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A thousand-year-old Viking with a curse. A feisty vixen with a fiery passion. What happens when they turn up the heat? A thousand years ago, Mikkel and his family were cursed. The Viking has spent all that time with a temper that gets so hot, he literally bursts into flames… and he’s learned to cope with the tragedy of the results. Now he’s working as a demolition specialist by day and a playboy by night, never letting anyone get too close. Joanna is a smart, sexy engineer who’s had it with all the sexual harassment she’s received on the job. When she practically explodes into Mikkel’s life, the heat they feel is undeniable. But just when things begin to sizzle between them, they’re faced with a challenge neither of them saw coming. Will their passion lead to blazing romance, or will they both go down in flames? Her Fiery Viking is a short, hot paranormal romance novella. If you like smoldering love stories you can read in a day, then you’ll love AJ Tipton’s standalone installment from the Her Elemental Viking series. Buy Her Fiery Viking to start the scorching hot romance today!
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Copyright © AJ Tipton 2015 The right of AJ Tipton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 (or other similar law, depending on your country). All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be edited, amended, lent, resold, hired out, distributed or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s written permission. Permission can be obtained from email@example.com
This book is for sale to adult audiences only. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
Cover art photos provided by BigStock.com, Morgue Files, Flickr.com, and Upsplash.com. Graphic Design by Chameleonstudio74.
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The new secretary was turning out spectacularly--her fists pounded rhythmically against the top of his wide mahogany desk as he thrust into her hard from behind. The most recent in a string of secretaries--Sissy? Sally? It was something innocuous and forgettable like that--talked way too much for his taste. Mikkel resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes at her breathless demands.
“More! Give it to me! Oh God, harder! More! More! God! Oh yes! More!” He reached forward and covered her mouth with his hand, dampening her screams before the entire office figured out what they were up to. After waiting a few more seconds for her bucking orgasm to subside, he pulled out and came onto her flawless ass. Bored, Mikkel yawned. He had heard it all before.
Taking tremendous effort to stifle the second yawn trying to force its way past his lips, Mikkel ran his fingers through his short blonde hair. Centuries of misbehaving had allowed him to enjoy women of nearly every variety--young and old, royalty and commoner. He honed his sexual prowess on priestesses and princesses, pharaohs and peasants, but for some reason he couldn't resist the indefinable allure of his company’s secretaries. It certainly didn’t hurt that these women took one good look at his chiseled features, ironclad abs, and rippling biceps and threw themselves at him.
This newest secretary--Mikkel was now nearly certain her name was Samantha--accepted the box of Kleenex he passed over as she cleaned herself up. She blinked at him rapidly with a poor approximation of a pin-up’s sultry smile plastered on her face. It would have been more effective if the rest of her expression wasn't so...vague. He helped her clean up and he guided her through the office door as quickly as he could.
“That was great, Stephanie.” He said, giving her a quick peck on the lips. Even Cleopatra knew to not write him back when he called her Livia. “It was a really...” He deliberately paused, waiting for her to expect the complement, “...specialtime.”
The woman barely glanced at him. Mikkel couldn't help feeling slightly miffed. She'd had three orgasms--surely some reaction made sense. This chick already had her phone out and was playing a fairly intense game involving matching tiles.
She finished a level and put the phone away, glancing around, obviously waiting for something. He couldn't imagine who she was waiting for. She'd only started at Firewall Demolitions a few days ago, and she hadn't bothered to get to know anyone but him. Most of the employees had dispersed for lunch, and the hallways leading to Mikkel’s office were nearly deserted. A tall brunette man in navy plaid pants, matching suspenders, and a white button up rounded the corner of the taupe-painted hallway flipping through a stack of reports.
“It’s Lizzie!” she shrieked, thrilled an audience had arrived at last. She stomped her heeled foot so hard Mikkel worried about her shoe's lifespan. “God, you are like the worst boss ever!” she spat hatefully, pointing a meticulously-manicured nail accusingly at his face.
“Sorry to break this to you sweetheart, but he’s not the boss,” Nick shifted the reports into a neat stack under his arm, his light blue eyes following the red nail to Mikkel. “Oh no...” he chuckled, “Did you go and waste all that enthusiasm on a low level demo guy? I certainly hope he ‘gave it to you’ all right.”
“Jesus, Nick, ‘low level?' You cut me deep!” Mikkel chuckled with mock outrage. He swiftly ducked as Lizzie’s nails raked the air where his face had just been. Thousand-year-old Viking reflexes had their uses sometimes.
“YOU AREN’T THE BOSS?!” Another well-clawed swipe barely missed Mikkel’s broad, muscled chest and her pink bedazzled cell phone went flying.
“Trust me, tiger, you do not have a chance with the boss,” Nick said with a sly smile. He picked up the flung device and handed it over with a quick wink. “He’s my husband.”
Lizzie’s face turned into a mask of pure disgust as she processed this information.
“Come on ‘boss man’ let’s get going to the noon meeting, eh?" Nick punched Mikkel's shoulder, laughing. Lizzie's exquisite ass huffed away in the opposite direction. "We mere minions would be lost without your wisdom and leadership, oh great one.” They walked together through the labyrinth-like office building.
“Shut the hell up Nick-erbocker." He'd once drunkenly bet Nick he could make him a new nickname every day for a full week and had won; afterwards the habit just stuck. "I didn’t tell her I was the boss. But how can I deny a sweet sexy thing--” Mikkel gestured up and down, encompassing his broad shoulders, chiseled abs, and perfectly rounded ass, “all of this?”
“Truly it would be a crime against womankind,” Nick said with fake reverence, bowing his head and placing his hand on his heart. “Although, you couldn’t wait a week? Your Little Miss Claws has only been here a hot second, and I’m like 90% sure her crazy ass is going to quit or burn the place down. You know how I hate paperwork and towering infernos. Although firemen-” Nick was cut off mid-sentence by the short, greasy looking Dwayne, walking their way.
“Heard you having a real good time with the new girl, Mikey," Dwayne said with a sneer. He picked at some dandruff covering his shoulder pad-enhanced jacket as they made their way through the corridors. “Tell me, do all your lays have to give you such detailed instructions, or do they typically just give up and accept you don’t know what you’re doing?”
“Shut the fuck up, jackass," Nick shot out. "You wouldn’t know a woman having a good time if she danced all over you.” Mikkel grinned at his friend appreciatively. Nick might give him a hard time, but he had his back, especially against vermin like Dwayne.
"At least my women know how to shut up," Dwayne's smile didn't so much tilt up as slyly curve deeper into his face.
Mikkel knew Dwayne was a worthless little weasel who always talked shit, but still he felt a hot rage flash up in his chest. He could feel it like a firestorm building in his core, kindling and sparking and waiting to build and burn down everything in its path. Over the years, Mikkel had known millions with bad tempers, even a few berserkers who lost their humanity when their rage overtook their minds. In a way, he envied them their rage; they didn't have to face the kinds of consequences he did when his anger boiled over.
Breathe in, breathe out. You can't let it out here. Nick was standing in a highly populated area; he couldn’t let his temper go here. Dwayne isn't worth the cost.
He filled his lungs with air and concentrated on a full breath and the cleansing release of the exhale. He unclenched his fists as he felt the bubbling rage subside enough to face Dwayne and calmly quote:
“Anger and intolerance are the enemies of correct understanding. Gandhi.”
Dwayne rolled his eyes, muttering “Oh, I’ll give you Gandhi...” as the men arrived at their afternoon meeting. The conference room was home to the same thrilling florescent light and taupe walls as the hallways, but it was lined wall to wall with photos of structures mid-demolition. A team of visiting architects once burst out crying when they saw the wall of destroyed structural marvels, but to the demolition team the explosions were true works of art. The photos filled Mikkel with pride every time he saw them; they were tributes to precisely-placed devices, well-timed detonations, and thoroughly conquered territory. He chuckled inwardly. Father would be proud. Once a Viking, always a Viking.
The meeting was nothing special; schedules were synchronized and projects were foisted on unsuspecting newbies. The new structural engineer was arriving tomorrow, along with a new secretary. Mikkel brushed off his coworkers’ jabs and thinly-veiled insinuations about the rate they seemed to go through administrative staff. New accounts were discussed and blueprints were thrown around like confetti. Three cups of coffee and two hours later, they were released out into the world. Time to blow some shit up.
Joanna Baltz pounded the wheel of her Ford Pinto with enough force to rattle the radio in its not-quite-secure moorings. The radio had been stuck on the same channel for the last half hour and the edges of her vision tinged red. The commentators jabbered on and on about how some famous guy she'd never heard of punched another famous guy she'd never heard of. Wasn't there more going on in the world? Joanna banged the scan button for the thirty-seventh time, but the station barely flickered. Every single caller railed like they were accepting the Holy Spirit, their testimonials proclaiming the punch was a sign of the two guys' secret attraction for each other. It was only a matter of time--one woman railed in a voice so high it buzzed Joanna's speakers--before the two men were caught by the tabloids making out in assless-chaps.
How can this be the only thing all these people want to talk about? Joanna held the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned three shades paler.
"Aren't there wars going on out there?" Joanna muttered at the steering wheel. "Diseases sweeping through countries? Massive injustices being perpetuated all over the place?" In hospital beds around the world, people were dying of preventable diseases, preventable accidents. People with families. People with sisters. Joanna took a deep breath. In and out, her therapist said. Just concentrate on the breathing
"Way to use a blinker, asshole!" she screamed at the silver BMW in front of her. She threw the driver a middle finger while pressing down hard on her car horn. The loud blast from her car matched the off-tone rage screaming inside her head. A white sedan tried to nudge in front of her to get into the exit lane.
"Fuck off!" she screamed. "You could have merged forty-seven feet ago!" The white sedan swerved away back into the middle lane and Joanna got a look at the driver as she pulled up alongside. The woman wasn't a day younger than eighty with three screaming children in the back seat.
"Shit," Joanna muttered, tapping the brakes and flashing her lights until the old woman caught her eye and Joanna slowed enough to let her merge off the exit ramp with inches to spare.
She sighed and rubbed for forehead as she turned into the parking lot. Your temper could get someone killed, her cousin told her.
Breathe in. Breathe out. The engine made small popping sounds as it cooled. Joanna concentrated on loosening her grip on the steering wheel and counted her blessings. I am grateful for a new job. I am grateful for a new start. I am grateful to have my health. I am grateful for my shitty-ass car. I am grateful for my shitty-ass apartment with the showerhead that doesn't work. I am grateful for my hobbies. She stopped, amended. My hobby…which consists of sitting in a bar drinking my liver to death so that I don't go after the world with a tire iron. I am grateful for...she ran out of things to say. She punched the steering wheel again, and the radio fell out with a thunk.
"Well, I can tell Dr. Therapist his stress-reliever technique is bullshit." she muttered.
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