Through the Fire (New York Syndicate Book 3)

by Michelle St. James

Sometimes she was as angry as a summer storm, as powerful as the wind that blew through the forest surrounding the house.

He’d been her anchor when she was adrift at sea, the touchstone that reminded her she was real and human.

People — and women in particular — had been doing what they had to do to survive for millennia. Any asshole who wanted to criticize a stripper instead of the men who paid to drool over them needed to check their moral outrage at the door.

He set her aflame every time he touched her, took her to physical heights she hadn’t known existed. He made her feel protected and loved.

Love wasn’t control or dominance. Love, real love, meant giving the other person room to be who they were. It meant making them feel safe enough to tell you their secrets.