A Different Kind of Super Alpha Hero

The fairy tales we devoured as kids promised us HEA with a handsome prince.  But is it possible for someone who “looks like Abe Lincoln with a buzz cut” to do what he thinks is right without giving a damn what the world thinks?  What if he’s not mega-rich?  Or the CEO of the world’s most powerful—or secret—organization in the world?  Can he still be so hot the air sizzles when he enters a room?

What if he’d walk barefoot over hot coals in hell to protect his mother and younger brother from hurt and humiliation?  What if he’s the human companion to a tough, nasty old tomcat?  What if, as a maverick cop, he gives his superiors the finger to help the prime suspect in her missing husband’s presumed murder?  What if the prime suspect—as beautiful as a fairy-tale princess—would rather kiss a snake on the lips than trust him?  Would he still risk his career and his life to do the right thing?

When fleshing out my romantic suspense novel, Presumed Guilty, these are a few of the questions I asked.  I also wanted to know if my super-alpha hero had any secrets?  (He does).  Can a SAH laugh at himself?  Why does he risk playing with fire?  Does commitment scare him?  (Absolutely.  For him, commitment is forever).  Can he accept the object of his commitment seems interested more in satisfying her pent-up sexual frustrations than building a new life?

Asking over a hundred questions like these helped me know Nick Ketchum and conclude he is a true SAH

I hope the excerpt below compels you to read the book to see what’s in his heart.

Here’s the scene setup:  Two days after meeting Robin Lamy, Nick asks her to go for coffee.  At his house.  His reasoning?  To escape the constant sleazeratti stalking her.  Alarms ringing, she agrees to go—even before she learns Nick has turned in his badge defending her innocence.  At his house, his old tomcat entices her into Nick’s bedroom.  (You’ll have to read the first hundred pages to enjoy all the foreplay that has gone on to this point).

From Allie Hawkins’  novel, Presumed Guilty

Their eyes locked. It was so quiet he heard atoms colliding around them. He didn’t know which of them moved first. Then, they came together, kissing as if they’d been lovers forever.

Happening too fast, he thought, still hoping to find the OFF button between his legs. But her scent of roses hijacked thinking, bypassed reason, overrode sanity.

“Crazy,” she murmured.

“Insane.” Wrong, too. She was lonely. Scared. Vulnerable.

Nick dropped to the bed, pulled her onto his lap, couldn’t believe her lack of resistance.

Her sandals hit bare wood.

He jumped.

Lips parted, she slid her hand between his legs.

Thought gave way to longing.

Smarting from the meltdown with Chief Waverly, disgusted for disgracing Pop’s name, Nick leaned into her, caressed her hair, and dragged his fingers down her long, incredible, kissable neck. Heat radiated off her, wrapping them in a fiery cocoon of primal need. Her soft, hot mouth met his. Their sizzling tongues touched, deepened, retreated.

Which didn’t matter because she started stroking his zipper.

Nick shuddered and trailed his fingers down her spine, to her waistband. He stopped at the tiny, embedded zipper in her slacks.

“Like this.” She twisted, put her hand on his and guided his fingers.

The zipper glided downward. When he touched her scalding skin, they both gasped. Gently, he pinched her bare ass and she nipped his ear.  Sweet Jesus.

“Take off my bra.” Her voice was breathy.

“Can do.” He slid his hands under her silk Tee. His fingertips soaked up the satin skin covering hard muscle in her back and abs.

She moaned and brought his mouth to hers. The kiss deepened. A light exploded inside Nick. Reason fought to get a toehold, but surrendered as he unhooked her bra. She slipped her hand inside his pants. In a Hollywood lip-lock, they thrashed out of their clothes.

Except for her tiny, see-through white thong.

She straddled him, head back, fist in his chest hair, a female warrior breaking in a wild stallion.

And he gave her the ride of her life, their cries intermingling as the present receded.

He waited for Robin, waited till she yelled, “Now! Now!”

Allie Hawkins Bio

Allie Hawkins, and her alter ego Barbara Plum, got married in Kansas City, raised two kids there, taught adolescent boys English and Spanish and developed adult programs for the Kansas City Public Library.  Creating marketing materials for the world’s largest software company honed her fiction-writing skills.  She has published two romantic comedies as Barbara Plum.  She has also published two romantic suspense novels and is currently writing a YA paranormal romance.  When she’s not walking, reading or dancing, she lives near the fast lane in Silicon Valley with her own super-alpha hero.

Allie Hawkins Social Media  –  Website  |  Facebook  |  LinkedIn  |  GoodReads

Presumed Guilty is available through: Amazon and The Wild Rose Press