KB. Kristen Ashley - Dream Man 02 - Wild resspocobarte.ml KB. Kristen Ashley - Law resspocobarte.ml MB. resspocobarte.ml Kristen Ashley - Wild resspocobarte.ml MB So addicted to Kristen Ashley an the dream man series! Thanks. 3 As always, Kristen Ashley wrote a fabolous book!. But after four months of dating, she discovers he's an undercover DEA agent-and he's investigating her possible role in her ex-husband's drug business. Standing between Tess and Brock are their own exes, one of them a drug lord who's determined to get what he wants.

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Read "Wild Man" by Kristen Ashley available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. She's about to walk on the wild side While. Editorial Reviews. From Booklist. Tess O'Hara is a fortysomething woman with an ex-husband Wild Man (The Dream Man Series Book 2) - site edition by Kristen Ashley. Romance site eBooks @ resspocobarte.ml Editorial Reviews. Review. "Ashley delivers a deeply emotional second installment of the Mystery Man (The Dream Man Series Book 1) by [Ashley, Kristen].

At Peace. Rock Chick Reborn. Rock Chick Rescue. Rock Chick Revolution. Sweet Dreams.

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I loved that in this story, the main characters were rock solid together after the initial bit of rocky-ness and were largely focused on dealing with outside issues and there were lots of them! Tess and Brock had each other's backs and were so awesome together.

I love coming back to this story to witness their love and the way they build a relationship that includes not just each other but the other people in their lives. Even with the difficult things they go through, this is a comfort read for me. Great book! Finally a story where a good girl fights back!! I love Kristen Ashley books I have read all of this series and have read a few of the chaos I love her books I look forward to the next one!!!!

So, this was great, and that should come as no surprise - KA writes a vicious love story that sucks you in and won't let you go - you are in the world with these characters, waiting on baited breathe for what is next. Ever descriptive in creating a world where our characters are, in person, and in thought, but not overly so, we get to know our heroine through her actions and reactions, and how she sees and takes in things around her, is a huge part of that.

Tess is no exception, and she sees everything through rose-coloured glasses, but not in an unrealistic way. She is an internal optimist, though she has a temper, and looks for the good in everything, how well things can go, and how she make people happy. When her temper flares, which is so unoften, she has no control over it, and it consumers her.

She is tough, she is loving, and she is realistic Brock has seen and done so much in life, but he 'gets' Tess from before he meets her. There are bumps along the way, but he sticks with it, centers her as needed, and helps her because he has to. We only get our insight into Brock, when it switches to his POV near the end of the book. My heart broke for him, and my tears flowed freely.

Tess got him so clearly, he was a good man, her Wild Man, her snake charmer, and they fit together perfectly Loved the story, the characters, side and main, new and repeats, the progression, the feelings evoked, and the overall feel of the story. I read this one last of the four Dream Man series, and the order of the books doesn't matter, but the wonderfulness of finding love will wash over you in each of these books … Show more Show less.

Kristen Ashley Dream Man 02 Wild Man

Love her books I probably already shared with half of Denver, all of them getting their own private show. That already messed with my head enough, that and the fact that he came at all, I let him come, then he made me come after which he came.

Then, often, like tonight, repeat. He moved to the bed and I watched that too. He bent low, I felt the heat of his hand on my knee, his fingers curling around the back and he lightly kissed my hip, his lips skimming across my skin, making it tingle. Then he slid the covers up my body to my waist where he dropped them.

I was mostly on my belly, partly on my side, my arm crooked, hand tucked under my face on the pillow. His body moved in that direction, his fingers slid under my hair, pulling it gently back and his lips came to my ear. His head moved infinitesimally and his lips skimmed the skin at the back of my ear then his tongue touched there. That made my skin tingle too, so much my whole body shivered. He pulled the covers up to my shoulder.

Then he turned and he was gone. No noise, not even the door opening and closing. He was just gone. Freaking crazy. I stared at my bedroom door awhile.

My body felt warm, sated and tired. My mind did not feel the same. I turned to my back, tucked the covers around my naked body and I stared at the ceiling. I should have been working. I was a freelance editor. I had a mouth to feed, my own.

I had a body to clothe, a body that liked all sorts of clothes, it craved them so I had to feed the habit or things could get nasty. And I had a house I was fixing up. Therefore, I needed to get paid. My Dad did some of the work. My friend Troy did other work.

So, I should say that I had a house I was guilting, begging and emotionally blackmailing others into fixing up. Like right then, sitting at my computer, one heel to the seat, my chin to my knee, my eyes staring out the window, I was thinking about my Mystery Man, the Great MM.

I was daydreaming about changing our first meeting. Being smarter, funnier, more mysterious, alluring, interesting, hooking him instantly with my rapier wit, my flair for conversation, my ability to discuss politics and world events intelligently, my humble stories of expansive charity work all wrapped up with enticing looks that promised a lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms, making him declare his undying love for me.

Or at least tell me his name. Instead, I was drunk and definitely not any of that.

I heard my doorbell go, a chime then a clunk and I started out of my elaborate daydream which was beginning to get good. I got to the bottom of my stairs and walked through my wide living room, ignoring the state of it, which was decorated in Fix Up Chic, in other words dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power-tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of it jumbled and covered in a layer of dust.

I made it through the area without my hands going to my head, fingers clenching my hair and mouth screaming, which I counted as progress. I got to the entryway which was delineated by two narrow walls both fit with gorgeous stained glass.

Two years ago, that stained glass was my undoing. His prayer lasted a long time. His lecture longer. I still bought the house. As usual, I should have listened to my Dad. Shit, shit, shit. I hated Darla and Darla hated me. What the hell was she doing there? I searched behind her to see if my sister was lurking or perhaps hiding in the shrubbery. In my darker daydreams, this was how Ginger and Darla spent their days. I was convinced this was not far from the truth.

No joke. I opened it but not far and moved to stand between it and the jamb, keeping my hand on the handle. Totally spent her days looting. It took effort but I stopped my eyes from rolling. Ginger, you crazy, stupid, bitch! Get your ass out here! Ginger is never here. You know that. So shut up and go. You get me? Then she lifted her hand, did the gun thing with the sound effect, finger pointed at my head. Then she turned around and walked swiftly down my front steps.

I stood on my front porch staring at her. My mind absently noted that she was wearing a tight tank top, an unzipped, black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, frayed jeans skirt the wearing of which was a crime in several states for a variety of reasons — both fashion and decency, black fishnet stockings and motorcycle boots and it was around forty degrees outside.

But my father and his wife Meredith had disowned Ginger awhile ago. It was approximately ten seconds after they came home from a vacation to Jamaica and lost their happy, island holiday mojo when they saw their daughter on her knees in the living room, her head between the legs of a bare-chested man, his jeans opened, his head lolled on the back of the couch because he was passed out and Ginger was so whacked on whatever she was taking she had no idea her activities were getting her nowhere.

And, incidentally, the living room was a disaster as was the rest of the house. As you can probably see from this story, I was loath to bring my father into another situation involving Ginger.

Dog was a member of a biker gang and Dog was as rough as they come. Dog was funny and he liked my sister. She was different around him. Not a lot, but at least she was palatable. Not in twenty-five years. Enter Dog. I drove to the auto supply store on Broadway and found a spot on the street. But Ride was awesome. It had cool stuff in there. I bought my windshield wiper fluid there. And when I was in my twenties and going through one of my many phases, in an effort to pimp my ride, I also went there and bought a fluffy, pink steering wheel cover and a glittery, pink Playboy Bunny thingie to hang from my rearview mirror.

It was for custom-built cars and motorcycles and it was world famous. They built cars and bikes and they were extremely cool. Movie stars and celebrities bought cars and bikes from there and, from the pictures, I could see why. I got out of my car and walked down the sidewalk to Ride hoping my outfit was okay. It was a distressed tan leather, had a bit of quilting around the high waist, was lined with short, warm fur and it had a six-inch tuft of fluffy fur at the sleeves.

I thought it was hot and the deal I got on it was hotter. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I straightened my shoulders, walked into the cavernous store and turned direct to the long counter at the front that held one cash register even though sometimes the place could get packed.

His brows flew up. Dog was using the c-word. Before I could speak, Dog did. Jesus, Gwen. You got one warning, woman. Dog thought I had a sweet tail. I focused on the matter at hand, took a deep breath and walked forward. All of the bikers went on alert, or, more accurately, scary, biker guy alert so I stopped moving.

Darla came around this morning and she freaked me out. She did this. Then I sighed. I did the sigh thing loudly and I was good at that since my sister made me sigh a lot and I had practice. Then I opened my eyes.

He was tall-ish. He had a lot of tattoos up his arms and neck that I instantly wanted to examine, up close, to the point of cataloguing them and maybe writing books about them. He had salt and pepper hair, mainly pepper, black pepper and it was long with a bit of wave but not too long or too wavy.

Ditto with the pepper in his salt and pepper goatee that hung a bit long at his chin in a biker way that was mammoth cool. His cheeks were a couple days passed needing a shave which looked good on him too.

He had spikes of pale radiating in the tan skin around his blue eyes. There were only two words to describe all that was him: Biker Yummy.

Then his blue eyes did a body scan and it shivered again. I turned to look at Dog who was standing next to me. So who is she? Then I watched his lips move to form my name softly. I always thought it was pretty. Tack saying it made me freaking love it. He was hot but he was also freaking scary. Time to sort things out, pronto. A pain in my ass. A pain in my ass since the day she cut off all the hair on my Barbies.

She was three. I was too old for Barbies but they were mine. We should have known then. He was looking like he wanted to laugh. It was a good look.

I wanted to go home, whip up a batch of cookie dough and eat it. Tack was still smiling when he dipped his head to my checkbook. Then he crossed his big, tattooed arms on his wide, ripped chest and shook his head. Pesos, maybe? The bad news was, my sister owed him over two million dollars. I mean, I had reason to lose my mind and that reason had a name. Ginger Penelope Kidd. Just innocently being born and seven years later, zap!

God curses me with the sister from hell. Is it too much to ask for a sister who giggles with you and trades makeup secrets? Is it? She cut the hair off my Barbies. She stole the lavalier my grandmother gave me on her deathbed and pawned it to download pot.

He might have been straight-laced and, looking back, probably boring but at the time I liked him! His eyes smiled. My body shivered. A lot. Time to go. His fingers curved deeper into my neck and he pulled me up a bit so I was almost on my toes and his face was closer.

Way closer. Too close. Shiver close. This sounded worse than owing a biker gang two million dollars. That means protection. Now do you get me? You walked in here and had no clue. Oh boy!

His grin got bigger. Then he let me go but slid my purse off my arm and before I could make a peep, he dug into it. I decided to let him have at it. I also figured he could best me in a fight for my purse so I was going to let him take what he wanted. My best lip gloss was in that purse but at that point, if he wanted it to give to one of his bitches, I was willing to let it go. He came out with my cell, flipped it open, his thumb hit buttons, he flipped it closed, dropped it into my purse, then slid it back on my arm.

You need it, use it. Now, do you get that? I got that. He thought I was cute. I fought back another shiver.

She was my half sister. Mom had left when I was three but she came back occasionally and when she did we had fun. That was until one visit, while she had me for the weekend, she met a guy she liked and she liked him a lot.

She took him back to her hotel, gave me a bunch of candy and sent me outside to sit and wait for her to call me back in. The manager of the motel saw me sitting out on a bench, swinging my legs, eating candy, daydreaming and doing it for ages, so he called the police.

I told the policeman my phone number that Dad made me memorize and they called. Meredith was awesome. She was the coolest stepmom ever. She was sweet and funny and she loved my Dad, like, loads. She also kept homemade cookies in the cookie jar all the time and for a kid, a girl who was being raised by a man who was all man, that meant she was practically perfect She and Dad got married and I was the flower girl but not like normal flower girls.

She made her special day our special day. She was making a public statement that she was walking down the aisle not only to take a man in marriage but to build a family. I was six and I never forgot how special she made me feel, never, not to this day.

But that was Meredith. Then she and Dad had Ginger who was my Mom times, about, five million. This was the cruel twist of fate. For Dad, Meredith and me. The second thing I was thinking about was all things Tack. What he said, the way he looked and how he made me feel. How he got in was as much a mystery as his name.

But he did. But he always came back.

Okay, so he thought I was cute and another bonus was that I knew his name and he knew mine which, Mystery Man, by the way, did not know. But my sister owed him over two million dollars and he was scary. And lastly, I was thinking about my Mystery Man. The days after he visited I always did. None of them came close to what little I had with MM and therefore none of them got to the second date or second base yes, the Great MM was that good of a kisser. He was totally screwing up my life.

I was screwing up my life. This was what I was thinking after I parked my car in my drive, walked up to my house studying my boots, slid the key into the lock and opened my door. Once I cleared it, the door slammed, hard and loud. Then a hand in my chest slammed me into the door, again hard and loud. Then a man was in my space, his body deep in mine, pressing me into the door and I looked up into a pair of somewhat familiar black eyes. God, I forgot how beautiful he was.

I blinked at his surprising tone and angry question. Jesus, are you insane? Firstly, because I was confused. How did he know I went to Ride? Secondly, I was more confused. What was he doing there during the day? Thirdly, I was even more confused because his unbelievably handsome face showed clearly he was extremely pissed off.

He was scarier than Tack, Dog and the entire biker gang all rolled into one. But I blinked again. Then he stepped back and ran his hand over his short-cropped black hair at the same time he shook his head but not even for a second did he unpin me from his ferocious scowl. He planted his hands on his hips and leaned back into my face.

Gwendolyn Piper Kidd. Thirty-three years old. Self-employed, freelance editor. You pay your taxes on time, your mortgage on time and your bills on time. Your father is Baxter Kidd, ex-Army, current construction foreman, married to Meredith Kidd, executive secretary to a hotshot divorce attorney who, incidentally, pulled your shit outta that mess you got into with that asshole.

Your sister is the definition of loser. You spend too much on clothes. When you go out, you show too much skin.

Then I closed my mouth only for it to fall open again. Then I closed it only to open it to speak. Belatedly, I was getting angry. It was safe to say Ginger was a piece of trash.

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It was also safe to say my Dad, Meredith or I could call her that. Even Tack and Dog, who she owed over two million dollars, could get away with calling her that. And one I was discovering was a big, fat jerk! His eyebrows flew up and it sucked because he was so goddamned handsome, all that brown skin, those black eyes, that strong jaw, that thick, short, black hair, his beautifully chiseled features and equally beautifully chiseled physique — all of it hinting at Hispanic or maybe Italian and all of it freaking, unbelievably amazing.

But the worst for me, right then, was that he could be even more drop dead beautiful with his eyebrows raised in disbelief like he thought I was an idiot. The best end to this scenario is she turns up dead. He continued to ignore me. Your sister does not exist for you. Now, you keep your head down, be smart and keep yourself out of trouble. Which means you stick to what you know, who you know and where you know. You do not move out of regularly scheduled programming. Now I was getting really angry.

I get you. Now go. Oh my God. Because at that moment I was pretty certain mine was about to. Never, not once, not even that first night, did I see him smile and if he was beautiful normally, his face smiling knocked my freaking socks off. Lordy be, the man had two dimples. For some reason the warmth in his eyes deepened at the same time he whispered his warning.

I tried to pull my face away but his hands tightened and I stopped. He called my dare and raised me. My eyes rolled back to him and I instantly noted my mistake when I found one of his hands had disappeared and his mouth was at my neck, his lips at the skin behind my ear and then I felt his tongue there.

Without my permission, my body did a top to toe tremble. I stared at the closed door then moved to the window and checked and I was right.


He was gone. Then I turned my back to the door and stared into my messy living room. And I was thinking I was pretty sure he felt the tremble. Chapter Three The Day of Epiphany My house was an old farmhouse that once graced fields but now was situated in a neighborhood of much newer houses, that was to say built in the last fifty years, on the close outskirts of Denver.

Once you made it through the narrow walls with kickass stained glass of the entryway, my house had a living room that ran the length of the front. To the right behind sliding inset glass doors was a dining room or den, but it was nothing now. Empty space. To the left, a swinging doorway into a big kitchen. Upstairs were three bedrooms, one somewhat small so I made that into my office, and a mammoth bathroom.

My father had not let me move in until he and his buddy Rick had installed a new bathroom. He said this was because the bathtub was imminently going to fall through the floor.

I thought he was being dramatic because he hated my house and still does. Even so, why I thought this I really did not know because my father was not a dramatic person. So Dad redid my bathroom, after, of course, he rebuilt the floor, and now it was gorgeous with clawfooted tub, pedestal sink, heated towel racks, the lot.

He also redid the wood plank floors in my bedroom and the office and re-skimmed the walls in both rooms. Meredith and I painted my bedroom and Meredith made me killer roman blinds to go in the windows of my bedroom and in my office. My friend Tracy and I painted my office. I then proceeded to the fun phase of renovation: decoration, while Dad moved onto the kitchen on which he worked with Troy.

The completion of this took five months because they both got sidetracked with other things like their own lives and the faucet in my half-bath downstairs not turning off and the roof leaking and the light switch in my bedroom not working and the furnace going out, stuff like that. So after MM left, I went to my kitchen, made chocolate chip cookie batter, took the bowl, a spoon and a cup of coffee to the table and grabbed my phone.

Then I sat with one foot on the floor, one heel to the chair and stared at it. I should call Camille. Camille was a straight-talker. She was smart. She was worldly and she had her head together. It was a good relationship, loving but challenging because both Leo and Camille had attitude.

But if they ever broke up it would be like Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell breaking up, that was to say proof that the world would soon be coming to an end. Camille, however, knew all about MM and she thought I was part nuts, part crazy letting him come to me in the middle of the night and not knowing his name. She advised repeatedly that during the very next visit I should firstly, kick him in the gonads and secondly, call the cops.

I could also call Tracy. Tracy was a romantic. Tracy was not a straight-talker. Tracy would rather endure torture than say anything that would make you uncomfortable or hurt your feelings. Tracy also loved the idea of MM.

She was convinced one day he was going to reach out, turn on the light, frame my face with his hands and tell me the sun rose and set for him through me, promptly marry me in a fairytale wedding and thereafter treat me like a princess to the end of my days. Even after all this time she was totally convinced this was going to happen and she never faltered in that belief. She would never see it for what it was, jerky, intrusive and supremely annoying. Troy had always been just Troy. Troy had been around before Camille and Tracy.

Troy was a friend and the thought that he wanted to get in my pants freaked me out almost more than everything else that happened that day. I stared at my phone and spooned up some dough. I dialed, swallowed and put the phone to my ear. No, total silence. And I know you do not wanna go there. They call themselves Chaos for a reason and these boys are not like other boys.

These boys do not have the civilized filter other people do. They do not only not exist in a world of law and order, they exist in a world of survival where there is only instinct. And she also knew about MM, who was also hot, way hotter than Scott, and was proving to be of the Scott bent, namely a jerk. You need to lay low. She did.Listen, Pitch. Then his jaw got tight. When her temper flares, which is so unoften, she has no control over it, and it consumers her. His hands lifted and came to my jaws so I instantly jerked my head free of his hands and took a step back.

How the hell did this woman manage to get three hot guys willing to wage war over her? And I was thinking of doing it, honest to God, I was. This will be yet another review where I will show off my fine skills of prioritizing.