[Currently being rewritten and updated chapter by chapter]
Book One in the "Hard Love" series.
It's hard being knocked down. And it's even harder getting back up.
Thalia Carter grew up on the south side of Chicago with a dead-beat dad and never real...
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
I have no idea what I expected to come home to.
Zoe told me the girls were staying over. She also told me to keep my "pervy eyes" to myself if I came home. Pretty sure we both knew she was talking about Thalia with that one, because I've known Fallon for six years now and have not once looked at her sexually.
But for Christ's sake, it's like I walked into the opening scene of a porno or something out of my wildest dreams. I made a promise to Zoe, but with my view, I'm already rocking a semi and I can't bring myself to look away.
Old Time Rock & Roll is blaring through the surround sound system. Thalia is dancing on our glass coffee table, shaking her ass sharply at every beat with her arms spread out in front of her. But that's not the best part.
Or worst. Depends on how you choose to look at it.
Her ass is on full display, her skimpy red underwear doing nothing to hide her glorious curves. She's in a white button down that does nothing to conceal her cleavage as she spins around, eyes closed and still dancing carelessly, giving me a flash of her full tits practically spilling out of her bra.
How am I supposed to look away?
Seriously, tell me how.
"Call me a relic, call me what you will Say I'm old fashioned, say I'm over the hill Today's music ain't got the same soul I like that old time rock and roll"
I bite my lip, struggling to suppress a smile. Thalia can't sing along for shit, but it's entertaining as hell to watch. She's dancing without a care in the world, just like at the club. It's a breath of fresh air to catch her so unguarded in these little moments.
"I love this," Thalia sighs to herself, still spinning on the balls of her feet. Her raised arms lift the shirt enough to give me a perfectly unobstructed view of her tiny hips, the silvery stud in her belly button, and her perky ass as she twists around.
"Me too," I breathe, eyes wide with appreciation.
She freezes, snapping her eyes open and dropping her arms to her sides. Then she looks down and pulls the familiar-looking button down tight over her chest, which only makes her boobs look bigger. I don't mention that, because that would mean admitting that I was checking them out.
"What are you doing here?" she demands, then glances down at her clothes and groans. I can't stop myself from scanning over the rest of her, my eyes tracing every heavenly curve and dip of her body.
"I live here," I answer, somewhat distracted by the picture in front of me. "Is that my shirt?"
"No," she blurts out, then sighs. "Yes. I'm sorry. But Zoe made us!" She points behind the large L-shaped sectional, where a faint snoring is coming from. Great.
I groan. "She's staying there tonight. I don't have the energy to carry anyone to bed." It was a long day with a lot of driving. The guys and I went to the Seahawks game, and listening to Nate yap on about whether a taco or cheeseburger would win in a fight for a whole freaking hour on the way back really wears a guy down.
