Wet Dreams
Secrets Volume 21 - Primal Heat
December 07
ISBN #1603100016
Red Sage
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Injured and on the run, DHS agent Brent Logan needs is a miracle. What he gets is Wet Dream, a sport-fishing boat owned by Marina Summers, whose fledgling business is now in jeopardy, thanks to Brent. Pursued by killers, ravaged by a fierce storm, and plagued by engine troubles, they can do little but spend their final hours immersed in sensual pleasure. But soon they discover that the danger they face on the high seas is nothing compared to the danger to their hearts…
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Excerpt |
Reviews For Volume 21
Secrets Volume 21: Primal Heat is worth every penny of its price. It definitely left me eager for the next volume.
This perfect blend of story, romance and sizzling sensuality has hot alpha heroes and ladies who can hold their own with them. These stories will keep readers warm on a cold winter night.
Reviews For Wet Dreams in Volume 21
…the best story in this collection, with a solid suspense plot, likeable characters, and a very realistic, satisfying ending.
—Kate Cuthbert, All About Romance
WET DREAMS is an entertaining blend of humor and danger. An undercover operation gone wrong gets Brent shot and hiding on a boat, yet he can’t help but think the night is going well. A dangerous situation throws Brent and Marina together, and dealing with it involves getting to know each other quickly and well. The attraction between them sizzles and the interaction between them is light-hearted and fun.
–Jennifer Bishop, Romance Reviews Today
Brent Logan had always wondered what being shot felt like. He’d expected pain. He’d expected blood. What he hadn’t expected was the burning impact of the bullet, or the way it knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawling.
He hit the dock on his left hip and rolled into a ball, clutching his calf. “Fuck,” he gritted out. “Sonofabitch.”
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sucked panting breaths through his clenched teeth. Warm, sticky blood oozed between his fingers. Shit. He didn’t have time for pain. Not when nearly a dozen arms-dealing scumbags chased him like a pack of starving wolves after a wounded deer.
Stifling a groan, he pushed to his feet and prayed his leg wouldn’t buckle. The injury and sudden pain-induced nausea made standing difficult enough, but now the roll and pitch of the floating dock threatened to knock him on his ass again.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he limped along the vast network of boat slips. He ducked between sailboats, catamarans and fishing boats, keeping low as he peered into the night at the outbuildings lining the shore. Lamps bathed sections of the marina in light, but elsewhere, he could make out the shadowy outlines of six men moving rapidly toward him, guns drawn.
Cursing the fact that he’d handed over his own pistol at the arms trade, he slipped between two massive yachts. A shot rang out, and a bullet punched a hole in the side of one of the boats, close enough that its wake blew a hot breeze across Brent’s ear. Double shit. Dying wasn’t on his to-do list tonight. Ignoring the stinging pain in his leg, he picked up his pace, weighing his escape options.
Here in the southern California marina, he had few.
He could stop, face off with the men chasing him, and get a bullet through the brain. If he was lucky.
He could jump in the water and drown.
Or he could hide on any of the hundred moored boats and hope the local cops showed up before the bad guys found him.
Not much of a choice, after all. He crouched low alongside a sailboat, his injured calf muscle twitching in agonizing protest. Ahead, a boat with the words “Wet Dream” painted on its stern bobbed in the choppy water, partially hidden by what was probably an expensive-ass yacht, but open enough on one side to allow for a good view of the scumbags.
Right now he needed a miracle, but a wet dream would have to do.
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