Dani is a Book & Wine Pairing Blogger from the mountains of West Virginia. She loves to read anything she can get her hands on while sipping on a glass of wine and snuggling with her fur-babies.

Professional ReaderReviews Published

Lightning Boy

By Amy J. Heart


Publication date: July 30th 2018
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance


Lightning never strikes the same place twice. Unless he’s a boy called L.

My name is Eden and I only want one thing in life—and it isn’t to have sex with some guy I’ve never met in front of three creepy businessmen. But when dirty-copper Coop, who holds the deed to my family’s farm, says jump—I ask how high. And ex-street kid L is nothing like I expect him to be.

He’s so much worse.

Now I want three things.

My dad’s farm back.
To know why a guy as hot as L has never slept with a girl before.
Coop to die a painful death.

And there’s a fourth. Here’s a hint…
It starts with the letter L.
Just like this story does.

Is happy-ever-after possible when your meet-cute happens in front of three voyeurs in business suits?




The girl wobbles toward me like a tipsy geisha on stupid shoes. A snail could go faster. “Do you think you can move a bit quicker? I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

She stumbles slightly, then keeps limping forward.

For the first time in our long and completely fucked up association, Coop has surprised me. To make this a sure thing, today of all days, I thought he’d serve up a chick who looks the part. Beautiful and kind of androgynous.

Or at the very least—one who can walk properly.

It’s not that she’s ugly or anything. She just looks… fucking scared. Not what I was expecting at all.

Tilting her head at the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, she says, “Don’t worry. I should make it over to you by about eleven o’clock. There’ll be plenty of time for you to spank me or whatever. You can relax.”

A puff of air parts my lips. It’s almost a laugh.

She comes closer. Dust motes swirl in the golden light between us, the air thrumming with tension. The pricks in suits have even stopped talking about stocks and market forces, their attention focused on each unsteady step she takes.

I stare too, my eyes tracking slowly from the creamy skin of her forehead all the way down to those dumbass shoes, and back again. Something fizzes in the back of my brain—a feeling like déjà vu.

Red lace. Long, brown hair. Wide-set dark eyes. Big tits. The whole package hourglass shaped and, strangely, kinda clean looking. No that isn’t the right word… innocent maybe.

Or sweet.

Funny that—considering the fucked-up event she’s about to participate in.

Again, what the hell is Coop playing at?

Given what he thinks I like to fuck, it’s hard to believe he hasn’t found the scrawniest girl in town, hoping she’ll confuse my dick into putting on a worthy show for these dirtbags.

That makes me smile, because Coop doesn’t know. He has no fucking clue that sometimes when I look at a well-stacked female, my brain yells ‘hell yeah’ while my body—dumb fuck that it is—grumbles ‘hell no’.

When that happens, I tell my brain to be sensible and listen to my dick. Because the sad fact is, that after all these years of shooting load after load with nothing to inspire me but a guy’s sharp angles and the thrill of causing pain, soft-fleshy curves won’t get me off.

Not that I’ve properly tested that theory before. But, against my will, for years now I’ve been programmed to get hard for the exact opposite.

And there is no way I want soft and breakable. I need something I can hurt. Someone who can take a whole universe of pain—swallow down all my blackness in one greedy gulp, laughing the entire time. And, honestly, this girl doesn’t look very hungry.

She stops a foot away, her dark nipples covered in red lace, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Oh, yeah. She’s scared alright.

With great effort, I haul my eyes from her tits up to her face so I can check her out properly. Recognition hits like a wrecking ball.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’ve seen this girl before. With Coop. Years ago—four years ago to be exact.

The night I met, Ariana, the lady who ended my homelessness for good, this girl stood on a rainy street smiling up at Coop, looking haunted every time he glanced away. And later that same night, when I bedded down on Angelo’s couch—safe for the first time in thirteen months—I thought about her. Her sad eyes. That sweet smile. And back then, I did something I rarely do. In my mind, I rode the twists and turns of her miraculous curves and brought myself off like the mother of all Fourth of Julys.

Again, fuck.

My insides are jelly. I can’t believe she’s standing in front of me. My sad-eyed girl.

Coop has no idea what he’s unleashed, how much I want this. And how in an instant I’ve gone from not giving a crap to fucking terrified that I might fail. Not get to experience what I’d pictured all those years ago—back when I was eighteen and one girl’s suffering had whipped through the night air, slashing up my insides and setting me on fire.

I’m shit scared, but I want this so badly. I want to feel normal for once in my life, silence the voices that fuck with my head—get turned on and touch a girl. It’s everything I’ve fantasized about since that rainy night when I fixed my twisted, futile longings on a pair of sad eyes. And a pair of killer tits. Just once I’d like to know what normal feels like—tastes like—sounds like.

But I’m too afraid to move.



Author Bio:

Amy J Heart adores damaged bad-boys in dire need of redemption. Heavy on grit and steam, her stories explore the duality of life. She's a little obsessed with the idea that things are never quite what they seem. She loves indie music, mad hair colors, nuclear strength coffee, Siamese cats, and guys with long hair. But not in that order!

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