Breathe Again

Written by

MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron

Copyright

Copyright © MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

This is a work of fiction. All character, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

1st edition published: March 2017

Editing by: C&D Editing

Cover design by: Jersey Girl Designs

Thank you for purchasing this book. This book and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Content involves strong language and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situation are over the age of 18. All characters are a work of fiction.

About this novella

This is a bonus story to Use Me (Caldwell Brothers, # 4). This is the story Tatum is working on during her time in Detroit. We hope you enjoy.

Breathe Again

Annie is on a journey. She’s lost hope, love, and a reason to believe.

All is not lost, all is not gone, and it’s time for Annie to learn to breathe again.

Jonathon is caught up in his work, life, and day-to-day existing. When is the last time he was able to just breathe?

Two people broken brought together to learn to live again.

The writing duo of MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron team up to bring you a hot, quick read that is part of the story for Tatum Longley and Michelangelo Mazzini in Use Me (Caldwell Brothers 4). While this story is written by our main characters in Use Me, it is not necessary to read Use Me or the entire Caldwell Brothers series to follow this story. Use Me is a standalone novel available through all major e-book retailers.

Chapter One

~Annie~

To live is to love. To love is to live. Somewhere along the way, I lost this. Or maybe I never had it.

To love is to breathe again, I once read that somewhere.

Inhale deeply and feel full; is that what love is? Can I find it for myself? I don’t know. I’m skeptical.

I’m thirty years old and my life is still as much of a mess as it was when I was eighteen and starting college. The only difference now is that I’m old enough to know myself.

I know what I want. I know what I once had.

My heart is heavy with grief. I need to find a way to move on. He would want that. I want that. I just have to figure out how to achieve it.

I moved to Detroit. More importantly, I immerse myself in life here. Even though I will only be here for twelve weeks, I decided I need a change and this place, Detroit, will be perfect for that.

The old saying about repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting a different result, I can’t keep staying on this cycle.

I moved here, eyes wide open, pushing aside all the reasons I chose to live as a traveling nurse. My temporary apartment looks like anything but a place I plan to leave. I have made myself a home. Can I make roots for a change?

This place has endless possibilities, yet I don’t have to go out and explore them.

Work is close, even the grocery store is close to my apartment. Everything is so convenient. More convenience and less commuting means less time to get lost in worry, both a waste of energy and a waste of time.

For the first time in forever, I feel like life’s heavy burdens are starting to lessen. I don’t have to overthink, and I can allow my mind to run amuck.

I laugh at this thought then allow worry to set. Worry about how I will spend the luxury I am now afforded—extra time.

That is when I remembered part of my rent includes the use of the gym next door. And that is just what I did, and now I can’t get my mind off the man at said gym.

My first workout was a stress reliever. The next workout and the following have all been a balance of hoping to see him and getting my mind off life and work.

Pulling out the leather-bound journal I always keep with me, I scribble away my thoughts, my desires, and my guilty pleasures. They are just words, my own, and no one will ever have to know what I secretly want.

The first time I saw him, I knew he would rock my world. He stood a foot taller than me, and when I dared to look up, I could see need in his eyes. It mirrored the need I felt in my soul.

It had been years since a man had affected me the way he did. Years since I wanted anyone the way I suddenly wanted him.

My heart told me no, my head told me no, but the most private parts of my body screamed the opposite.

I lay in bed that night, thinking about him and how his rough, callused hands would feel as they glided down my body. How my breath would be lost as his long, thick fingers rubbed my inner thighs, causing my body to come to life after its long and painful winter.

Thinking of him, I slid my hand under my silk panties and used my finger to rub my sensitive, swollen clit, imagining it was his tongue. When I pushed my finger inside, I imagined it was his thick, hard cock.

Never able to bring myself to orgasm before, I wasn’t expecting it to happen at all. I was astonished when just the picture of him in my mind caused my walls to contract and my orgasm to ripple through my body like an earthquake.

When I couldn’t come anymore, I rolled to my side, hugged my pillow, and pretended it was him. Something else I had missed—being held at night and made to feel so safe in the arms of a man, even one who was a complete stranger.

I fell asleep feeling safe, sated, and wanted for the first time in years.

Because of him.

This has become my new routine since coming to Detroit. Thinking of him, getting myself off, and going to sleep satisfied. I’m on a new hamster wheel of cycles … one I’m not sure I ever want to get off of.

It’s safe.

~Jonathon~

Detroit, Michigan is a city of hustle and crime. The suburbs aren’t so bad, but downtown, where my businesses, the gym, and rental properties are … Well, it’s not the safest of places.

One of the newest residents, Annie Dahms, uses her free membership regularly.

Her pert tits, slim waist, and long, dark hair all grab my attention, and just about every man in my establishments. I can’t help wondering if she realizes the attraction men have to her. Hell, even some women check her out.

Is she from a small town? A city? What brought her to Detroit? What does she do for a living? Is she taken?

I haven’t see a ring, I haven’t seen her with a man in all of her comings and goings, but certainly she’s not single. She isn’t easy to read like the other women who come into the gym. She comes to work out, not socialize or check out the scene like she’s at a bar or club, looking for a hook up. I would be the first to notice if she did. I’d also be the only one she’d hook up with.

Who the hell am I kidding? I don’t have time for a woman. I have a business to run. My business is my life. Still, something about Annie makes it easy to want to make an exception, take the time to explore her.

Stunning and intriguing woman.

I open my laptop and click the file with the folder containing my member’s applications and find hers.

Short-term lease, traveling nurse, leaves in twelve weeks.

I lean back in my chair and run my hands through my hair as I eye the picture of her in the file used for her gym membership card and rental application.

This just may be perfect.

Chapter Two

~Annie~

From one place to the next, my charge nurse changes. This is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing: if I’m not comfortable in one place, I can move on to the other. I don’t have to take my work home with me for the long-term because, well, nothing is long-term. The curse: the charge nurses seem to demand more of the traveling nurses. They know we aren’t sticking around, so there is no real reason to build relationships. In turn, some, not all, can become pretty bitchy. Since I’m only here for as long as my contract allows, I don’t take much personally. I do my job and I go home.

Most days, this works for me. Most days, I can let go of the night that changed me forever. The time in my life that I craved human companionships and building relationships. The time when I had more than my job to focus on.

Today isn’t most days.

Today, I can’t help wallowing in my sorrows, thinking of the man I loved, who died in my arms while I worked a shift in the emergency department.

Today, I had a charge nurse who didn’t want to let any of us have a chance to breathe. It’s good because, if I can’t breathe, I also can’t think. It’s bad because now I’m off work and have nothing left to occupy my mind.

I needed to wind down from the long shift, and the only thing I could think to do was work out. Yet, tonight’s workout went so differently than I ever could have imagined.

The man I am lusting over, the one I haven’t found the courage to talk to, made his move today, and I made mine.

After a long day at work, I headed to the fitness center to work off the frustration from the high demands of my boss. That was when I saw him, the man I had dreamt of, the man whose mere image incited desire to burn inside of me, an undeniable desire. A desire so strong I laid in bed the night before and touched myself while imagining it was him.

Unable to stop myself from staring at him, I looked up from his chiseled body to see him looking at me.

I quickly looked away, hoping maybe he would do the same. But when I looked back, he was walking toward me—more like stalking toward me, like a man determined.

“Jonathon,” he said, reaching his hand out for me to shake.

When I touched his, I felt some sort of current course through my body, making me jump back as I pulled my hand away quickly.

He looked confused, shocked, and I wondered if he felt it, too. The spark, the connection, the way a simple touch of our hands caused a spark to ignited. A spark I knew I could never forget.

How could I?

When he made no mention of it, my initial instinct was to leave, to get away as fast as I could, but running was not an option. Not with how his eyes held mine captive and captivated.

“Your name?” he asked in a low, deep rumble.

“Annie … My name is Annie.”

“Annie.” His tongue rolled around my name, caressing it in the most intimate way I had ever experienced. “Annie,” he repeated, and I felt my knees tremble.

Then he walked away from me, but looked over his shoulder, while I remained under the spell of his beautiful brown eyes.

“Jonathon,” I memorize the name of the man who has me mesmerized. “Jonathon.”

I ride the elevator to my apartment on the ninth floor, wanting to shower and eat something unhealthy. Maybe I will just have ice cream for dinner. I did just work out. I ought to be allowed the calories just because I spent an hour at the gym. Plus, I deserve a reward for not running when I saw him look at me with lust and sinful intent.

When I get off the elevator, I see him again, sweat drenched and walking down the hall.

“Annie?” My name comes out as a question.

“Jonathon,” I return, feeling my face burning with embarrassment.

“You live here?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“New to the building,” I answer, trying to sound less shy and more convincing.

“I see,” he comments, eyeing me up and down. “I was just on my way out to get some coffee. I seem to have forgotten it when I was at the store earlier.”

“I have plenty. Why head out again? I can spare some coffee beans.”

“You mind if I shower first?”

“By all means, go ahead. I’m in nine twenty-four.”

“Interesting. I’m right across the hall.”

Once inside my apartment, I lean against the door, seeking the contrast of the cool metal against my heated flesh.

“Jonathon,” I say out loud, finding myself getting turned on by just the sound of his name as it slips past my lips.

I cover said lips as I imagine how he would kiss me.

His lips would be soft against mine, like a satin pillowcase. They would be wet and coveting. He would control the kiss completely, taking away the burden and pressure I would feel, wanting to deliver the most amazing kiss possible, because I would want him to need more.

I look around my little apartment. It is tidy since I don’t have much. Just a few pictures of me and … him.

I wonder for a moment if it would leave Jonathon with the impression that I am married or in a relationship. I’m not. And I haven’t been in many years. I haven’t even wanted to be in a man’s arms, not until I saw Jonathon.

I question if it’s a relationship I desire or a man to make me feel like a woman again.

Relationships are complicated. People get hurt. Men and women want two different things. We want hearts and flowers. They want sex and the physicality involved, or that is what we think, anyway.

By we, I mean women who believe that all endings can be happy, and that if they weren’t, we would live each day wishing for a different ending.

I have learned that it is not true about me. I know there is a beginning, a middle, and an end to each person’s interpersonal story. I know that life is full of those relationships, all making up chapters in my book that is life.

I decide on the latter.

Would Jonathon be another chapter?

I certainly hope so.

I finally push myself off the cold, metal door and quickly walk around, tidying up the place. I find myself placing flowers and figurines in front of the pictures, preferring not to have those awkward conversations if it can be avoided, yet I won’t hide my past. It is that who made me who I am today.

Coffee, I giggle to myself, and then think, well, it is much more convenient than asking for sugar. Or, in my case, offering it.

I pause in front of the mirror and look at myself, remembering I have also been at the gym and a shower may be a good idea for me as well.

I don’t have time to do my hair, so I simply scrub my body and swipe a razor over my legs, armpits, and between my legs. Every skin follicle seems to come alive with every sensation, every bead of water, and every touch. My need for this man only grows more as I ready myself for his arrival.

While toweling off, I feel silly. He probably isn’t interested in anything but my coffee beans.

Then I cringe at the thought of having just shaved my pubic area. If things did get steamy, would he wonder if I prepared for him? Or would he think I am a woman who is overtly sexual and have been with man after man after man?

I ponder the idea that it might be what a man like him wants—a woman who is that sexual, who thinks more like a man than a woman when it comes to her sexuality. He wouldn’t be completely wrong in that thinking.

Sex is sex.

It’s physical. It’s an exchange, a connection, a release.

I am a smart woman. I know that a man doesn’t fall in love with a woman for her body’s ability to please him. He falls in love with a woman whom he respects, and one who can stimulate him mentally as well as physically. He falls in love with a woman because he needs her in his life, not because he likes her in his bed. He falls in love with a woman because she will take a bullet for him.

When I hear a knock on the door, I quickly pull the clip out of my hair that I placed it in so it wouldn’t get wet from the shower and throw on a pair of leggings and a tee-shirt.

I open the door to find him standing there, freshly showered and smelling of man and soap.

I open the door wider and invite him in.

“Let me grab you that coffee,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears as I turn around.

In the kitchen, I reach up to the top shelf of the cupboard and pull down the bag of coffee beans, and then turn to grab a baggy to put some in for him to take.

But I can’t turn. His hands grip the counter top, caging me in.

I feel my entire body buzz at just the knowledge that he is so close and seems so … alpha.

“I’m not here for coffee, Annie.” His bravado voice is so sexy, confident, aware.

I feel my knees begin to shake slightly.

“No?”

“I think we both know why I’m here.”

“Is that so?”

“Turn around, Annie. I want those lips.”

I turn slowly and look up at him. “These ones?” I ask, licking them slowly.

He nods as he stares at my tongue, and then he wraps his massive, muscular arms around me, lifting me off my feet, and then carrying me into my bedroom, staring into my eyes the entire time, saying nothing verbally. In his eyes, though, I can read what his intentions, desires, and needs are. And I know my eyes are telling him the same story.

He lays me on the bed then leans down, his wet hair fresh from a shower hanging inches above my face as he holds his body over mine. The weight is deliciously uncomfortable as I feel the tingle building deep in my belly.

Inside, I pulse everywhere, anticipating his first move.

His lips, I hunger for them. I crave the way they tasted in my dreams. I feel starved for my own fantasies.

He leans lower, his hands holding mine hostage above my head. Avoiding my lips entirely, he kisses down my body, until he is all the way down to my navel. There, he pulls my shirt up, and that is when I remember I didn’t put on a bra after my shower. At that moment, as he pushes my shirt up with his nose, as he nibbles his way to my breast, I am forever grateful I forgot.

When his mouth takes my left nipple and he sucks on it, I feel euphoric.

“Oh, God … Yes, Jonathon.”

Lying in bed, I am basking in the afterglow of a first for me. I allow myself to embrace my sexuality. Sex, without the burden of strings or expectations.

An experience I never want to forget.

~Jonathon~

It’s been three hours since I left her with no goodbye, no promise of return, just a kiss on the end of her nose. I can still smell her on my skin, and it makes me hard all over again.

I can’t stop thinking about her. The way my name sounded falling from her lips as her tight, little pussy strangled my cock and she came so hard, so fast, I nearly lost it.

Oh, the temptress wins tonight.

I told myself that I didn’t have time for a relationship of any kind. Even friends with benefits tie you down; everyone needs something. I don’t have time for something … for anyone. Most importantly, you never fuck where you sleep. It’s a cardinal rule.

However, daydreaming of fucking a beautiful woman and watching her come for me, that breaks no rules.

I didn’t need coffee. I don’t drink the shit.

For the last couple of weeks, she has come around, always looking down the minute I look at her. When I wasn’t looking, though, I could feel her stare. I wasn’t imagining it when I looked at my reflection in the mirror at just the right moment, rewarded with her look of appraisal.

Confidence is an aphrodisiac.

Anticipation is foreplay.

The endorphins pulse during the thrill of the chase.

She’s a high I can get addicted to. She’s a new taste I now crave.

Tonight, I made my intentions clear. Her body is my playground, and I promise to make our time together one where she feels treasured, adored, and fucking fulfilled.

Chapter Three

~Annie~

He was on my mind when I fell asleep, and when I woke up this morning.

I still felt the sweet ache when I was preparing for work.

When I dressed, I wasn’t thinking. I put on a sexy matching lace panty and bra set and then scrubs. I know I should change, but there is nothing wrong with allowing myself to feel sexy at work, and no one would be the wiser.

My secret.

Standing at the elevator, waiting for it to reach my floor, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand. I feel his presence as I walk through the open door.

I want him so badly I am afraid if I look up, he will see it in my eyes. Therefore, I keep my eyes focused on the floor.

Each floor we descend, the more people get onto the elevator, the closer he gets to me.

“Good morning, Jonathon,” each person says. The men give a friendly nod, the older women hold a sweetness in their voice, and the younger women are overtly sexual.

He responds, “Good morning,” to each in the same even tone.

I am fully aware that he is getting closer and closer. My body is aware, too. I hope he doesn’t notice that my nipples are painfully erect. I already have to deal with the ache between my legs that becomes harder and harder to ignore the closer he gets.

I can’t even look at him. I’m a grown woman and he’s making me feel like a lovestruck teenager. But I know it’s lust, not love, and I am nowhere near a teenager.

I become more and more turned on as he inches closer. Then the door opens, and he whispers in my ear as we wait to exit, “Dinner, your place tonight, Annie.”

It’s not a loud demand, but a command with its own secret demand—his body to mine—and mine demands to agree.

I nod, confirming before I walk out the elevator door.

***

The day is busier than it has been since I began working at Detroit General Hospital Emergency Room. For that, I am thankful.

~Jonathon~

When Annie leaves the elevator, I wait in the lobby and watch as she walks out the door, realizing there is no damn way I can go to work in my present state.

Hard.

Therefore, I take the stairs back up to the ninth floor, hoping that it will do something to calm me.

It doesn’t.

I walk into my apartment and look around. Even it reminds me of her since all of the apartments are the same. Most are temporary homes; few people stay here. If I didn’t own the place, if I had the luxury of starting over, I sure as fuck wouldn’t live here. But I will be damned if I leave. These people depend on me. I keep rent low and the place is the most secure in the area.

I tried once to change up the scenery. I painted and bought new furniture. I work hard, so I deserve a few luxuries.

My walls are gray, curtains black, and there is sparse furniture. I don’t have company, so there is no need for an exuberant amount of stuff. My living room holds a black leather sofa that has never been sat on, a recliner, and a television that takes up the entire wall and would be the envy of every man in America. Years ago, I would spend Sundays watching football. Now, I don’t bother.

The pictures on my walls are of the people I love. They … live too far away, and I miss them. But today I miss them a little less, knowing it’s because I am having Annie for dinner.

I laugh at myself, realizing I thought of her as dinner and not dinner with her. I’m also relieved, because attachment is not a luxury I can afford. Too many people depend on me. This place is my focus.

The only fucking reason I am allowing my desire to win over reason is because I know she’s leaving. And she agreed, because her lust for me is as deep as mine for her. It’s a win-win.

Comfort level aside, I will grab a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. I know what women like. I don’t want her to think I don’t, or that she’s not worth the gesture. She showed me last night she certainly is, and demanded nothing in return.

***

She opens the door wearing a black dress, with just a thin belt tied around the waist. I picture how easily it would come off, knowing that is her intention.

“Good evening, Annie.” I smile, and she returns the sentiment.

She steps back and turns around. “Dinner is already on the table.”

We eat the spaghetti and meat sauce she prepared, my first homemade meal in months. We speak few words; our eyes and body language communicating a lot more than words.

After dinner, she gets up and walks to the couch.

“Dinner was absolutely amazing. Shall I clear the table?” I ask as I stand and set my napkin on my empty plate.

I’m sure it was good, but I was so fucking distracted by watching her eat—sucking, chewing, licking her lips, that I really don’t remember. And taste, all I could do was think about tasting her while I should have been eating our meal.

“No, come sit.”

I sit on her brown couch and look up at her where she is still standing.

“Have a seat, Annie.” I pat my lap.

She straddles me, just like I want, and I untie her belt, just like I knew she wanted. I let it fall open and groan as I look at her perfect handful of what is the beginning of my dessert.

“You’re a stunning woman.”

Something changes inside me the moment she smiles and blushes at my words.

The heaviness of my life lifts away. As I inhale her scent, I feel like I can breathe with Annie. I don’t know the last time I felt this way.

Chapter Four

~Annie~

My eyes flutter open as my alarm goes off, reminding me it’s time to get up and face reality.

With my body deliciously sore and the knowledge that I have three taps of the snooze button before I have to actually get up and get ready without being late, I hit it, roll over, close my eyes, and replay last night in my head.

After Jonathon and I ate dinner, we made love.

It was the type of love you make and know that you are forever changed.

He watched my every reaction, his rough hands caressed my body as his impressive length impaled me. Only, it wasn’t like I was being impaled, fucked, used, simply seeking a release. It was a lifelong connection. One a person seeks, needs, desires their entire life.

From childhood, it’s family. When you’re school age, it’s your very best friend. As young adults, it’s that first crush or, as we call it, first love.

It’s the type of connection that is revered, cherished, sought after and found throughout so many steps in one’s span of a lifetime, yet too quickly becomes a part of a past we look fondly on in times of reflection or times like this when one is surrounded by something more beautiful than they ever dared dream could be part of their reality.

The fairy tale, the connection, the fall, the acceptance, that only in books comes so easily. It’s not fiction, not now as I feel his breath against my skin and smell his manly earthy scent.

The moment we came together for the first time, I felt the presence of all those I have loved, and have loved me all meld into one. In his arms, I felt invincible, whole, treasured, and safer than I have my entire life.

He fell asleep, his arms wrapped around me tightly, and I wanted nothing more than that. But the ache of knowing it will come to an end when I leave to go back to California courses through me. The thought of that moment becoming a memory was unfathomable.

I took a deep breath of what was real and beside me, him. Then I exhaled the painful thought of what was near.

In my heart of hearts, I live with not a single doubt that this man, this strong beautiful, man, will be one of those memories I will cherish until age has erased my memory or time has ended.

I believe it. I believe Jonathon has marked me on the deepest level, and I will carry him with me forever. I do need to be honest, though, and tell him I’m leaving soon. It’s not fair to him to think we are building something when my time here will come to an end and I will have to leave.

~Jonathon~

“Have dinner with me tonight,” I say, attempting to hide my feelings from her. After all, I’m not supposed to have them.

Fuck what am I doing?

On her nod, we head out to the small sushi bar across the road. I would have taken her anywhere, but anywhere would mean wasting time in a car, which means less time in bed.

Annie tells me she is leaving in a few weeks. I don’t tell her I already know this. It isn’t because I am hiding anything; it simply feels like it is a distant memory or a story, and not the reality of how easy and right things are with us.

I am disappointed, but a woman like her shouldn’t be stuck in this shithole for any lengthy amount of time. I don’t even want to be here, but I have responsibilities, a business to run.

She tells me about her work, and then she starts asking me about the women in my past. I’m not about to give away my whole life story, but she sure as fuck holds nothing back. And now there are four men in the world who I want tear apart with my bare hands. However, I hold the jealousy inside at bay.

Then she tells me about her husband and how he died in her arms, that she barely recognized him when he was brought into the emergency room where she worked. The paramedics had cut his clothing off, and his body was swollen and bloody.

As they began to cut off his wedding ring, she realized it was him.

She holds it together while telling me her story, almost like it’s rehearsed. I assume dealing with tragedy everyday would harden you a bit. The only sign she’s not stone is the grip she has on my hand, like she’s afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she says when she realizes. “Did I hurt you?”

I don’t release her hand. I hold it, and she stares down at it for several minutes, smiling sadly.

When we walk back to the apartment building, she tells me she has to go in to work early. I know that may be true, but I also know that after what she has just shared, she needs to allow her emotions to take hold of her, to let herself feel them. It has clearly been a long time since she released any of this or faced it. I know how that can affect a person. I want to comfort her, yet not push.

When we step out of the elevator, I turn her to look at me. “I know you need to be alone, but you’re not alone. So, when you are in need of a friendly face, I’m here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my spare key. “While you’re here, Annie, you come to me with whatever you need, anything.”

She stares down at the key. “I’m leaving in—”

“I know, but while you’re here, anything, Annie, anything.”

***

I wake up to find her standing over my bed, her eyes telling two stories, one of sadness and one of desire.

As I sit up, I notice what she’s wearing. A bathrobe, and nothing else.

She needs me.

Her tits are right there within arm’s reach, and suddenly, I want to taste them.

I sit up and push the robe from her left shoulder, then the right. Her nipples are hard little nubs, and my mouth aches to suck on them, tug on them, taste them. Nothing has ever tasted better.

I throw the blanket off me then pull her down so she is lying on top of me.

I have to give her lips a taste first. God, how I love them. Then I am all about those tits. Perfect fucking tits.

The noises she makes has my balls tighten to a point that is almost painful. But I don’t give a damn. I suck on her nipples. I suck on one, then the other, until they are more red than before, harder than before, and slick with my saliva.

I reach under her arms and pull her up, kissing every inch of her while I position her to straddle me. Then I look at her pussy. It’s swollen, damp, and I can smell her.

Ignoring my cock’s needs, I pull her up until my face is inches from her cunt. I inhale then look up at her.

“Sit on me,” I order, and she follows. I want to eat her pussy until my face is coated with her.

And I do.

And it is.

Then I fuck her. I fuck her hard, fast, and then slow because I don’t want to come yet. It feels too good inside of her.

I fuck her missionary. I fuck her from behind. I fuck her until I don’t think either of us will walk straight tomorrow, and I hope I’m right.

Her pussy is hot, wet, and tight around my cock, so I fuck her more.

When I can’t take it anymore, I pull out and throw off the condom. She strokes my cock until we both watch my come shoot out onto her flat, little belly.

When we are done, she wants to stay, and I sure as fuck don’t want her to go.

“I’ve never been with anyone like you,” she whispers into the darkness. “Never felt so … good. I’ll never forget you, Jonathon.”

I pull her against me as tightly as I can, promising myself that there is no way in hell I will allow her to forget me. I’m going to fuck her everywhere. When she looks at a brick, she will know I fucked her against a brick wall. When she sees a sink, she will think of me and when I fucked her leaning over one. When she’s in the shower, she will remember fucking me. I will fuck her in a house, on a car, in the water, on the grass, and if I can fuck her in the sky, I sure as fuck would, so when she looked up, she remembered how good my dick felt inside her pussy. She will remember every goddamn way I made her feel.

Chapter Five

~Annie~

My lease is almost done. But Jonathon and I seem to be far from over.

Every night, I fall asleep in his arms, feeling safe and sated, the pull between us continuing to grow stronger.

This whirlwind we built was on a foundation of lust. But each moment together, it changes. I see Jonathon, and my pulse quickens. My skin tingles, and I feel alive like I never have before. In this time we have had together, everything I have so carefully protected feels so exposed.

Sex is just sex. A mutual release … until it’s something more.

Jonathon and I haven’t discussed the future. I don’t think we should. I want to be here in the moment with him. As hard as goodbye will be, I want to enjoy every second.

I lick my lips, thinking about seeing him again. It’s mid-day. I’m working a night shift tonight. I’m going to miss him terribly.

Bravely, I do something I have never done before. Picking up my phone, I text him to stop by for a lunchtime snack.

I have never been this bold with any man before, but Jonathon does things to me. Just thinking about it has me burning inside with a fire, and my panties soak in my desire.

He doesn’t reply, and I try to push down my body’s needs and remember he is a busy man. Only recently did I discover that he isn’t just a tenant here. He owns the place, which answers the unasked question I had in the elevator about how they all knew his name.

Ten minutes pass, and with each passing moment, I begin stripping more of my clothes. I have now stripped myself down to a simple pair of lace pink panties and bra, needing a release in order to function tonight. It’s the ridiculous truth, but my body is used to our evenings now.

The feel of fabric against my pert nipples is too much as my cravings only grow stronger.

Going to the fridge, I pull an ice cube from its tray. Putting the cube in my mouth, I allow it to start the melting process before I take it out and trace my lips with it. Then I trail the frozen cube along my neck, my whole body shivering from the touch. Sliding the melting piece down, I then trace my collarbone before I circle it around my nipple ever so slowly, around and around, starting at the edge and working my way closer and closer to the tip.

Two fingers guide the cube down the center of my belly with a slight dip into my belly button, making my stomach tense then relax as I continue down and inside my panties, where the liquid pools into the fabric as I slide it between my pussy lips.

My doorbell rings just as I moan at the sensation.

Rushing over, I leave the melting cube in my panties and open the door only slightly to stick my head out. Much to my surprise, Jonathon stands at my door.

I open it wider, and he smiles his appraisal at my almost naked state. He doesn’t speak; he just steps inside, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me to him. His tongue invades my mouth while he shuts my door behind him.

He roams my body with his hands as I pull at his shirt, trying to get skin to skin with him. We break apart for him to strip, and when we make it to the living room, he turns me around and bends me over my couch.

“I’m here for my snack,” he growls as he drops to his knees behind me, pulling my panties down and off and finding the remnants of the ice cube. “Got too hot, did you, Annie?” he asks as he slides two fingers deeply inside me. “I’m about to set you on fire.”

That’s my only warning before his hot mouth hits my pussy in wild abandon as his tongue teases my opening and slides over my clit. Then he drops his fingers, moving his head to directly under me.

He eats me like a man starved and savoring his last meal as he massages my inner thighs. The sensations overwhelm me. I swear the couch is the only thing holding me up as orgasm after orgasm rips through me.

My body trembles when he moves away, giving me a small break before he slides his cock to the hilt.

“Jonathon!” I cry as he slides out and thrusts back in.

My body is weak as he sets the pace. Every time I think I can’t take more, he slides out and rolls back in at a different angle, making my body come alive again.

I moan, scream, squeal, and quake in ecstasy before he stills inside me, and then I’m hot from his come filling me.

He pulls out and guides me to stand. I feel it trickle down my leg, but I don’t have the energy to move and try to clean it up right this second.

Jonathon smiles. “That look of satisfaction in your eyes, Annie, that’s my heaven.”

“Mmmm,” I manage to purr.

“Gotta get back to work.”

And just like that, he is gone, leaving me smiling.

~Jonathon~

Her pussy is fucking gold. Her heart is, too. How the fuck did this happen? How did I get so attached in such a short amount of fucking time? I wonder these things as the elevator door opens and I walk out into the lobby to head toward the gym.

I see Nina at the security desk as I quickly make my way out the door. I love the old lady, but I already blew off my time at the gym to see Annie. Nina would talk my ear off, and then I would miss the whole damn day.

I walk in and head right to my office.

***

Four hours later, there’s a knock on my office door, and it immediately opens.

“Jonathon, sorry to just barge in here.”

“Beth, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Nina, she’s on her way to the hospital.”

I stand up and grab my keys and coat.

“They think she may have had a heart attack.”

“Beth, lock—”

“Go. We got it,” she says, following me toward the door.

***

I pace back and forth in the waiting room. Every time I go to the desk and ask to see her, I get told the doctor will be out to speak to me soon.

“How fucking soon?” I snap when I have had enough.

Chapter Six

~Annie~

“Nina,” I say quietly to my newest patient.

She tries to speak, but nothing she says makes sense. Her words are slurred, her left cheek drooping, and she looks confused.

“Can you squeeze my hand?” I ask, taking her frail left hand in mine.

Her grip is loose.

“How about this one?” I ask, taking her right.

She squeezes tightly.

“Very good,” I tell her then turn to step out and tell the doctor I think she is suffering from a stroke, but she doesn’t let go.

“Nina, I need you to let go.” I smile kindly at her, and she attempts to smile back. “I need to go get the doctor so she can diagnose you and we can get you feeling better.”

Her grip doesn’t loosen, and she again says something that I don’t understand.

Dr. Quiggly walks in, and I again try to let go of Nina’s hand, but she won’t let me. Honestly, if she needs me this much, I certainly don’t want to let go.

So, I don’t.

“I think she may have had a minor stroke,” I whisper as she moves closer to Nina.

She looks down at her tablet with Nina’s information. “The paramedics thought heart.”

I shrug, and she nods.

I’m not a doctor, or a paramedic, but I am a damn good nurse, and I know that Dr. Quiggly knows it, too.

“All right, Nina, let’s get you feeling better.” She smiles at her then looks at our hands and winks at me. “She can stay.”

So, I do.

After an hour, Nina has been treated for a minor stroke. Her speech, although slow, has started to become easier to understand.

“Anyone I can call?” I ask, sitting on the stretcher next to her.

“My boy, Jonny.” She tries to smile.

“Husband?” I ask because of the twinkle I see in her cloudy gray eyes.

“My grandbaby’s,” she whispers. “She’s in heaven. Thought I’d see her today.”

“Well, today is not your day,” I say, picking up the plastic cup with the bendy straw.

“September 11th,” she says after taking a sip of water and clearing her throat. “We lost her and her boy, my great-grandbaby, that day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ve been ready to see her again, but she wants me here.”

“Because she loves you,” I tell her, holding the cup up to her mouth.

“She loves Jonny. We worry about him.”

“I’m sure he worries about you, too.”

“Moved here from New York City to take care of me. Was a cop.”

She is clearly proud of her son, or son-in-law.

“That’s an admirable job.”

“He couldn’t save them, so he came here. Saved me from eviction by buying up the place. Told him not to, but he said that’s what she would have wanted. Used her life insurance money.”

“That’s wonderful of him. I bet he’s worried. If you let go of my hand, I can try to contact him.”

Minutes later, I walk out to the nurses’ station to grab her information so I can make a call. Every phone is in use, so I head to reception. The sooner I contact Jonny, the sooner I can get back to Nina.

When I walk through the door, I hear a man sneer, “How fucking soon?”

I look up and see Jonathon.

“Sir, we’re doing the best we can.”

“Annie,” he interrupts Sharon. “You wanna help me out?”

“Of course,” I say, quickening my steps to him.

“He’s looking for a woman name Nina.” Sharon rolls her eyes.

I hit the button under the desk to open the automatic doors just as realization strikes.

He’s Jonny.

~Jonathon~

When Annie rushes toward me, I look at her eyes. It calms me.

“Nina is gonna be okay, Jonathon,” she says, and relief washes over me.

Nina is my late wife’s grandmother, and the only piece of her I have left. She is the reason I’m in Detroit. Well, partially. I wasn’t about to let her lose her place, and well, I needed a fresh start.

“Thank fuck. She’s all I have,” I admit as the emotions become too much.

“You told me I wasn’t alone, and I’m telling you, Jonathon, that you’re not alone, either. She’s not all you have. You have me.”

Reaching out, I grip her hips, pulling her to me and crashing my lips to her.

“I’m falling in love with you, Jonathon,” Annie says on a pant with so much emotion in her eyes.

“And I you, Annie.”

She smiles at me. “Breathe. We can breathe again. So can Nina.”

I smile back. “Yes, we can breathe again.”

After a quick kiss I close my eyes and ask a question I am almost afraid to. “Don’t leave. Stay. Work here longer. Let us see where this goes.”

I open my eyes and look at her.

She is smiling, and beautiful as she nods and says, “Yes.”

The End

If You Like This Short

If you liked this story, then find the inspiration behind it in Use Me (Caldwell Brothers 4), where Tatum Longley spends her time in Detroit, finding a muse and writing about Annie and Jonathon. Use Me, although part of a series, is a complete standalone story.

Use Me Excerpt

Use Me

(Caldwell Brothers 4)

New York Times Bestselling author, Tatum Longley, is being forced out of her comfort zone. Her publisher needs her to change from hard-hitting nonfiction to romance.

But first, she must find a muse.

Angelo has no desire to form relationships, when a very persistent Tatum makes him an offer that nearly knocks this six-foot-five, long-haired, tattooed, dangerous-looking man on his ass.

Will he be able to resist the temptation? Or will he allow her to use him?

*** This is a full-length, standalone romance. Although a spinoff book from the Caldwell Brothers Series, it is not necessary to read any other books before this one, though it is recommended. ***

Chapter One

Legacy Gym

Present day

I look around the gym. The walls are black and mirrored, the floor is black cement covered in red mats. The back wall, where all our daily equipment is stored, is covered floor to ceiling in black lockers. Hand wraps, gloves, medicine balls, headgear, nut cups, first-aid equipment, and clothing that have our logo on them.

Our logo. I am a part of something. There was a time in the not so distant past when I wasn’t sure I would ever be anything. There are still days I couldn’t give a shit less if I do.

To the left are sparring mats and a few pieces of cardio equipment. To the right are free weights, a few high-end weight training machines, five heavy bags, seven speed bags, and five timing bags. In the middle is where I prefer to spend my time and energy. The cage.

I look at the large clock hanging above the doorway to our office. Nine-thirty at night. That means I have been here for thirteen and a half hours.

Eight hours would send a normal man my age running home to his family, to a hot meal, or to a bar where he could have a drink and relax with his friends. I am not a normal man.

Normal men don’t have blood on their hands, and if they do, they have it with remorse in their hearts, or the blood came from fighting a greater cause. The blood on my hands came from an anger that took control, from the rage within me, a rage that still controls me.

“Put one foot in front of the other. Stand tall and proud. Make the decision that you are both of those things and never let them think any differently. You are a good man, a good kid. Your past doesn’t define you; your present and future do.” Shaw, my father’s oldest and closest friend, words ring inside my head as I look at the picture of him, Jagger, and I hanging on the wall, illuminated by bright white up-lighting.

If only putting one foot in front of the other wasn’t so hard. The weight of the world is heavy on my neck, making holding my head high almost impossible.

Shaw believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Now Shaw is gone.

After killing the lights and locking the doors, I let out a breath and walk toward the door in the back left-hand corner of the gym that leads to my apartment upstairs.

I stand in the apartment above Legacy, a gym that Jagger Caldwell and I inherited. A gym that trains people like me. It was willed to us when Shaw’s fight with cancer ended.

I suppose he did it to make sure his promise to his best friend, my father, was kept. He made sure I had something, an income, a place to live—a piece of something tangible while I served out my parole sentence for a crime I committed eight years ago.

Honestly, it feels more like a curse, a cage, a confined space, than a new beginning.

My body aches. It’s bruised and sore, all feelings I not only accept, but embrace. The harder I push myself, the more men I get in the cage with to train, the more hits I take, the closer I get to controlling the fury that simmers just beneath a boiling point inside my soul.

I walk to the bathroom and stand in front of the distressed mirror above the small sink that is rust-stained from the constant drip of a faucet that I keep telling myself I will fix, but I have no intention or desire to do so.

I strip off my sweat-drenched clothes and turn toward the shower to start the water. It takes a good five minutes for it to heat enough for my liking, and while I wait, I brush my teeth and open the cabinet.

I stare at the last bottle of pain meds prescribed to Shaw. I pocketed them after he died when the rage became worse. It is a battle of wills to tame the beast inside me. Waking up and looking in the mirror, knowing what I did and why I did it.

I twist off the childproof cap and count as I dump the pills out into my hand. Twelve. I have twelve nights left to sleep, and then the nightmares will ensue. I make a mental note to space the pills out to every third day. I can do without sleep for that long, no more.

I let them fall one by one back into the bottle, except one, as I feel my exhausted body become tense again. Anxiety is starting to creep in, so I take the last pill in my hand, toss it in my mouth, and swallow it down.

Before the pill’s effects kick in, I get in the small shower and bend so the water falls over my head instead of hitting the middle of my shoulders. When the water starts to run cold and I feel a bit drowsy, I step out, towel my hair lightly, and then drop it to the floor, allowing my body to air dry. Then I look up at my reflection and see a man who looks much older than his twenty-five years.

My eyes, once bright green and alive, are now dead and unreflective of feeling. My hair, once cut close to my scalp by my father’s own hand, is now well past my shoulders and a mess of brown waves. It’s only down after a shower or bedtime; otherwise, it is always tied up in a knot on the back of my head. I don’t have any damn desire to go to the barber. That would mean I would have to talk to someone. I’m functioning just fine here without making those types of connections, and there is no appeal in changing that up.

I run my hand over my beard. It’s been three days since I last groomed. I shave every fourth or fifth day, but never down to the skin.

I am six-foot, five-inches of intimidation. I weigh in at two hundred and forty-eight pounds of muscle, and my skin is covered in black prison ink. I have no desire for anyone to look at me and become confused as to who I am. No desire to have someone look at me and want to know more about me, or who I was. I have no desire for anything but the occasional release I can get anywhere. All I have to do is force a smile and say a word or two in order to get that need met.

My appearance is intimidating. It keeps people away. I’m not trying to give off the illusion that I’m unapproachable. Illusion would imply it wasn’t real.

It is real.

I am Michelangelo Mazzini. I was once called a saint by my peers, my teachers, and anyone who knew me.

Not anymore.

Now I am known as Kid.

I lay on the king-sized mattress that sits in the middle of the floor and stare at the ceiling, waiting, waiting, waiting for sleep to take me. The numbness that is my life isn’t holding me back. Rather, it’s my mind that won’t turn off, waiting for the next move.

I try not to close my eyes on my own. I wait for exhaustion and the drugs to do the work for me. Otherwise, I will be fighting a losing battle.

Chapter Two

Tatum

“Tatum, this is not what’s selling anymore. We need something …” Melanie pauses as she sighs.

Melanie and I have been friends since I sat next to her in a Shakespearian literature class we both enrolled in as an elective while attending Columbia for our Masters’ programs. Hers was in the classics; mine was in religion and journalism.

She loved fiction, a story you could get lost in, and I loved nonfiction, a story that didn’t allow you to run from your boring life, but showed you a life that you could get lost in and know it was real. Fairy tales were never meant to be believed in. They are stories written to scare children into behaving or else, so why waste time on them? Show them how to cope, what to avoid, and maybe a story that inspires them to do the right thing of their own accord.

She is the yin to my yang, the spring to my fall, the day to my night. The point is, she’s the lost-in-her-head kind of daydreaming chick, whereas I am the one who wants to get lost in reality to avoid getting lost in my head, and worse yet, believing that shit is even possible.

I am sure she has no other writers like me on staff. I am sure of this because one night, over drinks at Hotel Empire, she told me so. She told me in the sweetest way she could that I was my own worst enemy. That I had talent in abundance and was just too stubborn for my own good, and that if I were anyone other than “the Tatum” that played her Romeo a couple years ago, gaining us both an A in that godforsaken class, she would have walked away a long time ago.

We are opposites in our views on life, but who we are on the inside isn’t much different from the other. Both of us left our hometowns, knowing we were destined for greater things. And unlike most, we are willing to work our asses off to become. It landed us both in New York City, a city where we knew no one and no one knew us. A city that I swear wants to eat up young girls’ dreams and spit them back in your face.

Nothing about here is easy. What it is, though, is real. It’s gritty, it’s hard, and it’s all-consuming. If you can live here, you can live anywhere. Mark my words.

I know she could walk away at any moment, but Melanie would never. Even if she should run and not look back, that’s not who she is. It’s not who we are together.

We are forever friends, through thick and thin. The type of friends who you could talk to once every six months and pick up right where you left off. Though, in reality, we may go weeks without speaking due to work, but we have never gone more than a month at the most. She is my soul sister, and I am hers.

A few years ago, Melanie took an internship at a mid-sized literary agency, and I took off to write a story that would rock the world. I gave her, A View from Home, a novel about the foster care system in our country, and she went over the head of the man she worked for who said, “It wasn’t good enough” and emailed it to a company contact at Random House Publishing, where they not only bought the book, but hired her that day.

She became a junior editor at Random House, and I became a novelist. She became a senior editor when my first book put me on the New York Times Bestseller list. The subsequent three novels hit the list as well. Acclaimed awards, Wall Street Journal, and we were both riding a high of dreams coming true.

I can hear as she taps her long fingernails on her glass top desk, and then I hear the bell go off inside her head.

“Raw.”

“I’m giving you raw. I’m giving you real. I am giving you what people go through every day,” I tell her, trying to keep my annoyance at bay. After all, she is trying to help me.

“The market has shifted, Tatum. What’s selling is not this.”

I hear a thud and am certain it’s the manuscript I sent her. She prefers e-mail; I don’t.

“Then I’ll self-publish,” I threaten, and she audibly hisses into the phone, saying nothing.

This is new territory for us both. I love Melanie. I love working with her. Unlike the horror stories I hear about publishers washing out an author’s voice in edits, she doesn’t do that to my work.

“You still there?” I ask.

“I am,” she says firmly then pauses. I hear a door shut, then her heels click across the floor before she sighs out, “Please, Tatum. Please give me something that will blow the roof off this place. I know you have it in you. I know you do. Just let it happen.”

“Do you need this, Melanie?” I ask, wondering why she suddenly wants to mold my work into a completely different realm than I have ever written.

“Yes. Yes, I do. We both do.”

I sigh, feeling the weight of her world and my own landing firmly on my shoulders. “Okay, give me two months.”

“One,” she says, her edge returning.

“You have to push, don’t you?” I half-laugh.

“You taught me how,” she returns with a smile in her voice.

“Talk later.” I start to end the call.

“Wait! It has to be hot, Tatum. I need your voice, but bring the damn heat.”

“Melanie …”

“You’re gonna need to put yourself out there.”

“Meaning?” I have no idea why I ask when I know damn well what she is getting at.

“When’s the last time you actually got your peach plucked?”

“That’s none of your business,” I say with no intention of answering her, especially when she uses words like “peach plucked.” That’s up there with “moist” in words I would rather not use or hear reference to in sexual situations.

“You need to go find yourself a sexy, suit-wearing mogul,” she suggests.

“I’m in Detroit, Mel.” I sigh. “Remember, I was going to show the times in Motor City. A whole look back and look forward.”

I hear her nails tapping her keyboard. I know damn well she’s googling where to find the perfect place for inspiration.

“Get your ass to Texas.”

“I’m here for a month.” I stand with my phone in my hand, looking out the hotel window at what I know from pictures was once a beautiful city.

The river is mucky, the boats decrepit, and the cracked sidewalks once were beautiful. Detroit was something a long time ago.

“Right,” she sighs. “You can’t change your plans for the eye candy and your best friend?”

I laugh. “Melanie, this is all set up. Money spent, timelines sorted. I’m willing to think outside the box and shift my focus, but I can’t uproot my plans and still feel like I’m not insane.”

“Okay, okay,” she concedes.

“Goodnight, Melanie.”

“Goodnight, Tatum,” she says with a softness in her tone that is without a doubt caused by the stress I just alleviated.

Hers is gone, and mine has returned. Yin and yang. Night and day. We are never on the same page, but the balance is and always has been there.

I sit down on the chair next to the small table by the window, grab the glass of sweet red wine I had just poured, and take a drink. It’s sweet, crisp and, God willing, it will help me sleep tonight.

I drink the entire glass, and then pour another before reaching across the table to grab the manila folder and drag it closer to me. I look through the pictures from the 1950s: the new buildings, the finely-dressed people on the streets, the cars. The streets were full of them, all shiny and new. Detroit used to be spectacular. I know it was; the proof is in the pictures. But it is not anymore.

All that glitters does not always remain gold.

All that once was beautiful doesn’t remain so.

All that was lost will not necessarily be found.

Time does not stand still.

I stand up and stretch my neck as I walk over and grab my laptop, carrying it back to the table and opening it up. Then I click on the new document and title it: Mommy Porn.

“To new beginnings,” I toast the air then take a sip.

There is a saying in the writing industry: “write drunk and edit sober.” I guess I will give it a try tonight.

Sweet Jesus, am I really going to do this?

For Melanie, I will.

Read the rest…

Get Use Me

About MJ Fields

USA Today bestselling author MJ Fields write books that scorch pages and melt hearts. Her style is raw, gritty and authentic. Love an alpha and a strong heroine? She does too.

Join MJ’s mailing list ➜ http://bit.ly/MJFNews

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On Book Bub ➜ http://bit.ly/MJBookBub

Readers Group ➜ http://bit.ly/MJReaders

Other Books

The Men of Steel Series

Forever Steel

Jase

Jase and Carly

Cyrus

Zandor

Xavier

Forever Family

Family

Momma Joe

The Ties of Steel Series

Abe

Dominic

Eroe

Sabato

The Rockers of Steel Series

Memphis Black (Memphis and Tallia)

Finn Beckett (Finn and Sonia)

River James (River and Kianna)

Billy Jeffers (Billy and Madison)

LRAH Legacy Series (These families’ stories are intertwined starting with The Love series, they move to the Wrapped Series, the Burning Souls series, and end in Love You Anyways.

Many more series will spin off from these characters already written and each will be a standalone series but for those of us who love a story to continue I recommend reading in this order.

The Love Series

(Must Be Read In This Order)

Blue Love

New Love

Sad Love

True Love

The Wrapped Series

Wrapped In Silk

Wrapped In Armor

Wrapped In Always and Forever

Burning Souls Series

Stained

Forged

Merged

LRAH Legacy Additions

Love You Anyway

Love Notes

The Truth About Love Series

27 Truths (Ava’s Story)

27 Lies (Luke’s Story)

The Norfolk Series

Irons (Jaxson and Frankie, book 1)

Shadows (Shadows and Mary, book 2)

Titan (Coming 2017)

UnSocial Daters Club: Matched Duet

Match This!

ImPerfectly Matched!

Published with Loveswept/Penguin Random House

The Caldwell Brothers Series

(co-written w/ Chelsea Camaron)

Hendrix

Morrison

Jagger

Standalones

Visibly Broken

(co-written w/ Chelsea Camaron)

Offensive Rebound

About Chelsea Camaron

USA Today bestselling author Chelsea Camaron is a small town Carolina girl with a big imagination. She’s a wife and mom, chasing her dreams. She writes contemporary romance, erotic suspense, and psychological thrillers. She loves to write about blue-collar men who have real problems with a fictional twist. From mechanics to bikers to oil riggers to smokejumpers, bar owners, and beyond she loves a strong hero who works hard and plays harder.

Chelsea can be found on social media at

Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorchelseacamaron

Twitter: @chelseacamaron

Instagram: @chelseacamaron

Website: www.authorchelseacamaron.com

Email chelseacamaron@gmail.com

Other works by Chelsea Camaron

Love and Repair Series:

Crash and Burn

Restore My Heart

Salvaged

Full Throttle

Beyond Repair

Stalled

Box Set Available

Hellions Ride Series:

One Ride

Forever Ride

Merciless Ride

Eternal Ride

Innocent Ride

Simple Ride

Heated Ride

Ride with Me (Hellions MC and Ravage MC Duel with Ryan Michele)

Originals Ride

Final Ride

Roughneck Series:

Maverick

Heath

Lance

Box Set Available

Stand Alone Thriller – Stay

Stand Alone Short Romance – Serving My Soldier

Mother Trucker

Devil’s Due MC Series:

Crossover

In The Red

Below The Line

Close The Tab

The following series are co-written

The Fire Inside Series:

(co-written by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt)

Kale

Regulators MC Series:

(co-written by Jessie Lane)

Ice

Hammer

Coal

Summer of Sin Series

Original Sin (co-written with Ripp Baker, Daryl Banner, Angelica Chase, MJ Fields, MX King)

Caldwell Brothers Series

(co-written by USA Today Bestselling Author MJ Fields)

Hendrix

Morrison

Jagger

Stand Alone Romance – (co-written with MJ Fields)

Visibly Broken

Use Me

Ruthless Rebels MC Series – (co-written with Ryan Michele)

Shamed

Scorned

Scarred

Schooled