Flawed & Damaged by Emily Krat: Cover Reveal & Giveaway
Rogue by Katy Evans: Excerpt
Book Title: Flawed and Damaged
Author: Emily Krat
Genre: New Adult/Contemporary Romance
Release Date: August 2014
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Two people haunted by their past…
The collision of two damaged hearts…
Meet Elizabeth Williams. She is at the airport on an important work assignment. If everything goes smoothly, after three years of hard work, she’ll get a promotion and a much-needed raise. Elizabeth is putting her life back on track after it was ripped out from under her feet four years ago when she lost her parents along with all her dreams. Standing here, she believes her life is going to change for the better any moment now. Nothing can go wrong, right?
Meet Ryan Price. He came to Moscow on business. Right now, Ryan is standing at the airport looking at a ‘present’ from his brother, judging by the sign a beautiful young woman is holding. Damn his brother for not cancelling this arrangement as Ryan asked.
Miscommunications and misunderstandings and a brilliant but painful love story begins.
There will be a scary flight, lovely breakfasts, long evening conversations, sharing a secret or two, discovering one another, a lot of laughter, tender moments and some tears, a fight and, of course, the I-am-ready-for-the-end-of-the-world kiss.
Somewhere along the way, they won’t be able to fight their feelings any longer.
For the first time in his life, Ryan will experience a different shade of lust. And for the first time in her life, Elizabeth will have to trust despite all of the times she has been hurt.
Will these two wounded lost souls find love, peace and comfort in each other or will they just break each other more? Is it a train wreck of a love story or a happily ever after?
My breath hitches as Ryan moves his right hand to my hip, my body pressing tightly against his. He skims his hand down and stops at the hem of my dress.
I want him to go further, to lift my dress, to put his fingers on my thighs. He doesn’t. He continues his torture by dragging his hand up my side, trailing his thumb along the side of my breast, intoxicating me, unleashing myriads of emotion with every touch. I can call them sparks, electricity, currents, but nothing can describe the feeling. I have never experienced such need for a man.
Right in this moment, I don’t want to listen to my brain, to think what the logical step is. I realize that he is almost a complete stranger, but it doesn’t feel this way. I don’t want to push this man away from me. I want the opposite. I want to be reckless for once, not to think about tomorrow. I want to listen to my body. I lift my arms and wrap them around his neck – any rational thought disappears. Pulling him to me, I brush my mouth slowly against his.
Elizabeth has just taken the act of dance to a whole new level. This is probably the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. The best foreplay I’ve ever had. And I had my fair share of women, but never once the mere thought of bare skin sliding on mine made me so crazy.
I know I need to give Elizabeth some time to decide what she really wants. Nevertheless, I can’t keep my hands from her. The way this woman responds to me touching her is so erotic. Her body is so sensual, alluring. It takes all of my willpower not to lift her dress and feel how wet she is for me. But we are in a bar full of people, and I want to be the only one who will see her naked. I am sure it will be an exquisite sight.
When she wraps her arm around my neck and pulls me to her, I know she’s giving in to her desires. She is giving herself to me, and it’s taking my breath away.
For the first time in my life I don’t want to rush. I won’t be rough and devour her mouth. Seeing how fragile and delicate she is, I know exactly what kind of kiss she deserves.
Elizabeth brushes her lips slowly against mine – they are soft and tender, and as luscious as the rest of her. Taking the lead, I press my lips firmly against hers and then sweep my tongue across the seam of her lips, needing to taste her.
Fuck, she is so damn sweet.
When I close my teeth over her lower lip and suck it gently into my mouth, her eyes fly open, and she smiles against my lips. I smile back and her lips begin to part, inviting me in. I can’t hold back, so I close whatever small gap is between us, and Elizabeth’s body melts against mine. I savor the second of anticipation, knowing that momentarily our tongues will dance just like we are now.
Emily Krat is the twenty-something writer of “Flawed and Damaged” who lives with her loving husband and her wild imagination. Always an avid reader who consumes whole books in a single day, she is ecstatic to now be on the other side of the page. For her writing stories and developing ideas for novels is a true passion and a dream come true.
Emily is a chocolate junkie, Grey’s Anatomy fan, and admirer of good music. She loves summer rains, warm blankets on cold winter nights, as well as traveling, sleeping in late, watching TV shows, cooking, and baking. When she’s not writing or rewriting, she loves spending time with family and friends.
Emily loves to hear from readers. To get write to her directly at firstname.lastname@example.org
SHE HATES THAT HE MIGHT BE RIGHT.Brook Dumas found Remington Tate in REAL, and now it’s her best friend Melanie’s turn to find the man who makes her heart sing. After years of searching, one night in the rain, the strong and mysterious Greyson King comes to her rescue. He’s bold, and maybe just the lover, friend, and protector she’s been searching for. When they make love, he says her name like it means something. Like she means something—and that’s everything she’s ever wanted.
He disappears for days without a word, and when he’s around, he says he’ll only hurt her. Buy when he’s away, her heart hurts more.
Then Melanie uncovers the dark world he’d been determined to keep hidden, and suspects that their random first meeting might have not been so random after all.
Caught in a free fall of emotions, Melanie has no one to catch her but the man she should be running from. . .
But what do you do when your Prince Charming has gone Rogue?
The doors burst open and a couple walks inside, soaking wet, the woman shaking her damp loose hair, laughing.
“Omigod!” I cry, my stomach plummeting when I realize it’s fucking raining.
I run to the door when a man grabs the handle with a black-gloved hand and gallantly pulls it open for me. I almost stumble outside, and he grips my elbow to steady me. “Easy,” he says in a rolling voice as he steadies me on my feet, and I blink desperately across the street at the light blue Mustang. All I have in my name. All I have to sell because I desperately need the money and who will want it now? It’s a convertible and a little old, but it’s as cute as it is unique, with white interior seats to match the tent top. But now it’s outside in this rain, with its top down, becoming my very own Titanic with wheels.
My entire life is sinking right with it.
“I assume by that sad puppy-dog look on your face that that’s your car,” the rolling voice says.
I helplessly nod and lift my eyes to the stranger. A flash of thunder cuts through the distance, illuminating his features.
And I can’t speak.
His eyes grab me and won’t let go. I stare into their depths while also registering that his face is stunning. Hard jaw, high cheekbones, strong forehead. His nose is classic, sleek and elegant; and the lips beneath are full and curved, firm and . . . god, he’s edible. His dark hair flips playfully in the wind. He’s tall and broad shouldered and dressed in dark slacks and a dark turtleneck that makes him look both elegant and dangerous.
But his eyes.
They’re an indecipherable color, but it’s not the color, it’s the stare, the incredible shine. Framed with thick black lashes, his eyes shine as brilliant as the brightest lights I’ve ever seen. As they quietly assess my features in return, those narrowed eyes feel as powerful as X-rays, and they seem to be sparkling especially because I—me—have somehow done something to amuse this man, this . . . fuck, I have no name for him. Except Eros. Cupid himself. God of love. In the flesh.
I used to think Cupid used an arrow but I don’t feel as if I’ve been pierced by an arrow. I feel like I’ve been hit. By a rocket.
As I keep standing here, floored by the over six feet of total hotness before me, he grabs my keys from me with one gloved hand and puts his other free one on my hip to hold me in place. And I feel it. I feel the touch race down my hips, knotting in my stomach, pulsing in my sex, straight down my thighs, curling my toes. “Stay here,” he says into my ear, then he pulls up the collar of his turtleneck until it becomes a hood in the back, and he runs across the street.
I watch him head to where my car is getting soaked. The wind whips through the streets so hard, I have to use both hands to try to flatten my skirt so it doesn’t fly up to my middle.
“Put the top on!” I force myself to yell through the pounding rain, suddenly as determined as he is to save my car.
“Princess, I got this!” He leaps into the front seat, turns on the car, and the top starts coming up until it . . . doesn’t.
It gets stuck.
After a squeal of protest, the fucker starts coming back down.
“ARGH, SHIT!” I hurry into the street and suddenly the drops of rain bombard me like little cannon balls, soaking me in a second. I swear I want to yell Fuck you! at them. My car, the one thing in my life that hasn’t been shit on, is being ruined and I want to scream.
“Are you kidding me? Get under the roof!” The guy leaps out and then pulls off his sweater in one quick jerk. He spreads the material over my head, using it to shield me from the rain while he herds me back to the small awning over the building entry.
“No! I’ll help you. My precious car!” I cry and push at his chest, trying to get him to back off, but he’s a head taller and built of steel.
“I’ve got your car,” he promises. He hands me his soaked turtleneck and adds, “Hold this,” before he runs back out.
He’s wearing a white crewneck undershirt, and it clings to his sculpted torso as he tries to manually override and pull the top of my car back in place.
Raindrops sluice down his bare arms, the soaked cotton of his shirt plastered down on his chest, revealing every muscle in existence. Fuck. He’s off-the-charts gorgeous; he just broke my Man Hotness Radar. I can’t take my eyes off every inch of his body or the way it moves.
Thunder shakes the city again when he finally latches the top of my car on and signals for me to come over. He opens my car door from the inside, and I hurry into the passenger seat and shut it behind me.
My cold, slick clothes cling against my skin while he sits behind the wheel, looking big and manly, and suddenly we’re ensconced in the small, almost cramped interior of my car. The seats are flooded with water, and when I shift to face him a little, I hear a squish that makes my cheeks burn in embarrassment.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper. “My best friend tells me I’m the only idiot with a convertible in Seattle.”
His eyes are openly amused. “I dig your car.” He reaches out to the dashboard, and the hand he runs over it is covered in an elegant lambskin glove that makes my skin prick with goose bumps. He shifts his big torso in my direction with an irresistibly devastating grin. “Everything wet gets dry; don’t worry, princess.”
I can hardly take the way he says wet.
Or the way a raindrop clings to his dark eyelashes. Water sluices down his tanned, corded arms. His hair is slicked back, enhancing the beautiful face he has. I have seen works of art and beautiful men, beautiful buildings and beautiful rooms, but at this moment as he looks at me, I can’t remember ever seeing anything besides him.
He’s a ten. I’ve never, ever, been with a ten. And the way that he looks at me . . . I’ve seen that look before. The look that Remington Tate gives Brooke. That look. He’s giving it to me and I’m dying inside. Can I die from one look? And if one look can kill me, then what would one touch do?
“So,” he says softly, his voice textured. He waits a little before speaking again, and it surprises me that he still only looks at my face, not my wet chest, not my bare legs—he’s looking at nothing but my eyes while absently stroking the circle of my steering wheel.
“Want to go somewhere with me?” he asks, then reaches out with his free wet black glove to brush my hair back behind my ear.
What I feel is so far beyond lust, I can hardly answer him.
I tremble. “Yes,” I say, dizzied with want.