Growing and Kissing

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Epilogue

Preview - Punching and Kissing - Chapter 1

Preview - Punching and Kissing - Chapter 2

Preview - Punching and Kissing - Chapter 3

by Helena Newbury

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© Copyright Helena Newbury 2016

First Edition

The right of Helena Newbury to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, events, companies, organizations or products is purely coincidental.

This book contains adult scenes and is intended for readers 18+. It contains a scene that may be triggering for rape survivors.

Cover Images

Sean - Copyright FuriousFotog

Skyline - Logoboom / Depositphotos

MW, loyal companion and welcome interferer.

You were with me from the very beginning.

Writing will not be the same without you.

P, taken from us far too young.

I will miss your sweary, grumpy, smiling brilliance.

The Grim Reaper won’t know what’s hit him.

May both of you rest in peace.

Louise

I’d spent my whole life being good. And then, one day, I ran smack into
bad.

I’d been standing outside my apartment on the tenth floor, hammering the elevator call button like it was personally responsible for every crappy thing in my life. I was late, I knew I was late and it felt like the universe was moving as slow as possible just to taunt me.

I kept glancing at the stairwell: should I just run for it, pound my way down ten flights and arrive sweaty and red-faced? But each time I stepped towards the stairs, the elevator would make a promising creak and groan and I’d hang on, thinking it was about to arrive....

When the elevator doors finally shuddered open and I darted forward, I was still looking towards the stairs. That’s why I didn’t see the elevator was occupied until it was too late. I faced front just in time for my face to mash against the warm black cotton of his tank top. My whole body, from shoulder to ankle, was suddenly flattened against the hard, heated body of a man.

I stumbled back into the hallway. I think I knew, on some level, who it was, but my brain was rebelling against the idea.
It’s probably not. It’s probably some other guy—

It wasn’t. It was him.

Sean O’Harra. The scariest guy on the block.

He seemed to fill the elevator. Not just because he was well over six foot, but with sheer presence. It was as if his aura was crackling and hissing against the inside of that graffiti-coated steel box, furious at being contained.

I said, “Sorry,” because that’s my automatic reaction to nearly everything.

He just frowned at me. He was
good
at frowning. A combination of those heavy Irish brows and the knowledge of what he might do to you if you displeased him. He was wearing a black tank top and his bare, tanned arms were loaded with muscle, one of them wrapped entirely in a tattoo sleeve. It was difficult not to follow the dramatic
in
and
out
of those arms with my eyes: shoulders and then biceps and then forearms...God, even his forearms were the size of my legs! And he was so ruggedly, solidly
wide,
the swells of his pecs beneath the black cotton seeming to fill my whole vision like a wall.

You didn’t talk to Sean O’Harra. You didn’t look at him, if you could help it. You stayed the hell out of his way.

Everyone knew what he did. He destroyed things: stores and houses and cars and sometimes people. He was built for it. Those huge arms could heave men off their feet and hurl them across the room like toys. His hands, twice the size of my own, were made to punch and tear and crush, demolishing someone’s business as efficiently as a wrecking ball. Even his legs looked vicious, muscled thighs stretching out the faded black denim. I imagined them kicking over tables and smashing down doors. And between those legs, outlined down the side of his thigh—

My own groin twinged as I felt the tingling, ghost impression of it. When I’d run into him, his cock had throbbed right against my thigh.

The door started to slide shut and I realized I’d been standing there like an idiot, staring at his body, for several seconds. The air hissed out of me, simultaneous frustration that now I’d be even later and relief that I wasn’t going to have to share an elevator with
him.
God, imagine
that!
Being cooped up in a six-foot metal box with
Sean O’Harra.
Just the thought of it made my stomach twist and knot...and a tiny, forbidden thread of heat lash down to my groin. That would have been—

A hand slammed against the edge of the elevator door, halting it an inch from closed. Then, with a rumble that shook the floor, Sean pushed it open again and held it there.

I’d never dared to look him in the face before. On the few occasions I’d seen him around the apartment block, I’d ducked my head and scuttled past. But now, I was so surprised that I forgot to be scared. I looked up—and
up—
and found myself staring into eyes that didn’t deserve to be in such a brutal body. Shockingly blue—and so
light!—
almost cobalt-blue, a color I’d only seen on postcards from tropical islands. Beautiful enough to have graced any Irish choirboy...but eyes that had forgotten what innocent was like long, long ago.

I hadn’t been ready for the hard line of his jaw, or the little dimples in his cheeks. The California sun had tanned him, but his Irish roots were still obvious: that gleaming black hair, the strong brow, and cheekbones.

I hadn’t been expecting him to be gorgeous.

And then he said, “Are you getting in or what?”

Which woke me up and made me realize I’d been standing there
again
and now I was even later. My eyes flicked to the stairwell door, but....

I had no choice.

I nodded dumbly and stepped inside. He’d had to take a half-step forward to grab the door, so now we were even closer. God, he was so
big,
towering over me like a colossus. And even when he’d released the door, he didn’t seem to be in much hurry to move back, or to retract that big, tanned, muscled forearm. His hand was hovering just a few inches from my cheek and I swore I could feel the skin there ache and tingle in the anticipation of touch.

The floor lurched and we started to move.

I didn’t know what to say—I never know what to say—so I just stood there staring at him. His voice was still echoing around inside my head. Mid-Atlantic, but with the exotic twist of Irish instead of British, like a scalding rush of liquor in what you thought was a soft drink. And so
low
, the words throbbing through my body as much as through my ears. His mouth matched the voice: hard, stubbled jaw, all power and violence, but then that full, sexy lower lip, a lip you just wanted to feel crush against yours and—