Author: Katy Evans
Series: Real #4
Published by Gallery Books
Release Date July 29, 2014
Genres: Erotic Romance
More Info: Goodreads
Purchase From: Amazon US
Purchase From: Barnes & Noble
Purchase From: iTunes
He says he's no good for her.
She hates that he might be right.
Brook Dumas found Remington Tate in REAL, and now it’s her best friend Melanie’s turn to find the man who makes her heart sing. After years of searching, one night in the rain, the strong and mysterious Greyson King comes to her rescue. He’s bold, and maybe just the lover, friend, and protector she’s been searching for. When they make love, he says her name like it means something. Like she means something—and that’s everything she’s ever wanted.
He disappears for days without a word, and when he’s around, he says he’ll only hurt her. Buy when he’s away, her heart hurts more.
Then Melanie uncovers the dark world he’d been determined to keep hidden, and suspects that their random first meeting might have not been so random after all.
Caught in a free fall of emotions, Melanie has no one to catch her but the man she should be running from…
But what do you do when your Prince Charming has gone Rogue?
“It’s been a week, but as far as I’m concerned, I’ve been waiting a lifetime to sink myself into you.”
As I sit here trying to form the words to write this review, I am a raw bundle of emotions. Having just finished the book not even ten minutes ago, I feel like all my nerve endings are sparking. I worried going into this story that I wouldn’t love it as much as I did Brooke and Remy, but you know what? I needn’t have worried even a little. The heart, the intensity, the quiet danger, the breathlessness of the unexpected, and the sexual physicality was all off the charts. This was a slow read for me, as I wanted to savor each and every morsel. So when I say I drank in every little word, I mean it.
She makes me feel like I’m not a robot, like I’m flesh and blood, a man, not a number, not a job…not a monster, not a bastard, not a zero.
What I love about Katy’s writing is that she doesn’t bore you with the details. Even in the silence, it seems as if there is always something happening; something that’s worth paying attention to. The build-up between Melanie and Greyson was slow, yet satisfyingly sexy. There was a silent intensity between them that was palpable and needed no words to be spoken. Their chemistry was though the roof and was obvious from the moment they met. Nothing felt forced and I found myself wanting to know more, so much more.
She’s drunk and I’m angry, and I’m jealous and want more than her body. I want her fucking soul, and I want her to give it to me knowing who I am.
I can’t get enough of broken and flawed characters! I feel like there’s always something someone can connect with. Though both Greyson and Melanie were harboring secrets, to their core, they couldn’t hide who they were. Skin to skin, or fully clothed, their souls were bared as if they’d know each other a thousand lifetimes. But don’t get it into your head that this is all hearts and flowers, because if anything, it’s far from it. That’s what excited me though; the dishevel and unpredictability of their relationship. It kept me on my toes, as well as the characters, and I never knew what was around the next bend. I absolutely loved that they fought for each other. To see their strength, their anger, their pure acceptment of one another even when they only knew half-truths; it rocked me to my core.
I’m used to his touch. His touch is unique, delicious, and I’ve felt it for eight weeks, but I knew one day it was going to break me.
There can certainly be only one Remy, but Greyson stands his own ground. The sincerity in his voice when he calls her his princess is enough to bring this grown woman to her knees. And when he bares his soul, through inner monologue, I wept with swoon. The only thing Greyson couldn’t control was his heart, and I gladly went along for the ride. His Alpha nature quite often bled through and I lapped up every last drop. This man just DID things to me. I’ll definitely be reading this one again soon!
In an ideal world you only love the perfect man.
But it’s not an ideal world. I love an imperfect man who sins, lies, steals, blackmails, and how odd to know already-even though the years have not passed-that not even my Mr. Perfect or Prince Charming will ever, ever, live up to the one I just left.
I can’t put a name to what I feel when he’s inside me, so maybe I won’t try to. Does it even have a name? This connection between human beings. Between a woman, and a man; a fucking asshole.
I look at him, and he doesn’t scare me.
He lures me.
He tempts me, exhilarates me. He makes me want to claim him as if I’m claiming back a part of me that was once lost.
Makes me want to tame him. Let him tame me.
He rolls another condom on his thick cock and comes up to his knees, and I feel vulnerable and open but I don’t feel like hiding right now. I openly show him my hunger and lick and kiss his thick throat as he grabs my waist and pushes into me. I shudder uncontrollably when he’s all the way in, biting a tendon that juts out on his throat, close to my mouth.
The rumble of the sound he makes tells me he likes it. You like it when I’m feisty? My eyes flutter open, and he looks down at me with a look of wild, hungry, proprietary lust, but also strangely reverent and gentle. We fuck lazily this time, without the initial rush, our bodies moving in synchronicity until I see stars as another climax builds and builds.
“Go on, bite me all you want, little kitten.” He prods into my mouth, his eyes on mine as I comply, licking him, tasting him. “Do you want that to be my cock in your mouth?” his husky murmur taunts in my ear, breath hot. “Do you want to be sucking on this cock? Biting on it?”
I gasp with renewed hunger. “When I bite it I’m going to bite hard.” With my arms hooked around his neck, I rake my nails into a part of his scalp, my hips tilting faster to keep up with his increasing rhythm.
His laugh, once again dark, sensual, intimate as he brushes his wet thumb along my lips, the bed squeaking beneath us. “If you think I’m afraid of a little bit of teeth, you need to get to know me better, princess.” Just like that, he bites my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, thrusting harder so I moan.
I bite back, and he groans such sexy sounds it only makes the sex that much more intense. My wet, snug body grips him greedily because I want him in me for as long as I can have him, but the pleasure is too absolute to last as long as I want to, even though we both seem to be trying to last.
The mattress squeaks beneath us, harder and harder with his thrusts. I’m being just as noisy, and Greyson? He’s releasing low, male noises of pleasure too. “Get ready, princess, I’m coming so hard,” he rasps.
“Come,” I beg. He has no idea how much I’m aching to feel him go off inside me, go off with me.
He waits to feel me clench around him. Then, the moment it starts for me, he lets go. He comes full force, his body tightening like a bow, and when I feel him jerk in me, his hands clenching on my hips, my pleasure explodes inside me until I’m convulsing so totally I can’t keep my eyes open.
I lay in breathless silence for a moment, realizing Greyson is untying me. He rubs my wrists with the pads of his thumbs, then plops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his nipple ring glinting with the little rays of sunlight peeking through the window.
The sun is rising already. I really didn’t want it to rise yet because I don’t want to leave yet.
In silence, I go to the bathroom and when I come back to bed, he’s staring out at the city looking satisfied and exhausted, his shirt all wrinkled, his hair all mussed, his beautiful mouth swollen from me. I should get going. Probably, I should. Instead I stare at him and that mouth and I wonder how many women kissed those lips.
He’s warned me off, but I don’t feel like being warned off. I feel as though somewhere, deep down, he’s bullshitting me. Why would he give me this necklace otherwise? Why would he give me, over and over, THE LOOK?
Even so, I’ve gotta go, so I walk back to that big bed, my eyes scanning the floor for my dress even though the thought of going home alone to my apartment makes my stomach churn. I could call Pandora, but I’ll have to be prepared for her drilling the shit out of me, I guess.
“Do you see my dress?” I whisper to him.
His voice is gruff with tiredness, his eyes hooded as he pulls open the bedsheet for me.
“Yeah, I set it aside to avoid the clutter. Come here and get some sleep.”
Oh, god, I really didn’t want to leave, but I don’t want him to know how much I want to sleep here tonight either.
So I stand there, naked and unsure for a moment.
“I don’t have to stay,” I say, but there’s this way he has of looking at you—as if he’s commanding you. It’s very odd. I’ve never encountered anyone who could have such control with a single look.
Caving in to it, I find myself quietly heading over. His lips curl as he lifts the sheet higher and I see his naked body under the cover.
I feel strangely awkward as I slide into bed with him, first sitting on the corner of the bed and quickly braiding my hair; I wouldn’t fall asleep otherwise, I simply can’t stand waking up and feeling it on my face.
I sense his curious gaze watching my every move, and when I sigh and lie down on my side, facing a stone fireplace on the far side of the room, he laughs behind me. “You really plan to sleep way over there?”
“I don’t want to intrude!” I laugh nervously. “I don’t stay over usually.”
“You just like to fuck and get away, that’s fine, princess. Except for the fact that I’m not done with you.”
He reaches out and guides me toward him by my braid, and when I don’t protest the maneuver and actually feel like tucking myself closer to his warmth, he exhales softly. “You’re something, aren’t you,” he murmurs, taking my braid in his fist and forcing me to roll over and face him. Then he pins my head against his, forehead to forehead. “Maybe I’ll sleep tonight; you wear a man out.”
“What do you mean?” I peer up at him, notice the hard set of his jaw. “You don’t sleep?”
“Not well, but I’ll go for it if you will,” he softly teases me.
“Then let’s go for it,” I say, grinning.
It feels like, for several minutes, we stay as we are, him with the merest curve of his lips while I’m smiling completely, both of us looking into each other’s eyes. I have no idea what he sees in my eyes that holds him so intently engrossed, but I can’t look away from his gaze either. It’s so closed and mysterious while, at the same time, I can see a fiery rawness in his gaze, as if he desperately wants something from me.
Not something; all of me.
“Come here,” he rasps. He makes the first move, easing one of his arms around me, pulling me against his side. I cuddle into his large body, a little tense at first, but at the same time, achingly aware of every spot where our naked bodies are touching. Where my breasts press into his ribs, my cheek on his chest, one of my legs hooking in between his.
God, this is as intimate as it gets with a man and I cannot relax, I cannot oxygenate, I cannot formulate a thought.
His breathing begins to deepen and . . . oh, wow. He’s asleep.
He fell asleep holding me, with his arm locked around my shoulders, and I don’t understand why I get butterflies over this.
I don’t understand my visceral reactions to him.
This hot man with a secret room. Who in the world has a secret room?
This man does. And I’m so curious about him, I study his features and tell myself I can sleep when I’m alone . . . so I touch his nipple ring and watch him lie in his big lonely apartment, deep asleep with one arm around me, wondering what other secrets he keeps from me.
A fallen boxer.
A woman with a broken dream.
He even makes me forget my name. One night was all it took, and I forgot everything and anything except the sexy fighter in the ring who sets my mind ablaze and my body on fire with wanting…
Remington Tate is the strongest, most confusing man I’ve ever met in my life.
He’s the star of the dangerous underground fighting circuit, and I’m drawn to him as I’ve never been drawn to anything in my life. I forget who I am, what I want, with just one look from him. When he’s near, I need to remind myself that I am strong–but he is stronger. And now it’s my job to keep his body working like a perfect machine, his taut muscles primed and ready to break the bones of his next opponents . . .
But the one he’s most threatening to, now, is me.
I want him. I want him without fear. Without reservations.
If only I knew for sure what it is that he wants from me?
He’s mine, and I’m his. Our love is all-consuming, powerful,
imperfect, and real…
In the international bestseller REAL, the unstoppable bad boy of the Underground fighting circuit finally met his match. Hired to keep him in prime condition, Brooke Dumas unleashed a primal desire in Remington “Riptide” Tate as vital as the air he breathes… and now he can’t live without her.
Brooke never imagined she would end up with the man who is every woman’s dream, but not all dreams end happily ever after, and just when they need each other the most, she is torn away from his side. Now with distance and darkness between them, the only thing left is to fight for the love of the man she calls MINE.
Underground fighter Remington Tate is a mystery, even to himself. His mind is dark and light, complex and enlightening. At times his actions and moods are carefully measured, and at others, they spin out of control.
Through it all, there’s been one constant: wanting, needing, loving, and protecting Brooke Dumas. This is his story; from the first moment he laid eyes on her and knew, without a doubt, she would be the realest thing he’s ever had to fight for.
Ripped (Real, #5) (coming 12.9.14)
Every woman wants me–except the one I sing for.
Seattle shakes with anticipation: they call it the concert of the year. They say girls are getting pregnant just thinking about my band being in town.
But when you love a girl, you don’t leave her with nothing but a ring and a promise. Any man with half a brain should know.
So what did I expect my girl would do when she saw me again?
Well, for starters, she loathes our music. Particularly the song I wrote about her.
When I sing it, the stadium is in an uproar. Thousands of fans scream my name like I’m a god–but yeah, not her. Crystal clear: the girl’s not happy to see me.
Black hair, black boots, a bad attitude, that’s her — Pandora Stone is a freaking man-eater and she’s out for my blood.
Let her come at me. Because I’m out for her heart and, this time, there’s no way she can stop me.