even to myself out loud, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such
a hot man in my life. The way he stares at me is hot. The way he stands there,
with his hand held in the air, his muscles dripping sweat, with that air of
authority Mel told me about in the cab—it’s just hot.
There’s
no apology in his stare. In the way he ignores everyone who shouts his name and
stares at me with a look that’s so sexual I almost feel taken right here. An
awful awareness of the exact way I
look to him sweeps over me.
My
long, straight hair, the color of mahogany, falls to my shoulders. My button-up
white shirt is sleeveless, but it goes up my throat in a lacy mock-neck, and
the hem is tucked nicely into a pair of high-waisted, but perfectly
presentable, black pants. A small set of gold hoop earrings nicely complement
my honeyed whiskey eyes. Despite my conservative choice of clothes, I feel
completely naked.
My
legs wobble, and I’m left with the distinct impression this man wants to pound
me next. With his cock.
Please,
god, I did not just think that;
Melanie would. Another tightening in my womb distresses me.
“REMY! REMY!
REMY! REMY!” people chant, the sound growing in intensity.
“You
want more Remy?” the man with the microphone asks the crowd, and the noise
builds around us. “All right then, people! Let’s bring out a worthier opponent
for Remington ‘Riptide’ Tate tonight!”
Another
man steps into the ring, and I can’t bear it anymore. My system is on overload.
This is probably why it’s not a good idea to forego sex for so many years. I’m
so worked up that I can barely talk right or even make my legs move as I turn
to tell Mel I’m going to the restroom.
A
voice blares loudly through the speakers as I charge down the wide path between
the stands. “And now, to challenge our reigning champion, ladies and gentlemen,
is Parker ‘the Terror’ Drake!”
The
crowd comes alive, and suddenly, I hear an unmistakably hard slam.
Resisting
the urge to look back at what’s causing the commotion, I round the corner and
head straight for the bathroom hall as the speakers flare up again. “Holy cow,
that was fast! We have a KO! Yes, ladies and gentlemen! A KO! And in record
time, our victor once again, I give you, Riptide! Riptide—who’s now jumping out
of the ring and— Where the hell are you
going?”
The
crowd goes crazy, calling all the way to the lobby, “Riptide! Riptide!” and then they fall completely quiet, as though
something unscripted has just happened.
I’m
wondering about the eerie silence when pounding footsteps echo at my back. A
warm hand engulfs mine, and the touch frissons through me as I’m spun around
with surprising force.
“What
the . . .” I gasp in confusion, and then stare into a sweaty male chest, and up
into glowing blue eyes. My senses reel out of control. He’s so close the scent
of him tears through me like a shot of adrenaline.
“Your
name,” he growls, panting, his eyes wild on mine.
“Uh,
Brooke.”
“Brooke
what?” he snaps out, his nostrils flaring.
His
animal magnetism is so powerful I think he just took my voice. He’s in my
personal space, all over it, absorbing it, absorbing me, taking my oxygen, and
I can’t understand the way my heart is beating, the way I stand here, shivering
with heat, my entire body focused on the exact spot his hand is wrapped around
me.
With
trembling efforts, I pry my hand free and glance fearfully at Mel, who comes up
behind him, wide-eyed. “It’s Brooke Dumas,” she says, and then she happily
shoots out my cell phone number. To my chagrin.
His
lips curl and he meets my gaze. “Brooke Dumas.”
And
as I feel his tongue twist roughly around those two words, his voice sinfully
dark, like things you crave to eat but really shouldn’t, desire swells between
my legs. His eyes are hot and almost proprietary when he looks at me. I’ve
never been stared at like this before.
He
just fucked my name right in front of me. And right in front of Mel.
He
steps forward, and his damp hand slides to the nape of my neck. My pulse
skitters as he lowers his dark head to set a small, dry kiss on my lips. It
feels like he’s marking me. Like he’s preparing me for something monumental
that could both change and ruin my life.
“Brooke,” he
growls softly, meaningfully, against my lips, as he draws back with a smile. “I’m
Remington.”
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Coming soon to a Target near you
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About Katy Evans
Hey! I’m Katy Evans and I love family, books, life,
and love. I’m married with two children and three dogs and spend my time
baking, walking, writing, reading, and taking care of my family. Thank you for
spending your time with me and picking up my story. I hope you had an amazing
time with it, like I did. If you’d like to know more about books in progress,
look me up on the Internet, I’d love to hear from you!
Website: www.katyevans.net
Twitter: https://twitter.com/authorkatyevans
Email: authorkatyevans@gmail.com
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