The Tempest
Brit Constantine
Publication date: May 26th 2017
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
They call him “The Tempest.”
England’s most feared heavyweight-boxing champion.
He despises the fame and glory, but it’s nothing compared to the hate he inflicts on himself. All he wants is to be left alone to live on his boat in misery.
When I line up for his autograph, it’s instant fireworks. But not the beautiful stars-shine-bright kind. He’s rude. Heartless. A ticking time bomb of rage.
Luckily, I’m not afraid to put a lit match to his fuse.
I upload a private video of him to my one-million-subscribers channel. The video goes viral.
The ex-Royal Marine nearly breaks down my studio door to flag me inappropriate…
…while I’m in the middle of a live streaming event.
I don’t tell him. I don’t switch off the camera. I keep recording, secretly playing to my audience. He should have checked if the camera was rolling, right?
It should be a shipwreck from the moment the storm hits.
It is.
And then … it isn’t.
Our attraction is painful, undeniable, and it’s like I am Eve and his lips are the apple, and damn if his tongue isn’t the snake.
I am the only girl who can put this broken man back together again.
But he knows the secret he is keeping will tear us apart. He knows it’ll force my hand to break ties with the only family I have left in the world.
But once The Tempest, the man with the iron heart, falls in love … he’ll crush anyone who dares to take me away from him.
I have no choice but to go down with his ship.
Hook, line, and goddamned sinker.
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The Tempest is a contemporary romance story of love, comedy and treachery.
No cheating. No OW/OM. Standalone. HEA. 18+
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EXCERPT:
I’m like a shooting bullet from a gun. Fast. Powerful. Deadly. She’ll get her shot. But right now, I want her to know just who is bigger, who is stronger.
“Now, is there anything you want to say to me?”
The room is pin-drop silent. I’ve always preferred silence, it’s easier that way to block out the dark in my head, detach from the world. But the sound of her incomprehensible response to the slightest touch of my body drowns out everything else. The sound of her submission is the only thing I want to hear. I could easily give up my life for it; spend every waking hour making her cum, just so I could hear those sounds for eternity.
“I…” she says weakly, finally speaking up. It’s a blunt contrast from her usual smug mouth. “I—”
She gasps suddenly, covering her mouth in shock, then snaps around to face the computer behind her. I hear the mouse click. I hear her swear.
Well, that’s a little strange… What the hell’s going on?
I watch her turn back around. Slowly. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Grabbing my jeans, I put them on. I leave my chest exposed, riding high. “Now you know who’s in control, so don’t think you can humiliate me and get away—” I start to say, but she damn well cuts me off.
“I was live streaming.”
What the hell’s she going on about?
I grunt, meet her eyes defiantly. “What do you mean ‘live streaming’?”
“I mean … this whole love affair … was recorded live.” She hauls her thumb in the direction of a camera. “I was doing a live streaming event when you broke through my door … and … I thought it would be … entertaining …. to record us…”
What.
The.
Hell?
I pause, let the words sink in. “Is this some sick joke?” She shakes her head, and looks ready to provide some sympathy, some remorse, like a normal goddamn person. But then she laughs, like it’s the most hilarious thing to her. Like I am…
“Fresh meat to the slaughter?”
“Isn’t it always… between us? she replies, almost sinfully.
I feel my blood start to simmer with…
Bitterness. I hate that feeling of bitterness that wormed its way into my heart and festered away like so many maggots, consuming the dead flesh, leaving the tiny bit of good raw and painful. I tried to fight it, but nothing ever worked.
One girl and … boom.
Trying to take Felicity down is like being in the ring, except she makes me more breathless. It was an unfair match from the start. Boxing is the sport of kings or something. But this — her — is the damn opposite — she is the sport for the poor and the desperate, men willing to break their minds, hearts and souls. And she just stands there, laughing, raising the anticipation levels, probably hoping for a longer fight and baying for more blood — my blood.
Looking at her, I feel my heart pound harder against my ribcage, but it isn’t anger fuelling it. I didn’t think I’d care about anything ever again. Stuff people care about, like babies and kittens and rainbows and shit. But all that shit could make me smile — genuinely smile knowing she’s in the universe.
Twenty-nine’s not that old, but joining the Army at sixteen, spending my teenage years learning to blow shit up … and after what happened … all those years ago … after what I … the reasons I’ve been living a bitter, twisted life … it’s made me feel older than my actual years. But since meeting her, I feel young, dumb and full of … yeah … I feel alive.
I’m known to rip heads off for the slightest error, so what I do next surprises the hell out of me. My eyes meet the warm brown eyes of the girl who is my Achilles’ heel.
Felicity Saint James.
Ah, hell.
I’m all hers.
Author Bio:
Filthy British contemporary-romance author. I live only for big ships, packed to the brim with hot seamen. ;)
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