Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

Genres: New Adult Romance; Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; Love Triangles; Love Triangle; strong heroine; surfer romance; double life; plot twist; cheating

Synopsis

"This is the gold standard for every love triangle. It's steamy perfection, tied together with a jaw-dropping twist." Must Read Books

Stewart Brant was that type of suit that melted your panties in half. He liked sex, he liked making money, and I was lucky if I got an hour of the former before he was swept away by the latter.

It wasn't fair to me, which is where Paul came in. My professional surfer with a body built for pleasure and a playful grin that made my heart flip in my chest.

Stewart was fine with sharing and Paul just wanted to make me happy. That's where this love story started. Me, split between their two worlds. My heart, flip-flopping between the two of them

.It was a complicated arrangement, but I didn't factor her in. Honestly? I didn't even know she existed. But there she was, lurking at the edges of our lives. Watching. Judging. Counting down the days until everything in my twisted love triangle imploded.

This isn't a love story - it's a disaster.

An award-winner for 'Best Twist of the Year', this erotic romance from New York Times Bestseller Alessandra Torre tells a story of love, raging sexual desires, and a jaw-dropping secret that left readers stunned.

Release date: March 1, 2019

Publisher: Alessandra Torre

Print pages: 228

Reader says this book is...: strong chemistry (1)

Sample

1 The heart is stubborn. It holds onto love despite what sense and emotion te!s it. And it is o"en, in the battle of those three, the most bri!iant of a!. “Madison.” I hear my name, but I cannot open my eyes. I try, pushing and pulling with the weak muscles of my eyelids, but there is no move- ment. Nothing to minimize the blackness, nothing to pull me from this rabbit hole of darkness. But I can hear. I have emerged into awareness with only one sense, and I grab onto it and pull upward, trying to raise myself into life through the elements of sound alone. I hear my name, hear Paul say it, crystal clear, his voice thick with emotion. I strain for more, worried he has left, tensing and pushing every muscle I have, trying for movement, trying to reach out with my hands and grab his skin, his shirt, anything. Then I pause on my journey, all my efforts freezing, stalled in their worthless attempts, because a second voice has joined the first. Stewart. A voice I love—his deep, authoritative tone one that traditionally

makes my breath quicken and my knees weak. But here, in this place, it makes my heart drop. His voice should never be heard in tandem with Paul’s, their presences should never be intersected, much less raised in what sounds to be an argument. And I know, as my mind closes off—pushes me deeper into the black hole of oblivion, my subconscious fighting tooth and nail as I am pulled down, down, down—I have failed. All of my attempts, my careful lives of separation ... “Madison.” I hear my name one last time, but it is so faint, I cannot tell which man it comes from.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

2 TORRANCE, CA DANA I am nosy. A meddler. Mom used to say it would be my downfall. She was probably right. It certainly got me in enough trouble early in life, my matchmaking skills often falling flat, my snooping ending disastrously. As an adult, I should know better. I should keep to myself—keep my curiosity to a minimum. I haven’t seen Stewart in three years. Ever since we had a big blow up over Thanksgiving dinner and his inability to have time for anything but work. I now regret that fight. It was valid, and I was in the right, but it wasn’t worth the silence. Silence that stretched a week, then a month, then years, each passing holiday a reminder of my loss. I don’t know the reason for his silence. Is it stubbornness or the fact that his busy schedule has pushed thoughts of me out of his mind? I don’t know what’s worse—intentionally being snubbed or being forgotten about completely . On my end, it was initially stubbornness, our commonalities peaking in that one trait: pride. And since I, after all, was right, there was really no reason for me to break first—to weaken and

reach out when he was the one in error. Now, it doesn’t really matter whether I was right. I just want him back. Sadly, my point has been proven even more by his silence. He doesn’t have time for me. He only has time for work. And for her, that blonde who holds his busy heart in her hands. I first saw them in the Los Angeles society pages, his hand tight around her waist, her smile bright and natural, affection in her eyes as she beamed at him. He is so rarely photographed, never having the time for the premieres or charity galas that most men of his position flock to like obedient animals. He doesn’t lunch at the Ivy or stroll through Beverly Hills. He takes the elevator down from his condo, walks four buildings west, and rides a different elevator up to his office. Work. Sleep. Repeat. At least that was his life when I knew it, when I had a small part in his heart. Maybe things are different now. Maybe he takes weekends off, has dinner dates, movie nights, and tropical vacations, and takes that ray of Cali- fornia blonde right along with him. But I doubt it. My online stalking has shown no such habits. Best I can tell, he is the same Stewart—she is the only change. I haven’t yet figured out if she’s a passing fancy or a long-term possibility, but I’ll find out. I moved here, in small part, to become a part of his life again, whether he wants me to or not. So, I’ll find out more about her. Soon, I’ll know how much of a role she plays in his life. I’ll sit back, watch, and gather information. He’s certainly too busy to notice me watching.

3 HOLLYWOOD, CA MADISON I don’t know what it is about a wealthy man that women find appealing, but I’m victim to it along with the rest. And Stewart wears wealth as well as any man I know . The backdrop of finery complements him. His large frame settles into expensive leather chairs; crystal chandeliers cast dramatic highlights on the beautiful lines of his face, and ocean glitters off the brilliant blue of his eyes. His Patek Philippe watch glints, the edge of it barely visible under the cuff of his dress shirts. His custom suits move easily beneath my fingers, sliding over his broad shoulders, the hard definition of trained muscles rippling under pale skin. I’ve never seen him with a tan, his hours spent indoors, his workouts done under the muted lights of his penthouse gym and directed by a blonde bombshell named Tiffany . Tonight, I only have to step inside, my entrance interrupting a set of pull-ups, his muscles popping as he suspends and lifts himself with easy efficiency. The additional light of the open door causes them both to turn, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus, and he

drops lightly to his feet. “Tiffany,” he says between hard breaths. “That’ll be all.” I drop my bag as she hurries past, barely noticing the sound of her exit, my focus on Stewart, as he strides forward and grips my arms, lifting me easily and silently onto the counter, his lips pressing against mine quickly, before interrupting us with the cloth of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. He skips a greet- ing, focusing on my bare breasts, pressing me backward and taking a hungry mouth to my skin, his hands yanking and pulling on my shorts, sliding them down and off of my legs as his tongue plays a soft rhythm against my nipple. He moves lower, tasting me, inhaling deeply between my legs. “God, you taste so good.” He groans against my sex, his tongue dipping inside and fucking me thickly, his need pouring through his mouth and his hands, which caress my body like I am their final meal to feast on. He carries me to the bench and lays me down, his eyes dark and wild as he stares down at me, pulling down the cloth of his shorts until his cock pops free. “This,” he murmurs, “is going to be for me. I promise, I’ll take care of you later.” I smile, spreading my legs apart and stretching out on the bench. His brand of fucking is relentless, strong thrusts in which he devours my body without restraint. It is what I have come here for —it’s what I want. I need the domination, the edge of insanity that he barely holds in check. I need the madness in his eyes, the pure need that breathes through his body, the need only I can satisfy . And there, on the leather bench, he rides us both to exhaustion. I wake in his bed, two sheets between me and the down comforter,

the soft voice of Estelle somewhere to my right. I roll over, blinking sleepily as her kind face comes into view . “Are you ready for breakfast, Ms. Madison?” “What time is it?” I prop myself up, holding the blanket against my bare chest. “It’s after ten, ma’am. Mr. Brand told me to wake you after—” I nod, smiling slightly. “Yes. I didn’t mean to sleep this long. What time did he leave?” “Six-thirty ma’am.” I look around for my clothes, trying to trace back the moment when they had become victim to Stewart’s hands. H is office. “I asked you a year ago to stop calling me ma’am,” I mumble, a yawn slipping out of my mouth. “Yes, ma’am.” She frowns regretfully, before starting over. “I’m sorry. Would you care for breakfast?” “No, thank you. I’ve got to get going. My clothes from yesterday—” “Were in the office. They have been washed and are hanging in your closet.” “Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind asking the valet to bring up my car?” “Certainly. I’ll be close by if you need me.” She smiles brightly before backing into the hall and closing the suite’s doors. I yawn again, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and roll out of the bed. I walk into the granite-filled bathroom and turn on the steam shower.