Read-Love-Blog

Book Promotion & Review

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

sbpr-dfrb-ba

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.

dirtyfilthyfinal

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.

headshothighres

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/

Never miss an update! Subscribe to Laurelin’s mailing list:

https://goo.gl/tSdXb8

 www.laurelinpaige.com

1 Comment »

Mack Daddy by Penelope Ward….Release Day Event

mack daddy available

 

pwmackdaddybookcover5x8_bw_high-fixedFrom New York Times bestselling author, Penelope Ward, comes a sexy, STANDALONE second-chance romance.

They called him Mack Daddy. No, seriously, his name was Mack. Short for Mackenzie. Thus, the nickname. Perfect, right?

So was he: perfect. The perfect physical male specimen.

At the private school where I taught, Mack Morrison was the only man around in a sea of women.

Everyone wanted a piece of the hot single father of the sweet little boy.

I was riddled with jealousy, because they didn’t know that—to me—he was much more.

They didn’t know about our past.

He’d chosen my school for his son on purpose, because Mack and I, we had unfinished business.

As my friend Lorelai so eloquently put it: “Unfinished business between two people who are clearly attracted to each other is like an eternal case of blue balls.” And I was suffering in pain from my case.

I was still intensely attracted to Mack. I tried to resist him, immersing myself further into a relationship with another man just to protect my heart.

Not to mention, getting involved with a parent was strictly against school rules. But seeing Mack day in and day out was breaking me down.

And soon I might be breaking all the rules.

 

Author’s note – Told in alternating points of view, Mack Daddy is a full-length standalone novel.

 

ADD TO GOODREADS

 iBooks | Nook | Kobo

 

 

 

 

 

He's Back

 

Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today and #1 Wall Street Journal Bestselling author. She’s a fifteen-time New York Times bestseller of twelve novels.

Having grown up in Boston with five older brothers, she spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor, before switching to a more family-friendly career. She is the proud mother of a beautiful 12-year-old girl with autism and a 10-year-old boy. Penelope and her family reside in Rhode Island.

 

Connect with Penelope Ward

Facebook Fan Group | Facebook | Website |Twitter | Instagram

 

Other standalones from Penelope Ward:

Neighbor Dearest:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/2aWvypX
iBooks: http://apple.co/29mC6L8
Nook: http://bit.ly/2akQ2aq
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2axt1SY

Stepbrother Dearest:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1mFNMeg
iBooks: http://bit.ly/YER0mT
Nook: http://bit.ly/1taMFjG
kobo: http://bit.ly/1fJaaBs

RoomHate:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/294lIeT
iBooks: http://apple.co/1PgsvE7
Nook: http://bit.ly/1PLGnSL
kobo: http://bit.ly/1POvSnW

Playboy Pilot: (co-written with Vi Keeland)
Amazon ➜ http://amzn.to/2dbetFA
iBooks ➜ http://apple.co/1Wb06Cf
B&N ➜ http://bit.ly/2c9vRdV
Kobo ➜ http://bit.ly/2ctb6dv

Stuck-Up Suit: (co-written with Vi Keeland)
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1S3LnpZ
iBooks: http://apple.co/1Qbwy57
Nook: http://bit.ly/29vrQhV
Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/stuck-up-suit

Cocky Bastard: (co-written with Vi Keeland)
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1MvHLg2
iBooks: http://apple.co/1PffE2J
Nook: http://bit.ly/1EjxNpY
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1UxCSUO

Sins of Sevin:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1F9tbc3
iBooks: http://apple.co/1K8mzGg
Nook: http://bit.ly/1hTKAKE
kobo: http://bit.ly/1OaGY3D

Jake Undone (Jake #1):
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1dJrHBC
Nook: http://bit.ly/1obAwJ6
iBooks: http://apple.co/1fJayQ8
kobo: http://bit.ly/1SPKl0M

Jake Understood (Jake #2):
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1GFdves
Nook: http://bit.ly/1FwJC0z
iBooks: http://apple.co/1DQQwgC
kobo: http://bit.ly/1LQ7Fvk

My Skylar
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1obOG2F
iBooks: http://bit.ly/SLNOTR
Nook: http://bit.ly/SLO1qi
kobo: http://bit.ly/1kNrtAB

Gemini:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1vgk1SE
Nook: http://bit.ly/1KfmLHD
iBooks: http://apple.co/1QTaONj
kobo: http://bit.ly/1BGJ2wu

1 Comment »

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

 

Web  Twitter  Facebook  Instagram  Amazon  Goodreads  

 

 

1 Comment »

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

1 Comment »

Worth of Waste (Part 2) by Bethany-Kris…Release Blitz with Excerpt

WORTH OF WASTE: DeLuca Duet, Part Two

by Bethany-Kris
DeLuca Duet #2
Publication Date: February 6, 2017
Genres: Adult, Organized Crime, Mafia Romance

BUY:

SYNOPSIS: 

DeLuca Duet, Part Two

The Chicago Mob is the same as it has always been—violent, greedy, and excessive. The Outfit families have turned their backs when they were needed the most one too many times, but Dino DeLuca didn’t expect anything different.

His whole life has been lived for the Outfit—for his family.

He has a whole new set of reasons to live and fight now.

Karen Martin makes Dino change all the rules.

He’s finally ready to show everyone just how much waste is truly worth in the mafia, and just how far one will go for freedom from it all.

He’s learned these lessons well.

Too well.

Author’s Note: The DeLuca Duet is a standalone duet with a HEA ending that can be read independently.

goodreads-badge-add-38px

Excerpt

“Did you do what I asked?” Dino questioned, his gaze flicking to Mike.

He’d allowed himself to think about Karen, and that was enough to hurt.

Dino didn’t want to hurt.

Not right now.

Mike nodded. “I did. I contacted her through private means that wouldn’t draw attention, explained who I was, and what you asked of her. She wasn’t happy—actually, she told me not to ever contact her again.”

Dino cleared his throat, surprised at Mike’s description of Karen’s response. She was not a rude woman, and she wasn’t the type to be purposefully hateful to someone. But then again, maybe all of this had just been too much for her, and that was her way of acting out against it. He didn’t know, and he really didn’t have any reason to speculate on the whys of it all.

“What else?” Dino asked.

“Nothing, Dino. I did as she asked. I can’t force information on her if she doesn’t want to hear it. That’s called harassment.”

True.

Still …

“She hasn’t come back since that first time,” Dino said.

“Then she did what you wanted.”

Dino wasn’t sure if that was the case or not. Had she done what he requested, or had that one and only visit and his rejection been the final straw that broke her back where he was concerned?

God knew he wouldn’t blame her if it was.

“But I did receive a letter to my office last week,” Mike said, drawing in Dino’s attention again.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Mike popped open his briefcase, pulling out a white envelope and passing it over. “I only opened it because it wasn’t personally signed to go to you, but to my office, and to me. I figured she meant for it to somehow get to you … maybe, say, in a way that the prison wouldn’t get a hold of it first.”

What?

Dino’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Mike only chuckled when he asked, “She?”

“There’s only one ‘she’ you’re trying to keep away, isn’t there?”

Dino didn’t dignify that with a response.

Mike wasn’t looking for one. “Open it. If you want, I can take it with me when I go, but I think you might want to keep it. At least, if it were me, I’d keep it. There’s not much that could be identifiable, should someone stumble upon it.”

He didn’t have any idea what his lawyer was talking about, but the second he opened the envelope and tipped it over in his hand to empty the contents out, he understood perfectly fine.

A small six-by-four, colored photograph of a baby swaddled in blue with a matching wool cap stared up at him from his hands. For a long while, Dino simply stared at the photograph of the baby boy, unsure and wary in his heart.

But in his soul … oh, there he felt warm.

Like he knew just by looking at the face of the child that this was his son.

His baby.

Dino sat there, staring at the photograph and saying nothing as he traced the features of his child with the tip of his index finger. He had so much guilt—so much regret. He’d missed too much already, he’d missed his baby’s first day on earth.

He hadn’t been sure he would even know how to be a father when he first learned about the pregnancy, but shit, he wanted to try.

He should be allowed to at least try for his son.

“Flip it over,” Mike said. “She wrote on the back for you.”

Dino did, finding Karen’s familiar scrawl on the back of the photograph.

JD Martin, it read. But I call him Junior.

The baby’s birthdate, just a week and a half earlier, was written underneath.

And then, under that, was something Dino hadn’t expected.

I’ll see you soon, Karen had written.

Nothing else.

Dino didn’t need more.

It was enough.

This was perfect.

DON’T MISS WASTE OF WORTH, PART ONE IN THE DELUCA DUET!

BUY:

SYNOPSIS:

DeLuca Duet, Part One

Ask anyone and they will all say the same thing about just who Dino DeLuca is. A criminal, the son of a traitor, and a mafia Capo who can’t be trusted. His past has shaped his life, creating demons he can’t escape from that live in his mind day and night.

He is all too aware of just how people see him.

Closed off.
Cold.
Different.

He doesn’t care—keeping people out means no one can get close enough to hurt him again, and he already has one too many monsters with their claws stuck in his back that he’s still fighting off. His walls are so high, no one is climbing over them. Or so he thinks …

Karen came into his life like a spring shower, her light shining through the darkness and making him see something other than the hell that surrounded him for so long. She doesn’t know who he is or what he has done to become the man he is today. If he can help it, she’ll never know, and his monsters will never hurt her.

She sees his differences as beauty.
She never asks for more.
She is perfect.

The problem with happiness for Dino DeLuca is that his monsters don’t mind taking away what makes him happy. After all, what isn’t given cannot be kept.

These lessons will be the hardest he has ever learned.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The DeLuca Duet is a two book tale following the same couple through their journey. It is a standalone Duet that can be read independently with a HEA ending.

goodreads-badge-add-38px

ABOUT BETHANY-KRIS

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a hubby calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something … when she can find the time.

To keep up-to-date with new releases from Bethany-Kris, sign up to her New Release Newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/bf9lzD

Website • Blog •  Twitter • Facebook • Goodreads •  Pinterest • Mailing List • Amazon Author Page

ENTER THE GIVEAWAY

a Rafflecopter giveaway

1 Comment »

Cold Hearted by Winter Renshaw…Review

 

 


Amazon Global

 

 

I wish I could say our meeting was happenstance.

I wish I could say we took one look and we just knew.

I wish I could say falling for him was the best thing that ever happened to me.

But none of that would be true.

Rhett Carson was as cold as the ice on which he skated. He was as calloused as the hands that shot the goals that won world titles. He was also damaged. And broken. And he didn’t know it, but I knew all about him.

I knew why he was so bitter and angry.

I knew why he was so coldhearted.

But I didn’t know why I allowed myself fall in love with him, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop…even when he told me to.

And that’s when everything changed.
“How do you know where I am?” I ask.
“You called me last night, remember?” My former college roommate answers, huffing into the phone.
I rest my elbows against the counter, hunched forward. “No. I don’t remember anything about last night.”
“Not surprising. You never could hold your liquor,” she says, sighing. “Plus you said you were drinking Jäger, and you always do stupid shit when you drink Jäger. You should probably check your phone and make sure you didn’t call any ex-boyfriends.” She coughs. “Ethan.” She coughs again. “Noah.”
Shit. She’s probably right. She knows me well.
“Anyway, I’ll be there innnnn about five minutes,” Bostyn says.
I hang up with her and check my call history with suspended breath, breathing easy when I see there are no Ethans or Noahs in my call history. It never fails. I get drunk–I drunk dial ex-boyfriends. I’m a sentimental, gushing idiot when I’ve had too much to drink, and the alcohol always makes me temporarily forget all the reasons we didn’t work out, even if those reasons were rock solid.
Pulling up Safari on my phone, I check my web history as well because I’ve been known to do a bit of drunk-emailing in my day, though I suppose that comes with the whole writer territory. My agent tells me I’m the only person she knows who drunk–emails people, but I don’t believe her. There are more of us out there, I just know it.
Within seconds, I’m able to confirm the contents of my Google search history seem about right.

What time is in Los Angeles right now?
What time does Starbucks open tomorrow?
Starbucks + Lexington Avenue + NYC
How many calories are in a venti very berry hibiscus refresher?
Starrbuckks vs Dean and Delluucca who is better?
Turtle meeme
Turtle memee
Turrtle meme
Funny turtle memes
Baby sea turtle gif
Is there actual deer blood in Jägermeister?
Rhett Carson
Rhett Carson + New York Spartans
Rhett Carson hockey player
Are pet sloths legal?
Rhett Carson girlfriend
How tall is Rhett Carson?
Rhett Carson biography
Rhett Carson photos

Well, fuck. Drunk me must’ve been doing a bit of research last night. I chuff and place my phone back on the charger. I have zero recollection of any of that. I wonder if I found anything good? Or what the hell made me so curious that I had to dig up everything I could about this poor man?

Why do I love this book so much? I adore Rhett Carson. I mean my heart broke for him the entire book. Even when I wanted to hate him, I understood why he was so mean and hateful. Winter Renshaw wrote him so raw and torn apart that you just want him to find his happiness. I wanted to console him and defend him all at once! That is the first time I have ever felt that way about a lead male character in a book.

What a jaw dropping story line also! I was in shock from the first page and then I kept getting surprised over and over. I wish I could tell you what happens but why ruin an absolutely great book?

I cannot forget Ms Ayla Caldwell either. A perfect match for Rhett who can go toe to toe with that hot hockey player. Ayla Caldwell has recently lost her brother- who she did not really know. However, this is how her and Rhett become involved and the web of lies start to grow. They grow in a great way and you will find yourself entranced in this story. Its like watching Scandal because you cannot believe it is happening but it is! Get this book and a glass of wine ladies because it is divine.

 

 

 

Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.

 

And if you’d like to be the first to know when a new book is coming out, please sign up for her private mailing list here —> http://eepurl.com/bfQU2j
Author Links

 

Goodreads Facebook  Amazon

 

2 Comments »

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.
 
Email: shilohwalker@gmail.com
Website: http://shilohwalker.com
Twitter: @shilohwalker
 
 
 
B&B Promotions | @banbpromotions

 

1 Comment »

Liberty States Create Something Magical Conference Speaker Interview Series: Geoff Symon

I’m so excited to be returning to one of my favorite events this March: the Liberty States Fiction Writers Create Something Magical Conference in New Jersey.  It’s a wonderful event that I enjoy each year and highly recommend attending.  I am honored this year to be hosting an interview each week with the attending speakers!  It begins today and will continue each week leading up to the conference. I hope you enjoy! ~Jillian

Today the Liberty States Create Something Magical Conference Speaker Interview Series continues with author Geoff Symon:

 

  1. Why did you start writing your books?Three years ago, I began presenting forensic courses at various writing group meetings and conventions. I quickly discovered authors long for accuracy in their writings. They may deal in make-believe, but they want their stories anchored in truth. While many books exist on crimes and the techniques used to investigate them, very few are focused on authors.That was how my Forensics for Fiction Series was born. I’m taking all of my training and experience as a 20-year forensic investigator and presenting it to writers.

     

    1. Is there one piece of advice you would give an aspiring writer?

    Don’t stop. There will be days that you think a Betty Crocker recipe is written with more emotion and relatability than what you spent the last 10 hours on. Keep writing.

    As I stated in my latest book, as a writer, you are either pouring out your soul or pulling out your hair. There is no in-between and both are part of the process. Keep writing.

    Writing is a craft, and crafts only improve through practice. Keep writing.

     

    1. Who is on your bookshelf?

    Damon Suede (contractual requirement)

    Val McDermid

    Carl Hiaasen

    Jane Austen

     

    1. Tell us about your newest release/current work in progress.

    I’ve just come out with my second book in the Forensic for Fiction Series, Crime Scenes. It covers all of the laws, procedures and personnel related to processing the scene of the crime, with in-depth case studies of two well-known crime scene failures: O.J. Simpson and JonBenét Ramsey. I have the third book, Autopsies, well under way.

     

    1. Tell us a little about your workshop at the Create Something Magical Conference.

    I’ll be presenting my Breaking News: Exposing the Forensics in True-Crime Headlines class. We’ll be taking a real life case from the headlines and study it for forensic lessons and plot bunny inspiration.

    I’ll also be joining Sara Humphreys and Lyla Bellatas for a fun hour of Blood and cookie decorating! Vampires, Mobsters, Blood Spatter and the Blood, Sweat and Tears of breaking into the industry are some of the topics we’ll cover. There will be prize baskets, decorating competitions….and COOKIES!

     

     

    About Geoff Symon:

    Geoff Symon is a Federal Forensic Investigator, Polygraph Examiner, teacher and consultant. His participation in high-profile cases includes the attacks on September 11, 2001, the Space Shuttle Columbia explosion and the Chandra Levy investigation, among countless other cases over his 20-year career. He has specified and certified training in the collection and preservation of evidence, blood-spatter analysis, autopsies and laboratory techniques.

     

    Websites:
    www.geoffsymon.com

    www.forensicsforfiction.com

    Social Media:
    Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/geoff.symon

    Twitter – @GeoffSymon

1 Comment »

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?

ADD TO GOODREADS

 

 

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
TWITTER
FACEBOOK
AMAZON

WEBSITE

FACEBOOK GROUP

 

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

1 Comment »

Cover Reveal….Goodbye Paradise by Sarina Bowen

 

Most people called it a cult. But for twenty years, Josh and Caleb called it home.

In Paradise, there is no television. No fast food. Just long hours of farm work and prayer on a dusty Wyoming ranch, and nights in a crowded bunkhouse. The boys of the Compound are kept far from the sinners’ world.

But Joshua doesn’t need temptation to sin. His whole life, he’s wanted his best friend, Caleb. By day they work side by side. Only when Josh closes his eyes at night can they be together the way he craves.

It can never be. And his survival depends on keeping his terrible desires secret.

Caleb has always protected Josh against the worst of the bullying at the Compound. But he has secrets of his own, and a plan to get away — until it all backfires.

Josh finds himself homeless in a world that doesn’t want him. Can Caleb find him in time? And will they find a place of safety, where he can admit to Josh how he really feels?

Warning: Contains a hot male/male romance, copious instances of taking the Lord’s name in vain, and love against the kitchen counter. This book was previously released under the title: In Front of God & Everyone.

 

Connect with Sarina:

https://www.facebook.com/authorsarinabowen

https://twitter.com/SarinaBowen

1 Comment »

Cover Reveal…Mister Wrong by Nicole Williams

 

 

Coming Soon
goodreads-badge.png

 

AP new - synopsis.jpg

 

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?

 

AP new -about the author.jpg

 

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.

 

Website   Facebook  Twitter  Blog  Instagram
ArdentProse_LogoMain.jpg

 

 

2 Comments »