What does it mean to be HIS? From baby making to babygirls, you'll find a bit of whatever melts your panties in this ode to Father's Day. From five of your favorite steamy, safe authors (and one hot newbie) come a group of six stand alone books dedicated to Daddy's everywhere. You will get your fill of everything from alpha men focused on securing a baby in their woman to filthy Daddy Doms who know how to care for their princesses. So, hold Daddy's hand and see what's in store!
Out Now: His Everything by Frankie Love
June 7th: His Obsession by Roxie Brock
Out Now: His Rules by Dani Wyatt
June 12th: His Temptation by Amber Barden
June 14th: His Girl by Aria Cole
June 16th: His First by Jenika Snow
Find out more on the collection HERE!
P R O L O G U E
Lela
“I’ll come back around in about five minutes.” My father’s deep, booming voice is little more than an overlay to the sounds of merriment coming from every direction under the July sun. “Five, Lela.” He holds up his open hand, splaying five fingers high over the surrounding fairgoers. “I want to see the parade start, have a drink with the regulars and we don’t have much time. The rig is waiting, and time is money. I’ll grab you when I come back around.”
My gruff, roughneck father turns into a fifty-six-year-old kid in front of my eyes at every Renaissance festival we attend. And in all our years on the road together, there have been more than I can count in more states than I remember. He’s at his best here, the happiest I ever see him, completely carefree. Here is where it’s not only acceptable but encouraged for grown adults to act as though they are on a day pass from some medieval mental hospital.
Dad and I have an affinity with these nomadic people, and these fairs have been one of the few constants in my gypsy life. One of the few traditions we’ve managed to adopt, however unorthodox it may be.
“Sounds good,” I shout back, pointing in the direction I want to go, but Dad is already striding off into the crowd. “I’m going to see the knife guy.” He’s already too far away to hear me, so I lower my voice, leaving the last words to mumble to myself. “He’s new this year,” I finish, shaking my head and looking over at the crowd that’s forming around a pillar of smoke rising from the metal forge that sits centered on the wet grass behind a makeshift rope fence.
I take one more glance backward at the fairgoers, jester’s hats swirling around and away, as my hardworking, rugged father does a little sway and skip. He’s so light here it makes me smile, his balding head burning under the summer sun as it pokes in and out of the drifting clouds.
Like rock stars on tour, some days I forget what state we’re in. I take a deep breath and ponder that for a moment then remember the state line sign I saw from the passenger seat of Dad’s latest Ford F-250.
Ohio.
We are in Ohio.
It’s cool here for the time of year, though, cooler than the last Renaissance fair we attended. My thin T-shirt and khaki shorts aren’t quite enough to take the edge off, and I shiver and hunch a little in the breeze. Squinting one eye, I step forward and look around at the maple and oak trees swaying in the wind.
This will be our last road adventure for a while. I’m checking out of our Airstream lifestyle to see what it’s like to live among more average humans. Ones who actually put down roots.
Above the crowd noise from behind the rope barrier, a loud clanking echoes toward the sky. I note the crowd that’s gathered there. I watch as people are starting to rubberneck—straining to see something near the plume of smoke, alternating up and down on their tiptoes. For a moment, I join in, pushing upward and clenching my calf muscles to steady myself. But even the two or so inches of height I achieve does nothing to improve my view.
Giving up on the tiptoes, I go flat-footed again and step between people dressed in corsets and codpieces in the direction of the noise and smoke. I look over to the edge of the crowd and see the sign that reads, “Medieval Sword Forging Demonstration—Noon, 2:00, 4:00.” The arrow points toward the clanking sound, and even more than a moment ago, I want a better view of the action.
Muttering a few “excuse me’s” and shouldering my way forward, I breathe in. The air is a blend of incense, smoked turkey, and warm beer, and it’s at once fondly familiar and simultaneously causes a bit of a knot in my gut.
A minute later I’m off to the very edge of the crowd, wiggling through the last few bodies on my trek to stake a claim on a small patch of soggy grass, eager to get my first glimpse of the forging a
ction.
And what action it is.
The goosebumps on my arms nose dive downward until they erupt on the backs of my legs. Tingling erupts in my body’s most tender places, and my eyes are instantly riveted.
In all my years of Ren fairs, this sight before me is by far the greatest of wonders I’ve seen on the road. And I’ve seen plenty. In fact, there aren’t many wonders in this country I’ve missed. Dad and I have crisscrossed from one end to the other, up and down and side to side.
When I turned eight, my mom decided homemaking wasn’t her thing. Being the kind of woman who didn’t care much for gender stereotypes, she went out for a pack of cigarettes and a pint of vodka, and I haven’t seen her since. Dad took over without missing a beat, and that next week we hit the road and never looked back.
But nothing, not Mount Rushmore, not the Grand Canyon, not even the graveyard for departed Ben & Jerry’s flavors has ever inspired me like the view in front of me right now.