Beard? Check. Alpha as hell? Check. Huge, hard lumber? Very check. The biggest outlaw on the mountain has his sights on one woman, and he’s carrying a very big axe…

Beast. Monster. Outlaw. I’ve been called a lot of things, but let me promise you, a knight in shining armor ain’t f*ckin’ one of them.

But when the man I’m supposed to kill lays a hand on her – the firecracker cocktail waitress with the soft lips and the sweet curves that make my pine tree grow – there’s no way I’m not stepping in.

Beautiful, blonde, tempting as hell. She’s got a body that was made for me to claim, and legs that were born to spread around my bike. Or my waist.

But I’m a man with a mission – a blood vendetta that has to be paid. Mixing it up with Larkin is a bad idea at best. At worst, it might get us killed. But once I feel that sweet little body of hers pressed against mine with my chopper rumbling between her legs, I know there ain’t a chance in hell I’m letting her go.

I’m not here to save her. I’m here to take her – over my bike and across my bed.

Pretty little Larkin is about to get a taste of how a real man claims his woman. Because up on my mountain, I carry a big axe.

…And I know how to use it.



Now didn’t I promise you that Axe was getting a book? ;) Get ready for Blackthorn Mountain’s biggest, baddest, most growly alpha hero and the sassy heroine he’s laid his eyes on. So light a fire, find a cozy cabin, and get ready for one truly panty-melting, bodice-ripping ride. As with all my books, this one is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.





1





Larkin




The music thudded darkly like a lover’s pulse, rumbling through my body as I moved across the room. Neon pink and blue lights glistened across the sheen of my skin, green laser light from the DJ booth tracing up one arm and then off my shoulder as I twirled to dodge a particularly sweaty and panting patron. Up on stage, Triss swayed sensually to the pulsing rhythm, her eyes closed as she reached back to pull at the thin tie at the back of her dress with a small tug. It gave, and the front of the dress slipped down over her bare breasts like liquid satin.

All around me, the cat calls and whistling tripled, men nodding their heads and holding beers tight as they hungrily drank in her performance. Another patron lurched drunkenly out of his seat, barely missing plowing into me and almost making me topple the overpriced beers on my tray. Up on the stage, Triss pushed the flimsy dress over her hips, letting it drop to the floor and bringing another whole round of grunting yells and hollers as she hooked a knee around the pole and twirled.

Yes, I was working in a strip club.

No, it’s not like it was my dream job.

But at twenty-two and broke after graduating college, the money was just too good. No, I wasn’t actually stripping — yeah, right. I was a cocktail waitress, taking table orders and bringing drinks from the bar. Did I feel a little dirty? Sure, sometimes. I mean, I wasn’t taking my clothes off, but the waitress uniform was barely a step above what Triss had just disrobed from up on stage — a tight, plunging neckline tank top, a skirt so short it would have made a sorority girl on Halloween blush, and fuck-me heeled boots that went up to my knees. I looked like something between a gothy biker chick and a Hooter’s girl, but like I said, the money was just too good to have time for scruples.

I did my best to flash my most winning, charming, alluring smile at the table full of sleazy looking middle-aged guys as I set their drinks down.

“Here you go, sugar tits,” one of them crooned out like it was the smoothest fucking line in the world. His buddies seemed to think so too as they whooped and clapped him on the back, like saying gross things to a cocktail waitress at a strip club was the height of being cool.

The guy made a move to try and push the twenty dollar bill into the waist of my skirt, but, this wasn’t the first time someone has tried that little game. With all due respect to Triss and the other dancers, I was not there for lap dances. I flashed the same winning, kinda bored, kinda forced smile as I twisted, plucking the money from his hand instead.

“Thanks!”

I twirled, swallowing back the sour feeling of five sets of leering eyes following me as I walked away.

Temporary, I thought to myself as I tried to brush the scowl away. This is all temporary.

Of course, it wasn’t just the money though. That wasn’t the only reason I was working at Centerfolds. It wasn’t the only reason I was living in Salt Creek, the grimiest, shittiest little town off the interstate in the history of shitty towns off the interstate. The place was a truck stop, three bars, this strip club, a Smith’s grocery store, and a Shell gas station.