Spinning off from the two #1 bestselling Amazon series—Carolina Bad Boys and Bad Boys of Retribution MC, headliners in Erotica Humor, Thrillers, and Suspense—come more deliciously dangerous, scandalously sexy stories, a whole new level of hotness starting with Walker.

Explosives are Walker’s specialty, but he’s never handled anything as combustible as his enemy, Jade Huntington.

WALKER
Goddammit. All I want to do is blow shit up. Is that too much to ask? But, no. What I get is mission frigging impossible in the middle of a Beirut hotbed. I’m the renegade of Operation T-Zone, but this time I swear I’m gonna do things by the book. That is, until Jade Huntington’s involvement in my op causes a brand new snafu.

My tribal name means desperate warrior, and that’s exactly what I am for reasons I can’t outrun. And Jade? She’s personal enemy number one. An incredibly sexy one at that. But she’ll never find out just how desperate I am for her.

JADE
I’m not an assassin, even though I am badass. I’m a protector. Except when it comes to Walker. What I wouldn’t give to bore a bullet through his stubborn skull. We’ve been at each other’s throats for years, this time I’m determined to leave him in the dust after I shoot a few holes in him.

We’re forced to work together when Walker practically kidnaps me and my package: the woman I’m guarding, the target he’s assigned to take out.

Days on the run. Nights of enforced closeness. Fighting side by side. Ever-present danger ignites a desire I can’t control. But the endgame is so perilous Walker and I might not make it out alive.

Four X-Ops alpha men. Four feisty wicked women. Four books you’ll want to sink your teeth into.Bad Boys of X-Ops.

Back to back, spring-summer 2016!:
Walker
Justice: Available for preorder now. Coming April 25th!
Storm
Bane

I listened to Storm grumbling through the industrial sized headgear affixed to my ears, the rotors of the HH-60 Pave Hawk whump-whump-whumping overhead and on the tail.

“Exotic location was the phrase I used.” I chuckled low in my chest. “Didn’t mention nothin’ about R&R.”

“Thought I’d at least be able to get my jock off without gettin’ my fucking head shot off.” Storm aimed me a look from the pilot’s seat, one sinister black eyebrow raised.

“I’ll get you a hooker in Dubai after we get out of this mess.” Unbuckling, I reached over and tapped him on the cheek, ignoring the growl that parted his lips.

In the cargo area of the Sikorsky helicopter, I checked my parachute, the altimeter, the straps of my harness, and my pack filled with all sorts of goodies. I was unofficially Storm’s copilot, but fuck it. The man didn’t need me. He could handle the chopper on his own without the usual five-man crew. He’d have to, because I was getting ready to jump ship in high-altitude, high-opening, full-on fuck-this-shit terror.

Storm snorted, and his deep voice rumbled over the ear-gear. “Unlike you, I don’t need to pay for my pussy.”

“Not after that time you caught syphilis, right, Kemosabe?” Ignoring the curses Storm slung my way, I started zipping into my fancy flight suit, checking and double-checking straps, buckles, my bailout O2 line.

Storm stepped into the back with a dip of his head. “Remember what Blaize said about covert mission?”

“The fuck. I’m always covert.” I wrapped my arms protectively around the desert camo pack snuggled against my chest like it was a baby in a papoose, because I knew what was coming next.

“Hand over the flash bang, Walker.” He opened his palm.

“Goddammit. I feel naked without my C-4. You know that.”

“Gimme.” Storm advanced.

“Motherfucker.” I watched while he dexterously unzipped the side pocket of my pack, eagerly snatching the two M112 demolition blocks of putty-white plastic explosives wrapped in a Mylar bundle.

My eyes narrowed. “Blaize is a bitch.”

“Head bitch in charge.” He pleasantly agreed. “Blasting caps? Priming unit?”

I placed both in his hands, my own shaking like a meth head giving up the last of his stash.

Watching hungrily as Storm placed my precious bundles aside, I muttered, “Blaize is definitely a chick with a dick.” Tearing my gaze from my favorite weapons, I grinned. “Bitch chick with a dick you got the hots for.”

“I’d rather dip my dick into a vat of boiling oil.”

“Like when you got syphilis? That can be arranged.”

Storm cuffed me on the back of the head. He was just lucky I was trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. Thanksgiving . . . heh.

Blaize Carmichael was our new hardnosed higher-up at Operation T-Zone. Op T-Z was an organization quite possibly unsanctioned by the PTB of the USA, because they didn’t need to know what we did behind enemy lines, in the line of duty.

We weren’t military.

We weren’t from the CIA Viper Pit.

We weren’t Black Ops.

We were darker than that.

Unlike previous operations managers who’d given years of orders over secure lines and in scrambled codes, Blaize had come on the scene, giving it the personal touch with an up-front team meet-and-greet. Yeah, the woman’s touch in the form of intense head games more mind-fucking than any passive-aggressive wifey could come up with.

By the time she’d debriefed us with her high-heeled boot up our collective asses, read us the riot act, and nailed us to the wall over every single possible past mistake and mission mishap, I’d gone home and drunk a bottle of tequila.

Blaize did have nice legs though.

I rubbed my sleeve across the mask of my helmet then peered at Storm . . . then gawped at the cockpit. The empty fucking cockpit.

“Wait. Who the fuck’s flying this thing?” I asked.

“Autopilot.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Autopilot?”

“Jerry-rigged autopilot.” His smug smile did not put me at ease.

“I do not want to know.”

“Probably not, but it involves a selfie stick and duct tape and—”

“La la la . . . I can’t hear you.” Jesus Christ. I was gonna die tonight. I just knew it.

Storm (Bad Boys of X-Ops Book 3): Coming soon

Bane (Bad Boys of X-Ops Book 4): Coming soon