Fall Into You

PRAISE FOR

C
RASH INTO
Y
OU

“Revved up and red-hot sexy,
Crash Into You
delivers a riveting romance!”

—Lorelei James,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Blacktop Cowboys series and the Rough Riders series

“Hot and romantic, with an edge of suspense that will keep you entertained.”

—Shayla Black, USA Today bestselling author of
Mine to Hold

“A sexy, sizzling tale that is sure to have readers begging for more!…I can’t wait
for Roni Loren’s next tantalizing story!”

—Jo Davis, author of
I Spy a Dark Obsession

“Sexy as hell, gutsy as all get out—
Crash Into You
has balls! Watch out. Roni Loren, just like the men in her books, knows how to keep
you up all night.
Crash Into You
is sexy as hell and goes into the dark places other writers shy away from. Loren
understands the dark beauty of D/s and treats her characters with respect even as
she takes them to the very edge of what they and the reader can handle. I can sum
this book up in one word: Damn!”

—Tiffany Reisz, author of
The Siren

“This steamy, sexy yet emotionally gripping story has the right touch of humor and
love to keep readers coming back for a second round.”

—Julie Cross, author of
Tempest

“A stunning first work. I read it straight through in one sitting, and I dare you
to even attempt to put it down.”

—Cassandra Carr, author of
Talk to Me

Titles by Roni Loren

CRASH INTO YOU

MELT INTO YOU

FALL INTO YOU

Specials

STILL INTO YOU

F
ALL INTO
Y
OU

RONI LOREN

HEAT
|
NEW YORK

To my husband, Donnie, who once asked me in an airport,
“What if next time I don’t have to leave?”
and then moved his whole life
to be with me. I’m glad you took the risk
on us all those years ago.
I love you, babe.

First, a huge thanks to every reader who has picked up one of my books. You have given
me the opportunity to follow my dream and tell stories for a living. And for that,
I will be forever grateful.
^*
hugs
^*

To my family, who is always there for me to celebrate the successes and to pick me
up when things go awry. I love you more than I could ever put into words.

To my fantastic agent, Sara Megibow. You are always there with good advice, a sympathetic
ear, and a barrel full of enthusiasm. And to my editor, Kate Seaver, thank you for
loving my books and working hard to make them the best they can be.

To my writer buddies Jamie Wesley, Julie Cross, Dawn Alexander, and Genevieve Wilson.
Thanks for making me laugh, listening to me vent, and for all the cheerleading. And
to Taylor Lunsford, my fearless beta reader, for donating your time and for loving
Grant.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Epilogue

Teaser for
Not Until You

Come on, baby, don’t give up on me now.
Charli Beaumonde gripped the steering wheel tighter as her eight-year-old Toyota’s
headlights flickered for the second time in ten minutes. She adjusted her rearview
mirror, wondering, not for the first time, if she should’ve stopped in one of the
small-town motels she’d passed thirty miles back. The deserted highway hadn’t seemed
quite so jeepers creepers this morning on her way out of the city as it did now.

But then again, those motels had looked more Norman Bates than bed-and-breakfast.
She was probably better off taking her chances with her on-its-last-wheel car.

She hadn’t planned to be out in boondocks Texas this late at night, but the chance
to see who was coming and going from the family home of Dallas University’s top quarterback
recruit had been too good to pass up. Who knew so many men in suits had business in
such a podunk Texas town?

She hadn’t gathered enough damning evidence to put together a story for the station
yet, but she was getting there. If she could get one of the players to slip up and
talk, give her some names, she
could blow the cheating scandal wide open and virtually secure her promotion to the
on-air sidelines reporter for the Texas Sports Network.

Her boss had already told her she was one of the final candidates. Charli didn’t know
how many other people she was up against, but she knew that she could go toe-to-toe
with anyone on sports knowledge. Plus, she felt like her screen test had gone well.
All she needed now was the one big story under her belt to show that she had the reporter
chops as well.

She smiled, picturing herself on the sidelines of the college football games—microphone
in hand, the smell of fresh-cut grass and sweaty athletes, the deafening roar of the
crowd cheering for their teams. She couldn’t think of anything that would make her
happier or any place she’d rather be. The years of working her ass off behind the
scenes would finally pay off. She may even get enough of a salary boost to be able
to spring for a new car.

She adjusted in her seat, but the faint flash of light in her rearview had her glancing
in the mirror again. Distant headlights pierced the black vortex behind her. Her shoulders
loosened a bit, her grip on the wheel easing. For some reason, knowing she wasn’t
the only person on this lonely road gave her a weird sense of comfort. She pressed
a button on her radio to tune into her favorite sports talk station and settled in
for the last hour of her drive back to Dallas.

But right when one of the hosts started bitching about the Cowboys offense, the glare
of headlights became blinding in her rearview as the driver flashed his high beams
on and off. Squinting, Charli grabbed the mirror and turned it away from her. “What
the hell?”

She slowed down a bit, thinking the driver must have some emergency and wanted to
get past her. But when she eased up on the gas, he didn’t go around, he just got closer.
Flash. Flash. Flash
. The lights created a strobe effect in her car, disorienting her. She
grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the left to move into the other lane,
but the other car stayed on her rear as if it were tied to her bumper with rope.

“Shit.” She tried again, going back to the right lane, but the car followed, nearly
clipping her rear bumper. The creeping unease she’d been fighting since she’d pulled
onto this highway morphed into a hot flood of panic.

Whoever was in the car wasn’t trying to get past her—he was trying to get
to
her.

She slammed on her gas pedal in an attempt to put some distance between them and regain
her vision, but her four-cylinder Toyota was no match for whatever was behind her.
The rumble of a bigger, more powerful engine drowned out the quiet hum of her own.