Books, Photos & a little bit of everything else: Feb. 4

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  • Forbidden by Charlotte Stein: Blog Tour & Giveaway

  • Manwhore by Katy Evans: Excerpt Reveal

  • Take by Nashoda Rose: Cover Reveal

 
 
 
 
 
FORBIDDEN (Under the Skin Series #2)
 
They say I need help. Another exorcism. This is not new. This is my life. Today, I expect to suffer at the hands of a man as warped by superstition and fear as my mother. A man who will torture me in order to save me from things that don’t exist.
But the man who actually comes to me is different.
Killian is good and decent, and he sees what’s good and decent in me. And I don’t mean for it to happen, but every time he looks at me, his gaze sets me on fire. He brings me to the light, gives me back my life. For the first time, I see a future for myself.
A future with him.
I burn for Killian-a man who’s intent on protecting me. On healing me.
He doesn’t get it. The only thing that can heal me is him. But Killian will soon be a priest. Untouchable. Forbidden.

How can I ask a man to choose between me … and God?






FORBIDDEN (Under the Skin Series #2)
 

 

 
 
 
 
Charlotte Stein is the acclaimed author of over thirty short stories, novellas and novels, including the recently DABWAHA nominated Run To You. When not writing deeply emotional and intensely sexy books, she can be found eating jelly turtles, watching terrible sitcoms and occasionally lusting after hunks.
 
 
 
For more on Charlotte, visit: www.charlottestein.net
Twitter is @Charlotte_Stein
 
 
Chapter One
 
               I don’t know how long I’ve been up here this time. Feels like days, but it can’t possibly be. If it was days I would have peed myself. I would have made a mess or else starved to death, yet somehow I don’t even feel hungry. Though really is that any kind of
surprise? My stomach is churning and churning at the thought of what might happen soon. Every time it comes into my head all of this sickness rises inside me, and only the idea of having to lie here with puke stinking me up puts a stop to it.
The room is rancid enough as it is. Momma shut the windows ages ago, and the heat is making me sweat. I can see it shining on my bare arms and taste it salt-sharp on my upper lip, and whenever I wriggle I get a wave of that familiar smell. The one I never used to get when I was young and innocent, but now get all the time.
I scrub and scrub and plaster my body in deodorant, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The ripe scent of my own body is still there, like a reminder of what makes Momma hate me now.
Not that I need any kind of reminder, what with the ropes around my wrists and ankles and the fact that I’ve been here forever. Or the way she looks at me when she comes in to see if I’m contrite and ready to plead for forgiveness. Of course I
always tell her I am, but whether I do or not don’t matter.
How can you really get absolution for being possessed by the devil? I could say ten thousand Hail Marys and recite the Bible backward, and it wouldn’t make no difference. The demon she sees in me is invisible, and never seems to do nothing, so it’s not like I can just scrub him out or act like he’s not there. I can’t stop spinning the room around like in that movie with the girl who has no eyebrows.
The room has never spun around.
You ask me—if I am possessed, I got some raw kind of deal. Seems unfair to have to lie here and be so severely punished, when I don’t even get special powers. As far as I know I haven’t so much as spoken in tongues or bent over in some kind of weird way, and for darn sure my eyes have never turned black.
So why do I have to suffer?
She says it’s because I sinned, but I swear to God I haven’t said or done a single damned thing. Apart from right then, thinking damned. But I know the devil doesn’t jump into you for saying that. Most people don’t even think of it as a curse anymore. The girls I used to go to school with said all kinds of things, like the one with the F and the one with S and even worse—that one I’m not even going to give a letter to.
But none of them ever had the devil eat her soul alive.
And none of them had to wait all tied up in her bedroom, while some awful Priest comes to exorcise the evil spirits out of them.
I can hear him now, climbing up the stairs. He sounds like judgment day coming to greet me, footsteps as heavy as the hooves of the devil I’m supposed to be possessed by. Each one slower than the last, until I have to hold my breath or else pass out from the tension. Why isn’t he racing up here? How come he’s dragging his feet like this?
Because he wants to torment me before this has even begun, I think, and then all this water starts leaking out of my eyes. I pull at the ropes and wish for hands as small as mice just so I could get
free. Though if I’m going to be wishing I’ll try for wings, because Lord I want
to fly away from here.
If I weren’t tied I’d jump right out the window, wings or not. I’d suffer two broken legs and a snapped neck, if it meant I didn’t have to face whatever awful thing he’s going to do to me. Beat me, most likely, because Momma would never get anyone who wasn’t going to beat me. He’s going to stripe me from here to tomorrow—which I could take.
It’s the other stuff that worries me more.
The boiling holy water and the drowning and the branding with crosses. She says he’ll do that, all of that, and I believe her so completely I make myself bleed. My wrists are bleeding and my ankles are bleeding and I’m crying when the doorknob starts to turn. I scream for someone to deliver me from this hell, and just as I do the door swings wide.
He comes in, and after that I don’t know what to think.
I go silent straight away, but not because I’m choked with fear. I would be if he was the image in my head—seven feet tall and old as sin, with eyes like winter at the ends of the earth. Then I’d be scared and screaming still. But he’s not that way at all.
He looks like some ordinary man.
He ain’t even wearing the robes and the collar and that. He has on this old beaten leather jacket—one that is far too hot for the weather here, if his flushed face is anything to go by—and even more astonishing a pair of jeans. I swear to God he’s wearing jeans like he just did some fancy thing that jeans-wearing people do.
And he is young.
He’s so young I don’t even realize what’s going on at first. I’m too busy gawking at his black, black hair and his lack of an angry beard and his kind of smooth everything. He steps forward and I marvel at how vigorous he is—not heavy and lumbering at all. And when he reaches for the rope around my right wrist, all I can do is look and look at his nice hands.
They’re big, but they’re not the least bit wrinkled or riddled with veins. He could be just a few years older than me—maybe twenty-five? He could be younger, even though that seems crazy. Momma would never bring someone like this to deal with me. She would laugh at someone like this. She took us away from the church because the new Priest was all young and into love and forgiving, so this makes no sense.
And then I realize what he’s doing, and it makes even less sense than that.
He’s untying me. He’s doing it fast too—like he knows Momma might come in any second and stop him. Only I can see Momma in the door with her face all pinched and her hands wringing and wringing and she doesn’t take a single step toward him,
so maybe his quickness is something else.
It seems like he’s horrified about something.
I think the horrified something might be me. He mutters a word as he sets me loose, and I’m pretty sure the word is barbaric. But him believing that and not wanting to thrash the devil out of me is so not what I’ve been thinking all this time that it kind of won’t sink in. I keep trying to look around him to Momma, waiting for her to step in.
Or for him to change his mind. Maybe this is all just a trick or a trap, and suddenly he’ll get out a switch to line my skin. Could be he has something worse on him—like a thick leather belt or some kind of whupping device—and I can feel my
body bracing for it. Hurt like a son of a b-i-t-c-h when Momma went at me with that rolling pin one time, so Lord only knows what will happen with this man wielding something bigger.
He comes closer and I wince away from it.
Only I’m wincing away from nothing at all. He doesn’t lash me or strike my face. He gets his hand underneath my bare bruised legs and the other around my back and then he says, “Put your arms around my neck.”
Takes me a while to understand what he means, though. I sit there thinking—this must be some other new kind of punishment, and the minute I do as he asks, pain will make me pass out. He might have shockers behind his ears or something
like it, and even after I find out he doesn’t I’m wondering.
I wonder right up until he lifts me into his arms.
After which my thoughts go kind of still and stunned. No one has ever lifted me up before. Could be my dad did once, but I can barely remember him. And Momma sure never—she would have hated touching me this much. She would have complained
about me making her hands all dirty, yet somehow the Priest don’t seem to care.
He holds me all firm against his good clean clothes—that leather smells like old books and the shirt underneath just the same. And when Momma moans and asks what he’s doing in a weak sort of voice, he answers like it’s only sensible.
“I’m taking your daughter to the hospital,” he says, even though it must be miles to Sacred Heart and I will have to go all the way in his car in my worn thin housedress and my stink of a too-hot room and my red hair so lank it looks black.
People will laugh at him, I reckon.
Yet he doesn’t seem to care at all.
He doesn’t even care when Momma goes to bar his way. He tells her, “Step aside, Mrs. Emerson,” and for a second I go hot
and cold thinking of someone disobeying her and provoking her wrath. Then I remember: he isn’t just someone. He’s a man of God and he has all the things she believes in on his side, and no amount of hand-wringing can change that.
She has to do as he says, and she does. She lets him go on through and down the stairs with me in his arms, though it’s only once we’re outside that I really feel what’s happened. The breezy autumn air hits my fevered skin and I breathe out for the first time in years.
The breathing out sounds kind of like a sob. It comes out loud at any rate—so loud I know he must hear it for what it is. But if he does, he gives no sign. He just keeps on walking to his car, while I look back over at the clapboard place I lived in all these years. Somehow I understand that I’m not ever coming back to it.
This is it now, this is my freedom, and it looks like a Priest in his old sedan, with my momma running out in her black skirts calling to me. “Dorothy,” she screams, “Dorothy,” and in my head I’m already turning into someone else. They will ask at the hospital and I will say.
My name is Dot.
 
 
 

 

 
INTRUSION
 
 AMAZON * B&N
 
 Praise quotes from her last book, INTRUSION (Book #1)

Hot. Intense. Emotional. Sexy. Charlotte Stein writes provocative erotic romance so deliciously you never want her books to end!
   — New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Monica Murphy
“Stein’s surreal storytelling is elevated to a whole new level of madness with Intrusion…Stein has a delightfully peculiar voice and makes colorful use of stream of consciousness with Beth’s first person point of view. Readers won’t want to wait to see what she does next.”
   — Romantic Times BOOKclub, 4.5 stars Top Pick for INTRUSION“Charlotte Stein put me inside the heroine’s mind and it was an amazing place to be. I never wanted to leave.”
   — New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Tessa Bailey
“By seizing on the power of erotic language and allowing it to range from rhapsodic to raunchy, Stein has written a radiant ode to the mind-the biggest erogenous zone of all.”
— Publishers Weekly (starred review) for INTRUSION
“A short, steamy, moody read that will have the reader taut with all kinds of delicious tension ….”
   — Jay Crownover, New York Times bestselling author“Fans…will be mesmerized by Noah’s amazing intellect, social awkwardness, vicious inner strength, and palpable vulnerability. Readers will find themselves inwardly cheering for Beth—both a survivor and a worthy heroine. Although the relationship between these characters is a slow-build, their dynamic both in and out of bed is very raw and intense, creating strong sexual and emotional tension.”
      — Library Journal (starred review)

BLOG TOUR HOSTED BY: 

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Book:  Manwhore
Author: Katy Evans
Publication Date: March 24, 2015
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book #1 of ‘the manwhore series’

Is it possible to expose Chicago’s hottest player—without getting played?

This is the story I’ve been waiting for all my life, and its name is Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. Don’t be fooled by that last name though. There’s nothing holy about the man except the hell his parties raise. The hottest entrepreneur Chicago has ever known, he’s a man’s man with too much money to spend and too many women vying for his attention.

Mysterious. Privileged. Legendary. His entire life he’s been surrounded by the press as they dig for tidbits to see if his fairytale life is for real or all mirrors and social media lies. Since he hit the scene, his secrets have been his and his alone to keep. And that’s where I come in.

Assigned to investigate Saint and reveal his elusive personality, I’m determined to make him the story that will change my career.

But I never imagined he would change my life. Bit by bit, I start to wonder if I’m the one discovering him…or if he’s uncovering me.

What happens when the man they call Saint, makes you want to sin?

EXCERPT

I look very different than the girl Saint met in his office. But I don’t feel any different. My nerves are frayed to the edges as I give my name to a bouncer at the entrance and I’m allowed into the club, every part of me snug and tight in my dress as my black heels hit the floor.

Whereas M4 was all museum-like, the Ice Box is pure dark decadence. Ice sculptures sit on pedestals around the room. Cages with body-painted dancers hang from the ceiling. A bar with white and blue lights stretches from one wall to another.

Strobe lights flash across the space as I get jostled by the crowd. The bass thumps as the song “Waves” by Mr. Probz plays for the dancing crowd. Drinks are flowing on shiny silver trays, and the drinks are so adorned—by fruits, olives, salt glitter or colorful liquid swirls—they’re like artworks. This isn’t a normal swanky club. It’s the rich boys’ club and everywhere you look are beautiful people wearing beautiful things.

“I met him! God! When he said hi I thought I’d faint…!”

My nerves eat at me as I hear that, because I know for sure they’re talking about him. Trying to breathe, I wind deeper into the club, wishing for Gina so bad I ache. The room is packed with women, some clearly on the hunt, others already paired with someone, a few hanging out with their friends. I breathe slowly, in and out, telling myself I can do this. It’s just a club. I can have some fun. It’s been a while since I’ve gone out to a club, and never a club like this, but it doesn’t matter. I can interview people, and if I’m lucky, I can do more than that.

After scanning the area and trying to find the best spy-spots, I go to the top level and that’s when I get the best look at what’s happening downstairs at the most crowded corner.

And speak of the devil. My heart stops a beat when I see that dark head of his, and that loathed, burning knot in my stomach squeezes with a vengeance. I swear no one in my life has ever made me this nervous.

He sits with his arms stretched out behind him, a wine glass and two women vying for his attention as he chats with his friends. His masculine face is illuminated in certain angles when the lights flash—his beauty unprecedented.

Okay. Breathing. Do I want him to know I’m here or not?

A watery sensation seems to spread down my limbs as I force myself to go downstairs. I wind a path to the ladies’ room and worm myself through the throng of bodies toward a wide mirror above a set of modernist floating sinks. A group of women preen at themselves while I look our reflections. To my right, a woman pouts her red lips, and to my left, her friend pouts her pink ones. Me? I’m still me, but I look extravagant, like I was born here. I look very different than the young girl in coveralls he met. Will he even recognize me like this?

“You going to the after-party?” Red Lips asks Pink Lips as they retouch their lipsticks.

“No key yet.”

“Lookie lookie.” Red Lips waves a keycard in the air.

There’s squealing in the room and she tucks the key into her bra. “Mine!”

“So there’s an after-party?” I ask them.

“At Saint’s penthouse,” one says, nodding.

“How do you get invited to this party?”

“A hundred keys are distributed during the evening.”

A sudden thought of stealing the very key she’s just tucked into her bra flickers through my mind. I mean, it’s just a key. It couldn’t possibly be a felony.

“Babe,” she tells me, “stop giving my key the eye! I’ve been waiting three years to get a key like this. Go and work your ass out there if you want one. Only the finest asses make it.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning to look at my ass in the mirror questioningly. Gina says I’ve got a great ass. It’s perky and the perfect handful, some would say. But would Saint say that?

I sigh and lean against the wall, then I spot all the little writings on an open stall door. I narrow my eyes, forcing my focus.

Malcolm for my baby-daddy

I sucked Saint’s cock

Tahoe rammed me right here

Callan licks cunt like a caveman

I head back into the noise and try to find a good spot for spying when I see him again. The two women won’t leave his side and now my stomach for some reason feels jumpy, annoying me. One of the blondes takes a shot from the waiter, licks the rim, and then adds salt.

Saint edges back and watches her with an expression of casual boredom, but his lips are curled, as if he’s having some fun.

I’m so engrossed watching—a little too fascinated and a little bit disgusted—I don’t realize a guard has walked up to me until he’s right in my face. He signals to the back of the room—to where Saint’s best friends are now watching me. Saint isn’t even looking my way. Oh no, he’s too busy being entertained, still wearing that almost-bored smile. Maybe they need to take their tops off to get him excited?

All three men fit in perfectly with the lavish surroundings, but I can’t look at the other two. Only at Malcolm. Malcolm’s dark good looks blend with the shadows like Hades in his own little corner of hell.

Suddenly he laughs over something one of the blondes does and he turns a little, his eyes landing straight on me—and stopping there.

I feel his stare like a hit of adrenaline. I want to look away, but I can’t, I feel trapped. I don’t know if I made this up but I could’ve sworn his chest jerked as if he sucked in a breath.

Does he recognize me?

Do I want him to?

Suddenly the atmosphere is so heavy I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like rocks and I really can’t breathe. As he rakes me in one fast, complete sweep of his eyes that makes my stomach grip nervously, he takes in my pumps up to my long blonde hair, and I become aware of my dress hugging the top of my thighs, my hips, my abdomen, my breasts and even my ass. Oh god. I force myself to follow the guard in his direction, every step accelerating my heartbeat. In that black suit and without a tie, the top button of his shirt open and his hair a bit rumpled, Saint is the embodiment of luxurious and decadent and sin. He is Sin Itself and I feel like an absolute…virgin.

He stretches his long legs out before him, his stare fixed on mine without any seeming inclination to move away.

“Mr. Saint,” the guard clears his throat. “The gentlemen had me summon her.”

Although his smile doesn’t waver, the look on his face is completely remote and unreadable.

             “Here she is, gentlemen,” the guard then tells the other two—the blond and the copper-haired men looking at me like lunch.

“Tahoe,” the blonde says.

             “Callan,” the copper-haired says.

             Saint merely pats the blondes on the butt and sends them on her way, then he reaches out to take my elbow somehow in an instinctive gesture that brings me a strange sense of comfort. I don’t know anybody else here, so when he tugs me to his side, I go down and sit next to him on the edge of the long booth.

And that’s when he leans his dark head over to me and murmurs, “Malcolm.” His voice is so deep and rumbling, I shiver.

“Rachel,” I lamely offer.

He raises his eyebrow and stares at me. What are you doing here, Rachel? he seems to ask.

I’m wondering what to say, when Tahoe lifts his drink and drains it. “You’re up past your bedtime.” The Texan oil baby. Oozing charm, drawling out the words.

I don’t know why but I’m acutely aware of the position of Saint’s body in relation to mine. He just straightened fully in the booth and somehow shifted so his arm is very noticeably stretched out behind me.

“Like they say, no rest for the wicked,” I answer Tahoe with an extra-wide smile, my heart pounding over Saint’s nearness.

Suddenly I can smell him. Just him. Among all the mingled scents in the room, it’s Saint somehow in my lungs, in every breath. He radiates a vitality that draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me but something in his presence, so close to me, soothes me too.

“Apparently there’s a dress code—Saint had to drop his tail and horns at the door,” Callan jokes as a waiter sets a drink before me.

“Oh yes.” I tug the hem of my skirt self-consciously, “I had to drop half my dress.”

“Did you now?” Tahoe asks.

“T.”

One word, one letter, from Malcolm.

“Yeah, Saint?” Tahoe returns, lifting his eyebrows.

“Dibs.”

I almost spit out the drink. I cough and slam my hand to my chest, and Saint calmly reaches out to take my drink from my hand and sets it aside. “Okay?” he asks, ducking his head and peering into my face.

I give one last cough and squeeze my eyes shut and nod, and when I open my eyes, Saint is the only thing I see. I find him staring at me in such a penetrating way I can feel the stare in my bones.

“Did you just get to the party, Rachel?” he asks.

As he waits for my reply, he reaches for my cocktail and extends the glass out to me. His wrist is thick and looks so strong, so golden, his skin smooth, his arm dusted with a little bit of hair as I cautiously take it from him, our fingers brushing.

Tahoe reaches for his coat pocket and waves whatever he extracted in the air. “Saint! May I?”

Excitement leaps in my chest when I realize it’s the key!

“Not happening, that’s not her scene,” Malcolm murmurs besides me.

“Aw! Come on, let me give her a key. She’s a dime, man,” Tahoe drawls.

I’m so disbelieving, I’m not even breathing as Malcolm slowly stands. I follow him up, staring up into his face in confusion.

“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I demand. I feel like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m dizzy. Confused. And unexpectedly hurt.

For the first time since we met, he looks at me like he’s actually losing his temper…with me. He leans closer and puts his lips close to my ear. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look laden with warning and walks away, blending into the crowd.

Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless. “That’s a first,” Tahoe mumbles and heads away.

I feel myself burn in humiliation and confusion. Worse is that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around the day before walks over to me.

“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive you,” he says, hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge man, with a bald head, an earpiece, and no expression. A second later, he’s opening the car door of the Rolls for me.

Seriously?

Did Saint call him just now and ask him to escort me home?

Aware of people staring and seeing me being led to Saint’s car, I climb into the back of the car and I murmur my thanks simply because it’s not this man’s fault.

The car smells new and expensive and, like him. A bottle of wine and water bottles ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is just right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands down my dress and look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?

I feel as if he pulled the rug from under me and reminded me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody ruthless.

I can’t take the heat in the back of my ears and on my cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window. Focus, Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the details about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but ride here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.

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COMING SOON

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1LG6ThL

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1BYFl1v

Amazon Paperback: http://amzn.to/16oqqTO

Nook: http://tinyurl.com/ngwqaut

B&N Paperback: http://tinyurl.com/kmu4brk

iBooks: http://tinyurl.com/k4ns3pv

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IndieBound: http://tinyurl.com/kqcnmxv

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RELEASE DATE: March 24th

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About the Author:

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Hey! I’m Katy Evans and I love family, books, life, and love. I’m married with two children and three dogs and spend my time baking, walking, writing, reading, and taking care of my family. Thank you for spending your time with me and picking up my story. I hope you had an amazing time with it, like I did. If you’d like to know more about books in progress, look me up on the Internet, I’d love to hear from you!

 

Website: www.katyevans.net

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

Twitter: https://twitter.com/authorkatyevans

Email: authorkatyevans@gmail.com

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Cover Reveal

TAKE_nashodaroseBook Title: Take (scars of the wraiths)
Author: Nashoda Rose
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Release Date: Feb. 24, 2015
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions

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Book Blurb

MAX

Feelings are a luxury I can’t afford. Hidden behind a shield of quiet placidity, I keep my secret safe from those who’d use it against me. Until him—the tatted up, self-centered Scar assassin hired to protect me.

He takes pleasure in tormenting me, chipping away at my defenses as if I’m a toy to be played with. I hate that he continuously reminds me that I’m nothing more than a job. I hate that my body responds to his touch. I hate him.

JASPER

I’m not a good guy and I don’t pretend to be. Condemn me if you want, I don’t give a fuck. You’re nothing to me. No one is … except her—Max. She’s my target. And I was hired to do a hell of a lot more than protect her … I was hired to kill her.
It should’ve been simple, but it was complicated as hell.

*erotic paranormal romance. Standalone full-length novel. Come meet the Scars.

Scars: Immortal warriors with capabilities derived from the senses: Trackers, Sounders, Healers, Tasters, Visionaries, and the rare Reflectors. They each have what is known as an Ink, a tattoo that can be called life.

excerpt

“How long since you fucked a guy?”

“What?” Her arms moved as if she was about to cross them over her breasts and then decided against it and put them back at her sides. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because when I fuck you, it will be hard. I need to know if you can take it.” I’d expected her to grab her shirt and put it back on. That was what I had intended. To scare her. Instead, she stared at me as she undid her bra and let it fall to the floor.

Fuck.

I was a guy. A guy that didn’t give a shit if a woman hated me in the morning, but they never did. I may be a selfish bastard but I never left a woman unsatisfied. And it was more a self-serving reason as I could always get seconds when I wanted. But this was different. Everything about it was different.

Max was different.

And that should’ve scared me enough to walk away.

But Max … staring at her milky white naked skin … her handful of breasts with nipples erect and waiting for my mouth to be sucking on them. I should’ve walked back into the bathroom, shut the door and jerked myself off in the shower.

I didn’t.

Teaser

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Meet the Author

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Nashoda Rose is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Toronto with her assortment of pets. She writes contemporary romance with a splash of darkness, or maybe it’s a tidal wave.

When she isn’t writing, she can be found sitting in a field reading with her dogs at her side while her horses graze nearby. She loves interacting with her readers and chatting about her addiction—books.

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