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HIDDEN HEAT
Brothers of Mayhem #1
Brothers of Mayhem #1
Carla Swafford
Releasing on February 16, 2016
Loveswept
Sizzling
with passion and suspense, perfect for fans of Joanna Wylde and Julie Ann
Walker, the Brothers of Mayhem series revs up as a headstrong beauty faces off
against an outlaw motorcycle club—and falls for the bad boy she never saw
coming.
Cassidy
Ryder refuses to be intimidated by anyone, even the hell-raising, hard-drinking
Brothers of Mayhem. The daughter of their former president, she’s not above
smashing a few heads to keep her teenage brother safe. But when Cassidy’s big
mouth gets her in trouble, the only thing that saves her is some quick thinking
from the Brothers’ bartender. He’s commanding and strong, and as smooth as the
whiskey he pours: the ultimate temptation for a girl who swore she’d never be a
biker’s plaything.
But
Thorn Savalas is no ordinary biker. He’s a cop, and he’s worked too hard
earning the Brothers’ trust to blow his cover over a female—even one who rocks
a pair of jeans like Cassidy. The only way to protect her is by claiming she’s
his old lady. Trouble is, Thorn can’t just pretend. He wants Cassidy, and every
scorching touch tells him she feels the same. But acting on their hottest
fantasies could leave them both exposed . . . even if nothing else has ever
felt so real.
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Excerpt:
With a
calmness he didn’t feel, Thorn looked over at Stonewall, the president of the
mother chapter and the Skull of the club. From day one, each national president
was referred to as the Skull, and during formal proceedings, the Brothers of
Mayhem were called Bones. All taken from the design on the club’s center patch:
bones surrounding a skull.
Stonewall
wasn’t much to look at, with his droopy left eye and crooked nose. Rumor ran
he’d been hit with a two-by-four some years ago, but it hadn’t damaged the
man’s brain. He was known to be a wily bastard. It took more than brawn to lead
the pack of deviants the old man had recruited over the last few years.
Only
a small handful of the Brothers joined the club solely for the camaraderie of
riding in the wind whenever and wherever they wanted. The majority wanted more,
and there was a good reason they were known to be an outlaw motorcycle club;
members were also called one percenters. A magazine article a long time ago
said 99 percent of motorcycle riders were good, upstanding citizen.
The
leftovers thought nothing of cheating, stealing, and selling to bring in the
needed cash to work on their bikes and buy even bigger and faster ones. From
what Thorn had seen, the majority of the club believed freedom was living a
life filled with parties, booze, women, and drugs, and having the money to do
it all.
Thorn
checked the room for a place to be private and talk. Deciding a back room would
take care of what they needed, he first waved over some help.
The
woman in his arms tightened her hold and pressed her face into his vest. He
inhaled her light, flowery scent and ran his hands up and down her back. Her
mouth reached the center of his chest, perfect for wrapping her in his arms and
keeping her safe.
Without
releasing her, he said, “Pull a glass for the Skull, Prospect.”
The
kid who wore a patch on his jacket designating his lowly status jumped over the
counter and headed toward the tap. Not voted into the club yet, he had to
follow any patched Brother’s orders. So he did all of the grunt work in the
hope he could wear the club’s colors, a leather jacket with the sleeves cut off
and the Holy Grail of a center skull patch.
Stonewall’s
gaze narrowed, but he remained quiet. Thorn knew he walked on thin ice with the
man. Stonewall trusted him as much as he did any of the newer members, and that
was very little.
“I
need to take care of some business,” Thorn said, smirking as he glanced down at
the woman in his arms.
He
tugged Cassidy toward the office in the back, the only place most of the
Brothers would leave them undisturbed. As he expected, she stiffened her legs
and tried to pull away. He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
“You
bastard! Put me down!” Fists thumping his back, she struggled to be released as
he held tight to her legs.
When
she tried to throw her body to the side, he slapped her ass a couple of times.
She quickly settled down. Damn, that felt good. Probably, someone should’ve spanked her years ago.
“Stay
still!” He tried his best to keep his mind off those sweet red cheeks as he
strolled along the back hallway. Once they were in the office, he closed the
door with a light kick, and he let her slip to her feet, relishing the slide of
her body down his. The urge was almost too strong to ignore. Who would blame
him? A little demon in the back of his mind nagged that there had to be some
benefit from saving her stubborn little neck.
She
scrambled around the old steel desk and shot hate out of those beautiful, big,
brown eyes. One hand found its way to her back end and rubbed before she caught
his grin. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest and grimaced when her
butt pressed against the wall. He chuckled, and she shot him an eat-shit-and-die
look.
“What
are you planning on doing to me?” Her gaze darted to the door, but she was
smart enough to not make a move. Yet.
From
the first time he’d seen her, a few months ago, he’d been fascinated by her
gutsy, sassy attitude. She’d turned up at the bar obviously tracking down her
brother. She’d chewed out Storm from the moment she spotted him talking with
Stonewall until she shoved him into the car. Her brother, a head taller, let
his sister fuss and shake a finger in his face, the whole time grinning ear to
ear.
Yeah,
the girl—no, scratch that—the woman was trouble, but he always had a thing for
strong women. Sex was so much more fun and interesting when they surrendered.
His
dick twitched.
To
regain control of his body’s reaction, he gave her his back long enough to
check for eavesdroppers. He peeked up and down the hallway. No one had
followed. He closed the door again and faced her after curbing his wayward
response.
“Lower
your voice. The walls are thin.” He needed her to understand the danger she was
in. Over the years, he’d done a lot of things he wasn’t proud of, but hurting a
woman wasn’t one of them. Besides the few slaps he’d placed on her ass would
sting for only so long. But if Stonewall had heard her demanding the
whereabouts of Storm, the pain the prez dished out wouldn’t be so easily
forgotten.
“Let
me go. I’ll pay for the broken glasses, but I demand you tell me where Storm
is.” She lifted her chin, and her chest rose and fell beneath the tight tee
shirt.
Pulling
his gaze back to her face, her pink cheeks warned him that she’d caught him
staring. What could he say? He was a heterosexual, red-blooded male.
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Carla Swafford loves romance novels,
action/adventure movies, and men, and her books reflect that. She’s married to
her high school sweetheart and lives in Alabama.
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