Never
Loved
Dark Obsession # 1
Dark Obsession # 1
By: Charlotte Stein
Releasing July 21st, 2015
Loveswept
Blurb
Perfect for fans of Abbi Glines, the
first novel in the Dark Obsession series tells the story of a beautiful
wallflower who falls for a chiseled street fighter—and learns just how
dangerous love can be.
Beatrix Becker spent most of her life
under the thumb of her controlling, abusive father. And now that she’s free and
attending her dream college, she has no idea how to act like the normal crowd:
partying, going on dates, even having a conversation. Then she meets Serge
Sorensen. Big and surly with a whole host of riotous tattoos, Serge is supposed
to scare the hell out of her. But beneath his harsh exterior, Beatrix discovers
a kindred spirit who knows what it’s like to be a misfit. Most exhilarating—and
terrifying—is what he does for a living: illegal street fighting.
There’s nothing like the rush Serge
gets from the intense athleticism and brutal glory of combat—though his
chemistry with Beatrix comes close. Slowly at first, he introduces her to his
world, where he lives by instinct, passion, and desire. He even helps her out
with her equally traumatized brother. But when Serge gets in too deep with the
wrong people, he ends up paying in blood. And suddenly, just as Beatrix has
been drawn into Serge’s perfectly sculpted arms, she’s thrown once and for all
into the fight of his life.
Link to Follow Tour: http://www.tastybooktours.com/2015/03/never-loved-dark-obsession-1-by.html
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23433442-never-loved?ac=1
Goodreads Series Link: https://www.goodreads.com/series/139124-dark-obsession
Author Info
Charlotte Stein has
written over thirty short stories, novellas and novels, including entries in
The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance and Best New Erotica 10. Her latest work, Run
To You, was recently a DABWAHA finalist. When not writing deeply emotional and
intensely sexy books, she can be found eating jelly turtles, watching terrible
sitcoms and occasionally lusting after hunks. For more on Charlotte,
visit: www.charlottestein.net
Website: http://charlottestein.net/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/Charlotte_Stein
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Excerpt #3
“I tell you what, girl. How about you hop on, and I’ll take you to
where he is.”
Some of the guys around him laugh. Hell, he seems to be laughing a
little, too. He even slaps the back of his bike like the punch line to this
whole crazy joke—he knows I’m never going to climb up on that thing. Everyone
knows I’m not going to climb up on that thing. I’m a soft little kid, in
corduroy.
Though for once in my life, I don’t want to be. I want to say yes,
just to show him. Just to make up for all the times when I went back to my room
and changed and changed and changed until my clothes were suitable, or stayed
silent because silence was golden and talking back got you the basement. I
don’t have to stay silent here, if I really don’t want to.
But that only makes it more disappointing when my sad little mouth
leaks out, “I can’t do that.”
In fact, it’s so disappointing that he seems to catch some of it. He
snorts, of course, as though he expected that answer all along. Yet beneath
that snort I think I see something else, just sort of drifting around down
there. A bitterness, I think, that carries through his otherwise amused and
rather withering words.
“Afraid of bikes, huh?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“And maybe afraid of me?”
“I’d have to be insane to be anything else.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Think it’s pretty obvious.”
“Try me.”
“Mostly it’s the size.”
He makes a face like Yeah, that makes sense.
But the shadow of that odd disappointment is still there.
“What can I say? I’m a big guy.”
“And maybe the tattoos.”
“I sure got them.”
“And the hair.”
“You don’t like it?”
He runs a hand over that thick black stripe right down the center,
like some lady at a salon showing off her new hairdo. And it’s funny; it really
is funny. It’s so funny that the assembled crowd laughs again to see him do it.
This is probably the kind of show he does all the time, and I’m sure none of
them ever question it.
But I’m questioning it. I can still see that serious undercurrent
beneath his jokey manner, and it makes me answer him in a more impassioned way
than I intend. “No, no, it’s not that at all,” I say, though it’s only
afterward that I realize how true that sentiment is.
Yeah, he’s scary as fuck. Yeah, the thought of riding off with him
on that bike almost freezes my blood. But if I’m honest with myself about
liking that hair . . . I can’t exactly say no. I do like it.
I like a lot of things about him, in a way I don’t fully understand. He should
ping just about every aggressive-man fear I have, but every time I try to think
of him that way, something else happens instead. I see the contrast between
those black stripes and his pale blue eyes, and the way he waits for my answer
in this actually interested manner, and how strange all of his clothes are and
that flash of bitterness or weariness in him again, and then suddenly there it
is:
The word handsome.
Dear God, I think he might be handsome, though I’m not going to
stick around long enough to find out for sure.
“I’ve got to go,” I blurt out, but I immediately regret it. I should
have just turned and run really quickly—not given him warning. Now he’s got
time to punish me as I ever so slowly start to walk away. Oh, look at the little
college girl. She’s frightened,
he’ll say, and then someone will throw a rock at me. All of them will throw
rocks at me, until I’m a bruised and bloody pulp on the front page of
tomorrow’s newspaper. Idiot Student Finds Angry Biker Handsome,
I imagine, though I’ve no idea why I’m doing it.
That doesn’t even make any sense. People don’t write reports about
girls randomly noticing attractiveness. They write reports about girls being
murdered, so really, that should be my headline. Idiot Student Has Arms and Legs Pulled Off by Handsome Biker,
I try, but I can’t help noticing that the word handsome is
still in there.
God, I wish it wasn’t still in there.
It’s hard enough as it is to walk to my car without glancing back.
Putting the word handsome in there makes it nearly
impossible. My eyes want me to double-check, and not just because I probably
hallucinated how good-looking he is. They want me to check because I’m almost
positive I can feel his gaze pressing into my back. I can feel it the way
people in books say they can feel it, even though I usually snort and roll my
eyes when I get to stuff like that. You can’t sense someone’s stare in real
life. That’s just not the way it works.
So how come I’m right?
I dare to glance up once I’m inside the safety of my car, expecting
to see him going about his business. Maybe he’ll be in the middle of some awful
drug thing, I think. Maybe he’ll be making some kid pay for wanting to do
something other than come right home after school. But he isn’t doing either of
those things—not even close.
Instead I see those frostbitten eyes still steadily on me, as
everyone around him returns to their rowdy and brutal ballet.
