Bare Knuckle

Skin deep is never deep enough.

Vegas Top Guns, Book 5



Digital Release: October 8, 2013
Digital ISBN: 978-1619210943
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After a near-fatal plane crash, fighter pilot Captain Eric “Kisser” Donaghue is a changed man. By day he labors to regain his confidence in the cockpit. By night he moonlights as an off-Strip boxer, fighting for prize money to pay for his younger brother’s third stint in rehab.

In the ring, no one cares he once had a face that launched a thousand one-night stands—and neither does Eric. He’s only there to win. Yet he can’t take his eyes off the new ring girl, a glitz-meets-pageant-queen vision of blonde perfection.

Down on her luck but not quite out, Vegas showgirl Trish Monroe lives for the spotlight. The scarred, steely-eyed loner who stares at her from his corner of the ring gives Trish an extra reason to strut her stuff.

Curiosity and the temptation of a no-strings good time bring them together. The discovery of their secret fetishes—she likes to show off, he likes to watch—turns mere sexual chemistry into a fiery exploration of matched passions. They’re a natural fit. Trust in love, however, is harder to earn than trust in bed, especially when this beauty and beast hide even from themselves.

Warning: This book contains a Sin City-style Beauty and the Beast love story, lots of naughty pics and vids, adrenaline-pumped base jumping, and a set of very important note cards. Oh, and as always, an incredibly hot fighter pilot.


“The duo behind Katie Porter goes out with a bang in the last of their phenomenal ‘Vegas Top Guns’ series. Porter manages to create a voyeur hero without the peeping-tom creep factor, and Trish’s personality perfectly complements her fetish for being watched.” ~ RT BookReviews 4½ Stars

“These characters have depth, the sex scenes are hot, and the reader will root for this pair!” ~ Library Journal



Trish woke up alone, but she heard Eric rattling around the kitchen. For a moment she stared at the ceiling. Sunlight from industrial second-story windows filled the open space. She wondered how she’d managed to sleep so long with that brightness streaming in.

Oh, maybe cuz I got nailed like whoa and how?

She was sore all over. After cheese fries, Jack Daniels and rigorous exercise of multiple varieties, she was seriously dehydrated. Her head spun in a nauseating fog. She hadn’t consumed that much sodium in one sitting in years. Turning to check the official time—something more specific than “the morning after”—she found an unexpected surprise on the bedside table.

A twenty-four-ounce bottle of water. A bottle of aspirin. And a spare toothbrush. A neatly folded midnight-blue terrycloth robe lay at the end of the bed.

She smiled and smushed her face into the pillow he’d slept on, inhaling deeply. A laugh wiggled out of her body.

Best night she’d had in forever.

We can fuck before breakfast.

His words had been so matter-of-fact. With most guys she’d have left at three in the morning. Safer. Easier than hanging around after they’d both gotten all they wanted. This was more like a work in progress.

She sure as shit didn’t want to look and smell like she did when the next round began.

She downed some aspirin with half of the bottled water. Toothbrush and robe in hand, she headed into the bathroom, which was tucked behind his makeshift photography studio. A shiver of memory worked up her calves.

Damn. So good.

After a thorough scrubbing of both mouth and body, she gave up on putting her wig back on. It was a wretched mess, and she didn’t have any replacement pins or glue. She’d need to spend time getting the snarls out.

Trish swiped away the condensation on the mirror. Her short, almost tomboy hair was damp. Barely more blonde than brown.

This was huge. The only people who saw her without her wig were Mama and other showgirls.

With a deep breath, she reminded herself of how much Eric seemed to like the truth. Genuine things. Maybe…

She cinched the bathrobe’s tie and opened the door before she could change her mind.

A cup of steaming coffee waited for her on the same bedside table. She smiled. Gruff, yes. Inconsiderate, apparently not.

Was he in the kitchen? Listening more closely, she heard…grunts? Steady. Rhythmic. Like when he’d slammed into her before coming.

What the hell?

Apprehensive, she walked toward the open space on the other side of the bedroom’s brick half-partition. And froze dead. Had she grabbed the coffee first, she would’ve dropped the mug.

Eric was doing chin-ups. One after the other after the other. He was covered in sweat, wearing only a tight-as-sin pair of black boxer briefs. During their decadent evening, she hadn’t been privileged with such a blatant view of his back. Muscles bunched across his upper back, his shoulders, his thick arms. Then he lowered his body in a controlled move. Everything lengthened, including his scar. It was as if a pale snake had coiled around his back, nestling where she knew it ended, out of sight around his ribs.

She was going to offer a greeting, something light to belie how he turned her on. Because poof, she was wet and tingling with want. She’d never been with a man who took such precise care of himself. A masterpiece of macho.

Then she saw his laptop. It sat open on a nearby table. From where he worked out, Eric had a perfect view of the screen. On that screen was a slideshow of Trish. Only a second separated each transition. Naked, pouting, sweaty, straining and finally screaming. All the phases of their night.

Eric kept working. Harder now. Grunting with each fierce pull.

She swallowed and found her voice. Because she wanted in on a piece of that fabulous, rigid body before he worked out all the tension.

“So, stud…how’d they turn out?”

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