J. Kenner has a new series that is all about the powerful men that work at Stark International, and the women who bring them to their knees, starting with Wicked Grind.
About ‘Wicked Grind’
Sometimes it feels so damn good to be bad.
Photographer Wyatt Royce’s career is on the verge of exploding. All he needs is one perfect model to be the centerpiece of his sexy, controversial show. Find her, and Wyatt is sure to have a winner.
Then Kelsey Draper walks in. Stunning. Vibrant. And far too fragile for a project like this. Wyatt should know—after all, he remembers only too well why their relationship ended all those years ago.
Determined to break free from her good girl persona, Kelsey wants spice. Adventure. And she’s certain that Wyatt is just the man to help.
But when Wyatt agrees to give her the job only if he has complete control—on camera and in his bed—Kelsey can’t help but wonder if she’s in too deep. Because how can a good girl like her ever be enough for a man like Wyatt?
Exclusive ‘Wicked Grind’ excerpt:
Over the last twelve years, I’ve spun infinite variations on my Wyatt fantasy. Sometimes we barely speak two words. Sometimes, I’ll let him buy me a drink. Once or twice, I let it go a little bit further. But even in my fantasies, I can’t bring myself to give us a happily ever after.
Because between Wyatt and me, the story is a tragedy, not a romance. Considering everything that happened, how could it be anything else?
Now, Wyatt is nothing more than a pushpin in the map of my life. A reminder of how horrible things can get, and why bad choices are, as advertised, bad.
He’s not a man, he’s a concept. A talisman. Fantasy mixed with memory and topped with a sprinkle of loss.
Unfortunate, maybe, but at least that’s a Wyatt I can handle.
But this Wyatt? The one standing in front of me with golden-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes that can see all the way into our past. The one whose lean body I can still imagine pressed against me, and whose strong arms once made me feel safe. The one with the impudent grin that used to make my heart flutter, but who now isn’t smiling at all.
The boy who once made my breath catch in my throat whenever I caught a glimpse of him. Who’s now a man who walks with confidence and grace and commands a room simply by standing in it.
The boy who made me break all the rules. Who made me lose control.
The man who nearly destroyed me.
That man isn’t manageable at all. On the contrary, that man terrifies me. And right now, I can’t help but think that coming on this audition was a mistake of monumental proportions.
Yup. Definitely going to have to kill Nia. A pity, really. Because when am I going to find the time to go shopping for a new best friend?
More important, how else am I going to earn fifteen grand by the end of the month?
As I stand there like a dolt, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. That’s when I realize that he’s been watching me all this time. Not saying a word. Just waiting. As if this is all on me.
I guess maybe it is.
I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he’s thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.
I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he’s lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn’t, I still thought of him.
And now, like a damn beggar, I’m searching his face for some sign that he’s thought of me, too.
But there’s nothing to see.
Right. Fine. Okay.
I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that’s a mistake because I’m immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They’re raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.
I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. “So,” I say, trying to speak normally. “Usually I’m auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?”
A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. “Kelsey,” he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.
“Yeah.” I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I’ve been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. “It’s me.”
He doesn’t even look at it.
“It’s been a long time.” His voice is flat. Even.
“It has,” I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he’s looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.
I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It’s hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt’s eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I’m positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.
I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it’s good to see me after so much time.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, and it’s as if he’s tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.
I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. “I—I just … well, the job.”
I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. “I’m here about the job,” I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.
He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, then looks back at me with a frown. “Nia Hancock. Twenty-seven. Mixed race female. Her agent called yesterday and said he was sending her over.”
I lick my lips. “She, um, couldn’t come. And since I could use the job, I came in her place.”
“You came?” he repeats, and I watch as a series of expressions crosses his face, starting with surprise, then moving into confusion, and settling on something that looks remarkably like anger. “You?” His voice takes on a bland tone that is more than a little disconcerting.
I open my mouth to answer, but he continues before I can get a word in edgewise.
“You expect me to believe that Kelsey Draper wants to be a model. One of these models?” he adds, waving a hand behind him to indicate the three uncovered paintings, larger than life in so many ways.
I lick my lips, then immediately regret the unconscious action. Because I’m not sure. I’m really not sure at all.
Then I remember Griffin. And the money. And the fact that I’m desperate.
And, yes, I think about those scary-but-tantalizing sparks that are zinging around in my bloodstream. I shouldn’t want it. In fact, I should hightail it right out that door before everything crashes down on me again.
But I don’t. Instead, I glance down at the floor and murmur, “Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
He’s silent, so I lift my chin, hoping he can see my resolve, but there’s nothing warm or welcoming in his expression. On the contrary, what I see on his face is anger. And when he scoffs and says, “What the hell kind of game are you playing this time?” I know that I’ve made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.
“I’m not playing a game,” I protest, but my voice comes out shaky instead of strong. “It’s just that I need—”
“What?” he demands. “What could you possibly need from me?”
The harshness in his voice slices through me, and I cringe. I want to explain myself, but when I feel the tears well in my eyes, I know that there’s no way I can hold myself together. “I’m sorry,” I whisper as I turn to flee. “I should never have come here at all.”
About the Author
J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal and #1 International bestselling author of over seventy novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres.
Though known primarily for her award-winning and international bestselling erotic romances (including the Stark and Most Wanted series) that have reached as high as #2 on the New York Times bestseller list, JK has been writing full time for over a decade in a variety of genres including paranormal and contemporary romance, “chicklit” suspense, urban fantasy, and paranormal mommy lit.
JK has been praised by Publishers Weekly as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations” and by RT Bookclub for having “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for them.” A five time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award, JK took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel, Claim Me (book 2 of her Stark Trilogy). Her Demon Hunting Soccer Mom series (as Julie Kenner) is currently in development with AwesomenessTV/Awestruck.
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