 by Lindsey Hart.jpg)
Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
he's bound to be a bad guy, right?!
Except he swears he isn't.
And if I got to know him, I would change my mind.
Why would I even try to get to know the guy that thwarts my every attempt at escape,
Looks like a god damn Lucifer,
Makes my heart go wild,
And likes pineapple on pizza?
It's all wrong wrong wrong.
I'm just a librarian and my life is not supposed to end up like one of those steamy mafia romance novels I like reading.
Wait, did I say steamy?
The only thing that needs to get steamy is the water in my shower, not anything else.
Unless he joins me there...
Oh boy, I'm in trouble.
WHEN HE'S COMPLETELY WRONG FOR YOU BUT STILL SETS YOUR SHEET ON FIRE!
Each book in this series is a standalone and can be read in any order. And don't forget, we are team HEA all the way!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Azalea
I remember nothing. Everything is black—the kind of black that the light doesn’t pierce.
My head is a bundle of ragged nerves, muffled cotton, and splitting pain. And it weighs approximately seven hundred and forty-eight pounds. What? I just like the number.
Before I even open my eyes, I know. I know this is a dream, and in this dream, I’m going to wake up tied to a chair. Naked. With a smooth but villainous, dark and powerful, slightly thrilling and slightly terrifying man dressed all in black sitting across the room from me, watching me with his jet-black hair, jet-black suit, and jet-black eyes.
A thrill will go through me. A thrill of terror, but also a small thrill of something else, because this is a dream, and who isn’t turned on by danger, even a little bit? A host of his black-clad cronies will be standing around, ready to do his every sinister bidding. And me. Yes. Me. Normal, regular, stodgy, book-loving, boring old Azalea, who was named after a flower even though my mom just liked the name and didn’t realize it was a flower at all, is now Mr. Dark and Terrifying’s Captive.
Yes. Because this is a dream. One of those edgy, erotic dreams where bad things can seem like they’re actually delightful because, in dreams, one doesn’t worry overly much about morality. Morality is for everyday waking life. Dreams are different.
I drag my eyes open and let out a groan that sounds very real. It’s dragged up from the pit of my rocking stomach, brought up from a throat so dry that it burns, and dragged over my tongue, which feels two sizes too big for my mouth and also so dry that it makes me want to groan and gag and beg for water. I open lips that are so parched that I can feel the fine cracks appear when I part them to try and mutter that very word. The pain has to be manufactured. Something I imagined and filled in because I’ve read too many thriller books to make up for my lack of real-life adventures and experiences.
“Water.” The sound is just a sound. Mmmpphhhhhttttt. Is that really my voice? I sound like an off-key toad.
Now that I’m fully awake, and I mean awake within the dream, my head still hurts. It still feels thick and heavy. I quickly flick my eyes down and sigh in relief. Nope. Not naked. Nope, I’m not even tied up. My fantasy is sorely lacking here because doesn’t every good fantasy involve ropes? Okay, maybe my subconscious is taking it too far. But this is a dream, and dreams can take things the extra mile that we can’t go in our real, boring, mundane, everyday lives.
I’m wearing what I was wearing today; I remember that much. A black pencil skirt, a white blouse with little pearl buttons at the sleeves near my wrists and a tie at the throat that looks vintage, and towering heels that hurt my feet but look wickedly great on. It’s the perfect librarian sort of outfit because that’s exactly what I am. A librarian. On the outside, I’m perfectly mild, even-tempered, and boring. But on the inside, I yearn for adventure. I’m the kind of librarian who, in my free time, grabs a history book, shoves a dirty smut novel inside, and indulges for hours in the most absurd fantasies. The whole dark mafia thing is my favorite, which makes sense. The dream, I mean. It makes sense that I’ve manufactured all this based on my recent smutty, wonderful reading habits. Anyway, I was on my way to work when, out of the shadows of an alley, a huge set of arms grabbed me from behind. I struggled, and when something crashed over my mouth, everything went black. Yup, even the beginning of this dream starts out like the shivery, dark, clichéd crime stories I love so much.
Yeah. Quite a dream.
Because this has to be a dream, right?
Even though I’m not tied up, I don’t pinch myself. I swallow hard past the driest mouth known to mankind and tilt my head up and find him. Yes. Him. I sigh in relief, a massive sigh so heavy and long that it sounds like I’m trying to burp out the alphabet, but with sighs instead of belches. I never was windy enough to pull that off. Anyway, I sigh because it’s him. Yes. Him. I know this has to be a dream because it’s the man from the novels I read.
The perfect epitome of tall, dark, handsome, and wickedly dangerous. The kind of guy with that flawless skin tone, heavy brow, square jawline, and black eyes so dark that they’re like midnight with a side of the blackest paint known in the existence of all artistry, and even then, they’re threaded through with ambler flecks, because every night sky needs its stars. His hair is wavy, and a lock of it falls over his strong brow, belying his danger. That lock is almost boyish. The kind of man that was created out of stone. Six foot five, a hulking beast of a brute, and of course, he prefers black. Black like his hair and eyes and, of course, like his dreamy black heart and soul. Black like his conscience and life. And imposing, like the thugs assembled around the room.