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How do you repair a broken heart?
Sarah Campbell had always been the type of person who laughed the loudest, smiled the brightest, and the constant rock when anyone needed her. She had a good life full of friends and family, until everything came crashing down around her. Dealing with tragedy, Saturday nights became her only escape from the darkness and pain she felt inside. Not wanting anything more than to just give herself to someone—anyone—and let them take away the hurt. Until one Saturday night when Bentley Cole sat next to her at the bar.
Bentley knew a thing or two about broken hearts. One look into Sarah’s dull and desperate eyes, and he knew he would do anything he could to take her pain away. Changing his plans and throwing caution to the wind, Bentley made it his mission to help Sarah learn to live again, even if it meant losing himself in the process.
Fate put them together.
The rest would be up to their broken hearts.
*Take Your Time follows Falling to Pieces, but can be read as a standalone
In a low tone, keeping my voice steady and even, I said, “You know what I need, yet you keep it from me—dangle it like a carrot—and then get pissed when I go find it somewhere else.”
He sneered and then spun around, pushing me forward at the same time until my body leaned into the open door of his truck, my hands braced against the seat and his hard chest against my back. I didn’t have time to do anything other than gasp before his hand cupped my sex over my jean shorts, adding pressure with his palm that caused my hips to buck against him.
“Is this what you want, Sarah?” he asked with a growl, his lips grazing my ear. His other arm wound around my body, his forearm against my chest as his hand gently grabbed my neck, tilting my head back against his shoulder.
I thrust my hips back, seeking more from him. “No.” I let go of the seat with one arm to grab his hand, leading it to where I needed it the most—inside my shorts.
His hot palm stilled against the sensitive flesh of my lower stomach, his fingertips barely beneath the waistband of my shorts. “Tell me what you need, Sarah. Say it. Beg for it. I’m not going to give you shit until I hear the words come out of your mouth.”
“Touch me. Please, Bentley. I need you to touch me.” My voice was nothing but air with a few syllables cracking through, proving to him how desperate I craved his touch.
His hand moved beneath my shorts at a slow, torturous pace. The heat from his palm scorched my skin, taking my breath away as I anticipated the path of his fingers. The moment his fingertips breached the top band of my lacy underwear, a moan vibrated in my chest, moved up my throat, and escaped past my lips.
“This is what you want?” His voice sounded just as strained as my own. He pressed his body into my back more, causing me to lean forward until my forehead landed on the soft leather of the seat in front of me. His hand slipped from my neck to my chest, grabbing my breast through my thin tank top. “If I do this for you, there’s no more bars. No more random hook-ups. No more dealing with life on your back.”
I moaned again and wiggled my hips, hoping he’d do more than tease me with his fingertips and warm hand on my pelvic bone.
“Say it, Sarah. Agree with me, and you’ll get what you want. But you have to say it.”
“Fine. I agree with you. Now please, touch me.” I hated to beg, but he had me so worked up I couldn’t do anything else. I’d promise him anything at that moment if it would’ve made him keep going.
“Say it. All of it.”
“I won’t go to bars anymore and pick up guys, I promise.”
His body curled around my back, the heat of his breath landing on my bare shoulder in reckless waves. He gripped my breast harder, searching for my nipple through the material of my shirt and bra. When he couldn’t get close enough, he frantically moved his hand beneath my shirt, peeling back the cup to my bra and pinching my hardened nipple between his fingers. The sensation made my knees weak and an airy gasp leave my lips. It must’ve affected him, too, because as soon as the air burst from my lungs, I felt his teeth graze over my shoulder before gently biting down.
“You want me to make you come, Sarah?” His words were throaty, desperate.
“You need it?”
“Yes,” I repeated, more frantic than before. One-word answers were all I could give.
He moved his hand again until the pads of his fingers were pressed against my aching clit. He held it there for a moment, tormenting me, but then slowly pushed his finger through my folds until finding my soaked core. I wanted him to push it farther until I could feel his thick finger inside me. But he didn’t. He dipped just the tip in, gathering up enough moisture, before moving back to my hard nub. I wanted to complain, beg him to go back to where he was, but the way his fingers circled my sensitive bundle of nerves left me speechless.
“I need you to tell me what you like. Tell me what feels good. Don’t go silent on me now, Sarah. If this is what you want—what you need—then you have to give me something. I need to hear you.”
He was so demanding, yet handing over the control at the same time. I’d never been with a man like that before. It was either one or the other with the men before him. But it was such a turn on to hear him talk, hear the way he vocalized my effect on him through his strained voice, his ragged pants. I hadn’t even had an orgasm yet and I was already gone, my mind light and free.
“I need you in me. Put your fingers in me,” I demanded urgently, although my voice was shaken and pathetic, not at all demanding.
Leddy Harper had to use her imagination often as a child. She grew up the only girl in a house full of boys. At the age of fourteen, she decided to use that imagination and wrote her first book, and never stopped.
She often calls writing her therapy, using it as a way to deal with issues through the eyes of her characters.
The decision to publish her first book was made as a way of showing her children to go after whatever it is they want to. Love what you do and do it well. Most importantly Leddy wanted to teach them what it means to overcome their fears.