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Waiting on Wednesday is a feature hosted by Breaking The Spine. This is my anticipated book of the week!
While Gedeon “Player” Lazaroff is one of Torpedo Ink motorcycle club’s roughest members, he’s also one of the calmest. Little rattles Player, except for the times his gift gets the better of him. When that happens, he has to just lie down in the dark and hope for the best. But on a night when he’s on the verge of losing it, he meets a woman who manages to soothe his fractured mind.
Zyah is a striking, ethereal beauty who seduces him with every word and move. Their night together is one of pure, exquisite bliss. But when Player gets confused and thinks their intimate encounter was nothing more than a dream, his careless dismissal leaves her humiliated and angry.
Now, Player will have to devote his every breath to convincing Zyah to give him a second chance. Because she might be the only one who can save him from himself….
This series…. this series is amazing. It is so gritty, hard core and emotional. The characters really make you feel for them. The MC is tight knit, and if you have read this far in the series you know why. They are driven to make things right in the world and focus mainly on human trafficking. The scenes will tear your heart out.
The Torpedo Ink series gets grouped into the PNR genre because each of the members has special talents. They are not what you would expect from a PNR, but they are helpful to the MC’s mission. Sometimes the special talent is something that is not appreciated by the member, but for the group as a whole, it is invaluable.
I totally recommend this series. Chrisine Feehan’s Shadow Riders is another one I really enjoy, but Torpedo Ink is my love!
Soft washed-out blue jeans rode low on her generous hips, and a rose-colored tee was knotted under her equally generous breasts. Her abdominal muscles had been undulating to the music as her hips performed intricate movements and her curvy buttocks and very high rounded tits shook to the music. Coins and bells hung from a wide golden belt wrapped around her hips and bells swung from an ankle bracelet with every movement she made. She came to an abrupt halt when his shocked gaze hit hers.
“What are you doing in here?” Player managed to find his voice. It came out rougher and far more gravelly than he intended, maybe even a snarl. He had a lower register, one that tended to intimidate easily.
He was a big man with wide shoulders, a thick chest, muscular arms and narrow hips. His hair was brown with streaks of blond. It fell a few inches beyond his shoulders, a thick wild mass that made the vivid blue of his eyes only more piercing and direct. He kept a short, trimmed dark beard and moustache that also added to the effect his eyes had on others. He was very aware she might find him extremely intimidating, especially alone in the room with him, but he couldn’t move away from the door no matter how much he told himself to step away.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was musical. Soft and gentle. Like a cooling breeze sweeping through the room . . . or his mind. She looked genuinely distressed, her amazing eyes, expressive, the long lashes sweeping down as color flooded her face.
“One of the Torpedo Ink members told me to come into this room. That I should dance in here.” Her explanation came out fast, the words tumbling over one another and yet at the same time, her tone was lyrical, as if she blended the notes with the universe, unlocking some secret formula that set everything right.
Player could see letters floating in the air, but they were moving away from him. Away from her. The eastern-themed music didn’t fit at all with the down-the-rabbit-hole nightmare world his mind created when he was so far gone like this. He pressed his palms harder into the door, standing firmly in front of it, more to keep her in now than to keep everyone else out. He recognized that in some way, she was soothing to his fragmented brain, and that was a puzzle he needed to solve. Now he just wanted her to stay and talk.
Her body had been moving when he’d entered, and the rhythm of her bare feet, ball to heel, hip dipping low, swaying gently, hands flowing so gracefully, all kept time with the earth itself. She seemed to flow gracefully, in harmony with the music, with the earth.
He was a woodworker. A musician. Everything about him had to do with nature and rhythm. At the moment, he was so out of sync with nature, so completely out of tune, but he recognized that she was the most naturally gifted woman—make that “naturally gifted person”—he’d ever met. He hadn’t known anyone like her actually existed. She could have been born of the earth itself.
It wasn’t just that incredible voice of hers, but her body as well, every movement, no matter how small, flowing and soft. He was mesmerized just by the way, when she spoke to him and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, he felt the heartbeat of the earth like the beat of the Arabic music playing so softly in the background.