Long Shot, from Kennedy Ryan, is a romance just in time for all your March Madness basketball cravings.

Kennedy Ryan knows how to go straight for your heart. If you’ve read her Grip series, you are well acquainted with her genius. If you have never read any Kennedy Ryan titles before, Long Shot is the perfect introduction. Check out the synopsis and an exclusive excerpt below and be ready to run straight to Amazon and add this title to your kindle. You won’t regret it.

About ‘Long Shot’

A FORBIDDEN LOVE SET IN THE EXPLOSIVE WORLD OF THE NBA…

Think you know what it’s like being a baller’s girl?
You don’t.
My fairy tale is upside down.
A happily never after.
I kissed the prince and he turned into a fraud.
I was a fool, and his love – fool’s gold.
Now there’s a new player in the game, August West.
One of the NBA’s brightest stars.
Fine. Forbidden.
He wants me. I want him.
But my past, my fraudulent prince, just won’t let me go.

‘Long Shot’ Exclusive Excerpt

August shoots from several feet beyond the three-point line. He releases the ball, and it falls through the net.
“Show-off,” I say softly from the gym door, but with only the two of us present, he hears.
A smile spreads slowly over his full lips and calm eyes the color of storm clouds.
“If I’m such a show-off . . .” He bounces the ball to me, and I catch it on reflex. “. . . come show me you can do better.”
I dribble the ball to the center of the court, turning my back on him to release it. It swooshes through the net, and I face him, wearing a braggart’s grin.
“Luck,” he says, catching the ball when I bounce-pass it back to him. “You ever played HORSE?”
A disdainful breath is my only answer.
“Alright then.” He laughs and tosses the ball back to me. “Ladies first.”
For the next twenty minutes, he kicks my ass at HORSE so bad that by the end, I’m waving my arms in front of him when it’s his turn to shoot. Anything so he won’t keep making the shots.
“You don’t guard in HORSE,” he reminds me with a one-sided grin that has my heart double-dutching in my chest. “There’s no defense.”
“No defense, huh?” I ask. “No wonder you’re so good at it.”
“Ohhhh.” He sticks an imaginary dagger in his heart. “Still busting my balls about playing D. I’ve gotten better. At least gimme that.”
“There’s always room for improvement.” I laugh at the look on his face. He was the Rookie of the Year. His ego can withstand a little ball-busting.
He goes to shoot, and I grab his arm, making the ball fly wildly across the gym. I’m laughing, feeling freer than I have in months, maybe since before Sarai was born, when his hands land at my hips and he pulls me into him.
My smile vanishes. So does his. His broad palms burn through the thin material of my pants. My lungs feel shrunken because my breaths are so shallow; quick, urgent pulls that lift my breasts against his broad chest. The air around us heats and caramelizes until it’s thick and rich and sweet and dark—until I can almost taste it.
“I’ve been wearing this cast a long time,” he whispers, inching his fingers up my neck and into my hair. “There’s this one spot that itches so bad, but it’s in a place that I can never quite reach.”
With his eyes, he follows the line his thumb strokes down my neck, and every breath I draw tastes like him. The scent of him this close is inescapable, infiltrating. His body, hardened and towering over me, is all I can see. He bends to press our foreheads together.
“Have you ever had an itch you couldn’t scratch?” he asks. The question hovers over my lips, and I shudder. His hands tighten on me, and our breaths clash between our open mouths.
I shake my head no, my eyes so heavy with desire, I want to close them, but I can’t look away.
“It itches so bad, it starts to burn.” His fingers spread over me, his hands so big he covers the space just under my breasts to my hips.
“That itch becomes the center of everything,” August continues. “You can’t focus on anything except the way it burns and that you can’t reach it, can’t touch it.”
I lean into him, limp and seduced by his words, by the scorching intensity of this moment.
“You’re my itch, Iris,” he confesses. His breath labored, he tips up my chin, so I see the desperation in his eyes. “And if you don’t step back right now, I have to scratch.”

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