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The Panty Melter
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An Enemies to Lovers/Boss’s Big Brother/Grumpy Fighter Pilot with a Heart of Gold Romance
Deacon Hunter is domineering. Condescending. Infuriating.
He keeps melting them right off. With that sexy voice, those confident hands, the way he brings my body wildly to life, he’s proved my libido hasn’t gone into permanent, post-divorce hibernation after all.
Surely there’s no harm in being enemies with benefits… Right?
No, seriously, come again.
And again and again, until both of us are so satisfied we can’t remember the people who did us wrong.
Best if we keep conversation to a minimum, though, considering I drive her crazy. She drives me crazy sometimes, too. But she’s also sweet, loyal, fearless, and so much fun she’s making it damn hard not to fall for her.
But how to convince a woman who’s put me in the emotional no-fly zone that I deserve a place in her heart? Not just her panties
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The Panty Melter
That’s all you get.
One chance at a love that lasts.
Maybe two, if you’re really lucky or really stupid or really good at forgetting how bad love roughed you up the first time.
Me? I’ve got a memory a mile long. My heart is an elephant that never forgets. Every miserable moment of my failed first shot at love is tattooed on my soul, lodged so deep in the wrinkles of my brain I couldn’t pull them out if I tried.
But why would I want to do something like that?
I like to learn from my mistakes, and to do that, I need to remember them. You know what they say—fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice…
I’m nobody’s fool, especially Love’s. That’s why I keep things casual, physical. I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name, but I’m not coming home to meet the folks. I’ve got enough on my plate with my own crazy family; I don’t need a booster shot of nuts from yours.
Especially when we both know it’s not going to last.
Chemistry fizzles, love fades, and happily-ever-after is the stuff of fairy tales. The only thing you can count on is this moment, this breath, this chance to choose pleasure over pain, to make love instead of ill-advised romantic declarations you’ll regret when the hormone rush fades away.
I know these things to be true.
They might as well be tattooed next to the pin-up girl I got inked on my shoulder during my first deployment.
But as I guide Violet Boden to the dusty floor of the attic at the Morton’s annual Halloween party—lips fused, breath coming fast, and hands everywhere, all at once—I’m possessed by the certainty that everything is about to change. There’s something on the wind, in the honeysuckle and sage scent of her perfume, in the way her hands tremble as she threads her fingers into my hair and holds on for dear life as I make her come with my mouth.
And then one more time because I can’t get enough of the sexy sounds she makes and the sweet taste of her body and the warm rush of her pleasure soaking through my skin to settle in my bones. It just feels so good, so fucking right that I want to stay with her in this attic forever, to die getting each other off and haunt it together as hedonistic ghosts.
I’ve been a Panty Melter for as long as I can remember—I know what I’m doing between the sheets and have never had any trouble getting a woman out of her clothes and into my bed—but I’m usually ready to make tracks the moment things threaten to get heavy.
But when Violet kisses me with tears in her eyes, the intimate taste of her mingling with the rum and coke lingering on her lips, and says, “Thank you, Sexy Stranger. I didn’t think I’d ever feel that way again. It had been so long,” I don’t want to bolt. I want to stay, kiss away her tears, and make her happy all over again—this time with my cock instead of my mouth.
“I don’t have a condom, but I’m shooting blanks, and I’m clean.” I cup her breast in my hand, rolling her perfect bud of a nipple between my finger and thumb. “And I would really love to be inside you.”
“Yes,” she breathes, rubbing my erection through the thin fabric of my costume pants. For the fourth year in a row, I’m dressed as Westley from The Princess Bride, complete with a fencing sword that I tossed aside a good twenty minutes ago.
There’s only one sword on my mind at the moment…
“But I want to see you,” Violet continues, reaching for the knot holding my mask in place.
And yes, I’m wearing a mask.
And yes, it covers all of my hair and half of my face.
And yes, Violet and I are relatively new acquaintances, only having met once before this party, when I stopped by the shelter where she works to let my brother, her boss, know that his pet cow was knocked up.
So it’s not all that hard to see how she could have mistaken me for someone else. But when she pulls off the mask, her eyes widening in horror as recognition apparently dawns, I’m still thrown for a loop.
“Deacon? Oh my God.” She scrambles backward across the dusty boards, fumbling for her discarded genie pantaloons with a frantic hand. “Oh my God.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask, wincing as I adjust my equally confused cock.
“You. This. Me.” She shakes her head as she jabs one foot into her pants and then the other, jerking them up around her hips with a rush of breath. “We can’t do this. No way. If I’d known who you were, I never would have—” She cuts off with a laugh that stings a little. “Oh my God, this is crazy.”