It’s a good story. But it’s not our story. Ours is a lot more colorful.
When I met Dee I knew right away that she was special. When she met me, she thought I was anything but special—I was exactly like every other guy who’d screwed her over and let her down. It took some time to convince her otherwise, but turns out I can make a convincing argument when sex is at stake.
You might know where this story’s headed. But the best part isn't where we ended up.
It’s how we got there.
TAMED goes back in time to the Tangled days. But this time around, it’s not Drew dishing out the advice and opinions—it’s his best friend Matthew, who of course is dealing with Dee Dee.
Tamed made me laugh out loud! Matthew's thoughts, his idea of relationships and women was fantastic--just a typical guy trying to get laid.! But when he met his match in Dee, all his ideas of the easy, perfect girl goes out the window.
We got to know a little bit about Matthew and Dee in the previous books in the series and getting to read their story and how they hooked up was written brilliantly in this book.
Matthew instantly is attracted to Dee when they first meet. And how can we all forget the most famous line out of Matthew's mouth:
“Delores is a gorgeous name, for a gorgeous girl. Plus, it rhymes with clitoris…and I really know my way around them. Big fan.”
I pretty much snorted when I read that part. These two hit it off fast (literally). They both continue to see each other, but wanting "no strings attached." But after getting to know each other, feelings blossom. Easy for Matthew--he comes off as a ladies man, but he truly is caring and gentle. Dee becomes a hard nut to crack for Matthew. She has hang ups and secrets that prevents her from love and falling for Matthew.
Tamed is filled with plenty of laughter, sexiness, angst and some heartbreak. But don't fear, Matthew and Dee's journey to a HEA is one that I won't forget in a long time.
And seriously, we get more Drew in this book and his awesome, funny niece, Mackenzie. I can't get enough of that swear jar!
She puts on the helmet, but doesn’t climb on the Ducati right away. She stands on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, looking thoughtfully at it. “What would you say if I said I wanted to drive your motorcycle to the party?”
“I’d say you’re shit out of luck. I don’t ride bitch.”
She knocks me upside the head—but my helmet softens the blow. “Then let me take it for a ride myself. Just around the block.”
“I . . .don’t think so.”
I sigh. “Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to fly, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna strap on a squirrel suit and skydive from the god damn Empire State Building.”
She steps closer, and rubs her placating hands up my chest. “Come on, please? I’ll be really careful and grateful. Really grateful. Like . . .deviantly, let you handcuff me to the bed, kind of grateful.”
Forget the national broadcast system—this is the test. Am I going to stick to my man-guns, keep my pride, and protect my cherished vehicle from almost certain carnage? Or, am I going to be ruled by my dick and swayed by the promise of kinky, have-Dee-at-my-mercy-all-night-long, sex?
“Riding bitch, it is.”