Title: Out of the Blue
Author: E.L. Irwin
Genre: New Adult
Release Date: October 21
Publisher: Blue Tulip Publishing
KatyBeth Reilly, horse-trainer extraordinaire, is capable, responsible and hard-working—she hates backing down in a fight. When she meets—completely by chance—Hollywood heartthrob, Asher Fitzpatrick, she decides she wants nothing to do with him. He’s arrogant, self-assured, and seemingly very assured of her.
Asher doesn’t like taking no for an answer—he’s determined to get to know Katy—so he makes a couple of phone calls that set the stage for their second meeting. When Katy comes face to face with Asher again, she knows she’s going to need help this time—not because she feels out-maneuvered, but because for the first time in her life she knows she doesn’t want to fight.
I calmly walked past him to the small fridge on the far right wall to get a bottle of water. My mouth felt dusty and somehow I knew that in a moment I was not going to want a dusty mouth. For some insane reason I suddenly thought of the Orbit chewing gum commercial: For a good clean feeling, no matter what! I could hear the British woman's accent in my head. I chuckled in nervous laughter.
I heard Asher's sharp intake of breath, so I turned around and faced him then. I stood still so he could see me clearly. I was okay. I wasn't hurt. I watched his eyes. Asher hadn't moved, other than to turn his head to follow my progress across the barn.
In fact, the only thing that was moving on him was his chest. He was breathing slowly, deeply and his eyes… they roved all over me until he had assured himself I was in one piece.
I took a deep breath, was about to speak, when something in his eyes, some look, suddenly made it impossible. Asher looked at me hard for a moment longer and then he lost the battle. I saw the moment his strong will failed him and had just seconds to brace myself.
Asher crossed the barn to me in three long, quick strides. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me, crushing me to his chest. He buried his face in my hair, breathing me in. He was trembling. I was trembling. He held me like that for a moment, almost seeming undecided as to what his next move would be. I felt him lift his head and look around. He must have found what he'd been looking for, because suddenly he was moving again — me still in his arms. My legs were now wrapped around him and he supported my weight. I wrapped my arms tightly around his strong neck; my fingers curled into his thick, dark hair. Asher slid his hands down my back, my sides, to my hips, making me shiver.
I could feel the heat from his hands through my jeans as they slid a bit farther down my thighs, lifting me still further. Suddenly my back was against a wall and I felt a bench or something under me. We must be in the tack room, I thought.
Asher held still now, just holding me tightly to him. One arm was around my waist and the other around my thigh. His face was buried in my shoulder. I felt him shuddering, trying to regain control of himself.
"Kate," he muttered, his voice low and vibrant with need, his tone pleading. "Tell me to stop."
Before I could consider what he was saying, much less comply with his request, Asher's hands were moving again. He slid them slowly to my hips and gently rested them there for a moment, squeezing rhythmically. Then they moved upward over my waist, up my back, to my shoulders. He held me firmly, willing his hands to go no farther.
His will was still shot, apparently, because they continued to my throat and into my hair, where he gently, but firmly, pulled my face up to meet his.
Asher's mouth was barely touching mine; he moved his lips lightly, slowly back and forth across my mouth. Pent up tension and frustration made me whisper, pleadingly, "Ash, kiss me!" I felt him lock in place for all of one breath and then finally his mouth slammed against mine.
I've never been kissed like that. Ever. When Asher had kissed me before he'd been very gentle with me; he wasn't gentle now. He was relentless. His hands were still in my hair, gripping, holding me in place. Mine were wound tightly around his neck. Neither of us even considering stopping or separating.
A child of divorce and abuse, E L Irwin found escape in reading and writing, and through the school of hard-knocks, learned to be a fighter. She’s a self-described romantic-rebel who wears her heart on her sleeve and tends to shoot from the hip on subjects that matter. She enjoys riding horses, wearing heels, shooting her X D .40, tattoos, and of course, a good book and hot coffee.