Blog Tour: The Desires that Burn by Kristen Luciani

I have a weakness for bad boys…and my latest obsession? My father’s best friend.

The Desires That Burn, an all-new spicy-hot, age-gap, dark romance from USA Today bestselling author Kristen Luciani, is now available!

Gorgeous and powerful. Ruthless and deadly.

Orion is the threat of death wrapped in a 6’5 tattooed package of filthy intent.

He’s my new bodyguard.

And my father’s trusted friend and hired gun.

Lines quickly blur when he shows up to rescue me from a depraved group called the Collectors.

My Internet fame got me caught in their dark and twisted crosshairs.

Orion is the only one who can save me.

But his method of protection quickly turns into something much more carnal when I call him Daddy.

He demands everything from me.

My obedience.

My submission.

My body.

He calls me young and spoiled, swearing he wants nothing to do with me beyond this job.

Yet I’m the only one who can make him lose the control he hangs onto so tightly.

Even though we have no future beyond this mission, we can’t stay away from each other.

I want him to make me his, to claim me, to own me in every way.

But when the Collectors close in to expose my biggest weakness, I have no choice but to go to them.

To save my Daddy Orion.

The question is, will he be able to save me?

Fans of dark billionaire, secret society, age gap, dad's best friend tropes will devour book two in the OBSIDIAN KNIGHTS SECRET SOCIETY series by USA Today bestselling author Kristen Luciani!

Start reading today!

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Keep reading for a look inside The Desires That Burn!

I rise slowly, and then I look up.

It’s him. The man who caught my attention on the deck. Up close, he’s older than I thought… or maybe it’s his eyes that are old, like they’ve lived through different lifetimes and personally visited hell. They’re eyes that have stories most don’t want to know, but for some odd reason, I do.

For the first time I wish my talents lay in paint and brush rather than the ability to turn found objects into art.

“I thought I was alone,” I say, the words tumbling from my lips. “I’m Dakota.”

He doesn’t answer. His intense, hard gaze moves over me like he’s grazing my skin. He’s so tall, and I’m not exactly short at five foot seven, but somehow, I feel like I’m barely a foot off the ground. I swallow hard as he moves closer, reaching over the polished wood of the bar for a bottle of rum.

And though he doesn’t touch me, the whisper of air on my bare arm tingles like he licked my skin.

He opens the bottle and silently, I hand him a glass. The clear liquid fills the glass. Then he nods to the one in my hand.

“Jesus,” he mutters. The voice low, rough like gravel, the kind of voice I didn’t know I liked, the kind of voice that finds its way down deep into my soul. “Are you even old enough to fucking drink?”

“Most men here try to ply with me booze, not talk me out of it.” Another mess of words. I shrug. “Age is just a number.”

He raises a brow. I edge out from behind the bar, aware I’m wearing a skimpy bikini Amelia insisted on giving to me. It came in a cute little lacquered bag with the tags still on it, tags she ripped off before I could see the cost. I’m wearing a white gauze lounge top over the suit, and I suddenly feel completely underdressed, like I’ve just stepped into a boudoir.

The man doesn’t comment on it; he doesn’t have to. The dark light in his eyes pulls me to him, makes me want to ask what I should wear because the expression is one of both desire and disapproval. I’m a little shocked by my reaction to him, by my wanting to please him. That’s new.

I start to down my drink when he grabs my wrist.

It’s like the singe of a wild flame, that touch. His hand is huge, tattooed with something that covers the top completely and disappears up his wrist and into his shirt. From the quick glimpse, I think it’s a snarling, fang-baring snake or dragon or beast.

There are thick silver rings on his fingers. The one on his middle finger has a square black stone in the center, and the one on his thumb is inscribed. It doesn’t look like it should belong, but it does, the way he doesn’t seem to fit the vibe on the yacht, yet somehow… he makes it all his own.

“Do you like that? Men ogling, plying you with drinks?”

I swallow. He’s twisting the meaning of the words into something dirty, and a low throb of want that connects to an innate need to suddenly please undulates through me. Because I want to say I’m not the kind of girl he implies that I am.

“I just meant I can drink if I want.” I glare, my words laced with annoyance.

The slightly sullen note hangs in the air, and the look on his face is stern, almost savage, like a predator who needs to eat.

I’m not sure I like him.

But he’s beyond hot.

“You don’t need a drink,” he says.

“Neither do you.”

That earns a very slight smile. “But, little girl, I’m of age.”

Because I’ve had a couple of drinks on an empty stomach, and the courage of booze races through my veins, heating them, I slide a hand up over his chest and oh my God, it is a wall of solid, ripped muscle. I edge closer and press against him.

“I’m not a little girl, I’m not sixteen. In fact…” I don’t have to like him to flirt or to give in to the need to touch that pulsates through me. Test the boundaries. After all, there’s no one here to judge. Except for him. “I’m old enough.”

“I see.” His eyes glitter and then he moves. Fast.

My drink is pulled from my hand and set down, and then I’m flush against him, sandwiched between him and the wall.

He leans in, his tongue tracing the skin of my throat, and then he lifts his head. I’m boneless, a vortex of need that sucks all attention right to the spot where his tongue grazed.

A throbbing sensation hums between my thighs.

And I can barely breathe.

“Be very careful who you say that to,” he says. “Because a lot of the people on this overgrown boat won’t fucking stop there.”

“And you?” I whisper. “Where will you stop?”

“Playing with fire will get you the fuck burned.” He slides a large roughened palm against my cheek.

The heat of his touch burns deliciously deep.

The man licks me again, stopping at my pulse point. He sucks, making a moan slip from my lips.

He narrows his eyes at me, his lips twisting.

“Go. Now. Before…” He releases me and steps back, fire raging in his heavy gaze. “Something happens.”

I suck in a breath, my shoulders trembling. Then I cross the room, twist the door handle, and run like hell just as he commanded me to.

For more information about Kristen Luciani and her books, visit her website:

https://kristenluciani.com/