Dangerous(Wicked Hearts, #2)
by Sara Cate
Publication date:
February 25th, 2020
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Welcome to Wicked Beach…
Murph
They call me dangerous.
Which is fine by me. It keeps everyone out.
Then some new girl walks into my shop and turns everything upside down. It started out physical until she becomes the one person standing between me and the future of my business.
Now this mysterious new girl has me right where she wants me—physically, mentally…and emotionally.
Savannah
I’ve been burned before.
Now I look out for myself.
The last thing I expect is to inherit a tattoo shop run by the world’s scariest—and sexiest—business owner. If I were smart, I would cut him out and use the money to start a new life for myself—one free from the demons in my past.
But Murph’s hard eyes and gentle touch do something to me. It’s like he can see something no one else can, and no matter how hard I try, he won’t let me walk away.
If I want to save myself, I have to ruin him.
And to ruin him feels far more dangerous than what I’m running from.
Dangerous is the second swoon-worthy installment in the Wicked Hearts series. These stories can be read as standalones or together. Warning: this fast-paced romance might leave you breathless and a touch corrupted.
Excerpt:
“Where do you want it?”
I have to keep my eyes on his face or else they threaten to drift over his shoulders, chest, and that obvious bulge in his jeans.
Where do I want it? I repeat in my mind, and I know I have to answer quickly or else the obvious innuendo of that phrase will fill the already-awkward space between us.
At this point, being in the presence of a man, for the first time in so long—a whispering reminder of the life I used to live, has my body shouting at me to remember what it was like. To feel a man’s touch, his hands on my skin, around my body. Goosebumps erupt along the flesh of my exposed thighs.
“Here,” I choke, my voice breaking. I point to the inside of my upper thigh, just above my knee. It’s a strange place for a tattoo, for sure, but there’s meaning there.
I notice his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. With one eyebrow cocked, his gaze drifts down from my face to the puckered skin just below the hem of my purple cotton sundress. A raised scar roughly the size of a dollar and shaped like a fish hook catches his attention. I can see the questions on his face as the room grows silent.
Operation scars look different from violent scars. Violent scars are not methodical or neat. They are erratic, loud, and almost weep with memory. This scar, from the broken window of a four-door sedan eight feet under water tells a story that I don’t want in my book anymore. I want it covered.
I break the silence, luring his eyes back to my face and not my open legs. “I know it’s difficult to tattoo scars—I’ve done my research, but I want this covered. Is that…possible?” My voice shakes, giving away my nerves.
He clears his throat. “I can do that.”
Then, he leans forward. With just the expression on his face, he asks to touch it. I nod in return. The fingers of his right hand reach forward, and methodically, as if he’s inspecting the spot, he grazes the raised bump between my knees.
Having gone so long without another person’s touch anywhere below my belly button, I jump from the contact. His eyes meet mine. Then, he goes back to rubbing his thumb over the scar, and I feel my pulse quicken, my breath coming out in short spurts as if someone has crushed my lungs and won’t let me breathe.
I know he’s touching it for the purpose of the tattoo, but I watch the way he bites his lip, and I can tell it’s just as unnerving for him as it is for me. He swallows again. The room is deliciously silent, and this chemistry between us has changed. It’s dangerously close to something more than just a tattoo artist and his client.
I have to keep my eyes on his face or else they threaten to drift over his shoulders, chest, and that obvious bulge in his jeans.
Where do I want it? I repeat in my mind, and I know I have to answer quickly or else the obvious innuendo of that phrase will fill the already-awkward space between us.
At this point, being in the presence of a man, for the first time in so long—a whispering reminder of the life I used to live, has my body shouting at me to remember what it was like. To feel a man’s touch, his hands on my skin, around my body. Goosebumps erupt along the flesh of my exposed thighs.
“Here,” I choke, my voice breaking. I point to the inside of my upper thigh, just above my knee. It’s a strange place for a tattoo, for sure, but there’s meaning there.
I notice his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. With one eyebrow cocked, his gaze drifts down from my face to the puckered skin just below the hem of my purple cotton sundress. A raised scar roughly the size of a dollar and shaped like a fish hook catches his attention. I can see the questions on his face as the room grows silent.
Operation scars look different from violent scars. Violent scars are not methodical or neat. They are erratic, loud, and almost weep with memory. This scar, from the broken window of a four-door sedan eight feet under water tells a story that I don’t want in my book anymore. I want it covered.
I break the silence, luring his eyes back to my face and not my open legs. “I know it’s difficult to tattoo scars—I’ve done my research, but I want this covered. Is that…possible?” My voice shakes, giving away my nerves.
He clears his throat. “I can do that.”
Then, he leans forward. With just the expression on his face, he asks to touch it. I nod in return. The fingers of his right hand reach forward, and methodically, as if he’s inspecting the spot, he grazes the raised bump between my knees.
Having gone so long without another person’s touch anywhere below my belly button, I jump from the contact. His eyes meet mine. Then, he goes back to rubbing his thumb over the scar, and I feel my pulse quicken, my breath coming out in short spurts as if someone has crushed my lungs and won’t let me breathe.
I know he’s touching it for the purpose of the tattoo, but I watch the way he bites his lip, and I can tell it’s just as unnerving for him as it is for me. He swallows again. The room is deliciously silent, and this chemistry between us has changed. It’s dangerously close to something more than just a tattoo artist and his client.
Author Bio:
Sara Cate writes contemporary romance about bikers, bad boys, hunks, and softies--all rolled into one. She has a soft spot for redemption stories and forbidden romance.
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