Sweet Venom by Kirsty-Anne Still….Release Day Blitz & Review

Title: Sweet Venom
Author: Kirsty-Anne Still
Release Date: Feb 28, 2017
Add to TBR

There are two sides to every story.

Until there are three.

And ours isn’t for the faint of hearts.

***

SWEET VENOM is a crazy in love novel set in three point of views – crazy, crazier and craziest. This is a love triangle that is not made for those looking for an easy love story or an obvious end.
If I were you, I’d be careful who you fall for.

This is STANDALONE.
Meant for mature readers due to murder, violence and sex.

 I have read Kirsty’s books in the past and have had mixed feelings on them. One I have enjoyed, while others I just ok with. This one, I am not sure where I find myself.

I loved the plot – it was great. But it’s how everything played out that took some of the excitement out of it for me. The characters I struggled connecting to. While at certain points I found myself really getting into the book, other times I found myself saying “do I really want to continue this book?” And I hate that. Let me try to explain further.

The characters. Ashley – I didn’t really care for her at all. One minute she was all feisty and not afraid of anything and the next, she was this timid mouse. And that just drove me nuts. I won’t give away any spoilers but at no point, beginning, middle or end, did I ever like this character. Eden I liked. She was fighter. She too had her moments of weakness, but you understood where those came in. As with Ashley, you just couldn’t grasp why one minute she was strong and the next she was weak. She just became an annoying gnat that wouldn’t go away. Then we have Lawrence – I really liked him. He’s a killer, a ruthless one at that. But Ashley and Eden have a way of weakening him in different ways. And it’s their ability to weaken him, that brings out different sides to him.

The plot. Love the concept! Hated how it played out. It seemed to take forever to get from one moment to the next. I get you want some suspense, but damn – don’t drag it out. You lose the point and the readers interest. This is where I found myself skimming parts because I just wanted to get onto the next scene and what would happen next. There was too much inner monologue amongst the characters. I understand wanting to see what the characters are thinking, but sometimes it gets to be too much. If we have a good understanding of who they, we pretty much know why do they things. And the backstories of these characters – holy shit. Yes, I understand we need to know things that happened because it sets other parts in motion, but again, don’t drag it out – there were multiple scenes jumping around explanations and then we finally find out the backstory. That was super annoying. It was just unnecessary filler. Sometimes it’s just best to give a quick synopsis of backstory.

Yes, it sounds like I am tearing this book apart, but I’m not. I did enjoy reading this or I wouldn’t have read it the whole way through. I think part of my issue is that this author is very detailed in her writing. And for me, personally it’s too much. As an editor, this book would have been cut much shorter. Or possibly made into two books. But that’s me.

Overall, the plot in itself was great. The book, while very lengthy was good. Don’t expect for anything to stand out. It’s one of those reads where you find yourself interested enough to continue, but it may take a few days to complete because there is not urgent need to finish other than flat out curiosity. There was portion near the end that redeemed this book a little and upped it to a 3 star rating for me.

I know that there are some who will love this book. As I said, that plot was awesome. Loved it. The characters were just ok – nothing to excite me and none that will stick with me. I am going to buy this book once it releases, but mostly for the reason of I need to see the final version of this book. I had an unedited ARC and I found LOTS of editing issues, which I think also hindered parts for me. I will re-read this and give an updated review on the released book if any of my opinions change. I will never critique an unedited book on editing issues – the answer to why is obvious.

Author, graphic designer, book worm, peppermint tea obsessive.

Kirsty-Anne stumbled across her love for writing as she started university. Over the last couple of years she’s found the style of writing that best defines her and her work. Her favourite genres to write are romantic suspense with dark themes, but loves to push her boundaries.

  

Ripple Effect by Keri Lake…Release Day Blitz

 

 

 

Ripley

They call me RIP.
I’m a killer. A murderer. A psychopath.
In the eyes of the righteous, I’m a monster, born of sin and depravity.
I want to protect her, but I’m not a good man.
I want to love her, but I no longer feel.
She gets under my skin, though, and has awakened something inside of me.
Something I’d kill for.
I’m not her savior—not even close. In fact, I’m worse than the hell she’s already suffered.
I’m her vengeance. Tit for tat, as they say.
And if she’s not careful, I’ll be her ruin.

Dylan

For months, I’ve watched him.
I’ve fantasized him as my savior, my lover. My ticket out of the hell I’ve lived in for the last six years.
I never dreamed he’d be my nightmare.
Had I known what he really is, I’d have never gotten in the car that night, but life is full of cause and effect.
And sometimes the choice on offer isn’t a choice at all.
It’s the result of something already in motion, and we’re merely left to survive the ripple effect.

*This is an erotic suspense/erotic romance not recommended for readers under the age of 18 due to graphic violence and sex.

 

Prologue

 

Ripley
Ripple effect: noun
1. a spreading effect or series of consequences caused by a single action or event

 

    “Do you want to live?” The barrel of the gun presses into my temple, still warm from the bullets that were shot into my stepmother, who now lies in a lifeless heap in the corner. “This moment will determine whether or not I pull the trigger.”
   The stranger’s breath smells of warm tobacco and liquor.
   Thick red blood pools at my boots, and my eyes follow the scarlet trail across the wooden planks to the wounded man, crawling on his elbows toward the door.
   I just sliced through the back of his knees with a blade, like a robot at the gunman’s command. Sixteen years of being a relatively normal kid ripped out of my hands, as I watch my first victim, about to make myself a murderer.
    My lips are dry. So is my throat, fuzzy and scratchy like cotton. Fear will do that, but so can excitement.
   Staring down at my hands, coated in his blood, I suddenly long to wash him off of me, to keep him from infecting me, but I can’t yet. I have to finish him. That’s what the stranger with the gun has asked me to do.
   Kill my father.
   With slow, stalking steps, I follow behind, until he turns over onto his back, and the gore of the last hour bleeds out of more wounds than I can count.
   “Tell me, boy.” His voice is raspy, gravelly, and carries a slight gurgle from whatever is backing up in his throat. In spite of the panting rise and fall of his chest, he lets out a hearty laugh and slaps a hand to his heart with a hacking cough that sprouts a glob of blood onto his lip. “What’s yours … feel like?” Blood coats his teeth and choppy words confess he’s losing to death. “Tell you what … mine felt like. Your momma … she was … a beautiful kill. Fucking … begged me not to hurt you. Told me … I could do whatever … I wanted to her. So long as I left … you alone.” Another laugh and he twists to the side, vomiting blood onto the floor beside him. After a pause, he wipes his face across his sleeve and continues, “So I did … everything … to that whoring cunt.”
   I tighten my fingers around the blade’s hilt, and despite the rage that snakes through my veins, I don’t yet finish him. I’ve waited too long for this. Night after night, I fantasized of these very seconds and the final words I’d say to him.
   With the gun pointed at my back, I find the courage to kill or be killed. “Every … stab. Like butter. And when I slit her throat …” A sickly cough ends on a choking fit and the wet clap in his chest tells me I punctured his lung earlier. “Last thing she mouthed … was your name.”
   I kneel down beside him and reach out a hand that he bats away. I’m stronger than what little resistance is left in him, and I grip his skull, staring into his dark, soulless eyes. Both of mine are a different color—one blue, like my mother’s, and one hazel. One offers the ability to see a man’s true colors, the other allows me to watch him die without remorse. “You want to know how it feels to hurt you?” The detachment in my voice is foreign to me. Calm.
   His lips stretch into a bloodstained smile. “Yes. Tell me. Tell me … how it feels.”
   I stab the knife into his throat and give a brutal turn of the blade, watching his eyes widen in horror as his hand flies to the hilt. Gripping his hair tight, I tip his head back and guide his eyes to mine. “I feel nothing.”
   His brows dip with a frown and focus on mine for a moment as he gasps for the air that’ll never save him now.
   I push off of him, surprised at the apathy washing over me while he grasps at the gaping wound in his windpipe. Surely a son should feel something for his father. And yet, I don’t. He’d beaten the love out of me a long time ago, leaving nothing but a hollow that has since filled with hate.
   From behind, a firm grip of my shoulder has me looking down to the gold lion ring on the hand curled there, and back to the man wearing a black shirt and slacks, who stands behind me.
   “Well done, Ripley.” He puffs his cigar and gives a squeeze of my shoulder. “Well done, my boy.”
   The man who freed me from my cage disappears into the dark room behind me, and when I turn my attention back on the one I’ve just killed, a terrifying reality settles over me.
   I’ve traded one cage for another.

 

 

 

.

 

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Keri Lake is a married mother of two living in Michigan. By day, she tries to make use of the degrees she’s earned in science. By night, she writes dark contemporary, paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Though novels tend to be her focus, she also writes short stories and flash fiction on the many occasions distraction sucks her into the Land of Shiny Things.

For news, updates and sneak peeks at the sexy cover model candidates for her annual Cover Model Contest, subscribe to her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/HJPHH

 

 

 

Cover Reveal….Sweet Venom by Kirsty-Anne Still

Title: Sweet Venom
Author: Kirsty-Anne Still
Release Date: Feb 28, 2017
Add to TBR
There are two sides to every story.

Until there are three.

And ours isn’t for the faint of hearts.

***

SWEET VENOM is a crazy in love novel set in three point of views – crazy, crazier and craziest. This is a love triangle that is not made for those looking for an easy love story or an obvious end.
If I were you, I’d be careful who you fall for.

This is STANDALONE.
Meant for mature readers due to murder, violence and sex.

“Sorry!” I exclaim, noticing a young woman in a purple satin hoody. “I wasn’t looking where I was going!”

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice delicate. “Flower,” she says, a small, polite smile lays upon her pink lips and holds out a freshly cut pink orchid with a pink ribbon around it. “Treasure it.”

I take it, mesmerized by the beauty of the orchid. I look up, but she’s no longer looking at me and starts to slip away, but I grab her wrist before she can disappear.

“Thank you,” I tell her, grateful.

“No,” she starts to say, a bright smile bears her teeth. “Thank you.”

I let her go, leaving her to continue on through the groups of people.

“Ashley!” Lawson yells above the crowds and I look up to see him using a street light to get him higher than the crowds of people. “C’mon!”

I look once more behind me, noticing the blonde’s gone. I face toward Lawson who urges me to get to him and I listen. I keep the flower close to me and make my way through the masses. I catch up, the flower protected against my chest as I try to get passed people without damaging it. I make it to the front of a shop where everyone’s waiting and as I fall before them, I allow the flower the breathe.

“That got crazy,” I say, exhaling heavily. “But got given this,” I mention, putting the flower out.

A white tag declaring MARDI GRAS falls from my palm and I look proud with this collectable.

“By who?” Lawson barks, stepping forward to grab my hand. “Who gave you this?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the orchid. “Some girl … she had a hood up, but she was blond. Why does it matter?”

Lawson says nothing, but takes the flower from me. His gentle with it, delicately touching it as if it’s the most fragile things he’s ever been given. I watch him pick at the ribbon with the tag on it. His face pales and he returns his gaze to me.

“It’s got your name on it,” he states and he spins the Mardi Gras tag to show my name in clear, curly red lettering.

My heart sinks.

“What?” I ask, reaching for it. “How is that possible?”

“Where is she?” he asks, his voice taut. “Which direction did she go in?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him, trying not to let fear get a grip on me. “Back towards our balcony, I guess. Who gave me this?”

I can see that Lawson doesn’t want to reply. His jaw becomes tight and he wets his lips, shuffling between his feet. I also see his effort not to run in that direction making the situation even harder to understand.

“Lawson,” I say, trying my hardest not to sound frightful. “What the fuck is going on?”

My question puts him more on edge, so he’s looking over his shoulder at everyone behind him. It’s now I see that they all hold the same solemn, bereaved look he did when he saw the pink orchid. Slowly, he turns back to me with a severely grave look in his eyes and he seems to have entered a trance as he looks back at the orchid. Gradually, he brings his eyes from the flower to mine and I see fear in them.

“She’ll rain down petals before she rains down hell,” he whispers, reluctantly giving me the flower back.

“What?” I ask, feeling my brow tightening. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Ashley,” Lawson starts, trying to steady his voice as his eyes fall once again onto the flower in my hand. “That’s the mark of death.”

Author, graphic designer, book worm, peppermint tea obsessive.

Kirsty-Anne stumbled across her love for writing as she started university. Over the last couple of years she’s found the style of writing that best defines her and her work. Her favourite genres to write are romantic suspense with dark themes, but loves to push her boundaries.

  

Cover Reveal….Blame It On The Shame Part 3 by Ashley Jade


Title: Blame It On The Shame Part 3 
Author: Ashley Jade 
Genre: Dark Romance 

 

 
 
 
 
There’s something lurking in all of us.
Something we hide and shelter from those we love in order to protect them.
A darkness we try to suppress because we’re ashamed of who that makes us. 
Because that’s the thing about Shame.
It wounds us. It damages us.
Or, for the few poor souls out there like me…it defines us.
It’s there—in the shadows, beneath the surface…just waiting.
Until you let it break free
And the darkness consumes you.

My name is Ricardo DeLuca.
There are two things you need to know about me. The first—is that my heart will always bleed for her…
Only her.
The second— is that I’m the son of the devil himself—the most feared mob boss who ever lived.
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 
 
 
I’m a lover of psychology, romance, erotica, dark romance, dark erotica, and anything thought provoking…except for math. I’ve always read books growing up, and after having a strange dream one night; I decided to just go for it and publish my first series. 
Little did I know, I would end up falling head over heels in love with writing. 
If I’m not researching, paying off student loan debt, or writing a novel- you can usually find me watching my favorite series on Netflix, stealing my man’s t-shirts, or pondering the meaning of life. 
Check my page for future novels.
Also, feel free to start a discussion board/or leave a review if you’re so inclined. 
I value and appreciate all my fans reviews, thoughts, and discussions, as well as their time. Each and every single one of you are important to me. 
Thanks for believing in me and giving me a shot. It has meant more to me than you’ll ever know. 

 

 

Chapter Reveal…..Ripple Effect by Keri Lake

 

 

Coming February 24th

 

Ripley

They call me RIP.
I’m a killer. A murderer. A psychopath.
In the eyes of the righteous, I’m a monster, born of sin and depravity.
I want to protect her, but I’m not a good man.
I want to love her, but I no longer feel.
She gets under my skin, though, and has awakened something inside of me.
Something I’d kill for.
I’m not her savior—not even close. In fact, I’m worse than the hell she’s already suffered.
I’m her vengeance. Tit for tat, as they say.
And if she’s not careful, I’ll be her ruin.

Dylan

For months, I’ve watched him.
I’ve fantasized him as my savior, my lover. My ticket out of the hell I’ve lived in for the last six years.
I never dreamed he’d be my nightmare.
Had I known what he really is, I’d have never gotten in the car that night, but life is full of cause and effect.
And sometimes the choice on offer isn’t a choice at all.
It’s the result of something already in motion, and we’re merely left to survive the ripple effect.

*This is an erotic suspense/erotic romance not recommended for readers under the age of 18 due to graphic violence and sex.

 

 

Shells are made to be cracked.
I stare down at the tiny white egg, wedged between the ashtray filled with cigarette butts and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the balcony.  Hardly broken in two halves, the busted center reveals an underdeveloped bird inside, nearly devoured by the bugs that crawl in and out of the shell.  I can just make out one bulbous eyeball, surprisingly intact, staring back at me.  Mourning Dove, I’d bet.  They seem to flock to this shithole every year, for whatever reason.
The nest teeters on the edge of the eave somewhere above me, as if the mother intentionally chose this most dangerous spot to lay her egg then up and abandoned it.  Left to the careful watch of carnivores.
Poor little bird.
A tickle hits my arm and I slap a hand to my skin, before scratching at the spot just below a black monarch butterfly tattoo, digging my nails into the place where I’m certain I felt something crawling over me.  I hate when my long wisps of hair skim across the surface like a translucent web dancing over my skin.  Insects give me the willies.  Well, except for butterflies, I don’t mind them so much.  My therapist put a name on it once, said I had ento-something-phobia—a fear of bugs.  It’s not really the bugs themselves I fear, though.  It’s the idea that something could breach the barriers of my skin, and infest, just like the shell that housed that bird.  Sometimes I have dreams about them, crawling over me, nesting inside of me.  
The very thought casts a shiver down my spine, and I’m grateful for the pane of glass that separates me from the macabre outside my window.  
Wind rattles the glass in its frame, the tendrils of late winter snaking their way beneath the thin afghan wrapped around my shoulders.  It’s been mild, unseasonably warm enough for bugs and early blooms, but that Chicago wind carries the vestiges of a brutal winter.
The fog of my pills is lifting, making me more aware of the cold, but I’m holding off for something stronger.  I’ll need it tonight.
From below, the mumbled shouts of Lady Ortiz, as I call her, push their way through the rotted wood planks that separate our balcony from hers.  She and Mr. Ortiz are fighting again, their voices escalating into the crash of broken glass.   The Yorkie, three floors below, barks an incessant plea to take a piss outside, and I wonder if his owner, Mrs. Silvia, has finally kicked the bucket.  The lady’s pushing ninety, and the pungent reek of ammonia that fills her apartment seeps through the heating ducts of this place sometimes.
Oddly enough, in spite of the noise, the smells, and the crawling bugs, this is my moment of peace. Escape.  Freedom.  
I must be the only teenage girl on the planet who longs for quiet moments without the gossip, the socializing, and all the damn noise.  In a generation of selfies and the desperate need for validation, sometimes I like to slip onto the other side of the mirror and simply watch.
Fringed by the glow of my bedroom light, I study the broken shell, eyeing an ant that marches away with a chunk of something far too big for its size, and I’m reminded that the world takes what it wants even after death.
That’s how I got here, this shithole apartment smack in the middle of Chicago.  Just like insects, after my father’s death, the bank took our house, the creditors took our cars, and shame stole our pride as we bounced from shelter to shelter, my mom and me.  I was nine years old when he died, and as innocent and vulnerable as a baby bird trapped inside a fragile shell.
Because he committed suicide, my dad’s insurance policy was considered null, and we were left without a pot to piss in.  For a while, though, we got by.  My mom landed a job dancing, and as a veteran’s widow, qualified for something like Section Eight housing.  I was left home alone most nights, but it worked.  We survived. Things were okay for a while.
I can’t even remember the moment life changed for us.  
Feels like it happened in the span of a year, but I know it only took one fleeting second in time, when she didn’t have to worry about me, when the weight bearing down on her lifted and she felt high as the clouds.
An odd dichotomy, heroin—the way it rolls off the tongue as two completely opposite things—a selfless and courageous woman, and a selfish agent of destruction.  
My mom gave up one for the other and that began our descent into some of the darkest days of my life.
My stomach twists, and I curl into myself, bringing my knees tighter to my body.  
Almost time.
Two silhouettes hit my periphery, and I turn toward the mouth of the alley, where they move abruptly, limbs flailing, as if they’re in the thick of a fight.  I focus on them for a moment, spotting the sag of his slacks just below his un-tucked shirt, and realize they’re not fighting at all. They’re fucking.  A prostitute and her John pressed against the dirty bricks of the building, beside the overflowing dumpster. Her dark skin is hard to make out, but his crisp white shirt stands out like a beacon of debauchery.
This alley is a constant stream of slum life stories.
Staring at them drudges a memory of sitting tucked beside a line of garbage cans in the back alley of a bar, watching a rat pick at a maggot-infested chicken leg lying in a toxic pool of wastewater, while the sounds of my mother’s animalistic grunts and moans drifted from the other side.  Nothing but meat and the stench of rot taunting my gag reflex.  Through a small gap between the wall and garbage, I could just make out a man’s naked ass slamming into her, his dirty fingers curled around her bony thigh.  Even then, no more than eleven years old, I knew what she’d become before the word was brutally carved into her skin. Whore.  Junkie.  A prostitute, always searching for the next high.
The two in the alley stop moving.  Only that they’ve begun to pull their clothes back on tells me one of them must’ve climaxed.  There is no big finale, or magical moment of ecstasy in the underbelly.  It’s all quick and quiet fucks, while breathing in the fog and reek of stale sex and damp garbage.  He tugs his slacks over his hips and holds up an object, which I’m guessing is a thin wad of cash.  She reaches for it and the guy strikes her with the back of his hand, the echoing smack that kicks her head to the side is the first sound I’ve heard between them.  
He’s probably her pimp.  If she fights him, she’ll have to drag her ass across the city looking for an unclaimed street corner, and pray some crazy lunatic doesn’t pick her up and turn her into a human skin rug with her head mounted on his wall.
At seventeen, I know more about organizational hierarchy and job security than the average middle-aged CEO, and just like the corporate world, success depends on how many people get fucked.  
Wolves and sheep.
For those of us in the flock, survival comes down to how well we manipulate, because a predator’s eyes are naturally drawn to the most innocent.  So when my mom’s John started giving me that carnal look, I began carrying a pocketknife, and at thirteen, I once held it to the junkie’s throat, threatening to slice out his voice box if he ever touched me again.
Sometimes the sheep can be cunning, though.
My mom once tried to make me pickpocket—a lesson that landed us in the back of a cop car.  Took ten minutes with the cop before we were released with a warning, and it was then I learned a valuable lesson in life:  even at a woman’s weakest, sex could be her most powerful weapon.
I glance back at Charlie, my stark white Dogo Argentino, stolen from one of my mother’s back alley conquests.  If not for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here, letting the blood-sucking insects feed off of me, after my mother spiraled straight to her grave.  
Charlie gives me purpose.  If there is a God, I truly believe he put her in my life to keep me from doing stupid shit.  That, or to give me a weakness, because Lord knows I’d probably go psycho bitch crazy and end up in a padded cell if anything ever happened to my beloved dog.
Because of her, my heart is a tenderer piece of meat for the insects to tear apart.
At the opposite side of the room is another bed that belongs to my eight-year-old foster sister, Layla.  Well, for now anyway.  She won’t be here long.  This place is a revolving door for foster girls, most only staying a couple months max.  I don’t know where they go, and honestly, I don’t care.  There’s no point getting to know them.  In the time I’ve lived with the Westpricks, at least two-dozen girls have been in and out of here.  In some ways, I resent them, getting out and moving on to something else.  Maybe somewhere better.
I’m the only one who ever stays.  The constant in this hellhole.
Since I was nine years old, I’ve been bounced around from house to house, wishing and hoping for things that just don’t happen to kids where I come from.  For six of those years I’ve been lost.  The forgotten.  The unwanted.  I’ve been hurt in ways that have forever changed my landscape and numbed me to future pain.  
But now I have Charlie, who’s a reminder that good things can come from bad situations, and that even a beast can penetrate the hardest of hearts.  
Charlie makes me think of my mother more than I care to.  Perhaps because it was my mother who stole her for me, unwittingly gifting me my own personal guardian angel.  
I miss her sometimes, though.
The memories of her are like bent photographs that I pull from my back pocket from time to time, wishing I could set them out on a shelf someday.  But life’s too short, particularly in this part of the city, to dwell on what will never be again.
My mom wasted away before I even hit middle school. Police told me it was an overdose, but I think she got a hold of a tainted batch of heroin.  
And I’ve been caught up in the system ever since.
A few places worked out okay.  They let me keep my dog, which was cool, but people tend to give up on kids who don’t love as easily as others.  I acted out.  Punched my first foster mother in the face and broke her nose.  Didn’t even have a good reason, really, except that she was the first person I had to deal with after my mom died.
Lucky for me, my caseworker managed to track down my mom’s sister, Chanel, and her long-time boyfriend, Randy.  I’d never met her before, never even knew my mom had a sister. Aside from the fact that Chanel treats Layla and me like her favorite Barbie dolls, the two of them can’t stand us most of the time.
Doesn’t matter, though.
Two more months and I’ll be out on my own.  
I close my eyes so tight they ache.  Two more months.  That’s when I graduate and can get the hell out of this shithole, and away from the shady foster system that threw me into the hands of Randy Westprick, as I like to call him, and my flighty aunt.  In a few weeks I turn eighteen and no one will own me anymore.  No one.
I could run away now, ditch school and hit the streets, but that would put me on the same path as my mother and I’d rather die in this hellish place than repeat her mistakes.
The neon sign across the alley blinks a mesmerizing repetition of lost hopes that reflects off the patches of water along the pavement.
A shadow slips along my periphery, and I lift my gaze as a dark figure stalks down the alley toward the old fashioned-looking diner that sits across the narrow cross section on the corner.  A place that reminds me of the Boulevard of Broken Dreams painting I once saw at the mall.
It’s him.
Head to toe in black, the stranger’s tall frame remains concealed in the leather coat he always wears.  I flip open the dull brass pocket watch, the only remnant left of my real dad, and check the time.  Ten o’clock, as usual.  Churning in my stomach has me hugging my mid-section.  
Almost time.
Every Friday I watch the stranger enter the diner, choosing the corner booth beside the window, where he orders a burger and drink.  It’s only Friday he orders a burger.  Some nights he’ll come in, grab carry-out, and leave. But not on Fridays.  On those nights, he stays and sits alone, never seems to make small talk with the waitress—the same lady who waits on him every time he ventures in.  Their interactions are brief and as cold as I’d imagine from a man like him.  In spite of that, the sight of him makes me dream things.  I don’t know who he is, but I fantasize that he’s a deft killer by the way he carries himself with such lethal grace.  If he is, then this is the side his victims never get to see—his vulnerability, choosing the same place, the same seat, the same time every Friday night.  It’s a sadness that speaks to me, because without fail, I find myself settling in by my window at the very same time.  
Occasionally, he goes at different times, on different days, some weeks not at all, which might seem erratic to some, but I’ve watched him long enough to know there’s a pattern.  One that I’ve picked up on, because that one week he’s not there, is repeated precisely four weeks later.  Perhaps it’s mindless on his part, maybe his visits correspond to events in his life that I’m not privy to, but I’m a creature of patterns, and I’ve memorized his.
From as high as my window, I can see he’s big.  A man, not a boy, at least ten years my senior.  His bulky frame fills the creases of the leather coat he wears, and he reminds me of something straight out of a comic book—not the hero, but the menacing antihero, the bad guy no one expects to be good.
No, in my fantasy, he’s bigger.  Meaner.  Stronger.  A man who kills on instinct.
Beneath the cover of my blanket, I sneak my hand down inside my shirt, closing my eyes the moment my fingertip makes contact with my hardened nipple.  I imagine his lips closing over it, the scratch of his day-old scruff against my skin and his strong hands holding me in place, the gruff in his voice as he says my name like a fervent prayer.  I imagine he smells good, not like stale beer and the putrid mix of body odor and bacon grease, but something deliciously masculine.
I shouldn’t want for a grown man this way, but I do, and I don’t even know him.  
For months, I’ve held this invisible rendezvous with him, staring down from my perch, imagining him stealing me from this cage.  Turning me into whatever he is.  Killer?  Criminal?  I don’t even care, so long as it’s tougher, more wicked than Randy Westprick.
I fault him for my lack of interest in the boys at school.  Not that I’m allowed to date them anyway, but I’m certainly not touching myself to any of the guys my age.
Sometimes he stares out the window and I swear his gaze scans up to my balcony. However, if he sees me, he never makes it known.  Perhaps to a man like that, I’m nothing but a young girl, hardly a threat for noticing him.
With my bottom lip caught between my teeth, I succumb to the visuals toying with my mind and the soft moan that escapes me has me stealing a furtive glance back at Layla to make sure she’s still asleep.
He takes his usual seat, filling the booth with his bulky frame.  Some nights I picture sliding into his lap, his body crushing me against that table, as I straddle his thighs.  I imagine his massive arms enveloping me.  His tongue across my skin and in my mouth.  Sweat dripping down my back, along my spine where the palm of his hand holds me in place.  How he’d feel without the pills denying me the sensation of his cock filling me.  The edge of the table beating into my back with every punishing drive of his hips, and the tight clench of his jaw in that reckless moment when he finishes inside of me.
My lips part at the vivid imagery, and my belly tightens while I circle my nipple with the pad of my finger.
If anyone were after him, he’d be hard to miss in those bright lights, the way he stands out like a splotch of black paint on a stark white canvas. He hasn’t looked this way once tonight, which allows me to study him intently, admiring his virile features.
He’s beautiful.  A sad, but beautiful man.
The click of the doorknob sends a knot straight to my throat and my stomach sinks like bricks in a murky river. The sound alerts my dog, who I can hear rustling in her bed, and a low growl rumbles in her chest.  
I slip my hand out of my shirt, straightening myself beneath the afghan.  
A beam of new light invades the soft glow of the Christmas lights I’ve strung around the room for Layla, and as my nightmare enters, Charlie’s growl dies to a whimper.
The thud of his boots across the floor sound like the hooves of the devil coming to claim my soul.  A scuffling tells me he’s stumbled, but not even that prompts me to turn around.  
Drunk again.
The moment I caught him hunkered down in front of the television with a six-pack, I knew he’d come for me.  I don’t want to look at him.  I hate him.  The smell of him makes me sick, like a walking deep fryer.  
If not for Charlie, I’d climb over the railing of the balcony, spread my arms, and fly.  The police would find a broken shell of me.  They’d study me, the same way I studied the baby bird, while the world dissects pieces of my story to suit their curiosities, leaving nothing but a picked over carcass.
All because my mother abandoned her nest.
They’ll never know it was he who gave the final push, and it won’t even matter.  Once he injects the drugs, I’ll fall into dissociative bliss, tucked away in the same fog that kept my mother oblivious of the world around her, on rose-colored clouds, and a never-ending dream.  
The darkness behind my eyelids is my only refuge from the hell around me, and I’ll willingly climb inside, burrowing myself in that place where no one can touch me.  While my body’s propped on the cold metal of the washing machine, I’ll be miles away, fallen deep into the rabbit hole.  No one can find me there.  Not Randy, nor the men who see the photographs of me that he takes in the dingy laundry room of this apartment complex.  
Although he never violates me himself, for whatever reason, he likes objects.  The more common they are, the more he gets off.  He once had me masturbate the end of a vibrating toothbrush and used it for months after—smiling at me every time he brushed his teeth.  
I’ve been defiled in every sense short of rape, stripped and purged of innocence, feeding his disgusting obsession with me.  
I often wonder what Chanel’s like when she’s not hopped up on pain pills.  If she’d be jealous and accuse me of fucking her man, or if she’d take pleasure in watching him do it.  I once tried to tell her about him taking me down there and snapping pictures of me.  She offered me one of her pills and asked if I liked the boots her friend had handed down to me.  
I can’t blame her too much, though.  Randy likes to use her as his personal punching bag, and most days, she’s sporting a bruise somewhere.  Even if it’s not always visible.  He’s hit me a few times, but unlike Chanel, I hit him back, even at the risk of more pain, because I believe once you show weakness, it’s easier to fall prey to it.
A tug at my elbow and I glance to the side, swatting at his arm.  “Don’t touch me.”
Sometimes Randy offers gifts—small tokens that come with his usual pep talk about how it’s not abuse because he never actually penetrates me and the photos don’t show my face.  That’s a lie.  I once swiped his phone when he passed out on the couch and deleted a good few dozen pictures of me—his little mementos.  I couldn’t stand to look at my own face—droopy eyes singed with the apathy toward whatever he forced me to do. I’d hoped to see shame in those photos, but it seemed buried too far beneath the effects of the drugs.
He’s threatened to circulate them throughout the school if I say a word about any of this.  Send them to all my classmates on Facebook, as if they’d come from me.  Like he’d ever let me have my own account.  As far as the world is concerned, I don’t exist.
“C’mon,” is all he says, before walking out of the bedroom.
I give one more glance toward the man in the diner, as he stares off, waiting for his food.  Maybe one day he’ll look up and see me.  
Maybe he’d want to kill Randy Westprick, if he knew that somewhere close by, a girl was forced to do bad things.  Very bad things.
For now, the drugs will put up a barrier, separating my mind from the horrors of my reality, much like the pane of glass that separates me from the insect-ravaged bird outside my window.
Maybe it won’t hurt as much this time, knowing that I do this to keep Randy from slaughtering my dog or taking away the pills that have become as necessary as the air I breathe.  A vicious cycle of escaping to survive and surviving to escape.
Because sex is power.
And even the hardest shells are made to be cracked.

 

Keri Lake is a married mother of two living in Michigan. By day, she tries to make use of the degrees she’s earned in science. By night, she writes dark contemporary, paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Though novels tend to be her focus, she also writes short stories and flash fiction on the many occasions distraction sucks her into the Land of Shiny Things.

For news, updates and sneak peeks at the sexy cover model candidates for her annual Cover Model Contest, subscribe to her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/HJPHH

 

 

 

Cover Reveal….Affliction by Jenika Snow

 

 

Coming April 4th

 

 

It wasn’t until Cameron that I knew what real darkness was…or that I’d crave it so much.

I’ve let the world weigh down on me; pull me under until nothing makes sense anymore. Maybe that’s how I let myself get into the mess I’m currently in? Maybe that’s how I’m in my current situation with a man I knew could save me from a fate worse than death. Even if being with Cameron, giving him the very part of me, the only part that’s worth anything—my body—might very well ruin me, I have to survive.

Drug lord. Crime Boss. Murderer. I should fear him, be horrified by what he wants from me, by who he is. But instead, I find myself wanting to please him, wanting to give myself over completely.

Because I know that gives me control over him.

Cameron Ashton reins over the gritty underworld, the danger and violence of depravity, from his throne. A pistol is his sword, and apathy is his second-in-command. I know he’s dangerous, know he’ll break me and not think twice. But he’s my only chance, the only way I’ll survive.

        He’s possessive and controlling. And he does own me, every part of me. The darkness in him runs stronger, deeper than it ever had in me. Maybe we’re not so different? Maybe giving up my control to Cameron, giving him my very soul, makes me the powerful one?

Maybe, in the end, I’ll be the one who owns him.



Warning: This is a filthy, dark romance. There may be subject matter and triggers that are sensitive to some readers. In the end, this IS a romance, albeit a twisted one. If you’re looking for a story that gives you the warm and fuzzies, this is not the book for you.

 

 

 

Jenika Snow is a USA Today Bestselling Author that lives in the northwest with her husband and their two daughters. Before she started writing full-time she worked as a nurse.

Author Links

 

 

 

Cover Reveal…My Sweet Villiantine by various authors

 

 

 

MY SWEET VILLAINTINE – A VALENTINE’S COLLECTION OF DELICIOUS DARKNESS

Happy f*cking Valentine’s Day.

That’s what your favorite sexy-as-sin villain would say to you, right? And he’d probably say it with one hand around your throat and your dress bunched around your hips.

It’s doubtful that he’ll buy you flowers.

He definitely won’t serenade you.

But there’s a good chance he’ll tie you up and spank you if you ask nicely. And the only jewelry you’ll be getting? Is a pretty pearl necklace. Unless you count the rope bracelets he threads around your wrists when he straps you down and f*cks you until you forget your own name.

Leave the chocolates and the jewelry to the good guys. It’s time to go dark side this Valentine’s Day.


******
My Sweet Villaintine – a collection of dark tales from some of your favorite dark romance authors…

Skye Warren
T.M. Frazier
Callie Hart
Lili St. Germain
Shari Slade

 

 

 

Preppy: Part Two by T.M. Frazier….Release Day Blitz

 

Preppy returns in Preppy Part Two by T.M. Frazier.

 NOW LIVE!

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2j65uqp

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2j7dNG7

iBooks: http://apple.co/2iWrTew

Nook: http://bit.ly/2jR9krv

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2jptR3y

 

Blurb

Preppy finds himself back in a world he once loved, but no longer recognizes. His dim smile can’t hide his inner turmoil and the people he views as family all suddenly feel like polite strangers.

Except for one person. A girl with dark eyes and even darker hair.

A girl who isn’t even an option.

At least, not anymore.

Dre can’t decide who she’s going to listen to. Her heart, her head, or her body. Because two out of those three things have her heading right back to Logan’s Beach. Closure is what she tells herself she’s seeking, but when she unlocks doors that were never meant to be opened she soon discovers that when it comes to Samuel Clearwater, closure might NEVER be an option.

This is book six in the King Series and the second part of Preppy and Dre’s story.

 

EXCERPT

“Oh yeah?” Preppy asked, taking a step forward, crowding me in, staring deep into my eyes with an intensity that had me biting down hard on my lower lip. “Do YOU like a clean look, Doc? Or do you like it dirty? Beards. Tattoos…scars?”

Yes, I like it dirty. So dirty.

I was stunned into silence. Preppy’s proximity was fucking with my brain, and I was afraid I was going to blurt out something that would dig me a deeper hole than I’d already dug for myself.  I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn’t get the words out. Not like I needed to. Preppy answered for me. “If I remember correctly, you like it dirty. Real fucking dirty.”

He took another step. “Remember that first time? In the field? By the train tracks? Remember how I pulled your hair while I fucked you from behind and stretched you open? Remember how it felt to have me moving inside of you? How it felt when you came and screamed in my fucking ear? I do. I remember. Thought of that scream every fucking day since. It was deafening.” He chuckled and pressed his teeth against his bottom lip. He groaned, the sound shot straight to my pussy. “I can still fucking hear it now.”

So can I.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to step around him, but he pressed his hands against the wall, caging me in. The warmth of his chest radiated onto mine. I tried to look anywhere but into his eyes, afraid of what I might see, but there wasn’t anywhere else to look. He moved even closer.

Preppy pressed his knee between my thighs, parting my legs. “Me?” he asked, with mock innocence. “I’m just reminiscing with an old friend.”

“This doesn’t feel like just reminiscing.”

He stared intensely into my eyes. “No, not YET it doesn’t.” He grinned. “But it fucking will. Soon.”

 

About the Author:

 

T.M. Frazier is a USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR best known for her KING SERIES. She was born on Long Island, NY. When she was eight years old she moved with her mom, dad, and older sister to sunny Southwest Florida where she still lives today with her husband and daughter.

When she was in middle school she was in a club called AUTHORS CLUB with a group of other young girls interested in creative writing. Little did she know that years later life would come full circle.

After graduating high school, she attended Florida Gulf Coast University and had every intention of becoming a news reporter when she got sucked into real estate where she worked in sales for over ten years.

Throughout the years T.M. never gave up the dream of writing and with her husband’s encouragement, and a lot of sleepless nights, she realized her dream and released her first novel, The Dark Light of Day, in 2013.

She’s never looked back.

Visit her at www.tmfrazierbooks.com for news, information, and appearances.

Stalk Her: Website, Facebook, Twitter, Amazon, and Goodreads.

 

Wicked Bride Games by Clarissa Wild…Release Blitz

Title: Wicked Bride Games

Series: Indecent Games #1

Author: Clarissa Wild

Genre: Dark Erotic Suspense

Release Date: January 10, 2017

 

BLURB

Fifty million dollars for three weeks of your life in the hands of a total stranger. Would you do it?

When Naomi Lee finds herself out of a job and out of the money she needs to pay her father’s medical bills, she receives an anonymous letter, containing an offer she can’t refuse.

Max Marino, a wealthy businessman, wants her and he’ll pay any price.

Three weeks of her time, no holds-barred, in exchange for fifty million dollars.

With no other means to pay her bills, Naomi has no choice but to accept.

However, Naomi isn’t the only one who signs the contract.

And Max isn’t alone in his deal.

Three brothers …

Nine girls …

All competing for the ultimate prize … marriage.

Let the games begin.

WARNING: contains explicit situations, graphic violence, and other disturbing content some readers may find offensive.

 

GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31931061-wicked-bride-games

 

BOOK TRAILER

 

 

 

PURCHASE LINKS

Amazon: http://bit.ly/wickedbridegamesamazon

B&N: http://bit.ly/wickedbridegamesbn

Kobo: http://bit.ly/wickedbridegameskobo

iBooks: http://bit.ly/wickedbridegamesitunes

Google Play: http://bit.ly/wickedbridegamesgp

 

 

EXCERPT

Her hands are trying to grasp me to roll me over again and get her on top, but I’m not letting her get close. Instead, I pin her to the floor and fuck her even harder. She opens her legs even farther and moans when I

take her nipple between my teeth and tug.

I know she likes what I do … but she can’t help always trying to be at the top.

It’s what we do.

Who we are.

Fighters.

Winners.

Conquerors.

And in each other, we’ve found our match.

Her hand reaches between her legs, and she furiously starts masturbating as I fuck her pussy raw. She’s so tight and wet that I lose control, and I close my eyes for just a second to enjoy the sensations.

Only to find me rolling around again and having her end up on top of me. She slams me down on the floor and holds my hand down harder as she swivels around on my cock. She brings her blood-soaked finger to my mouth and

makes me suck on it. One of my hands is free, and I use it to flick her clit, making her moan out loud.

A few seconds later, her eyes roll into the back of her head, and I can feel her muscles tighten all around me. Wetness coats my cock, and I come undone.

Howling, I come inside her, my seed pulsing deep into her pussy, just like it should.

She holds my hand in place over her clit, as if to signify that it belongs there. That she’s not only mine, but that I’m also hers.

Breathing heavily, she slowly falls down on top of me, my cock still inside her. She rests her head on my chest, and I listen to her breaths as she listens to my heart. I pet her hair, which is still slick from blood

and sweat, and I wonder if this is the best sex I’ve had in my entire life.

“Is it over now?” she mutters suddenly.

I smile as she lifts her head with a curious look on her face. “Yes, it is … and you won.”

COMING SOON IN THE INDECENT GAMES SERIES

#2 Dirty Wife Games: Hyun’s Story – Releases February 28, 2017

US: http://amzn.to/2iOykgC

UK: http://amzn.to/2jdWmAu

B&N: http://bit.ly/2imF6Jj

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2jlSRw6

iBooks: http://apple.co/2iOr0Bs

Google Play: http://bit.ly/2i12CKQ

AUTHOR BIO

 

Clarissa Wild is a New York Times & USA Today Bestselling author, best known for the dark Romance novel Mr. X. Her novels include the Fierce Series, the Delirious Series, Stalker Duology, Twenty-One

(21), Ultimate Sin, VIKTOR, and Bad Teacher. She is also a writer of erotic romance such as the Blissful Series, The Billionaire’s Bet series, and the Enflamed Series. She is an avid reader and writer of sexy stories about hot men and feisty women. Her other

loves include her furry cat friend and learning about different cultures. In her free time she enjoys watching all sorts of movies, reading tons of books and cooking her favorite meals.

 

AUTHOR LINKS 

Website: http://clarissawild.blogspot.com/

Facebook Profile: https://www.facebook.com/authorclarissawild

Twitter: https://twitter.com/WildClarissa

Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/ClarissaWildAuthor

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/clarissawild/

Google+: https://plus.google.com/+ClarissaWild/posts

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7163319.Clarissa_Wild

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/FdY71

GIVEAWAY

There is a giveaway for a $25 Amazon gift card & a signed paperback of Wicked Bride Games

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Whispers and the Roars by K. Webster….Blog Tour & Review

Whispers and the Roars

by K. Webster
Publication Date: December 6, 2016
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Dark Romance

new-front-only

Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN | Amazon AUS | iBooks | Kobo

When my eyes are closed, the monster can’t ever see me.
When I sing a song in my head, the monster can’t ever hear me.
When I pretend my bedroom is a playground where I play hide and seek, the monster can’t ever find me.

The darkness should frighten me.
I should worry I’ll find more monsters…monsters scarier than him.
But I’m not afraid.

It’s safe here.
When I’m inside of my head…

He. Can’t. Ever. Touch. Me.

Warning:
Whispers and the Roars is a dark romance. Strong sexual themes and violence, which could trigger emotional distress are found in this story. The abuse written in this story is graphic and not glossed over which could be upsetting to some. Proceed with caution. This story is NOT for everyone.

 

 

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First and Foremost, this review will not talk about any details at all of the book.  This book MUST be read blindly.  The only absolute way to get the true purpose and full understanding of this book is to know nothing but what the blurb gives you.  Nothing else.
So with that being said, Mrs. Webster does a superb job of writing this book.  While, I did figure out a thing or two on my own, I did not expect the twists she threw in.  I was truly blown away by this book.   Going in blind had me gasping, feeling shocked and surprised.  If I had known even one small, minute detail of this book, it would ruin everything.
You will feel everything these characters go through.  You will empathize with them.  I have no doubt that Mrs. Webster lost herself in these characters as she wrote.  These characters will haunt you.  They will grab on to your psyche and not let go.  I wish I could say so much more.
I couldn’t put this book down once I started.  I was hooked from the beginning and completely invested the whole way.  This book will probably push boundaries for alot of people.   Mrs. Webster does not sugar coat anything.  She does writes everything in color – there are no shaded areas.  But I urge anyone to give this book a chance.  You will not regret it.  I can promise you that.  This book will truly make you view things in a different light.
I can say no more other than, PLEASE read this book.

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About K. WebsterK Webster2

K Webster is the author of dozens romance books in many different genres including contemporary romance, historical romance, paranormal romance, and erotic romance. When not spending time with her husband of twelve years and two adorable children, she’s active on social media connecting with her readers.

Her other passions besides writing include reading and graphic design. K can always be found in front of her computer chasing her next idea and taking action. She looks forward to the day when she will see one of her titles on the big screen.

Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

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IndieSageBlogger

Road To Nowhere by M. Robinson…Blog Tour & Review



BLOG TOUR
ROAD TO NOWHERE
USA TODAY BESTSELLING
@AUTHORMROBINSON
COVER MODEL: MARSHALLPERRIN
PHOTOGRAPHER: WANDER
COVER DESIGN: THE FINAL WRAP

 

I once read that every warrior hoped an honorable death
would find him. I always went looking for mine, but not even the Reaper wanted
me.
I was trained to kill. I was trained to not ask why. To take
orders and just march in line. Hooah motherfucker.
Life or death.
Ride or die.
And I’m not only talking about the military. I’m talking
about the life that led me on the road to nowhere.
My life.
I fought for my brothers.
I fought for my family.
I fought for my country.
And I fought for her…
Never realizing I might die for them too.


READ THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS HERE
my-review

5+++++ Stars

I really have no idea where to start this review. I truly don’t. This book hit me hard. And probably not for reasons it will hit others. Road to Nowhere blew my expectations out of the water. And the ending…OMG!!

Road to Nowhere had me crying hard. Yes, this book is suspenseful romance. But it’s the suspense and the horrific shit that Creed endures and sees that really got to me. September 11, 2001. War. The shit as citizens we are never told about on the news but hear from family and friends who served for our county had to see first hand. Those are the things that truly gutted me in this book. It brought it all back for me. It gutted me and made me feel everything.

Monica’s writing was so on point and so damn descriptive, it’s impossible to not feel, see or understand what was going on. What Creed went through. It just caused a lot of raw emotions in me. But then it’s also what Mia has yet to experience. Everything that has led up to those last few moments at the end.

Everything in this book, it’s just so damn good. The overprotectiveness that Mia had to go through. Her father, a Good Ol’ Boy, not allowing her to truly grow up. The choices she made because of that – I truly felt her frustration, anger and her passion to live. I love how everyone is somehow intertwined in this book. Creed is friends with Mason who is the son another Good Ol’ Boy. It just makes the entire story even more interesting.

The ending. Holy shit. Seriously?!!? Killing me here! I know it’s with good intentions. But damn, I am dying here. I am seriously sucked into this whole story and I need the rest so badly.

I apologize for my review being all over the place. And jumping from one thing to the next. But that’s just how mind is right now. It’s just all over the place with everything that Monica has given us to digest.

Monica truly knows how to write a story. You will devour every word in this story. And it will leave you begging for the next book. I am not sure how I will be able to wait for the next one, but I know that I will not forget one bit of this book when the next one comes out.

Bravo Monica. You only get better and better with each book. Which is pretty damn impressive considering you are already at the top of the game!

5LovesRLB
C signature
BUY TODAY! ON ALL PLATFORMS FOR A LIMITED TIME
 
AMAZON / NOOK / I-TUNES / KOBO
OTHER BOOKS BY M. ROBINSON
 
 
USA TODAY BESTSELLING STANDALONE SERIES THE GOOD OL’ BOYS 
 
EL DIABLO (STANDALONE- GOOD OL’ BOYS SPIN-OFF)
USA Today Bestselling Author of Road to Nowhere, EL Diablo, The
Good Ol’ Boys Standalone Series, The VIP Trilogy, Tempting Bad, and Two Sides.
 
M. Robinson loves to read. She favors anything that has
angst, romance, triangles, cheating, love, and of course sex! She has been
reading since the Babysitters Club and R.L. Stein. 
She was born in New Jersey but was raised in Tampa Fl. She
is currently pursuing her Ph.D in psychology, with two years left. 
She is married to an amazing man who she loves to pieces.
They have two German Shepherd mixes and a Tabby cat. 

 

 

KINDLE FIRE
SIGNED COPY OF ROAD TO NOWHERE