Category: Romance

There’s Something About Nik by Sara Hantz….Release Day Blitz

There’s Something About Nik by Sara Hantz

Genre: Standalone YA Contemporary

Published by Entangled Teen

Published on February 13th, 2017

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33224598-there-s-something-about-nik?ac=1&from_search=true

Nik Gustafsson has a secret: He’s not really Nik Gustafsson.

He’s not a spy. He’s not crazy.

He’s just the son and heir to one of the most important families in Europe—one where duty always comes first. And his posh, too-public life is suffocating him. So when he gets the chance to attend boarding school in America, pretending to be an average exchange student is too big of a temptation to pass up.

Then he literally runs into Amber on campus. And she hates him at first sight.

It’s kind of exhilarating to be hated for who he is, not for his family name or his wealth. Maybe if he turns up the charm and turns down the aloof mask he habitually wears, he can win her over. Even though a bad past experience has made her swear off dating this year.

But the more he gets to know her, the more uncomfortable he is keeping things from her.

Because Nik Gustafsson has a secret. And it’s a big one.

Disclaimer: This Entangled Teen Crush book contains a hot boy who’s the strong and silent type, a studious girl who refuses to believe in fairy-tale romance, and one epic secret that could be disastrous if it comes to light.

Excerpt

Nik drew in a long breath. He was in uncharted territory and didn’t know how to proceed. He’d never met anyone quite like Amber before—specifically, anyone who showed such disinterest in him. Was this what being normal felt like? To be ignored or dismissed like he wasn’t important? Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure if he liked it. He surreptitiously studied her, while she did everything she could to avoid eye contact. She certainly wasn’t his type, if indeed he had a type. His previous girlfriends had all been tall with blonde hair, which would imply that he did. Then again, in his country, most girls he met looked like that.
Amber was small, at least a head shorter than he was. Her dark brown hair seemed ridiculously short as it framed her face. A pretty face with freckles. And what was it with that camera she hugged close to her, like it was something so precious? He’d hoped that in America he’d finally be away from people constantly trying to get a shot of him. Yet, the first day here, he’d met a girl who seemed obsessed with taking photos. No wonder he’d frozen up around her.
“What are you staring at?” Amber’s question brought him back to the present with a start.
“Nothing,” he replied abruptly, feeling like a small child being caught doing something wrong.
She reminded him of his old nanny, who’d always said that he shouldn’t stare at people because it made them feel uncomfortable. Most of the time, he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“It didn’t seem like nothing to me. You were looking at my hair, weren’t you?” she accused.
“Yes. It’s much shorter than I’m used to seeing.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He should’ve known better than that. He’d been trained since a child to be circumspect, and here he was, not two days in America, and he was forgetting how to behave.
“Girls don’t have short hair in your country?” Amber challenged, as if daring him to say even more about how she looked.
Which was another thing. All the girls he knew were masters of polite conversation. He had no clue why she was being so unfriendly. He hadn’t been rude to her. Admittedly, he’d been looking at her hair. Well, her hair and also her camera. But surely that wasn’t enough to make her so antagonistic.
Maybe it was a cultural thing. He would check with Josh later whether it was something he’d done by mistake. In the meantime, he couldn’t just stand there in such awkward silence.
“It’s different from girls at home, yes. But it’s very striking,” he added, hoping that would appease her.
She remained silent for a moment, with an expression on her face like he was a bug who had landed on her shoe. “Thank goodness for that,” she finally said, “or I might have had to spend the next several months sitting in my room willing it to grow.”

Giveaway

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About the Author:

 

Sara Hantz has been a prolific reader all her life, but it wasn’t until she was an adult that she got the writing bug. She writes contemporary adult and young adult fiction and her debut book The Second Virginity of Suzy Green made the prestigious list ‘New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age’. Sara lectured for many years before deciding to devote more time to her writing and working in the family hospitality business. She has two grown-up children and when not writing, working, or online with her friends, she spends more time than most people she knows watching TV – in fact if TV watching was an Olympic sport she’d win gold.  She has presented many writing workshops with her partner-in-crime Amanda Ashby.

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/788620.Sara_Hantz

Website: http://sarahantz.com/about/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/sarahantz

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sarahantzauthor

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sarahantz/

Book Announcement…..Dirty Filthy Rich Boys by Laurelin Paige

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New York Times bestselling author, Laurelin Paige introduces an all new Dirty Filthy Rich World, with Dirty Filthy Rich Boys, a FREE prequel novella coming February 27th!

Dirty Filthy Rich Boys by Laurelin Paige
Publication Date: February 27th, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance

dirty-filthy-rich-boys-final

When I met Donovan Kincaid, I knew he was rich. I didn’t know he was filthy. Truth be told, I was only trying to get his best friend to notice me.

I knew poor scholarship girls like me didn’t stand a chance against guys like Weston King and Donovan Kincaid, but I was in love with his world, their world, of parties and sex and power. I knew what I wanted—I knew who I wanted—until one night, their world tried to bite me back and Donovan saved me. He saved me, and then Weston finally noticed me, and I finally learned what it was to be in their world.

Because when dirty, filthy, rich boys play, they play for keeps.

dfrb-announcement

Read Dirty Filthy Rich Boys FREE on February 27th.

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Pre-order Dirty Filthy Rich Men now:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2lpoQIT

Amazon UK: https://goo.gl/8srGAR

iBooks: https://goo.gl/t4gkrJ

Nook:https://goo.gl/eMVqP5

Kobo: https://goo.gl/fhALyt

About the Author:

USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author Laurelin Paige is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She’s also a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn’t do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio. She is represented by Rebecca Friedman.

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Connect with the Author:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LaurelinPaige/

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2knJOrx

Twitter: @LaurelinPaige

Facebook Fan Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/HudsonPierce/

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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

 

 

 

Singe by Aly Martinez….Book Tour & Review

  

SINGE is the first book in an ALL NEW smokin-hot standalone series by Aly Martinez NOW AVAILABLE!

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

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

Nook:  http://bit.ly/2kQyB5S

Kobo:  http://bit.ly/2kC4kru

Blurb

She was my nightmare. Every time I closed my eyes, I watched her fall into that inferno. Over and over, I failed to save her.

I hadn’t been able to reach her, and the guilt only burned hotter over time. Four years later, I was the unreachable one.

Heroes aren’t always saints. Sometimes, we’re nothing more than jaded sinners driven by sleepless nights and hearts full of darkness.

And then I met her. She was a dreamer who managed to soothe my scars and heal my wounds.

But, as the flames closed in around us, I feared I wasn’t the right man to save her. That is until I realized she was the one woman I’d burn the world down to protect.

Apparently I have been living under a rock because Singe is the first book I have read by Aly Martinez and yet she’s quite a few books out and they are very well rated. So Aly, I apologize for being a total idiot and not read a damn thing from you before. However, Singe has totally changed that.

Singe is the start of Al’s newest series, Guardian Protection series and holy hell she starts this series off with some serious heat in and out of the bedroom. Jude and Rhion have the quite the interesting story and Aly writes it very well.

Jude never expected to see Rhion ever again. She’s been in every one of his nightmares, but that as close to seeing her as he ever expected since that frightful night. Rhion has dreamed of Jude every night since then. These two are quite the pair. They both have been trying to move on from their pasts and from that night four years ago. And they never expected to have the other in their life again.

  “Everyone knows that the best part of a puzzle isn’t the final product. The real thrill is finding the pieces that match.”

Rhion is very strong yet cautious women. She knows her strengths and weaknesses. After everything she’s gone through, she’s still maintained a very warm heart and true to herself. Jude is very much and alpha in every way imaginable. He takes sole responsibility for what happened to Rhion that night and has not forgiven himself for it. He’s now security guard for the one of the best companies in the world. And when the opportunity present itself for him to apologize, he takes it without thinking twice.

Watching these two develop this new relationship is very entertaining. She is a spite fire who is quick with the witty comebacks and comments. And she definitely lets Jude get a taste of her sassiness. Jude definitely knows how to dish it back too. But he also he has this keen ability to bring Rhion out of her shell and start living life to it’s fullest. The camaraderie between everyone is funny, witty and helps keep things real.

“Take the day and memorize every page of that file. You skim one fucking word, I will rip your eyeballs from your heard and make you manually read it.” – Johnson to Jude – this had me laughing so hard.

This book has a great story line with the perfect amount of suspense added in. You find yourself wanting to know what is going to happen next and how things end with Jude and Rhion. Aly writes a very sexy and compelling story. And she leaves you wanting to know more about this alpha and domineering group of men that make up the Guardian Protection Agency plus a few other characters that are close to Rhion. I am looking forward to reading more about these characters in her next book.

Chapter One

Jude

“Tomorrow, it’s on me,” I said, standing up off the barstool.

Behind the bar, Carmen waggled her eyebrows, seductively calling out, “Funny, I could be on you tonight if you stayed awhile longer.”

I laughed at her innuendo and tossed her a wink. “I gotta get home, babe. Seven a.m. comes way too early.”

“Well, offer’s on the table,” she purred.

It always was with her. And, if I wasn’t careful, I’d eventually take her up on it.

Not that sleeping with Carmen wouldn’t have been good. But, when you find a cheap bar only five minutes from your house, you don’t fuck that up by dipping your cock into the bartender.

“Later, Carmen,” I called, pushing the door open and heading to my car.

I wasn’t out of the parking lot before I heard, “Officer Levitt? We’ve got an alarm going off in Park Hill. You mind taking a look on your way home?”

Banging my head back against the headrest, I groaned to myself. Park Hill was about as “on my way home” as swinging past California on the way to Maine.

Switching my radio to my other hand, I complained, “I’m off the clock, Jocelyn.” I had been for several hours, even if I hadn’t made it home yet.

 She laughed. “I’m sorry, but you’re the only one remotely close. I had to send two cars out to the Laslows’ to break up another argument between Cam and his old man.”

“They at it again?” I asked.

“Apparently, Cam told Lindsey he didn’t want the baby. Lindsey told his dad. Old Man Laslow lost his mind.”

I chuckled, putting my blinker on and then doing a U-turn in the middle of the empty road. “Christ. I bet he did. I know the man’s seventy-five, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go toe-to-toe with him.”

“I’m with you on that. So…you gonna head out to Park Hill?” she asked in a sugary-sweet tone.

I grumbled deep in my chest. “You’re gonna owe me some of that banana bread for this. I missed it the other day when you brought it up to the station.”

“I don’t owe you anything.” She giggled. “However, as a personal thank-you from the state of Illinois, Park County, and the owners of Park Hill, I’ll bring you in a loaf on Friday. Deal?”

“Deal. I’m en route now.”

“Stay safe, and radio in with your report.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, knowing exactly how much thirty-year-old Jocelyn loved being called ma’am by a twenty-five-year-old man.

“Don’t you—”

“Gotta go.” I turned the volume down to mute her, grinning to myself as I flipped my lights and siren on.

I’d been a cop for two years. And, in that time, I’d been out to the privately owned Park Hill estate at least a dozen times. It wasn’t unusual for the alarm on the mansion to get triggered. It never amounted to anything. The expansive estate was on the very edge of the county, and trouble didn’t usually travel that far out. More often than not, a bird at a window or a bumbling new member of the grounds crew would accidentally trip the alarm. Truth was, no one actually lived in Park Hill. The owners visited sporadically. But, for the majority of the time, it remained empty.

Some minutes later, I cut my siren as I pulled up to the entrance. The cold air assaulted me as I stepped out of my patrol car with my flashlight in hand and aimed at the keypad on the massive security gate that blocked the driveway off. That damn thing alone had to have cost more than I’d make in a lifetime. Forget about the house inside.

The smell of wood burning in a fireplace wafted through the night air. I guessed someone was home for a visit.

I typed in the emergency code on the gate panel and then climbed back in my car and made my way down the tree-lined driveway. I’d spent the day on patrol, and, with the exception of some minor vandalism across town, it had been a slow one.

Though, in the blink of an eye, that would change.

Along with my entire life.

“Oh fuck,” I breathed as the main house came into view on the top of the hill.

After throwing my car in park, I jumped on the radio at my shoulder. I could barely get the words out as I slung my door open and took off at a dead sprint.

“This is Officer Levitt! I need fire support at Park Hill immediately!”

And then I froze as a wave of adrenaline crashed into me like a tsunami.

An inferno roared in the night sky, but it was the small silhouette of a woman perched outside a third-floor window, smoke pouring out all around her, that knocked the breath out of me. My heart stopped, but my feet continued to pound against the pavement.

Jocelyn’s voice caught me. “What’s going on?”

“I need medical too!” I barked as I got closer. “The whole damn place is in flames and there’s a woman trapped!”

The woman’s long, black hair blew out behind her like a battered flag whipping in a storm. I couldn’t make out her face or her skin color or even guess at her age for the black soot covering her, but her fear was unmistakable.

And unforgettable.

“Hang on!” I yelled up to her.

“Oh my God!” she screamed before it turned into a fit of coughing. “Help me!”

“Hang on! Don’t let go!”

Frantically, I searched the perimeter for a way in, but it wasn’t only her house that was on fire. Flames were encompassing her. The yard and all the surrounding flowerbeds. Top to bottom. The first and second floors were completely engulfed, and if the sound of shattering windows was any indication, it was quickly making its way up to the third floor—to her.

“No! Don’t leave me!” she screamed, panic thick in her garbled voice, as I started around the side of the house.

A wall of heat stopped me in my tracks. Throwing an arm up, I did my best to block my face while scanning the building for any possible entry—or, in her case, exit.

But there wasn’t a surface of that house that wasn’t ablaze.

Except the roof.

Son of a bitch.

I spoke into the radio. “I need an ETA on fire.”

Jocelyn replied, “They’re on their way. Five minutes out.”

I didn’t have one minute, much less five.

Fuck.

My pulse quickened, sending blood thundering in my ears. I was a cop. I’d trained for chaos. I should have been able to come up with a solution for a situation like this, but they didn’t teach you how to conquer the impossible at the Academy.

And, as I took inventory of the flames dancing beneath her, I knew that was exactly what I was up against.

My gut wrenched as I helplessly sped back around the house. She appeared almost childlike, hovering barefoot on that narrow brick ledge, but her long-sleeve top and her loose-fitting pants clung to the body of a woman.

Jesus Christ! Where was that fucking fire truck?

“Is anyone else in the house?” I yelled up to her.

Not that I could have helped them, either. Short of running into a burning building, on what would surely be a suicide mission, there was not one thing I could do. And didn’t that little reality feel like a wrecking ball to the chest.

“No!” she cried, a loud sob lodging in her throat. It turned into more coughing, her body shaking violently with every heave.

I fisted my hands at my sides as my anxiety spiraled higher.

“Please. Do something!” she begged.

I ground my teeth together and once again glanced around as if a water hose and a ladder were going to suddenly appear out of nowhere. “Hang tight, okay? Fire trucks are on their way.”

“I can’t hold on much longer!” she cried.

“Yes, you can,” I demanded.

“I…I think I need to jump,” she coughed out.

I assessed the massive fire below her. I’d never be able to reach her before it swallowed her. But there was no way I’d be able to stand by and watch her burn.

No. If she jumped off that ledge, she was going to get us both killed. 

“Don’t you dare,” I barked. “Don’t even think about it. Two minutes. They’ll be here.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Two minutes,” I repeated. “Hold—”

Suddenly, a window to her left exploded, shooting glass and flames in all directions.

I covered my face as she screamed in a paralyzing mixture of fear and agony. It cut me so deep that I knew I’d bear the scars for the rest of my life, and that had nothing to do with the glass and everything to do with the heavy weight of my failure already lingering in the smoke-filled air.

When I opened my eyes again, I caught a glimpse of orange flickering in the window behind her. Panic built in my chest.

“You need to move!” I yelled.

She shook her head and continued to cough and cry.

But it wasn’t an option. I couldn’t help her. Though I damn sure refused to watch her die.

“Please. Just listen to me.” I swallowed hard. “You can’t stay there.” I looked to the roof.

Sending her higher seemed wrong and went against everything I’d learned in my limited fire training. But fuck, my options were having her jump into a conflagration or scale up the side of a building in hopes of buying us the precious minutes needed for the fire department to arrive.

Drawing in a smoke-filled breath, I made a decision that would haunt me for the rest of my life. “You need to climb up to the roof.”

“I can’t!” she shrieked.

My stomach twisted, but I gentled my voice. “Look, I know you’re scared. But I’m right here. I’ll help guide you up, but, sweetheart, it’s bearing down on you. You gotta move, and I mean now.”

She choked on a mouthful of smoke as she attempted to look over her shoulder.

“You’re going to be fine. I swear to you,” I lied. “But you have to move.”

“I’m not going to make it!” She had to have yelled it in order for me to hear her, but I felt her defeat slither over my skin like a whispered goodbye.

I took a long step forward, too focused on her to feel the heat singeing my skin. “Yes, you are!” I declared. “Move your ass up to the roof and we’ll both be out of here in time for breakfast.”

Her gaze landed on mine, tears forging paths down her soot-covered cheeks, her disbelief obvious even from yards away. “Are you sure?”

It was a ridiculous question. It wasn’t like I could make any guarantees. It was fire, for God’s sake. But that didn’t stop me from covering my heart with my palm and vowing, “I swear on my life you’re going to make it through this.”

Her hesitation was evident, but with one last sob, she inched her small body farther out onto the narrow ledge, reaching the tips of her shaking fingers out for the windowsill above her.

“Good girl,” I praised, a fraction of relief washing over me.

And then I sucked in a sharp breath as one of her shaking legs slipped out from under her.

“No!” I yelled.

On instinct, I rushed toward the flames, my arms stretched out in the air as though I could catch her.

A scalding heat blistered my face and forced me to stop, but the real pain was in my chest. I watched in horror for what felt like a lifetime as she fought to right herself, her dainty arms flailing like a wounded butterfly frantically trying to catch the wind.

But there was none to be found.

My heart lurched into my throat, and my breath seized in my lungs.

And then a deep, guttural sound tore through me, shredding me from the inside out, as I watched her fall.

I woke up in a cold sweat. It wasn’t exactly something new. I’d been dreaming of Butterfly for over four years. She always flew directly into the flames, screaming as I stood helpless to save her.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I cradled my head in my hands and tried to pretend I was okay. That wasn’t exactly something new, either. I could still feel the heat on the back of my neck. My lungs were still thick with smoke. The pressure in my chest never left me.

The distance while I was living in LA had helped. But, in the week since I’d been back in Illinois, I’d woken up every morning at that blazing house. I didn’t even have to be asleep for the memories to assault me.

I should have gone back to sleep. It was my first day at my new job, and the last thing I needed was to show up haggard and sleep-deprived. But, as I’d learned over the years, another fiery butterfly awaited me on the other side of REM. No way I was volunteering for that.

I pushed myself off the bed and tugged a T-shirt on, preparing to head down to the hotel gym with hopes that I could outrun the mental fog that had been hovering over me since I’d returned. There was a reason I’d thrown all of my shit in my car and driven as far as I could all those years ago.

Yet, somehow, I’d come full circle.

But I’d come back a different man.

At least that’s what I’d told myself as the deafening roar of doubt had overwhelmed me the moment I’d driven across the state line.

Regardless, it had been time to go home.

I’d been gone too long.

Or, as I’d decided as I’d passed the exit to Park County, not nearly long enough.

About the Author

Born and raised in Savannah, Georgia, Aly Martinez is a stay-at-home mom to four crazy kids under the age of five- including a set of twins. Currently living in South Carolina, she passes what little free time she has reading anything and everything she can get her hands on, preferably with a glass of wine at her side.

 STALK HER: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

Cover Reveal…Pieces of Me by Shiloh Walker

Title: Pieces of Me
Author: Shiloh Walker | @shilohwalker
Genre: Romantic Thriller
Nobody knows that better than Shadow Harper. It seemed like a
dream come true when a rich, suave older man noticed her during her second year
of college. Stefan Stockman seemed to love her obsessively. He came into her
life and swept her off her feet, seduced her, married her…and then slowly,
eventually, that dream come true became a living nightmare.
 
Now, three years after she finally escaped him, she’s trying to
put her life back together. Haunted by memories, struggling with post-traumatic
stress, she spends most of her time locked away in her home on Pawley’s Island,
a small town on the South Carolina coast. Her rare moments of joy come from her
trips to the nearby beach.
 
She compulsively checks the locks on her doors, makes sure she has
her cell phones—five of them—and if she misses something on her schedule, it
throws her into a panic.
 
When she accidentally leaves a sketchbook on the beach, an anxiety
attack seems imminent. Her art has become her salvation, her sanity, and losing
even one sketch is like losing a piece of her soul. When she returns to hunt
for the sketchbook, already fearing it’s gone for good, she’s surprised to find
it still sitting there, saved by a sexy fellow beach lover— the mysterious
Dillian Jenkins.
 
He’s brash, bold, brutally handsome…and gentle. He’s the exact
opposite of the man who’d tormented her for years, and Shadow finds herself
slowly, almost reluctantly, falling for him. Even obsessing over him.
 
When her ex-husband once again intrudes on the happiness she’s
finally discovering, Shadow turns to Dillian. But will she find shelter
there…or another betrayal?
 
Obsession can be deadly …
 
 

 

 Shiloh Walker is an award-winning writer…yes, really!
She’s also a mom, a wife, a reader and she pretends to be an amateur
photographer.  She published her first book in 2003. Her latest suspense,
The Right Kind of Trouble, released in August 2016 from St. Martins.
 
She writes romantic suspense
and contemporary romance, and urban fantasy under the name, J.C. Daniels.
 
Facebook: http://bit.ly/2eLa5R8
Twitter: @shilohwalker
 
 
 
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Someday by Liz Lovelock…Release Blitz

 

 

 

Title: Someday
Series: Canyon Bay #1
Author: Liz Lovelock
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: February 8, 2017

 

 

Blurb
There’s always a new beginning whispering your name. You just have to have the courage to hear it.

In the space of a few short hours, Chloe’s world does a complete three-sixty. She loses her job thanks to her douchebag ex-boyfriend. Only to come home and catch her current boyfriend and best friend in a compromising position.

When she thinks things couldn’t get any worse; she learns the man she calls her father may not be her actual dad thanks to her lying, cheating mother. How is Chloe supposed to forgive a parent who’s deceived her, her entire life?

With her bags packed, and the hope of rediscovering the happiness she once enjoyed, she heads to a place where not even she knows is waiting for her—Canyon Bay.

Can the people Chloe meets there open her eyes and heart to the someday she’s been waiting for?

 

 

Purchase Links

 

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

 

Excerpt

Janie takes her shot, and raising it in front of her, she says, “To new beginnings.”

I raise my glass to hers and we down our shots. I then suck in a quick breath to take away the burn. It feels good.

A comfortable silence falls between us. I’m lost in my own little world, a world now housing many cracks. As I glance around, people-watching, something catches my eye.

It’s a picture on a wall. Something about this image captures me, like a lasso. It draws me in. I hop out of my seat and walk towards the framed photo.

“Where are you going?” Janie questions.

“To look at one of these pictures,” I reply.

She quickly hops up and follows. The picture is of a beach lookout. There’s an old wooden bench, and the photographer has taken the picture from behind the seat, looking out at the ocean. It’s a beautiful aqua blue colour.

It’s stunning. For some strange reason, the image sends a peacefulness through me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Out of nowhere, a small voice calls my name. Chloe, a new beginning awaits.

“Did you say something?” I ask, turning to Janie who’s watching me closely, she shakes her head.

“Are you okay, ladies?”

I jump at the sound of Trent’s voice so close, not expecting him to be standing right beside me looking at what’s captured my eye.

With my hand clutching at my pounding chest, I reply, “Yeah, can you tell me about this photo?”

A smile spreads across his face while he ponders on the image. “This picture is one I won’t forget . . . This place was amazing. It holds a special place in my heart.” His hand rests over his own heart.

“Where is it?” I ask, hopeful. This place could be my chance for something different. Before he answers, I already know, no matter where it is, it’s where I’m going. 

“It called Canyon Bay.”

 

Author Bio
Liz Lovelock is from bright sunny Queensland in Australia. She is the mother of three little monsters, a wife to an amazing husband and very much a lover of everything books and reading. Liz has always loved books and, from a very young age she began reading comic books and then in high school her passion grew. She was given Tomorrow When The War Began by John Marsden for an assignment but, when that was done she continued to discover new books to fall in love with.

Liz always has a book she is currently enjoying and, a notebook beside her bed for in her hand bag for when inspiration hits at those crazy times. She is a stationary addict and will buy more notebooks and pens then what she needs. Her one click finger likes to go crazy as well.

Author Links

Cover Reveal…Mister Wrong by Nicole Williams

 

 

Coming Soon
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Cora Matthews grew up with the Adams boys, twin brothers and best friends who wouldn’t let anything come between them except for one thing—her. One of them became her best friend, the other, her fiancé.

She always knew she’d wind up marrying one of them, and Jacob Adams is the very epitome of Mister Right. At least he is up until he fails to show up for their wedding day. Not that Cora realizes it. At first.

As Jacob’s best man, and identical twin, Matt makes a split second decision, but one that will affect the three of their lives forever—he steps in to take his brother’s place. In front of the altar, exchanging vows with the woman he’s secretly been in love with for years.

Cora eventually finds out about the groom swap. The morning after the wedding. As if realizing she just slept with her fiance’s brother wasn’t disturbing enough, she’s forced to confront her feelings for Matt Adams she thought she’d buried years ago.

Matt’s wrong for her. In every way. But through the course of her real honeymoon with her fake husband, she starts to uncover truths both Adams brothers were hoping to keep hidden, for opposite reasons. One to protect himself, the other to protect her.

She married the wrong brother, but what if he’s been the right one all along?

 

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Nicole Williams is the New York Times and USATODAY bestselling author of contemporary and young adult romance, including the Crash and Lost & Found series. Her books have been published by HarperTeen and Simon & Schuster in both domestic and foreign markets, while she continues to self-publish additional titles. She is working on a new YA series with Crown Books (a division of Random House) as well. She loves romance, from the sweet to the steamy, and writes stories about characters in search of their happily even after. She grew up surrounded by books and plans on writing until the day she dies, even if it’s just for her own personal enjoyment. She still buys paperbacks because she’s all nostalgic like that, but her kindle never goes neglected for too long. When not writing, she spends her time with her husband and daughter, and whatever time’s left over she’s forced to fit too many hobbies into too little time.
Nicole is represented by Jane Dystel, of Dystel and Goderich Literary Agency.

 

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Reckless Hearts by Heather Van Fleet…Release Day Event

RecklessHarts_banner_ReleaseDay

Today we have the release blitz for Reckless Hearts by Heather Van Fleet! Check out the release day festivities and grab your copy today!!

Reckless Hearts Cover 

About RECKLESS HEARTS:

Between boot camp and two TOD’s in Iraq, my buddies Max, Gavin and me have been through some serious hell. So the last thing I ever expected was to find the biggest challenge of my life back home.

My girlfriend died. I couldn’t even attend her funeral, let alone tell her goodbye or that I’m sorry I wasn’t there like I should’ve been.

But she left me a gift. The best and scariest one I could’ve ever asked for. One I didn’t think I could handle…until the day I saw her tiny blues looking up at me in that airport. Chloe.

Now here I am, raising my baby girl—with the help of my two best friends. Things couldn’t be better. Until she walked into my life.

All I wanted was a nanny. Someone to take care of my girl when I couldn’t. What I didn’t count on was Addison, the brown-eyed temptress with a body of sin, and everything I didn’t need, but suddenly wanted.

Get Your Copy:

Amazon | BN | BAM

Reckless Hearts Teaser _2

Exclusive Excerpt:

He answered on the third ring. “Hey, Gav. You busy?”

“Not Gav.”

My face warmed at the sound of Collin’s voice.

“You there?”

“Um, yes. But I need to speak with Gavin, please.” Keep breathing, keep calm. You’ve got this.

“But I need to talk to you first.”

I clenched my teeth. “May I talk to him, please?”

“Nope.”

I threw my head back against the couch and groaned. “Why not?” If he was going to be short with his answers, I would be short with my questions.

“Need to talk to you about something first. Told you that.”

Could’ve sworn I heard the words Needs to eat your pussy is more like it in the background, but my mind was scrambling like the eggs I’d cooked for breakfast.

“Shut up, asshole,” Collin barked.

I spun a loose string around my finger. “What did you just say to me?”

Total déjà vu.

The wind slapped against his speaker. “Are you driving?” I unraveled the string from my finger and bounced my knee. “Because in the State of Illinois, it’s illegal to drive and talk on a cell phone unless it’s hands free.”

“Damn it, no. She’s putting that shit in her mouth.” He grumbled something else, and the sound of baby giggles tugged on my already floppy heartstrings.

I couldn’t help but smile as I thought about Chloe. I’d only been around her twice, but I kind of missed the little thing.

“Not driving. Just playin’ at the park.”

Playing at the park. Why did the image make me grin? Collin pushing Chloe in her swing, her little baby legs bouncing up and down as he did.

“Why are you calling Gavin anyway?”

“None of your business.” My smile fell. “Can you just put him on?”

“I told you I needed to talk first.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Then talk.”

“Gonna take you out tonight.”

Shock pulled me into an upright position, and I stood so fast that a pile of clean towels fell to the floor. “Um, take me out?” I scrambled to pick them up.

“Gonna apologize. Again. Buy you food, return your sweater too. If you have plans, then cancel them.”

“Uh, no. Don’t think so.” At the simple thought of seeing him again, my stomach clenched in both excitement and unease. “You’re not going to pull that in-charge bullshit on me. And besides, what makes you think I want to see you anyway?”

“You don’t wanna see me, sweetheart?”

I slapped my hand over my eyes. Sweetheart? Seriously? “No. I don’t want to see you, pumpkin. Not when you got me fired from my job the other night with your ultimate-fight-club thing.” I blew out a quick breath. “Besides, I just…can’t.”

“I need a better reason.”

“Are you serious right now?” What was with this guy and his incessant need to be an asshole?

“Dead serious.” He laughed. “I’ll be by your apartment at six to pick you up. Dress casual. Gonna take you to dinner, and then we’re gonna talk. You’re going to get a free meal and an apology. Can’t get much better than that, am I right?”

 RecklessHeartTeaserFinal (1)

About Heather Van Fleet:

Heather Van Fleet_headshot

Heather Van Fleet is stay-at-home-mom turned book boyfriend connoisseur. She’s a wife to her high school sweetheart, a mom to three little girls, and in her spare time you can find her with her head buried in her Kindle, guzzling down copious amounts of coffee.

Heather graduated from Black Hawk College in 2003 with an associate degree and has been working in the publishing industry for over five years. She is represented by Stacey Donaghy of Donaghy Literary.

 

Connect with Heather:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorheathervanfleet

Twitter: www.twitter.com/HLVanFleet

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hvfwrites/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/heath1005/

Reckless Hearts Teaser _1 

Enter Heather’s Giveaway:

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London Lovers: Volume One by Amy Daws…Release Day Blitz

Title: London Lovers: Volume One
Author: Amy Daws
Release Date: Feb 7, 2017
Add to TBR
Sexy British heroes, bold American heroines, and one outrageous and opinionated ginger combine to create this steamy international incident.

Grab the hot and humorous new series that bloggers are calling, “The perfect blend of drama, comedy, romance, and heat. A must read series unlike any other.”

A sexy and emotional college prequel based in the States lands in the heart of London as Finley flies across the pond to live with her best friend, Leslie. Together, they meet the painfully irresistible Liam and the broodingly mysterious Theo.

These two blokes have Finley and Leslie sweating in their onesie pajamas as they push for more than just one night of fun. Meanwhile, Finley’s college sweetheart, Brody, isn’t so easily left behind at home.

Escape to London with this bundle of three steamy, full-length novels chock full of old flames, secrets, and embarrassing encounters. Will these two childhood best friends find their London lovers? Or will their pasts prevent them from putting their hearts at risk?

 
  
The audio for Amy’s latest sports romance release just went LIVE!
Check out this standalone sexy sport rom com today!

Camden Harris, the famously hot, hulk of a footballer is laid up in a London hospital. But his busted knee doesn’t stop him from running his well-practiced game on Indie Porter – his redheaded spitfire of a doctor. She’s not his type, not even close. But she could be the perfect distraction from the soul-crushing damage this injury could cost him.

Get Challenge on Audio Today or Read FREE in KU!

 
Amy Daws is a lover of all things British, and her London-based love stories bring the incredible city to life on every page. Read all about hot British men, hilarious American heroines, and an unforgettable, original ensemble cast that pulls out all of the feels.
  

Valiant by Bella Jewel…Release Day Blitz

 

 

Title: Valiant
Series: Joker’s Wrath MC
Author: Bella Jewel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: February 7, 2017
Blurb
I’ve known fear.
I’ve known pain.
I’ve known horror.
I’ve known all of it.
I’ve guarded myself as best I can.
I’ve hidden myself from him.
I’ve changed my name.
I’ve moved.
But he still haunts me.
One day, I’m sure he’ll find me again.
I don’t trust anybody.
I don’t believe in anybody.
I just want to be free.
Until I meet Jack.
I’m not looking for him, but that’s the thing about heroes.
You’re never looking for them.
He won’t take no for an answer.
He’ll battle past my fear, my pain, and my horror.
He’ll sweep into my life like a hurricane, and it won’t matter how hard I fight.
He’ll break past my walls.
And he’ll change me.
Maybe, he’ll even save me. 

Purchase Links

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

JOKER’S WRATH MC SERIES

Author Bio

Bella Jewel is a self published, USA
Today bestselling author. She’s been publishing since 2013. Her first release
was a contemporary romance, Hell’s Knights which topped the charts upon
release. Since that time, she has published over five novels, gaining a
bestseller status on numerous platforms. She lives in North Queensland and is
currently studying editing and proofreading to further expand her career. Bella
has been writing since she was just shy of fifteen years old. In Summer 2013
she was offered an ebook deal through Montlake Romance for her bestselling
modern day pirate series, Enslaved By The Ocean. She plans to expand her
writing career, planning many new releases for the future.

Author Links
Giveaway

Call Me, Poppy by Avery Aster…Blog Tour


blog tour
 


Book Title: Call Me, Poppy
Author: Avery Aster
Genre: New Adult
Release Date: February 7, 2017
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Goodreads
book blurb

“Don’t tell my besties this juicy tidbit: I don’t know him at all. It’s like Yves Remy has no past. He refuses to tell me where he’s from. My friends Taddy, Lex, Blake, and Vive think he’s just been released from prison. Determined to find out just who this orgasm-inducing, hung, inked, muscled bad boy with the deep French accent that makes my insides melt into liquid buttah is–I’m doing my own sleuthing.

Remy makes all of my erotic fantasies come true. First, it was in the way he kissed me: intense Frenching. Then, it was how he took ownership over my body and laid claim to every inch of my virginal flesh as he dominated me into the kinkiest submission scenarios imaginable. Lately, he’s been giving me Cartier jewelry and telling me how to dress: in Chanel. Yes, I love a man who takes control and knows what he wants. Who doesn’t? But this is cray-cray. Where does his money come from? I don’t know him at all.

The Manhattanites suspect Yves is the thief who broke into my dorm room a few months ago and stole my diaries. Uh-huh. I bet he’s been reading them, too. How else would he know to do all the things that drive me wild? I have to put an end to these sex games he’s playing because I’m afraid something bad might happen. Should I call the police and tell them I know who the infamous college campus burglar is? But, damn, his body is just too frickin’ good. WTF am I gonna do?” –Poppy White, college junior, talk show host, and Steeler’s Fan.

Most girls in this situation, I imagine, would naturally whip around to get a good look at him, then start firing off questions like, “What school do you go to?” and twirling their hair.

Not me.

I couldn’t give a flip. I just wanna freakin’ dance.

I press my backside against his crotch, teasing him, shaking my thang, then lift my hand up in the air to show that I’m having a blast.

All of a sudden, his hands, big and strong, come down over my bare shoulders, sending a pulsating charge through my body that causes every inch of my flesh to tingle.

“Bonsoir,” he mutters in my ear in a deep baritone voice. I whirl around to face him.

“You’re French?”

“Qui.” He turns around, showing me his backside and hiding his face.

“Ohhhh. Two can play at this game, buddy.” Thinking I’m all male and stuff, I get right up behind him, slide my hands into his front pockets, and press myself against him.

He laughs and mutters some words that I don’t understand.

I giggle too, wishing I had paid better attention in French class. I couldn’t stand my teacher in high school, Madame Boulanger. The woman hated me, said I’d never amount to much in life unless I learned French. I’d argued that I’d originally wanted to learn Spanish, but that class was full, so was stuck with Madame Boulanger.

We move to the music, finishing the song.

Just as he’s about to turn, I release my hands and do the same. Slowly I walk over to the far wall. He follows, our hips meshed together as one.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, glaring up at him in utter fascination.

“No, mademoiselle.”

Oh God. This is crazy hot.We’re in the dark, so I can’t see him very well, but I have to look, at least to see if he has a nice face or not. To be honest, with that accent, he could resemble Herman Munster and I’ll still be turned on by him. I mean, from what I can tell he’s gotta be 6’4. Ohhh, and those hands. They look like football player hands. You know, the kind that can rip your panties of in one fell swoop.

I put my fingers up to his lips.

He bites playfully down on them and wraps his arms around me.

“Kiss me,” I mutter.

He leans down and plants one on my lips. First slow and tender, but as the heat between us becomes scorching hot, his tongue goes deeper as if fucking my face with it. Oh. My. God. In. Out. He nibbles on my bottom lip. Presses me closer to him, tongue diving deeper. His hands cradle my skull.

Fuck. Yes. Now. Take me now. Please.

I take his left hand with my right and edge my skirt up around my waist. Leaning my body onto his, his fingers find their way to my pussy lips. He squeezes them, gently at first, then firmly.I’m going to be soaking wet. Yup. Any second now. Buckets galore.

“Feel good, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. Finger me. Please.” Turning around, I face the wall. His lips nuzzle at my ears. His hands are up my skirt, his fingers playing with my clit.

“Je serai poète et toi poésie.”

“I’ll be a poet, and you’ll be poetry,” I repeat his words back in English, the French coming back to me.Thank you, Madame Boulanger!

God. The mere sound of them makes me wet. Literally.He pulls his finger out and licks it. “Bien.” Then shoves two deep inside me.

“You’re tight, mademoiselle.” His firm cock, concealed in his jeans but seemingly ready to bust loose at any minute under that zipper, presses against my ass.

Gyrating my hips and taking his hands, I pant, “Oh God. I’m going to come. Tell me your name. Please.”

“Yves,” he mutters, whipping me around to face him. His mouth hovers over mine. “Come while I kiss you.”

And so I do. I come like I’ve never come before: in the dark, in a nightclub, in a stranger’s arms.

The music is a muffled bass in my ears as he holds me tight. My legs feel weak. I’m soaking wet. I bite down on my tongue as the final wave of the orgasm rocks through me. Squinting my eyes shut tight, bright colors burst behind my eyelids.

Everything is going in slow motion. That is until I hear a familiar voice shouting for me.

meet the author

New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster pens The Manhattanites, a contemporary erotic romance series of full-length, stand-alone novels, and the naughty new adult prequel companion series The Undergrad Years. Join Avery’s newsletter eepurl.com/CQ665 and get a FREE ebook!

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