Saturday

Spotlight, Excerpt & Teasers : Tainted Touch by Lucy V. Morgan (NA)


Book Blurb & Info

Tainted Touch
by Lucy V. Morgan

A sensual New Adult romance, set in England 

Twenty-year-old Caitlyn McCoe likes logic, cake and breaking a sweat. In that order. What she doesn't like is the fact that her manipulative ex, Dominic, has crawled out of the woodwork after their breakup last summer. She needs to concentrate on passing her business degree, not telling him to get lost. But fantasising about Fist Candy--the boxer she loves to watch at the gym, where she works--is excellent escapism. He's beautiful, untouchable...and safe.

Until he's her new co-worker. And then he's not safe at all.

Art Lyons was a rising star on the boxing circuit and a brilliant student. Then he dropped out, disappeared, and has just resurfaced as the new sports massage therapist at Caitlyn's gym. He doesn't want to talk about why he's no longer at uni; he doesn't want to explain the tattooed slashes across his hip.

But he's troubled by the connection he feels between the punch bag and the brush of a lover's fingers. He wants to use his hands to heal, not hurt. Caitlyn clams up when her friends go to hug her; after Dominic, something changed beneath her skin, twists the things she feels. If Art can find a way to reach beyond that, he could help her. She could heal him.

That's if they don't break each other first...


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Book Excerpt

Beside the machine, the boxing gym door is propped open by a plastic chair. Two guys in nothing but track pants are huddled in the middle of the room, deep in discussion as they swing fat red gloves on strings.

Then, my eyes are drawn elsewhere.

In the far corner, a tall shape is smacking the living shit out of a black punch bag. He drives in one fist after the other, and each hit echoes loudly as the bag creaks on its chain. Slap, slap, slap, slapslapslap. There's almost something dirty about that rhythm. I find myself zeroing on the way the muscles in his broad back rove beneath his skin; how the sweat glistens in pleasing evidence of his hard work. Dark hair, cut short enough to be tidy but long enough to form cute peaks when damp, licks the nape of his neck.

And I find myself wondering how the punch bag feels. How it gives like flesh beneath his fingers.

"Caitlyn?" Vicky pokes me in the ribs, but I don't flinch. "Are you getting anything?"

The boxer glances back just for a moment, allowing me a glimpse of his profile. I can't tell the colour of his eyes from here, but I notice how they widen briefly. How they flare. I swear white teeth play along his full bottom lip. As he twists, a flash of colour at his hip becomes apparent; ink, rough slashes.

Then he's lost to the punch bag again, all thrusting fists and flushed skin and breath spewing in soft grunts. A stranger showing more than he ought to in public–things I couldn't touch if I wanted to. Undercurrents. Prickles that needle the back of my neck. He's angry, but it's more than that.

"Cat? Are you getting a drink, or what?"

I glance around at Vicky, whose brow is creased in annoyance. "Yeah, sorry." I fumble about, trying to position my bottle beneath the fountain. At least I'm too red for her to notice my blushing. "Should probably put some water into my Pepsi stream."

I can't help it–I peer back through the gym doors, where he's moved on from beating living shit and appears to be going for the firmly deceased. The flush has spread to his shoulder blades, and they glide up and down like knives in the hands of an astute butcher. Cold water gushes over my fist as the bottle overflows; I do nothing about it. How embarrassingly Freudian.

Vicky mock-huffs beside me. "When you've finished perving, I'll be in the locker room," she announces.

I don't even bother to answer; I just mirror her good-natured, crooked grin, and bring my wet hand to my forehead. It's cold enough to make me sigh.

In a minute, I'll have to follow Vicky, if I want to make it in time to swim. But I let my gaze linger over the boxer's back one last time. I gulp down cold water and drink in the sight of him–punch after punch, slap after slap, and the water cools my belly as his punches warm me, lower down. He is Fist Candy, and deserving of proper nouns.

The heat of my pulse is opiate and delirious. I want more of it. More, more, says the quiver in my blood. I've become a junkie in the space of two minutes and I can't find it in me to be embarrassed for a single blink.

Shame lifts like a shadow, easing its stiff fingers one at a time.
Teaser
Author Info

Lucy V. Morgan writes sharp contemporary fiction, usually with a liberal splatter of filth. She lives in England, where she also works as an editor. She spends her spare time consuming lebkuchen, working through her TBR pile, and pretending she's an urban fantasy heroine in body combat classes.

She shares lots of teasers on Facebook, so you should look her up right this minute, really, shouldn’t you?

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