Series: 300 Moons *can be read as a standalone
Genre: Sci-Fi Romance
Publication Date: March 7, 2016
Praise for Burn This! 5 Star rating on Amazon
“Burn This!” is the fantastic 2nd book in the new series, “300 Moons”! I don’t know how, but each new book by this author somehow tops the one before! Contemporary fiction with a fresh story-line and well developed characters, entertaining dialogue and some hot & steamy scenes that will keep the reader engaged & the pages turning!- Deb_Loves2read
This is why I say Ms. Black has the Golden Touch, yep she did it again. This is the second book of A 300 Moons Series. I love it. If you thought book one was good oh my gosh book 2 is phenomenal. – Ingrid Stephanie Jordan
Another grand slam for Tasha! I could not put this book down! Wonderfully developed characters, which is an absolute MUST for me! Plenty of plot twists, beautifully described scenery! – Angel33eyes
It was time to get his mind straight and play rock star for a little while.
Before the wrong person could approach him and start asking about the fire, he scanned the room.
In the sea of punk and goth, his eye was drawn to the light brown hair of a sweet young thing perching on the edge of a couch, clutching the neck of a hard lemonade. On closer inspection, he could see that she had a ton of eye make-up and even a tiny nose ring. But she was about as close to normal as he was going to find in here, and normal was what he was after on a night like this one.
He pointed at her and nodded toward the bedroom.
In this moment, he often wished his intended fuck would give him a little trouble. Shake her head no, or pretend not to understand.
But they always understood. And they always said yes.
This one was no different. Just like that, she practically leaped up, spilling her friend’s drink in the process.
The friend yelped a perfect C and Johnny eyed her up. Not bad – dyed black hair like the chick from every nineties movie, long legs.
Should he indulge himself with both?
A voice in his head instantly said, no. Not tonight. He didn’t feel like sharing.
Minutes later they were alone in his room.
The room itself was simple: beige carpet, beige walls, beige ceiling. But the view was spectacular.
Panoramic windows laid the stars at the girl’s feet.
He watched as she scanned the room.
She didn’t even notice the view.
The movement of her head stopped to take in the location of the bed, and paused again before the floor length mirror.
She turned to him, but at the last moment couldn’t look up into his eyes.
The same. They were all the same.
He could tell her he loved fishing and she would proclaim to love it too.
He could tell her he hated dolphins and she would promise to dedicate her life to polluting the oceans.
She would reflect back whatever he tossed to her like it was a goddamned acting exercise.
And it was because she wasn’t here, not really.
She was already deep in her own head, taking notes, crafting the narrative, for her diary and her best friend. And when he reminded her to come back to him in the present, she would only be sucking in her stomach and trying to catch a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror. Exerting herself to provide a sexual encounter that might make him remember her, and worrying about how to ask him for a selfie when it was done so she’d have proof.
For her, the good part wouldn’t be until it was over, until it had really happened and she hadn’t fucked it up. She didn’t know that, but Johnny did.
It was this type of knowledge that sometimes made him miss picking up chicks after a gig as the lead singer of a nobody cover band. At least it was a challenge. At least they had to actually find him appealing. At least they demanded satisfaction for themselves.
What the hell was wrong with him tonight?
He had been silent too long now, and the girl found the courage to look up.
Her eyes were a light hazel.
Was it him, or was there a sweetness to her that he hadn’t noticed before?
She studied him as if trying to determine what he might want.
“You, baby, I want what you have,” he murmured to her, answering the question she hadn’t voiced.
“It’s yours, whatever you want,” she whispered immediately, flowing into his arms.
She felt good, if a little slim for his taste. And if she looked innocent it was only happenstance. Her hands were already sliding down to his belt buckle.
He spun her against a wall and pinned those sneaky hands up, caging her head between his arms so he could look into her eyes again.
She gazed up at him, it was meant to be a sexy look but he found it adorable.
Instead of releasing her hands and letting her go back to the pursuit of his ever ready cock, he leaned down to nuzzle at her breasts.
She froze under the unexpected attention.
God, he could smell that hot female scent on her through the perfume.
Suddenly his hands were on her hips.
And instead of her at his knees, he was at hers.
She trembled in his hold.
They were off-script and she knew it.
Suddenly she was there, really present, waiting to see what he would do next.
The authenticity excited him and he had to remind himself to be gentle as he worked her jeans down to reveal the tiny silken scrap of her underwear.
Her scent was thick in the air now.
He lowered his nose to her and inhaled.
Her intake of breath echoed in his ears.
The sound unhinged him and he wrenched her jeans down to her ankles, his desire too similar to rage.
He pressed his tongue against her, lapping at her sex through the triangle of satin.
She cried out and her hands were in his hair.
Something awoke inside him.
Suddenly, he was lifting her up, carrying her to the bed.
She kicked off her jeans and lay before him, her legs spread slightly. Enough for him to see she wanted to spread them wide for him. Her hair was tousled, her eyes wide.
She reached her arms out to him.
The room clicked into focus for him.
She was beautiful, not just pretty. How had he not noticed this before?
The softness of her hair echoed through the perfect roundness of her breasts, and he forgave her the concave belly because soon he would swell it with his child.
He saw her pregnant, nursing a dark haired baby, her face softened by the candlelight of anniversary dinners, wrinkled by happy years.
He had only to claim her.
Scales slid sinuously in his head, drawn to her heat.
Fuck, no, no, no.
But the instant he fought it, his arm started burning again.
The angel in his bed asked what was the matter and he heard every hidden harmonic in her voice as if the sound were a rainbow.
“Get out!” he bellowed, his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she whispered, approaching him timidly.
He held his breath and averted his eyes until he heard the door click shut behind her.
He opened his eyes.
The room was the same.
He glanced in the mirror.
He was still Johnny Lazarus.
But just below the surface, something that wasn’t Johnny seethed and coiled.
From his position on the bed, he sneered at the bible on the table, forcing a half-assed laugh. The book cruelly reminded him that he had no right to ask for retribution from anyone. He was the last man to redeem himself. Trix was dead because of him. Was this punishment for choosing Terra over her? Spencer did the one thing he’d vowed he would never do: kill an agent’s loved one. For his act of treason, Seth was expecting some sort of rebuttal, but not this. The hotel room door opened and Terra entered, cradling a paper bag of groceries against her chest.
“Are you still nursing that bottle? Why don’t you take a shower? It will make you feel better.”
He snorted a response.
“Come on,” she cajoled. “You’ve always told me to move on. I’ m sorry about Trix but maybe it was for the —”
He was out of the chair and in her face so fast the paper bag slipped from her fingers and spewed its contents onto the carpet.
“You don’t get to say shit about Trix!” he yelled, shoving a finger in her face. “You didn’t
know her at all. If I never listened to the fucking voice in my head and saved you, she might be still alive.”
“You can’t blame me for that,” Terra shot back, gathering the fallen items back into the bag. “I’m sorry for her death, but you saved me for a reason. That little voice in your head decided to make a decision that ultimately changed your life. You’re a good man, Seth, and for what it’ s worth, I trust you. Somewhere deep inside me, I know I’m safe around you.”
He had no response.
“When I lost my father, I didn’t understand the pain I was feeling. He and I never got along when I was growing up, we were polar opposites. As a teenager, I made his life hell and my mother was at her wit’s end. When I turned sixteen, I moved out and never looked back. I did love him, of course, and it hurts that we never got to resolve our issues. I moved on.”
“Your father was a criminal,” he sneered.
Her lips formed a thin line and she turned her back on him. “You’ re hurting so I’ m going to let that one slide. I knew my dad. He was a good man, despite our history.”
“I knew who he was.”
Terra ripped the empty vodka bottle from his grip. “Shut up, Seth. You just want revenge.”
“Of course I do.”
She came up close, pressing her breasts against his chest, breathing hot air onto his neck.
“The best revenge is to live, Seth. Spencer hasn’t tracked us down yet. We left the park before his men could find us. Would Trix want you to cower in fear all your life?”
He gazed into her azure blue eyes and saw something he thought he’ d never find again: redemption. He wanted to kiss her, to taste her, but the memory of Trix’s head exploding into million pieces expelled the desire.
“Do you remember their faces?” Terra asked, unmoving, still close to him. “The men and women you killed over the years.”
“There’s too many of them.”
She drew lazy circles in his shirt, her eyes burrowing into his. “You need to relax and let loose. You’re too uptight. We sat in that stinky state train for two days to Richmond and you of all people need to unwind. I know a place.”
I sip my decaf coffee—which totally defeats the purpose of coffee, I understand that, but regular coffee gives me worse migraines than I already get—and stare a hole into my monitor. Yeah, I’m still one of those people who have a monitor. I have a desktop, a keyboard, a computer chair, and the whole mid-2000s thing going on in my bedroom/office. It’s the one room in the apartment where I can get away from everything. My place to shut the door, turn up the music, and dance if I want to dance. And I do want to dance. Nineties’ music is my specialty, and I use that word very loosely.
My room is my place to shut out the world. To stay awake and not sleep. To hide from my nightmares. To hide from Hart.
Every morning for the past week, it’s the same routine. I get up and rub my throat, because it hurts like a mother from all the screaming I apparently do in my sleep. As a side note, this is why I try not to sleep now when Sam’s here. Which means I don’t get a whole lot of sleep, but what’s sleep when you are eighteen? Eighteen year olds don’t need sleep. We need parties and friends and boyfriends to not think we are crazy.