Books, Photos & a little bit of everything else: Oct. 9

  • Sociopath by Lime Craven: Cover Reveal & Giveaway

  • Rose in Bloom by Helen Hardt: Cover Reveal & Giveaway

  • Sybrina by Amy Rachiele: Book Blitz & Giveaway

Book: Sociopath
Author: Lime Craven
Genre: Dark Romance

The name’s Aeron Lore. And you are…? Such a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart. Is that a southern accent? Gorgeous.
You fucking bitch.
Why so surprised? I control a billion dollar fortune. I control the news. Give me five minutes and I’ll control you, too. If you could read my mind, you’d probably call me perverted. Unnatural. Manipulative. But I’ve learned to blend in, to be funny and charming. A predator in a designer suit.
I have no conscience. No shame in taking the things I want. And what I wanted was for Leontine Reeves to sell me her boutique tech firm so I could exploit the fuck out of it. Maybe exploit the fuck out of her, too, because desire haunts me in shades of scarlet, and I desire Leo most of all.
I never meant for this to be a love story. I fought it kicking and screaming, the same way Leo fought me. Now we’re bleeding into each other, making a mess. A chaos. There’s no control here. And what do monsters like me do when control leaves the building?
We attack.

Often, at this time of night, I go into my gym room and pound out a few miles on the treadmill. Work on the weights. Not tonight, though; not after the meeting. I’m hungry for other things.
A long hot shower is where the build-up starts. I rub at my thighs with soapy hands. Take deep lungfuls of steam. Watch my cock harden as the water beats down, making it bounce and bob. I don’t allow myself women often—I’m too easily distracted by the ripe promise of flesh. But Miss Reeves and that ass. Jesus. I have to seduce her into selling her business; may as well go the whole nine yards and seduce her into other things, too.
In the bedroom, I don’t wait to dry myself, so my damp skin sticks to the sheets. No matter. I wrap a lubed hand around my cock and just squeeze intermittently. Teasing. This is what her pussy will feel like, this tight, ebbing grip. Breath slips through my teeth in a cold hiss.
Leontine told me that her name means lion, and it makes for a pretty line but it’s not what she is. Beyond those bedroom eyes and that surly, almost submissive manner, I know her type exactly; she’s the kind of girl who’ll let me play with her pussy until she’s wetter than an April morning, who’ll look pained and keep still while I lick her overripe clit. She won’t want it, not really, will keep the fight inside and pretend it isn’t happening. And then her orgasm will come from nowhere—desperate and aching—and she’ll claw at me while I claw at her sweet spot, fingers jabbing harder than she ever thought she’d like.
The words she’ll say in that accent. The haughty, breathy hitch in her voice when she comes—now that’s my kind of drug. Why has nobody figured out how to charge for that yet? Hookers don’t come like good girls; they rarely come at all, actually, but even when they do, it’s always spoiled with fake gratitude afterward. I don’t care if a girl thanks me for her orgasm, and I prefer it when she’s still too traumatised to get the words out, but Jesus. Sex is all about honesty—that’s what makes it sexy. And sex is one of the few things I can actually be honest about.
Which is why I don’t have it too often.
I stroke myself; long pulls, short twists at the head. The throb of impending orgasm climbs the muscles of my inner thighs. With each new streak of heat, I lean further into the pillows, back braced, chin tipped. Eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness, Leontine comes back into view, walking away from me in the lobby with her perky, sculpted ass bobbing in goodbye. The mere thought of it bare sets my teeth on edge; I can see her bent over, ass high, her pussy peeking out beneath like a split peach. She’ll want to be fucked when I’m done with my tongue and fingers. She’ll want to be full, to feel something else. Something risky. Bloody. Ah.
She looked almost frightened of me earlier. If I had a conscience, I’d feel bad for thinking of her like this: bent over, begging for it, trembling with pleasure and fear. But I don’t. And when I spray half a hell of cum over my abs, groaning and panting with the force of it, there’s no devil on my shoulder.
There’s just an empty room, a damp bed, and the dark undertow of impending sleep pulling me down, down, down.

Author Bio

I like dysfunction. Broken people who can’t fix each other, but fit together because they’re missing the same pieces. One of my favourite songs declares, “take the sinner down to feed desire,” and that’s my MO. I write dirty psychological thrillers with strong elements of dark romance.
I love antiheroes. Female characters who don’t just accept their faults, but downright exploit them. No nice boys. No shame. Mindfuckery for all.

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Book: Rose in Bloom (Sex and the Season #2)
Author: Helen Hardt
Genre: Erotic Victorian Romance

Sex and the Season Book Two

Wiltshire, England 1853

Lady Rose Jameson knows her place—respect authority and convention and marry a suitable member of the peerage. Lord Evan Xavier, the second son of the Earl of Brighton, possesses the necessary pedigree, but though Rose enjoys his company, the spark she craves is missing…the spark she feels in abundance with handsome commoner Cameron Price.

Cameron has accepted his lot in life—to care for his widowed mother and two younger sisters. Instead of writing the music he loves, he’s destined to work the land his family leases from the Duke of Lybrook…and deal with his overwhelming feelings for the duke’s sister-in-law, Lady Rose. When Cam’s sister becomes ill, his fate is further sealed. He must say goodbye to Rose forever.

But circumstances and the appearance of an elderly stranger may change both their fates…

Author Bio

Helen Hardt is an attorney and stay-at-home mom turned award-winning romance author and freelance fiction editor. She writes contemporary, historical, paranormal, and erotic romance from her home in Colorado. She’s a mother, a black belt in Taekwondo, a grammar geek, an avid fan of opera and football (as long as her older son and younger son are performing/playing, respectively), and a lover of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

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Book Blitz

Sybrina flat cover

Book Title: Sybrina
Author: Amy Rachiele
Genre: Historical Paranormal Romance
Release Date: September 2014
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions


Fleeing for her life, Sybrina leaves behind everything to escape the dark and ominous creature that killed her family.

It wants to finish what it started.

Sybrina stows away aboard a clipper ship and poses as her recently murdered brother, Paul.

The year is 1866, an age in which science is a man’s game.

Can Sybrina solve the mystery of the creature that exsanguinates it victims?

(Historical Paranormal Romance)

Meet the Author

Amy Rachiele is a military spouse and brat who spent many years volunteering and on staff for the Army National Guard and Department of Veteran Affairs with Family Support, Family Readiness, as well as, Families of the Fallen. Amy devoted 10 years to teaching English to at-risk students in the Providence School System. She holds a Master’s degree from Rhode Island College in English and Secondary Education. Amy published book one in the Mobster Series, Mobster’s Girl, in 2012, and has continued to self-publish since. Her novels have climbed to the bestseller lists nationally and internationally on for romantic suspense and family saga. She is an active member of New England Independent Writers and has volunteered her time at her local library facilitating a writer’s group in the hope of inspiring other writers. Amy hosts a public access cable show called Book Talk. Besides writing, she enjoys scrapbooking, sewing, and traveling. Amy lives in Massachusetts with her son and husband.




It is a societal domination that never dies with the progress of mankind. It crafts a vampiric buffet table, blood-soaked earth the tablecloth. The meal encased in shiny metals forged to futilely protect its fragile hosts. Hunting is easy and enshrouded in the mayhem, despair, and fear that accompany battle. It disguises the vampires’ unnatural feast making us undetectable. The remnants left behind are contorted in some bizarre repose. The only indication of its death being of unnatural causes.

A fruitless meandering brought me to the Russo-Turkish war. The plain lines of unremarkable uniforms jumbled against the ground piled two to three deep was like walking through a meadow of flowers, crowded together and all the same. My unhurried walk is slow for my kind. I have nowhere in particular to be or wish to be, filling my deathless body my only task.

A gloved hand rises, black and torn, changing the terrain before me. I walk to it and bend down. I know not what draws me to the dying Cossack but the hand beckons to me among the dead. The irony interests me. I flip off the rubble that is charred limbs and body parts of his deceased comrades. A young, clean, unlined face, chiseled as though made of marble, stares back at me. Eyes not clouded with the shadows of death, but vibrantly blue and warm with life.

In the cavalry’s haste, someone tasked with the gruesome ordeal of clearing the dead has mistaken this wounded man as a corpse. I shuffle more debris and expose the man’s legs. Beneath, they are attached barely by sinew and fragments of broken bone. My original thought of this man’s happenstance, being mistaken for dead, is quelled. The condition of his injuries, blood loss, and damage make him a worthless endeavor for a surgeon. Others in this situation would be pallid and unconscious, rapping on the door of death. This man’s spirit is strong.

“Are you death?” he asks me.

Contemplating his question, I stifle a sardonic chuckle. In the truth of my existence, I can be either, take life or give it, eternally. I take more time, as if I am drawn to this soldier, to examine him closely. His body is ready to face the other side, but his mind is not.

“No.” I smile weakly.

“What are you then?”

“What do you think I am?” I question back curiously.

“A wraith,” he surmises, looking thoughtful.

A ghost would be too easy of a life, I think as I laugh at his response. A phantom to walk among the living and not have to partake of their company, but watch them with curiosity and indifference, having no substance or feelings to interfere. I would welcome such an existence.

“I am neither wraith nor human.”

“Do you have a soul, sir?”

“I do. A spirit like any other man.”

A small breeze travels past our intimate meeting and the Cossack’s blond hair dances around his face. He casts his eyes away from me and peers up into the cerulean sky, thinking.

“Are you here to save me?”

“What do you need saving from? To be able to leave this world and pass on to another is the gift of being human.”

“That path… it doesn’t seem to be the right one.”

“I have seen a great deal of death in my long days, and I know very few are ever ready for it when it comes.”

The maimed soldier contemplates and answers surprisingly again. “I would say very few are ready for love when it comes.”

My cheek lifts, forming a half grin in amusement. “I believe that is true as well.”

“I feel nothing from my waist down. Can you help me?”

“I can. But what I have to offer comes with a heavy price.”

“Name it.”

“Eternal existence in this world.”

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