Without Condition: Sandy Ridge Series, #3

By Lynn Burke

He will never give a woman power over him again. She will do anything to prove she's the one for him. Can Kayla convince Ford that she will stand by him without condition?

 

Nothing but Kayla's fingers and not-so-trusty vibrator have given her an orgasm in almost a year, and the one man she's hell-bent on breaking her losing streak hides behind his badge. Detective "Hottie Pants" Ford thwarts her every attempt at seduction, and even though vandalisms, a trashed apartment, and physical assault keeps throwing them together, he refuses to attempt a relationship ever again.

 

She sees past his façade into the man hiding his pain behind unbreakable rules and inflexible conditions, but even after the fiery chemistry between them ignites, she struggles to prove to him she is nothing like the woman who jaded him for life.

 

Heartbroken, Kayla decides on a vacation to help her peace of mind—and ends up at Sandy Ridge. With danger hot on her heels, can the man she turns to first recognize Kayla for who she is? Will he give her the chance she needs to let him know she wants him without condition, before it's too late?

 

Without Condition is the third installment of the Sandy Ridge series that features sassy heroines, swoon-worthy heroes, and sexy intrigue that will keep those pages turning.

If you need some heat in your life, grab Without Condition today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Burke
• Release date: Dec 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393453130

Lynn Burke

USA Today Bestselling author Lynn Burke is a CrossFit and coffee addict. Her three spawn dictate how often she can be found hunched over her Mac, typing as fast as her fickle muse cooks up hot stories.

Book preview

1

Detective Ford’s words rang in Kayla’s ears.

Swing by my place on your way home and fill me in.

Fill me in… Shit, she hoped he would be filling her before the night ended. Kayla had been crushing on the man for a few months, and even though the sexually charged energy always crackled between them, the damn dork had yet to make a move. He’d also shut down every advance she’d attempted when given the opportunity.

Lower lip sucked between her teeth, Kayla stared out the taxi’s window, her gaze sliding over Boston’s downtown patrons mingling in the city lights’ glow without really seeing them.

The first time she had laid eyes on the detective, her stomach had dropped clear to her toes, and all the blood in her body rushed to pulse deep between her thighs. The thighs no man had touched in almost a damn year. The thighs she clenched together on the taxi’s seat as the driver weaved his way toward the Charles River.

Detective Ford could have suggested meeting at the station. He could have suggested a coffee shop…but no. He wanted her to swing by his place.

Kayla blew her breath out slowly between her lips in an attempt to calm her racing pulse. What she needed was a beer…and his cock.

Giggles lightened her stomach full of butterflies, and she bit her lip again to keep them contained. Nothing but her fingers and not-so-trusty vibrator had given her an orgasm in almost a year, and the thought a man would soon be exploring every inch of her skin, thrusting into her body had her panties soaked clear through.

It took damn near forever, but the taxi finally pulled up in front of the detective’s apartment building. Kayla paid and climbed the handful of stairs to the front doors, her legs and hands shaking.

Having come straight from Chantelle’s Too where she’d left Mindy and Gage—who would probably end up back at her and Mindy’s apartment to fuck the night away—she couldn’t have been better prepared to meet the detective. Slinky, sexy top that dipped low enough to offer a tantalizing view of spectacular cleavage, a skirt falling mid-thigh, three-inch fuck me red heels, smoky makeup, and dark hair straightened past her shoulders—yeah, she was so ready to rock his world.

The elevator in the building’s lobby dinged, and the doors opened a few seconds later.

Empty, but not surprising for the late hour. Kayla pressed the button for the third floor while chewing on the inside of her lip again. Unit 318A. She reminded herself of the last part of their conversation while exiting the elevator a few seconds later. There… She moved down the hallway, her legs like Jell-O.

One deep breath and she knocked. She straightened her top’s spaghetti strap, rubbed her lips together to make sure her gloss would be perfect, and squeezed her thighs to fight off her unrelenting need to be fucked already.

A bolt unclicked, and the door pulled open.

Her breath caught. She’d only ever seen the dark-haired hottie in a suit. Lounge pants hung low on his hips, and his chest… Good Lord, the man hadn’t put on a damn shirt. A tribal tattoo inked up his right arm, and other tattoos wound around the ball of his shoulder and down across his chest. At least in his late thirties, the man still rocked a body like a twenty-year-old, all dips and plains of luscious-looking muscles.

But back to the loungers, low enough, the V of muscles at his hips showed along with a nice dark happy trail disappearing beneath its band… She wanted to snake her fingers over the dips of his muscles, weasel them beneath his pants, slide her hand along his cock, and beg him to give her what she needed.

Swallowing, Kayla lifted her gaze and found him giving her the once-over as well. She shifted her weight onto one foot, jutting her hip out.

Detective Ford cocked his head to the side and finally, lifted his attention to her face. Dark eyes, unreadable as always, peered into hers.

Come on in, he said, his low voice rumbling straight down to her clit and swelling the nub enough, her panties chafed—in the best way possible.

Kayla stepped past him, rubbing her thighs together and breathing in the clean scent of laundry detergent that always lingered around him. The warm scent of man, usually covered by business attire, wafted past her nose, and she longed to bury her face in his neck and sniff him deep into her lungs.

Sorry for my lack of clothing, he said, shutting the door behind her. I just came up from the gym on the first floor.

Kayla clutched her small purse in her hands, grabbing a quick glance of his tight ass before he turned back around. No worries. A breathless ball of horniness. Lovely.

He hobbled toward the kitchen, and she glanced down to find his ankle wrapped up.

What happened to your ankle?

Sprained it downstairs right before you called. Hurts to walk.

That explained the lack of a shirt—and, sadly, the reason he’d asked her to meet him at his place.

Goddamnit.

He tipped his head farther into the apartment, motioning past the small kitchen on the right. Make yourself at home. Beer?

Yes. Please. Kayla meandered down the short hallway, fighting back her disappointment and taking a peek toward her left as he went to the fridge. One bed, one bath, she noted, but he still had to be paying out the ass. It was Cambridge after all. Meg, Mindy, and she had lived in the same area since they’d attended BU College of Fine Arts a few years before and were well acquainted with the cost of living so close to Boston.

Well, Meg had moved out to be with Trevor and Jack in early summer, and she expected with how Gage and Mindy had been eye-fucking each other at Chantelle’s Too earlier that night, she’d soon be paying for the three-bedroom apartment on her own.

Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving. Maybe Detective Ford needed someone to warm his bed and help pay the bills now that he had an injury that might require him to take time off.

Kayla sat on a couch, facing the windows overlooking the building’s courtyard, her mind spinning over how to get what she wanted from the man. The hotter-than-hell detective hobbled toward her, a frown denting the skin between his eyebrows.

You okay? she asked, glancing down at his ankle again.

Not the first time this damn ankle went out on me. I’ll be fine by morning. He handed her a cold bottle of IPA—her favorite—and sat on the chair across from her as she let out her sigh over the fact he wouldn’t need help with his bills.

Kind of late to be working out, Kayla said, glancing at his rock-hard chest.

Long day. He settled back in his chair. So, tell me what happened tonight.

Face deadpan, still shirtless as though wanting to melt her into a puddle of goo, he stared at her. He’d accomplished that with her panties, the damn man. Always so put together and proper, you’d think he would have put on a shirt if he wasn’t interested in her drooling all over his body.

So, maybe I do have a chance…

Kayla took a long pull from her beer, telling herself to get the details over with so they could move onto…well, whatever the hell she could talk him into.

Wendy Franklin and Mindy’s ex, Tim, were at the dance club.

Detective Ford picked up a notebook and pen from the coffee table in front of him, lips in a flat line. Go on.

She stuck to the facts about the short encounter that almost led to her ripping Wendy’s face off for stealing Mindy’s fiancé, telling the detective the words Wendy had spewed in Mindy’s face.

Little fucking whore, the detective repeated, his pen scratching on the notepad.

The exact words spray painted on Mindy’s bedroom wall.

The women’s apartment had been broken into a week and a half earlier, the shared living spaces torn to shreds and Mindy’s room demolished, furniture included. Black spray paint had decorated the walls before the detectives shot pics and she and her friends had repainted.

Lips