Life Before Damaged, Volume 3

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Title Page

  SEXY BEAST VS. ASS GRABBER

  TWO TO TANGO

  ASSFACE

  BABY DOLL

  FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS GET PHOTOGRAPHED DRUNK

  I TOLD YOU SO

  SHOWTIME

  BROWN NOSERS' PARADISE

  PERMAFROST

  COCKTAIL WEINER

  COMING SOON:

  COVER REVEAL:

  MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS

  MORE ROMANCE BY H.M. WARD

  CAN'T WAIT FOR H.M. WARD'S NEXT STEAMY BOOK?

  COVER REVEAL:

  Life Before Damaged Vol. 3

  The Ferro Family

  By:

  H.M. Ward

  www.SexyAwesomeBooks.com

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by H.M. Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  H.M. WARD PRESS

  First Edition: January 2015

  ISBN: 9781630350550

  Life Before Damaged Vol. 3

  SEXY BEAST VS. ASS GRABBER

  July 5th, 11:28pm

  Lovely. I bounce from the arms of one jerk straight into the arms of another. It’s a difficult choice between Ass Grabber and Sexy Beast, but choosing Pete does save my ass from bruising and my neck from slug-like kisses. The slime trail on my neck is still wet and has hair sticking to it. Sexy, right? He’s got a new nickname now—the Slug Kiss King.

  I pick the lesser of two evils and let Pete cut in. He’s looking sexy tonight, his dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck, a clingy black t-shirt defining ripped chest muscles, and dark jeans that hug his hips in all the right places. The man knows how to make himself look like sin on a stick. He probably is sin on a stick—complete with sexy scent and yummy cream filling. Holy shit! My cheeks burn at the thought. Where did that come from?

  I blink rapidly, chasing the thought away. Pete smirks at me, showing off those dimples. I swear he can read my mind. There’s something about this guy. Pete makes me want to drop every wall I've built and let him in. I know he's a Trojan horse though, and letting him in would only end in my heartache. I don’t need to add another notch to his belt.

  Pete takes my hand and tries to lead me away from the Slug King, who is loudly saying very unpleasant things about us.

  “I’m just saying that a woman showing her ass to everyone in the room is begging for it, man, and I’m going to give it to her.”

  Pete’s muscles tense and we stop. He drops my hand and whirls around on his heel. Pete has that don’t-fuck-with-me persona about him, back straight, shoulders squared and hands clenched tightly into fists. His voice is a growl. “What did you say?”

  Slug King laughs and runs his hand back through his slimy hair. He’s arrogant and thinks that Pete is all show. The moron doesn’t realize he picked the worst person this side of the Hudson to antagonize. Pete will knock the guy into the Bay and run him over with his yacht.

  Slug King grins and tugs up his belt. “I got here first, Pretty Boy. You can wait in line and enjoy my sloppy seconds. By the time I’m finished with her, she won’t have a spot on her that wasn’t marked by me.”

  Wow. That was... gross.

  Pete laughs as if it’s funny. People are starting to watch, sensing the growing tension between the two. “Sorry, but you picked the wrong girl tonight. Back off.”

  “Or what?”

  The Slug King chuckles and turns to the crowd with a can-you-believe-this-guy face, jabbing his thumb toward Pete. Before the guy can turn back, Pete’s fist pulls back, ready to fly.

  WTF? I just want to dance! Does everything have to be testosterone with these guys? “Damn it! You two are messing up my night. Cut it out!” I lunge forward before Pete’s arm flies and grab his fist. He pulls the punch and lowers his hand. Positioned between them, I put my other hand on the asshole so he can’t take a swing either. “Enough!"

  I look at crude, groping, Slug King. “Take a hint and take a hike. You don’t get to touch me unless I say so. And you!” I look toward Pete. He’s stunned, like he’s never seen a girl talk back to him before. Hell, if I were sober right now, I’d also be shocked.

  Crooking my finger at Pete, I say, “Dance with me.”

  TWO TO TANGO

  July 6th, 12:02am

  His blue eyes bore into me. Every muscle in his body is locked, ready to throw punches that weren't needed. Pete stands frozen, his jaw locked and mute. Rolling my eyes, I grab his hand and lead him back into the middle of the dance floor.

  Pete follows, albeit reluctantly, still looking over his shoulder at the guy who’d been harassing me. I hold my hands out, ready for Pete to take them and start dancing.

  He doesn’t. He just stands there smirking. Ugh!

  “Well, I thought you said you were cutting in? That usually means you want to dance, so let's dance.” I'm shocked by my boldness and try not to show it. I raise my eyebrows and put my hands out again, but he only smiles.

  He folds his arms across his chest, indicating he didn't intend to dance at all. “I don’t dance. Dancing is for pussies. Speaking of pussies, if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my date. Please try to stay out of trouble will you? Finding dangerous situations is becoming a habit of yours, Miss Granz.”

  My jaw drops. I gape at him. The words fly out of my mouth when I can finally speak, “A habit? Please!”

  “Yes, a habit, as in you are habitually in trouble and attract the attention of undesirable men.”

  I look him up and down. “The only undesirable man giving me issues is you. I had everything under control back there. You just showed up too soon.”

  “Really? Huh. Tell me then, at what point were you in control? Was it the first time he groped your ass or the second? Was it when he decided to paint your neck with his drool?" Pete unfolds his arms and takes a step toward me, closing the space between us. My heart beats faster with anticipation, even as my body stills, anxious to find out what he’ll do.

  To make his point, he draws a long, slow line along my neck with the tip of a finger, making me shiver. He leans closer to my ear whispering seductively, "Yeah, you seemed very much in control of the situation.”

  “I can take care of myself.” My voice is a whisper in a room booming with music. I don’t know how he heard me.

  He smiles and replies, “It certainly doesn’t seem that way. In fact, it appears that you have no control over certain aspects of yourself.” With these last words, his arctic eyes lock with mine.

  Part of me comes to life and puffs up at his words. I step toward him, pressing my body against his. “Like I said, I can handle unwanted attention. If you’d given me another second, I could have kneed him in the nuts. Guys are often stupidly close to a woman’s knee, kind of like you are right now.”

  “Is that a threat, Miss Granz?”

  Tipping my head, I reply coyly, “That’s more action than you’ll ever get from me. Keep on dreaming, Ferro.”

  Pete remains nose-to-nose. “Don’t challenge me, Granz.”

  “It’s not a challenge. It’s a fact.” I snigger. His smile widens, revealing those attention commanding dimples. “If you think your virility is so fragile that a short dance with a tiny little girl may put it in question, go back to your date and leave me alone. I'll find a real man to dance with me.
”

  Arching an eyebrow and plastering a confident smile on my face, I walk past him, dragging my fingers across his chest. I don’t get far before he grabs my arm and stops me. I feel victorious, having found a weak spot in his armor. I want to squee and throw glitter in the air.

  With a low growl in his voice, he says in my ear, “On second thought, I will have that dance.”

  I know I should keep on walking. Maybe it's the cozy alcohol buzz overtaking my rationality, or maybe my libido is wildly overcharged, but when I see Pete's challenging expression, I feel alive.

  He's conceited, manipulative, a royal pain in my butt and trouble in every sense of the word, but right now I don't care about any of that. I only care about dancing.

  “Do you know how to swing dance?”

  He moves closer to me, towering over me and placing one hand in mine, the other on my waist. He looks straight into my eyes and says, “No, but I can be an excellent student. Teach me.”

  The way he says it makes me melt. It sounds like he’s asking for something else, something wicked. My cheeks burn and my gaze lowers, but his cocky question makes me look up again. “Not a good teacher? Inexperienced? Is that the issue Miss Granz?”

  Trying to concentrate through the buzz is hard enough as it is, add sexy man candy to the mix and my brain is as functional as a melting glob of ice cream on a hot summer day.

  I kick his shin.

  “What was that for?”

  “Stop distracting me. You make everything sound like sex. Dancing is dancing and, yes, I can teach you if you quit screwing around. Pay attention.”

  Pete’s lips lift slightly at the corners, but he nods, suddenly all business. I have no idea what he thinks of me. I probably seem insane. The music dies down to a faint hum. People are dancing all around us, but they are lost in a blurry haze that keeps me in my own private drunken bubble... with Pete.

  Maybe he wasn’t totally nuts buying his man-soap from some little Italian town. It’s memorable and intoxicating. I should have factored that in before I let him press his body to mine. Add in the night air and the heated room, and it’s perfect. I want to sniff him up.

  And that’s my problem. I resent the powerful way my body responds to him. I’m hyper-conscious of where his hands touch me, enjoying the warm sensation of his skin. We sway slowly as I lead him through the basic steps Ricky taught me earlier this evening.

  Eventually, Pete catches on and takes the lead, trying spins and easy dips. He was right. He is an excellent student, learning quickly. His body moves with confidence, and he's not afraid to use his hips, making me putty in his hands. My body is his to do with as he pleases and I follow obediently.

  “You lied,” I say accusatorially as he brings me in from a spin. Our bodies are pressed together, hot and slick, with nothing but clothing separating us. “You’ve swing danced before, haven’t you?”

  Pete shakes his head, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “No, but I took ballroom dancing lessons. We all did, and we all hated it, except for my cousin Nick. His enjoyment of it only proves my point that dancing is for pussies.”

  “Well, add another pussy to the family.” I’m mortified after it comes out. “That sounded better in my head.”

  Pete laughs. “I would think so, unless you’re propositioning me for a night of tawdry sex.” He spins me out and pulls me back, twisting me under his arm, pressing my back against his front. “Are you?”

  “No,” I laugh at him. Before I can look over my shoulder, he spins me out and we’re back into position. I can’t deny it, there’s a magnetic pull toward him and I can’t understand why. Pete’s not my type. At all.

  After a few more moves, I realize we are dancing much too slowly for the song that's playing. I follow his lead, spinning in and out, pressing myself against him when he pulls me closer, wrapping my legs around his hips when he guides me to do so. This is no longer swing dancing; it’s more like a slow tango. I try to take over the lead, but he doesn't let me.

  Our bodies glisten with sweat, mostly from the hot summer night and dancing, but some of it from being so close to each other. I don’t remember being this close to Ricky when he was teaching me.

  Pete’s hips sway into mine, back and forth, slowly swerving, his hand splayed very low on my back, keeping me close to him. It's exquisite and wrong all at the same time. I try to put distance between us, but he’s too strong and he keeps me there, much too close to his body. He knows how to lead and no matter how hard I try, he twists my wrists and puts me back into position—the position he wants me—close.

  As he twists my wrist and pushes it into my back, I return to his chest, to that spot that’s so close to sex it makes my heart pound as if we were. His front is pressed against mine, his hands holding me in place, exquisitely positioned.

  His voice sounds heated, like he feels the connection between us as well. “You wanted to dance, Gina. No backing out now.” A couple strands of silky brown hair flop down on his forehead, almost hiding his eyes. He flicks his head back in the sexiest move I've ever seen. If only he came with a rewind button. I'd replay that move over and over again.

  Taking me by surprise, he lowers me down into a slow and languid dip, his eyes roaming my body. I let my head fall back and close my eyes, feeling the heat of his body close to mine. When I open my eyes again, I see him placing one of his hands next to my cheek, hovering above my skin, but not touching.

  I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but realize if I succeed, I’ll fall flat on the ground. He’s got me trapped in his arms once more, and I can’t break free. He brings his lips close to mine, but without touching them. His breath feels warm on my face. His hands slide lower, down my throat, passing lightly along the small curve of my breast, light as a feather, before resting at my waist. His eyes follow the same path his hand is taking. That soft touch makes my skin tingle.

  We're only dancing, I remind myself. Tangos are sensual, but it’s just a dance. Once more, I’m caught with my head and my body in a tug of war, except this time my head is so fuzzy it’s at a disadvantage. My body wants to arch into his hand, to feel more of him, but my head is telling me to stop this dance right now. As long as I don’t act on my impulses, I’ll be fine.

  But this is torture. He’s touching me, but he isn’t. I want him to, but I don’t.

  Clinging to his shoulders, I squeeze once, feeling the hard muscles as they contract underneath his dark fitted t-shirt. His other hand holds my lower back firmly, and his thumb starts to rub tiny circles. Sparks shoot through me, down to where they shouldn’t be. When his hand reaches my thigh, he brings it up, wrapping my leg around his hip, my other leg fully extended.

  When his eyes meet mine again, time seems to freeze around us. Who is he? He dances like he does everything else, passionately. He found my weakness, my dreamy guy button. A man who can dance, who can move and counter move with a woman like he owns her, but knows he can still lose her—that’s rare. Pete’s moves show he knows that damn well, but this Pete doesn’t mesh with what I know of him.

  We need to stop. There’s no longer an innocent, flirtatious feel to our dance. This is pure seduction, and I have a boyfriend.

  A little too breathlessly, I ask, “Don’t you have a date?”

  He looks down at my lips, and I think he’s going to kiss me.

  Don’t kiss him back, Gina, I think to myself. It’s poison. One kiss will never be enough and he knows it.

  With a soft voice, he answers, “Maybe. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  Say it, Gina. Say yes.

  Bells are going off left and right in my head, but my body freezes. What am I doing? I need to take a step back. This man in front of me is intoxicating and the worst kind of trouble, especially in this state. Alcohol bottles should come with warning labels that say, “Don't drink and dance with Pete Ferro.”

  “Maybe.” I want so badly to admit I'm still spoken for—I can't cheat on Anthony. But a part of me wants to hang on to the flirt
ing and the thrill I feel when I’m with Pete. Why can’t I feel this way around Anthony? Why can’t Anthony look at me like this, with eyes that threaten to devour me? Pete starts to distance himself, slowly pulling us out of the dip.

  Then everything goes to Hell.

  ASSFACE

  July 6th, 12:36am

  Before we are upright, a flash of light goes off, blinding us both. Someone took a picture of us. Pete lifts me up quickly, sets me on my feet, and then does the last thing I expect: he pushes me away like I’m trash. I stagger back and grimace at him. “What?”

  “Get away from me.” Pete says with anger in his voice, flicking his hand away like I’m worthless.

  What the hell? He’s pushing me away like he’s disgusted with my behavior.

  Since when does he have morals? OMG! I can’t believe he's done it to me again. I’m about to say something, tell him off with the rage of a fire-breathing banshee, but I stop. Oh shit. This isn’t happening. Some guy has a camera, like a real one with a lens and flash. He snaps a few more shots of Pete just as a man taps Pete on the shoulder. It's The Slug King from earlier, and he doesn't look pleased.

  "Ferro, right?" The guy says it in a condescending tone, like "Ferro" is the worst insult imaginable, like the name is vile or infected with corruption. Well, he kind of has a point there; the family has a reputation. But for some reason, the insult feels wrong.

  Pete came to my rescue twice in one week. Although, in my defense, I was totally going to give Jerkazoid an acute case of Kickedballsitis. Too much to drink seems to conjure middle school Gina talk.

  Pete's back is to me, and I see his muscles visibly tense up. His shoulders square, his muscles cord tightly, and his hands ball into fists. Seriously? Again? I feel the anger rolling off him in waves. Another flash of light goes off, and he looks over his shoulder and glares at me.