I'd like to say a HUGE thank you to everyone on Goodreads and Facebook for taking an interest in Rocked Under, my very first novel, and making me feel welcome at the same time. I'm truly gobsmacked at the amount of attention it's already recieved and I hope it doesn't disappoint! :-s
I've been getting a lot of messages about when Rocked Under will be released, and it IS going to be available on kindle THIS month. I'm just polishing it up at the moment to make it the best it can be before I push that Publish Now button.
So, here's a teaser from Rocked Under as a way of saying thank you for your patience.
His thumb started to stroke slow circles in the sensitive part between my thumb and forefinger sending fire shooting down to my belly and I hated it. I didn't want to feel this at all.
“What do you want?” He opened the fridge door wide so I could peek inside.
What I wanted was my hand back. Honestly, I could walk on my own without his helping hand. After all, I was all of nineteen years old — a big girl. Why did he think he had a right to get in my personal bubble? I barely knew him.
“I’ll have a beer, please.” I tried pulling my hand away gently but when he didn’t get the subtle hint, I asked, “Can I have my hand back?”
"Does my touch bother you, babe?" His gaze pierced mine.
Hell, yes! "No," I said too fast. My face heated and my stomach flipped.
He frowned and looked at me with his head to the side. I wanted to look away so much but I refused to back down. My face got hotter as his eyes burned into me and then, after what seemed like minutes, he released my hand.
“I’m holding your hand ‘cos I like it. I'm not flirting." then his lips twisted, "You're not my type." He shrugged and turned back to the fridge.
Not his type? Why did that infuriate me? By the sounds of what I had heard, he went for girls that laid down for him on the first night. Damn right I wasn't his bloody type. I was far from a slag.
“You're right, I’m not your type. I’m not a slut.” I raised my chin defiantly.
He turned abruptly, his brows pulling together as he studied me. “What the fuck is with you?”
“Nothing, I just don’t want you to take my hand all the time. I’m not a doll.” I huffed and crossed my arms as I looked away from his intent stare.
“I’m a touchy person,” he shrugged, “stop overanalysing.”
“I’m not overanalysing anything. I don’t see you ever holding Ashley’s hand — or Meg's.” I pointed out.
“Why you being sensitive?”
“I’m not, I barely know you and you keep invading my bloody bubble.”
“Bubble?” he chuckled. "Do all Brits have brooms shoved up their asses, or is it just you?"
I gasped and my jaw went slack. How dare he? “Wow, your ego is really something, but no, we don't have brooms shoved in our anything." I gave him the best evil-eye I could. "I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me because of the other night. I don’t want you to think that I'm interested in you or anything, because I'm not.”
His expression sobered as I spoke.
“Really? Not interested?” He moved towards me slowly, like a panther tracking its prey, its eye on its goal. I edged back with every step he took until my lower back came up against a counter that was in the centre of the kitchen. His hands went either side of me as his head lowered to mine. I could smell the booze emanating off him but there was a scent that I remembered from the other night that mingled in with the alcohol and it was far from unpleasant.
My heart sped up and wanted out of my chest as his head came even closer. He stroked his cheek against mine and I froze as his stubble scraped my skin sending unwanted tingles all over me. One of his hands came up and fingered the dip at the bottom of my neck where my collarbones met. I could feel my pulse kicking rapidly against the gentle pressure of his stroking finger.
“Hmm…” he mumbled.
My eyes closed in embarrassment as I knew he had all the proof he needed that he affected me.
He moved away slightly to look at me, “This might not be interested,” his fingers touched my temple in a feather-light caress, “but your body’s telling me a different story.”
My heart doubled its speed. "My body isn't telling you a thing." What else could I say to make him back off?
He stepped away from me until he was leaning against the counter opposite me. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes never leaving mine. Something had shifted in the atmosphere. A tension between us that was heavy and suffocating. I held his stare with my head held high, daring him to say I was lying. He watched me squirm a while longer, his head cocking to the side. After a minute, a faint smile transformed his features. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and came close again to place mine on the counter behind me.
"You're right." He shook his head in apology. "Wishful thinking, I guess."
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