Happy Release Day, Rachael Wade!
Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for Rachael Wade's Othello Station. My stop includes the details for the book, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Enjoy!
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Synopsis:
Every woman in my life is supposed to be like Othello Station – a last stop. Unless they know how to keep their distance. I’ve managed to maintain a routine, one that works for me and one I have no intention of ever changing. But this dove came along. Soft and delicate, tainting my thoughts. I can think of twenty different ways to get rid of her. I need this dove to take flight.
But she won’t fly away.
She won’t release me from her cage.
Her wings ensnare me.
And now I want to get off this train. I wish I never boarded this ride. Because I’m about to crash and take this dove with me. But sometimes you can’t stop the crash. Sometimes you just have to hang on and let the flames ignite. Let the fire burn.
Sometimes, the fire is what saves you.
“Can I come in?”
I shake myself from the haze and move aside. “Sure, of course.”
She ducks her head and slips past me into the hotel room, like a covert spy. “Wow.” She eyes my vitamin set-up as she tugs off her hat and wig. “Are you a doctor or something?”
“Do I look like a doctor?”
“Not really. Health nut?”
“Something like that.” I immediately thank the gods I didn’t pull out the blood pressure cuff yet. “What’s with the get-up?” I gesture to the wig. She looks down, gripping it tightly. Her hands are shaking.
“Dumb, I know. I just didn’t want to be recognized at the front desk.”
“Okay, 007. Any weapons I should know about underneath that snazzy vest of yours?”
“Only the ones I bought at the thrift shop.” Her gaze rises to mine, and a small smile creeps up.
“Ah.”
“See what I did there?”
“Tried to make a joke?”
“Tried?”
I assault her with my signature bland expression. “Yeah. You definitely suck at jokes.” She laughs and looks back down at the hat in her hands, which are still trembling slightly. It dawns on me that maybe it couldn’t hurt to have a little pity on this girl. “But you’re good at other things.” I begin an easy stride toward her.
“Other things?” She swallows hard and wrings the wig between her fingers, shifting on her feet.
I nod loosely and take another step, bringing us nose to nose. My chest warms and radiates with need as I sense her strawberry perfume. Maybe it’s shampoo. Whatever it is, I’m sold. Sign me up for that shit. She’s good enough to eat. “Like turning me on.”
“Oh.”
My hand snakes forward and latches onto hers. I steady her shakiness. Her skin is ice cold. “Hey. Look at me.”
She keeps her gaze down, watching the contact. “Just bear with me,” she whispers, voice as uncertain as her fingers. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”
“Take all the time you need, baby.” I brush her hair to the side—her real hair, long and soft and so, so brown. Caramel spirals of light weave through the dark locks. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“You’re intimidating. You must know that.” She shivers as I brush her cheek with my thumb.
“Maybe. A little. Don’t worry about that now. Just look at me.” It takes some coaxing, but her timid eyes finally find mine. I cup her face, and she leans into me, as if she’s never been touched before. A soft murmur escapes her lips and her eyes drift shut. Holy fuck. It has been a while. When’s the last time a man’s touched her? The thought sends me reeling; adrenaline kicks into overdrive. “I’m sure you’re good at other things. Lots of things. I’m positive you’re good at this.”
“I used to be. I mean…I think I used to be.”
“You’re here. That’s already a very good sign.”
She stares at me with lost, heavy eyes. “I’m not sure what that says about me. I’m either really dumb or really brave.”
“Maybe you’re both. It’s okay to be both, you know.”
“Dumb implies naivety.”
“Are you? Naïve?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so, either. You knew exactly what you were doing when you decided to come to this room. That implies awareness.” I give her cheek another brush, studying her closely. Everything in me wants to jump this girl. But her fear—whatever the fuck that fear is—tells me to slow down. To make her feel at ease. She needs to be comfortable for this to work. I need her to keep her eyes on me. But she can’t look at me for long. Her gaze alternates between my lips and our bodies, which are just barely touching.
“Maybe you should stop talking. Before I lose my nerve.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.”
I take her face in my hands fully. “Let me touch you.”
“I’d love that,” she says, with all the honesty in her bones. Her voice shifts to a wary whisper. “I’m so scared.”
“I’ve got you.” I don’t understand for the life of me what she’s so afraid of, but I say it because it’s what she needs to hear.
And just like that, she closes her eyes and falls into me. Her arms come up and wrap around me, sliding over my shoulders and over my neck. I instantly lift her up, pulling her legs around my waist. I move us to the wall, turning and pinning her against it. I don’t want to be gentle. Right now the idea of being careful seems damn near impossible. I’ve been needing this outlet. A distraction. Immediate
gratification. A woman in my arms.
Something I can control, even if just for a little while.
