“I love you,” she said, or maybe she shouted it, as he hurtled her toward that sweet, hot edge.

“Oh, I know you do, baby.” And he laughed as he stopped moving, making her moan in frustration. He laughed again when she scowled at him, and tried to move her hips against him to do it herself if he wouldn’t. He just tightened his grip and held her there, so hard and deep inside of her she was shaking with it. With all the same old hunger. All that hard-edged need. “Pull those fucking tassels off. Now.”

Sophie sucked in a shuddering breath. His blue eyes were hard on hers, amused and much too aware.

“That’s going to hurt,” she said, and she didn’t care that her voice shook. That he could hear it the same way he could undoubtedly feel her quivering around his cock as he held himself there, lodged deep inside of her.

His hard mouth curved. “Oh, yeah. It will.”

“A lot, asshole.”

“Trust me, baby. I’ll make it feel better.” And Ajax laughed, that gloriously dirty laugh of his that made Sophie feel precious and loved, desired beyond measure, and entirely and utterly his. “Eventually.”

And he did.

Over and over, for the rest of their lives, that was exactly what he did.

To Rachael, Jackie, and Maisey, my favorite biker chicks. And our wonderful editor, Shauna, for loving these stories as much as we do!

PHOTO: COURTNEY LINDBERG PHOTOGRAPHY

MEGAN CRANE is a New Jersey native who had great plans to star on Broadway, preferably in Evita, just like Patti LuPone. Sadly, her inability to wow audiences with her singing voice required a backup plan. Accordingly, she graduated from Vassar College and got her MA and PhD in literature from the University of York in England. She wrote her doctoral dissertation on AIDS literature, mostly so she could wallow in her obsession with the remarkable multimedia artist David Wojnarowicz and her idol, the bitter and hilarious David Feinberg. After many years in the rain and subject to the whim of seasons, she followed the sun to Los Angeles, where she lives with too many pets and an artist named Jeff. She is still plotting her Broadway debut.

megancrane.com

Facebook.com/​MeganCraneAndCaitlinCrews

@megancrane

The Editor’s Corner

It’s time to go back to school and feed your reader with these fabulous Loveswept romances….

In Laura Marie Altom’s scorching new novel, The Escort, a broken heart pushes a rugged loner to the breaking point—until a not-so-innocent affair changes everything. New York Times bestselling author Kathy Clark keeps the heat on with Deep Night, as two adrenaline junkies find themselves fighting unexpected passion—and unspeakable terror. New York Times bestselling author Missy Johnson’s Code of Honor asks a burning question: What happens when love is undeniable—and taboo? And USA Today bestselling author Lauren Layne’s Blurred Lines delivers a sexy take on the timeless question: Can a guy and a girl really be “just friends”?

Sidney Halston’s scorching new MMA romance Laid Out, proves there are no holds barred when it comes to seduction. In A Fashionable Indulgence, the first novel of an explosive new series from K. J. Charles, a young gentleman and his elegant mentor fight for love in a world of wealth, power, and manipulation. Then meet Megan Crane’s Deacons of Bourbon Street, bad-boy bikers who are hell on wheels—and heaven between the sheets in Make You Burn. New York Times bestselling author Jacquelyn Frank returns with Nightwalker, a pulse-pounding installment in the Nightwalker series. And perfect for Highlander fans, My Highland Bride is where Southern sass meets Highland heat in Maeve Greyson’s scintillating new Highland Hearts romance.

New in Flirt is Just a Little Kiss, the next novel of Renita Pizzitola’s Crush series. Felicity knows that “Summer Boys” are only good for one thing. But what if hooking up with the right guy could lead to a fresh start?

There you have it—until next month, when September is the month to fall in love all over again, with Loveswept.

Happy Romance!

Gina Wachtel

Associate Publisher

Can a scorching affair with a bohemian beauty tame a motorcycle man with a dark side? Rachael Johns takes the wheel in the sexy Deacons of Bourbon Street series, co-written with Megan Crane, Jackie Ashenden, and Maisey Yates in Fire Me Up Coming soon from

Loveswept Continue reading for a sneak peek

Chapter 1

“Holy fuck!” Travis Sinclair stepped into the entrance alley of the building that had once been the den for a lot of shit and a lot of sin, dropped his pack on the cobbled floor, raised his sunglasses and wondered if he’d been transported into some kind of alternative reality. And not a good one at that. From what he could see, the Deacons’ former clubhouse had become a bohemian sanctuary, every available surface displaying some kind of hippie painting or sculpture. He should be happy it no longer resembled a fucked-up biker’s lair—it’d be easier to sell without that kind of reputation—but problem was, it now reminded him far too much of his mother.

The hair on the back of his neck lifted at that thought and he screwed up his nose as the pungent smell of Eastern-scented incense wafted toward him. He took a tentative step farther inside only to be assaulted by the sounds of someone torturing an old piano in the courtyard ahead. He glared disdainfully at the back of the blond-haired asshole. Even far off and without seeing his face, the shit looked high on weed. No real musician would be thumping the keys with such intensity while swaying so much he was almost dancing on the stool. He guessed the noise from The Priory—the bar Sophie, Priest’s daughter, now ran next door—was the reason he hadn’t heard any of this crap before.

He’d been in town for a week—some of it spent with Ajax, Leon and Micah at the bar—long enough to pay his respects to the man who’d been a pseudo father figure half his life, a man who’d eventually abandoned him exactly like his mom had. The last thing he’d expected, or wanted, was to inherit three properties on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, a city he’d turned his back on ten years ago. A city tourists loved because of its dirty, gothic opulence, its ghosts and zombie history, but which he now hated for those, and other, reasons.

Turning away from the guy he guessed to be their tenant, Travis took his time to look more closely at some of the so-called art that hung on the walls of the alley and courtyard. Mostly bright colored paintings, abstract he guessed—things like humans with rabbit’s heads and bright red balloons—and metal sculptures made from crap like old forks. Why anyone would want either stuck on their wall he had no fucking clue. But then again, judging by the lack of any actual customers in the gallery and the paltry amount Billie, the tenant, had been paying Priest to lease the joint, maybe he wasn’t the only one with some taste around here.