EXCLUSIVE!! SERIES COVER REVEAL & EXCERPT – SHARKS EDGE by ANGEL PAYNE & VICTORIA BLUE

TotallyBookedBlog, in conjunction with Waterhouse Press, are thrilled to bring you the beautifully striking covers for the upcoming SHARK’S EDGE SERIES by ANGEL PAYNE & VICTORIA BLUE. Not only that, we have an exclusive sexy excerpt to share with you! 

Roll on December, because we cannot wait to devour this series! Check out the synopsis and excerpt and you’ll see why!
Available to pre-order below. Be sure to add this series to your TBR’s!

EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT from SHARK’S EDGE 

“Tell me, Little Red.”

I bent forward, almost brushing my lips to hers.

Waiting.

Waiting for her answer.

“Twenty-two. I turned twenty-two at the beginning of January.”

“Jeeeessssus Christ.” I pulled back, scrubbing my palm down my face and around to the back of my neck, where I squeezed tightly, trying to get a handle on my lust-addled brain.

“What just happened? What did I miss?” Her confused look wasn’t unexpected.

“Momentary loss of my better judgment. Forgive me.”

“For what? I would’ve told you to stop.” She met my stare straight on. Ballsy girl. Sexy girl. “But I didn’t want you to stop.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” I stepped back from her slightly.

She quickly closed the space between us. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re barely old enough to order a drink at a bar, let alone tangle with a bastard like me.”

“Don’t overestimate yourself, Mr. Shark.”

I couldn’t help but grin at the flash of boldness. “Maybe you shouldn’t underestimate me, Ms. Gibson. Ask my assistant what an overbearing asshole I am. She probably has a story to match every minute of the day. Although if she were honest with herself, she’s no picnic to be around either.”

“She seems quite nice to me.” Abbigail shrugged, something I noticed she did routinely. “She even allows me to keep my trolley in the alcove by her printer while I service the offices on this floor. She wouldn’t do that if she weren’t kind.”

She looked triumphant that she proved me wrong in one simple sentence. Then a slow smile spread across her heart-shaped lips. “I’d guess you’re probably more like a Chihuahua than a shark, as your name suggests, Sebastian. All bark, no bite.”

Boy, she really thought she had me figured out, didn’t she? Time to put this pup back in her crate.

I pressed against her body with my own, thrusting her against the wall behind her. The semi-erect cock lazing in my boxers surged to full attention from the heat radiating through our layers of clothing.

“I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into you, Little Red,” I said softly beside her ear as I tucked a wayward strand of silky hair behind it. “In fact, I’d like to sink a couple other body parts of mine”—I pushed my hips against her belly in punctuation—“into yours.” Slowly, I pulled back to get lost in her kelly-colored eyes.

“But?” Her voice was tinged with impatience. Not the reaction I was going for, but maybe the cat-and-mouse game was growing old?

I leaned my head far to the side, lewdly surveying the curve of her backside.

“It is a stellar ass, Abbigail. But I can’t say I expected you to jump right into that arena. You’re full of surprises today.” I suspected my eyes were glittering with mischief.

She gave me a be serious glower. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“You just did.” I arched a brow in challenge.

She huffed before getting back to her original point. “I was sensing you had an objection to your own comment.”

“My objection is to several things.” I lifted my hand to hold it directly between our faces, ticking off the problems as I voiced them.

“First . . . ” My index finger popped tall, making me imagine drawing a line from her bottom lip, down her neck, and around the back to untie the apron’s knot and then watching it fall to the floor between us. My eyes skittered to the ground, observing the imaginary fabric crumple to a heap and then flashed back to hers as I made my point. “You’re much too young to be sullied by a scoundrel such as me.”

She quirked her brow at my use of such archaic terms, but I wasted no time adding a second finger to my first.

Now my brain gave me thoughts of two fingers deftly working the moorings free on her button-down shirt and then spreading the two halves wide to discover what type of lingerie she hid beneath her sensible work clothes. Was she a utilitarian girl all the way down to her creamy white skin? Or was there a little bit of vixen underneath the layers of cotton? A sexy siren waiting to be uncovered and appreciated—stroked and petted by my skillful hands.

I dashed out the second reason. “You work for me. Vendors make messy bedfellows.”

“Messy?” she asked, her voice pitching high with the insult.

Messy, I mouthed, no sound accompanying my lips’ movement.

“And lastly,” I said, adding my long middle finger to the grouping of extremities between us, losing all coherent train of thought. Dirty, dirty fantasies replaced reasonable remarks. In my mind, I stroked the inside of Abbi’s pussy with the very finger that stood tallest between us. With that digital soldier, I’d reach in and find the secret spot that made her writhe and moan beneath my touch. The unique bull’s-eye that would encourage her to call my name in a raspy moan as she rode my hand to her completion.

A low groan escaped from deep in my throat and vibrated across my lips as I dropped my chin to my chest with arousal overload.

“What?” she whispered, seeming to have followed my thoughts down the naughty, naughty rabbit hole.

“What, what?” I squinted at her with unfocused eyes.

“What were you thinking? Your eyes . . .  You just looked a million miles away.” She reached up to touch my face with splayed fingers but quickly let her hand fall away as if thinking better of it.

“Oh, some things are better left unsaid, Little Red.” A grin played on my lips, still imagining her tight pussy milking and coating my fingers.

“Better for who?” Rigidity returned to her spine. Frustration? Embarrassment?

“For you.” I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, definitely picking up the scent of woman on the air. “In this instance, definitely better for you.”

“That’s mighty high-handed of you.” All traces of arousal were gone from her voice.

“What is?” I turned away and headed over to where my lunch was spread out, needing to get physical distance from her before I did something I’d regret.

Like kiss her.

And not being able to stop kissing her until she was naked beneath me, chanting my name.

“Deciding what’s best for me,” she snapped. “You don’t even know me.”

“My point exactly.” I unrolled the white napkin from around the silverware on the tray.

She was quiet, and then moved to stand near the grouping of sofas where I sat. “You can be very obtuse. But I suppose that’s intentional. I don’t take you for a man who does anything willy-nilly.”

“I could say the same for you.” I looked pointedly at the white napkin. “For a woman who claims to be serious about a very large future contract, I find it interesting that you wouldn’t follow the customer’s specifications, just to prove some immature point. Again, though, perfectly illustrating the first of my earlier arguments.”

Silence blanketed the penthouse. However, the rise and fall of her chest broadcasted her growing agitation.

Come on, Little Red Riding Hood. Cry. Do it.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath while a rosy flush spread up her neck. “Well, if you don’t need anything else here—”

“Déjà vu, anyone?” I smirked, knowing she’d gotten the message. Loud and clear.

“I’ll pass. Thanks, though.” She pivoted on her heel and headed to the door, proverbial tail tucked between her legs.

I shot to my feet, rushing up behind her to slam my hand to the door above her head, effectively preventing her from opening it.

Without turning to face me, she seethed, “Excuse me. I’m leaving now.”

“Is this how you handle yourself in a tough situation, Ms. Gibson?” I clucked my tongue in disappointment while she still faced the door. “When the going gets tough, you bolt?” I increased the cadence of my words but kept the tone antagonistic. “If you land the exclusive catering contract for the Edge, is this the level of professionalism I can expect from you?” I provoked her further. “If we had a black-tie event in-house—oh, I don’t know . . . let’s say international dignitaries for a seven-course meal—will my caterer leave in a huff because her feelings were hurt due to someone not liking the goddamn salad dressing?”

Slowly, she turned to face me, schooling her features so I couldn’t predict what was about to come.

“Mr. Shark, I don’t ‘bolt’ when things become difficult. Quite frankly, nothing could be further from the truth. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, and I can admit my behavior takes unusual turns when I’m in this particular office. And as much as I hate to overinflate your ego more than it already is, that seems to have everything to do with you specifically. Not my job nor my ability to handle it. Rest assured, I am the best person to handle the exclusive contract for your new building.”

“Why the tears again, then?” I demanded but then inexplicably shifted to a softer mien. “What’s this about?”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed, inspecting her shoes before continuing, “when I get angry, I well up. I’ve been this way my entire life. It’s very frustrating, trust me. It makes me look fragile to outsiders, which only makes me more mad and then more tears and so on.”

“I have a theory about anger, Ms. Gibson.”

“Please, enlighten me.” She swiped her cheek with the back of her hand. One quick wipe on each side while she glared at me.

“Anger is fear’s alter ego.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Shark.”

“Maybe not of me, necessarily. But of the situation? This situation?” I couldn’t stop myself from wiping the last tear that rolled down her flame-red cheek. It evaporated from the heat of her skin as quickly as it was shed.

“Fear, anger, excitement . . . no matter what you call it, Abbigail, they’re all forms of passion. And to be good at something? Whether it’s feeding people, housing people, or hell”—I chuckled—“even moving freight across the ocean. To be the king of your kingdom, you have to do it with passion. That’s what gives you the edge.”

I stepped away from the door and pulled the large panel back, holding it open while the captivating girl gathered her bearings and realized she was being dismissed.

“I hope you have a productive weekend, Ms. Gibson,” I said in place of goodbye.

“Uhhh, yeah, you too.” She shook her head slightly, still seeming to be working out what had just happened as she went.

The door closed, and I sat down to eat the lunch she made for me, grinning from the knowledge that her careful hands created my meal. Her sexy fingers manipulated the ingredients along with her intelligent mind that combined flavors and textures to assemble—honest to Christ—one of the best sandwiches I’d ever eaten.

To the extent that I was inspired enough to pull out my phone, snap a quick picture of the empty plate, and send it to Little Red along with a text message. How I had her cell phone number was inconsequential. I was a very resourceful man when properly motivated.

Lunch was outstanding. Thank you.

The throbbing ellipses appeared almost instantly, signaling her impending reply.

My pleasure. I aim to be king.