The Kings of Kearny_ A Steamy - Navessa Allen
Copyright © 2021 by Navessa Allen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Victory Editing. All mistakes are my own.
Cover photograph by VadimGuzhva via iStock. Cover design by Navessa Allen.
Table of Contents
About the Author
for everyone who never believed in me … fuck you.
(that’s it. that’s the dedication.)
Jakob Larson was going to be the death of me.
Beneath the dim amber lighting in the bar, he was six feet of sin draped in darkness. The sleeves of his leather jacket hit him at his wrists. A pair of sinuous tattoos slithered out from them like twin snakes, black ink whorling over the back of his hands. He turned his head to the left, and another tantalizing hint of tattoo peeked out above his collar.
I stared at his wide back like I had X-ray vision, wondering how much of his skin was covered. Whoever needled all that ink into him was one lucky bastard. To be bent over him for hours on end, his big body laid out beneath me...
God, it’s hot in the bar tonight, I thought, wondering how conspicuous it would be if I started fanning myself.
I lifted my gaze, taking in the rest of Jakob. His dark blond hair was cropped close at the sides but was long enough on top that you could dig your fingers into it. A beard obscured the lower half of his face. I’d never been a massive fan of facial hair, but he kept his trimmed and neat, which made me wonder if the rest of him was just as well-groomed.
No one would ever call him a pretty boy; his features were too stark for that. He looked like the by-blow of some cruel Norse god. With cheekbones cut at sharp angles, lips set in a hard line, and heavy brows forever pulled down in a scowl, he had what I liked to call resting fuck you face.
Still, he held a kind of carnal appeal. He moved with the intrinsic grace of an athlete, like someone who had pushed his body to the limit, learned just what it was capable of, and now it performed for him in a way that was damn near preternatural compared to the rest of us. Except he wasn’t an athlete; he was a fighter. There was a notch halfway down his nose from a past break. His knuckles bore the scars of a man who liked to hit things with his fists. Larger bikers gave him a wide berth as they moved through the crowd, parting around him like a tide for Moses. Even standing still, he projected an aura of something barely contained and half-feral.
I read somewhere that women know within five minutes of meeting someone whether or not they’ll sleep with them. With Jakob, you needed all five of those minutes to decide if the risk of fucking him was worth the reward. I couldn’t even look at him without picturing him naked, biceps straining as he rose above me, abs contracting as he thrust inside. I usually didn’t go for the whole alpha-male vibe—too many guys who projected that aura were possessive, borderline abusive douche nozzles—but Jakob seemed to be the exception to my rule. I blamed my inner cavewoman. He was the kind of man who made her sit up and take notice.
Him big. Make strong babies. Protect cave.
It made me feel marginally better that I wasn’t the only one staring. Three women about my age at a nearby table kept cutting glances at him. A few more on the dance floor sent him come-hither looks.
The sound of an angry voice rose above the bar’s music. I forced my gaze away from Jakob, searching it out. In the far corner, two men faced off over a pool table. Like the rest of our