Dirty Roxie by Denise Wells is book 4 in the Dirty Darlings - The Beginning Series. It's a Romantic Suspense and Release's July 8. Keep reading for excerpt & giveaway!
Title: Dirty Roxie
Series: Dirty Darlings - The Beginning #4
Author: Denise Wells
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Release Date: July 8, 2020
ROXIE
The biggest problem when you partner up with someone as sexy as Ronan Sinclair? You find yourself planning out all the ways to get him into your bed instead of focusing on work—our trek around the globe chasing the bad guy who did him wrong.
I’ve tried every seduction technique in the book, and still, he resists. What he doesn’t know is, I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. When I bust that out, he’s not going to know what hit him.
RONAN
I’m not a bad man, I just like to do bad things. But this time, I’m trying to be good because I want to do right by Roxie Stevens. I want to keep her safe. Mostly from me.
That means not giving into temptation, even if I do want her as mine. Because if I cave, one way or another, I’ll have to kill her when this is all over.
We’ve got hours left before sunset, I’ve taken care of any business that needed my attention, choosing now to sit here and watch Roxie clean her one of her guns. Her t-shirt today says simply, DON’T BE A DICK.
The front low cut enough to showcase those magnificent breasts that jiggle as she rubs the barrel. You like watching me manhandle my gun, don’t you? It’s not boring. She laughs. I like you, Ronan. I know you do. The appropriate response to that is I like you too, Roxie.
I remain silent. Not to be an asshole, but just because I don’t trust myself to tell her that I like her. If I do, it becomes more real in my mind. If it becomes more real, then I believe it and want to live it.
I can’t start to live a reality where I like Roxie and she likes me. That will just get us both in a shit ton of trouble. What’s so wrong with liking me? she asks. Absolutely nothing, I tell her.
She smiles in response. And everything. Her smile turns upside down. Tell me why. I surprise myself by taking a seat next to her. I’m not good with women, Roxie.
She scoffs. Tell me about it.Not like how you think. I mean I’m not good with women. I’m not nice. To them. So, you’re a dick? She smirks and points to her shirt.
I like to hurt them during sex. She stills. Hurt how? Setting her things on the coffee table and turning toward me. I allow myself a moment to graze her cheek with the back of my hand. She leans into my touch slightly, I don’t think she realizes when she does it.
I had . . . something happen to me when I was young. It changed me. Altered my perception about women and sex. Not in a positive way. My hand makes its way behind her head to cup the back of her neck. Pulling her forward until our foreheads meet with a light thud.
Her green eyes wide, searching mine for some kind of answer. Only, she’s not going to like the one I have to give. I would love nothing more than to strip you down until every part of you is bare to me. Start at the top of your head and feast on every inch of your skin until I’ve made my way down to your toes.
Paying extra close attention to everything from here, —I touch her chest just above where her breasts begin—to here. I run my hand down the center of her chest, to just below the underwire of her bra.
Then from here. My fingers find the button on her jeans and I work to undo it, one handed, then pull the zipper down slowly. Her breath catches. To here. I slip my hand inside her jeans and cup the heat between her legs, not allowing my fingers to enter, barely pushing my thumb against her clit.
Her thighs squeeze together, capturing my hand between them. I nuzzle the side of her neck with my nose, not moving my hand. And this luscious neck, I want to spend my days here kissing, biting, inhaling, experiencing.
I’m, uh. Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. I’m not seeing the problem. I move my lips from her neck up her jawline to her lips. Allow me to show you, I say against them, reluctantly pulling my hand free.
I stand and tug her up with me. Guiding her toward the bedroom with my hand on her lower back. Before we’ve crossed the threshold I’ve got my hands under her shirt, pushing it up and over her head. Leaving her clad only in a black lace bra from the waist up.
She gasps as I spin her and push her onto the bed so I can pull her jeans off. Then, making quick time, I flip her onto her stomach to run my nose up her spine. Goosebumps raise on her skin.
All of that luscious white skin that I want to bruise and bite, mark in such a way that she won’t ever forget that I was here. I use a tie I’d hung on the door earlier to bind her hands at the wrist behind her back. The belt from her bathrobe to do the same with her ankles.
I run my hands down her length, starting at her shoulders and not stopping until I’ve reached her ankles. Then step back from the bed to survey my work. She looks incredible. Vulnerable. Mine for the taking.
And her skin, so soft. What are you going to do? she asks, turning her head to the side to try and see me. That won’t do.
Looking around, I see the bandana she ties around her forehead when she works out, and shove that into her mouth. This will only work if she can’t talk.
She looks up at me, in part fear and part lust. How long will it take before it’s nothing but fear? You left me no choice, Roxie. I walk to the side of the bed where she can see me, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I go.
Her eyes widen as it opens it completely and I allow it to fall to the floor. She’s seen the scar. Making this the perfect time to start my story.
I drag a large chair up next to the bed, kicking off my shoes and removing my socks before settling back, ankle over knee with forearms resting on either arm of the chair.
She looks at me warily. Being restrained not all you’d cracked it up to be? I ask. Knowing on some level I was messing up the colloquial phrase, yet not caring. I run my fingers along her cheek, the muscles jumping at my touch.
Her eyes defiant and she struggles against the restraints. I hold up a finger to indicate one moment, then leave to get a scotch. Because this story will always require something heavier tasting than vodka. -
Like I need to know I’m drinking, need it to differ from my usual libation to commemorate the moment. It takes a moment for me to return, when I do her eyes have turned defiant and she struggles against the restraints.
I tried to warn you, dear Roxie. I’m a monster. I take my seat again and get comfortable, slowly sipping my scotch once I’m settled. But you push. You push until I break. You won’t like me broken.
She shakes her head as though to argue with me. But I know the truth. Even if she’s not frightened by me now, she will be soon. Once I’ve told her everything. And she sees who I really am.
The front low cut enough to showcase those magnificent breasts that jiggle as she rubs the barrel. You like watching me manhandle my gun, don’t you? It’s not boring. She laughs. I like you, Ronan. I know you do. The appropriate response to that is I like you too, Roxie.
I remain silent. Not to be an asshole, but just because I don’t trust myself to tell her that I like her. If I do, it becomes more real in my mind. If it becomes more real, then I believe it and want to live it.
I can’t start to live a reality where I like Roxie and she likes me. That will just get us both in a shit ton of trouble. What’s so wrong with liking me? she asks. Absolutely nothing, I tell her.
She smiles in response. And everything. Her smile turns upside down. Tell me why. I surprise myself by taking a seat next to her. I’m not good with women, Roxie.
She scoffs. Tell me about it.Not like how you think. I mean I’m not good with women. I’m not nice. To them. So, you’re a dick? She smirks and points to her shirt.
I like to hurt them during sex. She stills. Hurt how? Setting her things on the coffee table and turning toward me. I allow myself a moment to graze her cheek with the back of my hand. She leans into my touch slightly, I don’t think she realizes when she does it.
I had . . . something happen to me when I was young. It changed me. Altered my perception about women and sex. Not in a positive way. My hand makes its way behind her head to cup the back of her neck. Pulling her forward until our foreheads meet with a light thud.
Her green eyes wide, searching mine for some kind of answer. Only, she’s not going to like the one I have to give. I would love nothing more than to strip you down until every part of you is bare to me. Start at the top of your head and feast on every inch of your skin until I’ve made my way down to your toes.
Paying extra close attention to everything from here, —I touch her chest just above where her breasts begin—to here. I run my hand down the center of her chest, to just below the underwire of her bra.
Then from here. My fingers find the button on her jeans and I work to undo it, one handed, then pull the zipper down slowly. Her breath catches. To here. I slip my hand inside her jeans and cup the heat between her legs, not allowing my fingers to enter, barely pushing my thumb against her clit.
Her thighs squeeze together, capturing my hand between them. I nuzzle the side of her neck with my nose, not moving my hand. And this luscious neck, I want to spend my days here kissing, biting, inhaling, experiencing.
I’m, uh. Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. I’m not seeing the problem. I move my lips from her neck up her jawline to her lips. Allow me to show you, I say against them, reluctantly pulling my hand free.
I stand and tug her up with me. Guiding her toward the bedroom with my hand on her lower back. Before we’ve crossed the threshold I’ve got my hands under her shirt, pushing it up and over her head. Leaving her clad only in a black lace bra from the waist up.
She gasps as I spin her and push her onto the bed so I can pull her jeans off. Then, making quick time, I flip her onto her stomach to run my nose up her spine. Goosebumps raise on her skin.
All of that luscious white skin that I want to bruise and bite, mark in such a way that she won’t ever forget that I was here. I use a tie I’d hung on the door earlier to bind her hands at the wrist behind her back. The belt from her bathrobe to do the same with her ankles.
I run my hands down her length, starting at her shoulders and not stopping until I’ve reached her ankles. Then step back from the bed to survey my work. She looks incredible. Vulnerable. Mine for the taking.
And her skin, so soft. What are you going to do? she asks, turning her head to the side to try and see me. That won’t do.
Looking around, I see the bandana she ties around her forehead when she works out, and shove that into her mouth. This will only work if she can’t talk.
She looks up at me, in part fear and part lust. How long will it take before it’s nothing but fear? You left me no choice, Roxie. I walk to the side of the bed where she can see me, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I go.
Her eyes widen as it opens it completely and I allow it to fall to the floor. She’s seen the scar. Making this the perfect time to start my story.
I drag a large chair up next to the bed, kicking off my shoes and removing my socks before settling back, ankle over knee with forearms resting on either arm of the chair.
She looks at me warily. Being restrained not all you’d cracked it up to be? I ask. Knowing on some level I was messing up the colloquial phrase, yet not caring. I run my fingers along her cheek, the muscles jumping at my touch.
Her eyes defiant and she struggles against the restraints. I hold up a finger to indicate one moment, then leave to get a scotch. Because this story will always require something heavier tasting than vodka. -
Like I need to know I’m drinking, need it to differ from my usual libation to commemorate the moment. It takes a moment for me to return, when I do her eyes have turned defiant and she struggles against the restraints.
I tried to warn you, dear Roxie. I’m a monster. I take my seat again and get comfortable, slowly sipping my scotch once I’m settled. But you push. You push until I break. You won’t like me broken.
She shakes her head as though to argue with me. But I know the truth. Even if she’s not frightened by me now, she will be soon. Once I’ve told her everything. And she sees who I really am.
©Denise Wells 2020
Denise Wells has been reading since before she could talk. And to this day, escaping into a book is her go-to activity before anything else.
She likes to write about sassy women and semi-flawed alpha-esque men. Denise’s female characters always have strong friendships, potty mouths, and like to drink—a lot.
Denise is loyal to a fault, a bit too sarcastic, blindingly optimistic, and pretty freakin’ happy with life overall. As a diehard fan of the band The Replacements, Denise would be a rock star in the band if she couldn’t be a writer.
Home is in the Pacific Northwest where she lives with five special needs dogs, one cat (who’s busy plotting the demise of the dogs), and a husband (BW) who has the patience and tolerance of a saint. And, lest she forget, Denise also lives with too many to count characters inside her head, who will eventually have their stories told.
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