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Beyond The Page: “Nobody (Men of the White Sandy #3)” by Sarah M Anderson

Apr 8
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Today I have an exclusive excerpt for you from NOBODY,

book #3 in Sarah M Anderson’s “Men of the White Sandy” series.

Enjoy 🙂

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CABRBTP

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Nobody cover.

Blurb:

Nobody Bodine is a nobody who came from a nobody and will always be a nobody.

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He disappears into the shadows—no one sees him if he doesn’t want them to. He exists in neither the white man’s world nor the tribe’s, dispensing vigilante justice when he sees fit. There’s no other place for a man like him in this world.

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Until Melinda Mitchell shows up on the rez. From the first moment he lays eyes on her, he can tell there’s something different about her. For starters, she’s not afraid of him. She asks where his scars came from, and why he has so many. But more than that, she sees him. For the first time in his life, Nobody feels like a somebody in her eyes.

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Melinda has come west to run the new day care on the White Sandy Reservation. She’s intrigued by this strange man and his tattered skin, and when she discovers that he’s a self-appointed guardian angel for the boy in her care, she realizes that there’s more to Nobody than meets the eyes. But how far will he go to keep the boy safe? And will she be able to draw him into the light?

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Sarah M Anderson’s introduction to this EXCLUSIVE excerpt from Chapter Six of NOBODY:

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Nobody Bodine is a hard man. In this scene, he’s waking up after being stabbed in the stomach in a fight. He didn’t mind getting stabbed – he’s not afraid of a little pain – because he was defending Melinda Mitchell.

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Melinda got him back to her sister’s house – her sister is a doctor – and together, they got Nobody patched up.

 

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Normally, Nobody would have disappeared off into the shadows – he’d never admit he was so hurt that he couldn’t walk away from a fight – but because Melinda told him to stay, he stayed. Let’s just say it’s not normal for Nobody to be waking up with a woman in his arms…

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EXCERPT:

The pain pulled Nobody back from the blackness and into the gray at a relentless pace. He didn’t want to feel the pain, but it wasn’t paying a damn bit of attention to him.

He wanted to wake up and do something—what, he didn’t know—but he let the gray fade gradually. As it got lighter, the pain began to define itself. His side hurt. He could feel the stitches pulling with each breath. His arm wasn’t great either, but at least it wasn’t throbbing.

And . . . his other arm. Shit. He had a needle in him.

That realization jolted him the rest of the way awake. He was already moving to pull the needle out—damn, but he hated needles—when he realized he wasn’t outside. Hell, he wasn’t even alone.

There was a head in his lap. A head with wildfire hair that was spread out over his jeans—over his groin. Melinda.

He went hard in an instant, the overwhelming desire pushing the pain back so far he didn’t feel anything but where she was touching him.

Because she was touching him. Her head laid on his thigh, her hand next to her chin. She was facing away from him, which meant that if she woke up, she wouldn’t see the huge hard-on that was taking control of his body.

He blinked a few times, just in case he was having a dream. He didn’t dream, not that he remembered anyway. Sleep was just darkness. But there was a first for everything, because if he were going to have a dream, waking up with Melinda Mitchell’s head in his lap would have to be near the top of the list. He even gave his head a shake, but nothing changed.

She was really asleep on him.

In addition to his throbbing dick, his heart began to pound. Why was she asleep on him? And why was he on a couch? Where was his fire? Where were his horses? Where was he?

He looked down at his arm, the one with the needle it in. Yeah, he was hooked up to an IV—a clear bag of what looked like water was hanging on a pole. Only one person would do that to him—Dr. Mitchell.

But that realization was blown away when he saw where the arm in question was resting. His hand was on Melinda’s bare skin, just above where the waistband of her black pants should have met the bottom of her t-shirt.

She was laying on him. He was touching her.

God, how long had it been? Hell, how long had it been since he’d even touched someone? Dr. Mitchell touched him, but he was usually bleeding at the time. Jamie—he carried Jamie on his back some times. And he beat the hell out of whoever deserved it.

But none of those situations were like this. There was no pain—not that he felt at the moment, anyway—no suffering.

Just a beautiful woman under his hand.

His mind spun and spun wildly. He’d had women, back when he was young and stupid and clawing for survival every single damned day. He’d taken the comfort girls had offered him, both of them looking to escape the hell of their reality for an hour at a time. He liked sex—well, he had back then, anyway. But he’d been a kid. A big, mean kid who wasn’t good at anything but fighting.

He hadn’t had a woman since . . .

Well, hell. Thirteen years was a long time by anyone’s standards.

What would it be like, if she rolled over and undid his jeans? What would it feel like if she took him in her mouth, her lips moving up and down, her tongue licking him? What would it look like, her wild hair wrapped around his fist as she moved faster and faster?

And when she was done? It’d be his turn. He’d lay her back and taste her like she’d tasted him, licking and sucking and exploring her sweet body until she cried out his name—his and no one else’s. Would she grab his hair, pulling his face down into her soft body until he was surrounded by her? Would she demand he finish her off with his mouth or his dick? Would she want it slow and sweet or hard and rough?

Jesus, he was going to come in his jeans just thinking about it.

Despite the crazy bent of his thoughts, he was actually afraid to move, afraid to wake her up. Because as much as his dick was trying to think for him, the odds of her doing anything of the sort were slim-to-none. What was more likely was that she would wake up, take one good look at him in the light of day and freak the hell out.

And he wouldn’t be able to blame her a bit if she did. He’d told her to close the door last night and hide. He’d known what was about to happen—not the stabbing part, exactly, but he knew the fight would be ugly. He’d been trying to protect her—there was always a chance he could lose a fight or worse—but the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t wanted her to see it, to see him like that. He hadn’t wanted her to know what he really was—a violent man. Because that’s what he was. That’s what he’d always been.

Before last night, she hadn’t been afraid of him—not much, anyway. And now that had probably all changed. As soon as she realized where she was—and who she was sleeping on—she’d look at him and see what everyone else saw—a man to be feared.

Then her voice floated up, and he remembered hearing her say, “What are you?”

If she still saw him as a man at all.

So he didn’t want to move and ruin this moment with her body on his. She was warm and heavy against his leg, curled into a ball on her side. He breathed deeply, letting her scent of oranges fill him.

A little of her hair was covering her cheek. Even though he didn’t want to move, he found his needle-free arm lifting toward her, his hand brushing the hair back from her face. So soft. Her hair felt like silken threads as it slid under his touch.

Then his fingertips were brushing against her skin. Up this close, he could see the pale freckles that kissed her face. Even without the wild reds and white that were painted into her hair, she was so beautiful that it crushed the air out of his chest.

At his touch, she stirred, which froze him immediately. What was his freaking problem? He didn’t want her to wake up and break this contact between them—and yet, he was waking her up? Damn it all, he didn’t know how to be around a woman. This was exactly why.

Then she moved, rolling onto her back—and toward him. Toward his aching dick.

His arm—the one that still had the Goddamned needle in it—stung as she turned, so he was forced to lift his hand and let it skim over the skin on her belly.

God, for a moment, this felt like he’d always imagined normal would be. Waking up with a pretty woman in his arms, watching her blink the sleep from her eyes, her mouth parted just a little.

Was this why Rebel had given up the outdoors? Why he slept in a house, on a bed now? Because this was how he woke up every day?

Nobody hated being inside almost as much as he hated the needle in his arm, but the moment her beautiful eyes—a deep blue that veered into green—locked onto his, he thought, It’s worth it. No matter what happened in the next thirty seconds, he’d take this time with her to his grave.

Then it got better. Instead of recoiling in horror or throwing herself off his lap—instead of doing anything he expected her to do—she smiled. That perfect strawberry-red mouth of hers curved up into a lazy grin that set his body to throbbing again, in the best way possible.

“Hi,” she whispered.

God, to be normal. To know what he was supposed to say when he woke up with a woman in his arms. Even back when he’d had women, he hadn’t spent the night with them. Never.

She saved him from having to come up with something. “You didn’t die on me last night?”

“Nope.” But before he could get another thought formed, she did something else unexpected. She rested her hand on top of his—the one on her belly. And she didn’t even lift his hand up and cast it aside.

Instead she—sweet Jesus, she pushed her fingers in between his. She held his hand to her bare skin. She made him keep touching her.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Better than fine. He felt amazing.

She wrinkled her brow. “You scared the hell out of me last night.”

“Didn’t mean to.” Then, just because he couldn’t help himself, he brushed his free hand over her hair again. He wanted to say things to her—for no other reason than to prove that he could talk, could think—that he wasn’t some dumb killing machine. But he didn’t know how.

Then the moment was over.

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Sarah M Anderson pictureABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Award-winning author Sarah M. Andersonmay live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out west on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux.

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She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.

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When not helping out at school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well-tolerated by her wonderful husband and son.

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CONTACT THE AUTHOR:

Website | Twitter @SarahMAnderson1| Facebook |

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