The Viscount Meets His Match by Raven McAllan #historicalromance #NewRelease @RavenMcAllan

Viscount2

 

The Viscount meets His Match

Raven McAllan

Published by Totally Bound Publishing

 

 

How to persuade the lady your interest is genuine? No easy task. Has the viscount met his match, or can he win and claim a wife?

What do you do when your father has no faith in you?

Ignore him.

David, Suddards’ father assumes—wrongly—that David gambles deep and has had an affair with a married lady before she has given her husband an heir. Enraged, his father issues an ultimatum. Marry within three months or lose everything that is not entailed.

David refuses. If that’s what his father thinks of him, he can go to the devil. He will marry when he is ready and not before.

What a shock then, a year later, when the one woman he is interested in shows no interest in him!

It’s up to him to persuade her he’s the right husband for her, and when he does…sparks fly. Can these two strong-willed people ever learn how to compromise and find that in fact they are the perfect match?

 

Excerpt

David was honest—no well-brought-up young lady appealed to him. They never had, and he was wise to every trick any encroaching mama or deb might try to pull to ensure he had to make an offer.

Until now? He quashed that thought to be re-examined later. His tastes had always run to those females who were up to snuff and needed a man to dally with and satisfy them. That usually meant bored matrons—and only those with the requisite number of children of the correct sex, whose husbands accepted dalliance would be the next step. Plus, he didn’t approach opera dancers or the demimonde, whatever the grand dames of the ton chose to think. In fact, he ruminated as he glanced at the silent woman next to him, just lately he hadn’t had time to dally with anyone. Parts of him could well have seized up through lack of lubrication.

However, he had to acknowledge her lack of interest intrigued him.

Josephine halted just outside the ballroom and the tug on his arm made David stop mid-step. He looked at her inquiringly, and she grimaced before she must have remembered herself and curtsied. A gesture that was correct to the nth degree, he could imagine how much it had cost her.

“This is far enough, thank you. I, ah, appreciate your help,” she added stiffly. “Although I could have dealt with him myself, I do thank you for your intervention.” She didn’t add, ‘unnecessary as it was,’ but David could imagine her wishing she could.

“Of course you do,” he replied genially. “Why would you not? “

She flushed and he wished he had held his tongue, if not his actions. Because with regards to his intervention, he wasn’t so sure what his intentions were. Lord Reginald had a reputation for acting first and thinking later—and not always in a good way. The problem was how to divulge the information so she understood, took action and did not ignore him—or indeed overreact.

“Is it all men or only me you have an aversion to?” he asked as she began to walk away. He pitched his voice just loud enough for her to hear. She might ignore his question but there would be no chance of her not hearing it. “For if it is me, what have I ever done to you to deserve your contempt?”

“What?” She turned and took the three steps necessary to get within arm’s reach once more. Her blue eyes sparked in a way he had never noticed before and his body responded accordingly and tightened with interest. Again, she tempted him in a manner he would not have thought possible. How he’d like to shake her out of her present mood, but not in a manner that would be at all acceptable.

Not yet, anyway.

Again a notion to contemplate. Was he really debating dallying with this woman? His head said no, the rest of his body, the opposite. Why had he never really examined her luscious curves before? They appeared perfect in every way.

“Dare you not answer me?”

She frowned as if puzzled by his remark. David repeated himself. “How have I earned your contempt?”

“Sadly, as far as I can see, from my knowledge of your sex it encompasses all men, my lord. Although, with your reputation, I would put you near the top of my list.”

Well, that told him. David bowed and with a swift look around decided, if she thought she knew him, he might as well live up to the sort of person she thought she was.

He grasped both her arms, drew her close and pressed a hard, swift kiss to her lips.

The jolt of immediate arousal was as unexpected as it was exciting.

 

Totally Bound https://www.totallybound.com/book/the-viscount-meets-his-match

Amazon   UK https://amzn.to/2Z5Tx9C

Amazon .com https://amzn.to/2JY6jn1

 

About Raven

 

IMG_0569

Raven is the author of both Regency and contemporary stories and also writes rom com as Katy Lilley.

She lives in the Trossachs, in Scotland on the edge of a forest, with her long suffering husband, who is used to rescuing the dinner from the Aga and passing her a glass of wine as she works.

Raven loves hearing from her readers and you can find her at www.ravenmcallan.com where all her social likes for Facebook and twitter are also found.

Advertisements

Through Roscoe’s Eyes by Kory Steed #GayRomance #NewRelease

Through Roscoe’s Eyes-cover small

What people are saying about Through Roscoe’s Eyes:

“Kory Steed’s new book, Through Roscoe’s Eyes, is a tear-jerker with a very happy ending. If you love your pets, you’ll love this novel, because I think the animals stole the show in it.”

“You don’t want to miss this bestseller.”

“Check out this great title from this gifted author!”

Overview:

When Reggie sets out to continue his mother’s mission to feed the homeless, he never anticipated how much a chance encounter with an injured man, his small, gaunt dog, Roscoe, and sick, young cat, Cinders, would change the course of his life. With a winter storm approaching, Reggie makes a snap decision and brings the wary trio to his estate home to be cared for and nursed back to health.

Reggie learns the man’s name is Calvin, he was a quartermaster in the army, and he was dishonorably discharged prior to the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”. Taking pity on the man and in need of someone to help him run his mother’s foundation, Reggie offers Calvin a job. With few prospects in sight to find shelter for his small family during the peak of winter, Calvin reluctantly accepts Reggie’s offer on a trial basis, but it is only one of many trials both men will face.

Eventually, yearnings Reggie and Calvin had buried deep inside begin to fan the nearly extinguished embers of passion in both men. With Calvin drawing emotional support from Roscoe and Cinders, and Reggie discovering an ally in his beloved housekeeper, both men explore their newfound attraction, edging them toward the precipice of an ecstasy neither could have imagined.

Will the discovery of a past connection between the two men’s families be enough to bring them together? Or will sinister, outside forces and an unexpected loss of life shatter the bonds between both families and both men for good?

 

Through Roscoe’s Eyes-banner

Buy Links:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon CA

Evernight Publishing

Smashwords

BookStrand

Barnes & Noble

iTunes

Kobo

 

Excerpt

Clad in a leather coat and denim jeans, Reggie sat quietly in his jet-black SUV, parked along the curb, while he drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. From his vantage point, some thirty yards away, he peered through the windshield as he focused his binoculars on the huddled form on the sidewalk as it came in and out of view between the people hurrying by. He waited for a sign, a sign that would determine when his mission would end, but he grew impatient.

The smell of hot sandwiches and fries emanating from the last bag resting on the back seat seemed well out of place in his Platinum Escalade, but it brought back fond memories from his childhood. Old Dudley, the family chauffeur, took pity on him to occasionally make a quick detour for the forbidden fast-food on their way home during his days at the private academy where he went to school. Dudley even took the blame for the smell that coated the interior of the limousine, claiming it was him who had succumbed to the lure of French fries and burger grease when his parents complained about the odor on those occasions when he didn’t have time to air it out. Reggie wondered whether the recipient of the meal would relish its contents as much as he once did.

He’d already distributed twelve of the baker’s-dozen, large paper bags that afternoon. With only the one left to go, he needed to make up his mind. Was the figure, sighted through other end of his binoculars, worth the risk? Regardless of his good intentions, charitable work had its hazards, particularly when on your own, and he’d already had run-ins with two anonymous recipients today. He didn’t want a repeat of being accused of thievery, and this potential recipient looked to be closer to the risky end of the charitable acts’ spectrum.

The work he’d begun years before had started with a promise, but as the years passed, he’d thought more and more of it as a mission. He set down the binoculars and sighed. If she could see me now, he thought. Though I’m no missionary.

Lost to his memories, Reggie had no idea how much time had passed when his eyes came back into focus. He recognized the sun would be setting soon, and he needed to be on his way. That’s when he noticed movement coming from the direction of his target. Something shuddered in the breeze. He lifted his binoculars just in time to read the words, I ask not for me, but for them.

Reggie put on his turn signal and pulled out into traffic, then pulled right back up to the curb after closing the distance to investigate the words that caught his attention.

Hurrying passersby glanced briefly at the words scribbled in rough, bolded-black letters, written with crayon in a child’s hand on a crumpled, jagged-edged piece of cardboard. A dented, faded coffee can sat on the sidewalk in front of the propped-up sign. Drawn above the words were two artistic renditions of smiling figures with pointed ears, but the passersby kept passing by.

The sign was nearly as filthy as its author, also propped against a boarded-up door in the alcove of an abandoned deli, nestled between boarded up windows over blackened glass. There was evidence a fire had taken place there sometime in the past.

Cretin shrugged the once-colorful child’s sleeping bag further up his neck as he repositioned himself against the door. He was the only one who knew a family of pink and purple unicorns still lived beneath the street-worn filth that now covered the quilted fabric. A cold north wind began to blow in, an omen that warned it was going to be another empty-stomach night for the three of them.

As the last rays of the early January sun began to slip behind the roof of the laundromat across the street, Cretin huddled against the advancing cold and tucked his head beneath the unicorns. “I’m sorry, babies, I did my best.”

Reggie cleared his throat. “Who is them?”

Cretin continued to whisper into the sleeping bag. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find a better place to beg.”

“Hey, buddy, I said, ‘Who is them?’”

“Huh?” Cretin pulled his head out and blinked against the last rays of the setting sun until the shadow of a figure blocked them. Before him stood a pair of legs, covered by crisp, blue denim jeans, their rolled-up cuffs revealed a lining of blue and green, plaid-flannel. The jeans were propped up by a pair of expensive-looking brown, leather Boondockers.

“What’d you say? You talkin’ t’ me, Denim Legs?” Cretin followed the legs up to a wide, two-tone, brown leather belt with a matte, silver-metal buckle, just beneath a black and red, plaid-flannel shirt that was tucked into the jeans. Over the shirt was an expensive, brown, thigh-length, patchwork-suede, lambswool coat with the bottom two, large leather buttons undone, and there were gloves to match. The long end of a red and blue plaid-woolen scarf, wrapped around a neck, hung down the jacket’s front.

“Yes, sorry, sir. I asked, ‘Who is them?’”

Cretin followed the voice upward to a pair of broad, full lips, spread into a smile, and studded with white, shiny teeth that filled it from one side to the other. Above them, a noble, slightly crooked nose and a pair of blue-green eyes that crinkled at their corners finished the face. It was deeply tanned and surrounded by short brown hair with the ears cut out. There was a scattering of gray at the temples. Cretin couldn’t tell whether the guy was rich, tanned-white or Hispanic, or some other combination thereof, but it didn’t matter. He was talking out loud and to him, and he wanted to know who them was. Maybe there’d be food tonight after all.

“Sir? You callin’ me sir?” Defying the greasy, matted-brown hair, tied in a ponytail, and the filth covering the bearded, Caucasian face, Cretin’s amber-brown eyes with flecks of gold peered up at Denim Legs. “Sorry, but I ain’t no sir, not no more, just Cretin. What you want?”

“I was inquiring as to who them is, or more properly, who they are. Your sign, with the beautifully drawn figures of a dog and cat, are they yours?”

“Yup, them’s my family. Well really, only one is. Roscoe’s mine, but Cinders is Roscoe’s. Guess that kinda makes him family, too.”

“Roscoe and Cinders? Who’s who?”

Cretin flipped the sleeping bag open, and then looked back up at Denim Legs. “Them’s Roscoe ’n Cinders.”

Lifting its smooth, short-furred black and white head was what looked like a small terrier mix. Its ears pointed up while the tips drooped down, and its markings were like that of a killer whale, but in reverse—large, white regions with smaller, rounded and oval, black markings.

Denim Legs’s face softened.

A two-toned, striped, ash-gray, juvenile cat, just out of kittenhood, was curled between the dog’s front legs. The edges of its ears were scabbed, the ears themselves were red, and swollen, and oozing and there were crusts in the corners of its eyes. Crusted yellow wounds lay where bald spots covered its body, and both of its front and left rear paws were swollen, blistered, and hairless as well. Not taking its eyes off Denim Legs, the dog lowered its head and covered its ward with its paws.

Then the odor hit him. Denim Legs recoiled.

“Oh, for the love of God!” The stench that stirred into the air made him stagger backwards. “That smell!”

Cretin cowered and smiled weakly behind his several week-old beard, embarrassment evident on his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Denim Legs said. “I’m so sorry. You can’t help it.”

“No, I’m sorry, Mister. We been on the street off ’n on some past two years—but we been without means to bathe ’n shave fer only a couple weeks, ever since we got throwed outta that shelter. One animal’s alls I’s allowed, ’n they didn’t even like that, but they had t’ let us stay ‘coz some rich folks done made a donation t’ that effect. Once they found out Roscoe done adopted Cinders, they said to git. I begged and begged ’em, but they said no ways.

“I took one look at Roscoe, ’n her face done told me what I had t’ do. After she pulled Cinders outta the rubble of that burnin’ factory when he was a baby—well he been hers ever since. Can’t break up her family so we packed right up ’n left.”

“Roscoe is a girl?”

“Yup, I know. I know it’s a boy’s name, but I took one look at ’er when I found ’er nosin’ by the tracks ’afore I knew ’n said, ‘You looks like a Roscoe t’ me.’ She started waggin’ ‘er tail right off—been Roscoe ever since.”

“And Cinders?”

“Baby boy, but he ain’t gonna be a baby much longer. I’m savin’ up some money so as t’ git him fixed. I already tried once, but them animal shelter folks tol’ me he was too young ’n weak at the time on account of his burns. I’m trying to build him up so as he can go through it. Only right with so many strays about. Maybe come spring I’ll have enough saved up.”

“I see,” said Denim Legs.

“Not a lot of cans on the street right now seein’ as folks don’t drink as much soda pop since it got cold. I keep havin’ to dip int’ it t’ pay fer their food. All used up three days ago, but I can start savin’ again once the weather turns back. I been able t’ scrounge up enough chow that be still half good right now out back o’ them restaurants a couple blocks over, over on 47th, t’ keep us going.”

“Sir, it’s going to be cold tonight. There’s a big storm coming. A couple feet of snow is in the forecast for the city. You’re going to have to find a place to take shelter.”

“Ain’t no place that’ll take me ’n Roscoe ’n Cinders, ’n I ain’t leavin’ ’em. I can’t. I promised ’em I’d always look after ’em.”

“Hold on, maybe I have something that will help.” Denim Legs turned around and walked to the curb. It was the first time Cretin noticed the big, black SUV with its motor running. Denim Legs returned a moment later carrying a heavy, quilted winter coat, a pair of knitted mittens, and a multi-colored, knitted scarf and hat—but most importantly, he carried a large, fast-food paper bag.

Roscoe lifted her head and sniffed the air. Her body began to tremble, and her tail started to wag, beating in time with the sound of the SUV’s idling engine. Cinders lifted his head and sniffed, too, but he held fast beneath Roscoe’s protective shield.

“Here you go,” Denim Legs said, “These should keep you warm, and there should be enough in the bag to feed the three of you for at least a day.”

A smile of stained teeth spread across Cretin’s face. “Thanks, Mister. Sure ’preciate it. I’ll put Cinders in the hat ’n then Roscoe ’n the hat inside this nice, new, warm coat. ’N zip it up real tight. That’ll keep ’em both nice ’n warm tonight.”

“Sir, the coat is for you.”

“Ain’t no sir, I told ya. I’m Cretin. I got this here sleepin’ bag. It’ll be enough fer me, but thanks again,” he said as he reached into the bag of food and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches, one a burger, the other fish. “Roscoe and Cinders sure do appreciate your generosity.”

Denim Legs stood in silence as he watched Cretin carefully open the sandwiches and begin to pull the meat and fish apart, sucking the mayonnaise off the burger and the breading off the fish. After placing the breading among the remaining cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onion between the remaining buns, he broke up the meat and fish and fed the pieces to his little family. Once it was gone, he ate the contents of the buns in several bites.

“Sir … sorry, Cretin,” Denim Legs said with reverence. “There’s plenty in there for all of you. You need protein just as much as Roscoe and Cinders do. Please have yourself a burger.”

“Oh, I will, I will. It’s just that I ain’t that hungry right now, ’n they need it more ’n me, seein’ as they only got fur, and there ain’t much of that between the two of ‘em. Again thanks, Mister. Guess I better get a move on afore that snow starts up.”

“But where will you go? You said the shelters won’t take you.”

“Is right. There’s a busted lock on a door ‘round back of here. That’s where we been holdin’ up at night ever since we left the shelter. Too cold for kids and gangs to be botherin’ us after the sun goes down. We hold up just fine in there.

“Good thing you stopped when you did, ‘coz they done got our money out the can ‘bout hour afore you come by. I was ‘bout t’ head out t’ buy Roscoe ’n Cinders their supper. That’s why I’s still here—tryin’ a little longer t’ see if’n some good folks might find it in their hearts to toss us a few coins. Good thing I stayed, ‘coz then I met you. So thanks again, Mister. Really, thanks.”

“Here,” Denim Legs said as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a few bills. “Please use this and find yourself a room for the night. I’m sorry, but it’s all I’m carrying right now.”

“Sixty-five dollars! Sixty-five dollars! Mister, that’ll feed us for a couple weeks!” Cretin exclaimed. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much!”

“No, please get a room or you’ll freeze tonight.”

“Too late for tonight, but don’t you worry none,” Cretin promised, “tomorrow’ll be different. Now we gotta get a move on.”

“But … but,” Denim Legs stammered, but it was no use. Cretin shook his head. He’d made up his mind.

Denim Legs watched Cretin wrap the new scarf around his neck then fold up the sign and quickly pack up his meager belongings and the bag of food into a heavy, black-plastic garbage bag. Then he lifted a shivering Cinders and folded him into the hat under the watchful eye of Roscoe. After opening the new coat, he motioned for Roscoe to lie down in it, then placed Cinders, in the hat, beside her.

Once Roscoe curled up around the kitten, Cretin pulled the coat sleeves into the coat and zipped it up around them, leaving the top six inches open. He looked back over his shoulder at Denim Legs. “That’s so as they can breathe.” Then he pulled two pieces of twine from his pocket and tied the neck and bottom of the coat up tight. “So as they don’t fall out ’til we get inside.”

After opening the sleeping bag, Cretin laid the coat into its center and then drew up the four corners and tied them together to make a satchel. As he lifted the garbage bag over his left shoulder and scooped the satchel into his right arm, he nodded and smiled and then made his way down the sidewalk. Once he reached the end of the long row of connected buildings, he looked back and nodded his head again before disappearing around the corner.

Denim Legs waved and then turned and walked to his vehicle, shaking his head, wishing he could have done more. As he pulled out into traffic, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the pile of winter clothing behind the back seat and remembered why he was there.

Second Chances for Lottie Botte by Katy Lilley #RomCom #NewRelease @KatyLilley

Second Chances for Lottie Botte

Katy Lilley

Manatee Books

 

SecondChances

 

Unhappy, friendless and dissatisfied with life in general, Lottie Botte isn’t afraid to let people know how she really feels.

When her husband Donald comes home and drops a bombshell, Lottie realises she is about to lose everything. Now is her chance to make some changes.

Second chances don’t come along very often, and Lottie must grab her opportunity with both hands, even if it means negotiating with the mysterious hot guy who is moving into her house…

Can Lottie become someone else – a less grotty, snotty Lottie?

~~~~~

I loved writing Lottie’s story. She is such a mass of contradictions, she made me giggle. As for Gibb, and the tale of the lip plumper, you’ll have to read the book to discover what that’s all about. Sufficient to say, my editor was in tears of laughter when she read it.

And here is, what we say in Scotland, a wee tease

Lottie glanced around. No one paid the slightest interest to her. Why would they? She didn’t usually frequent this supermarket—too downmarket for her—and she was dressed as unlike her normal attire as possible. Sniggering, nudging locals had brought her to this.

And Bryony Bennett of course.

It was all that woman’s fault. Coming into the Bristows and swanning around as if she owned the place. Corrupting Dario and…

Lottie grimaced. If she was totally honest with herself, that wasn’t true. Bryony had done no more than move into a house Dario had wanted, and integrated into the village. Dario had met her and now they were a couple.

However, Lottie’s ignominious fall from grace came from that awful day when Bryony and Dario hosted a book event, and Lottie wasn’t magnanimous enough not to blame Bryony for the fact her new floaty dress (bought at great expense, much to Donald, her husband’s horror) had caught on a nail. It was Bryony’s barn after all, and she should have seen to things like that. To not have checked for sticking out nails or whatever was totally irresponsible.

It could have been a child who caught themselves on it. The fact the nail wasn’t easily found—unless you were storming out in a huff and slamming the door back on its hinges—and it was an adults only event was irrelevant. In Lottie’s mind, it was all Bryony’s fault. She had corrupted Dario, taken him away from Lottie. Lottie refused to acknowledge they weren’t that close anyway, they hadn’t been for several years. Not, if she were honest, since Dario had gone to university and Lottie was left at home with their mother. She resented that. However, that wasn’t the point. Dario wasn’t at all sympathetic, and neither was Donald. As her husband, Lottie thought Donald had failed miserably at giving her the support she needed.

The dress had ripped and to her chagrin, Lottie showed her holdy-in undies from top to toe. Everyone, but everyone, even her blooming brother, had sniggered, and for weeks if she ventured abroad, someone would shout, ‘Still holding it all in, are you?’ or some such vulgar thing.

Why on earth her brother had chosen someone like Bryony, Lottie couldn’t imagine. Mind you he had gone strange these last few years. Not the oh so conventional man she’d thought he was. He even had an earring. An earring for goodness sake. What next? Shave his head? Take up naked yoga on the village green? After all, when you considered what he wrote…

About the Author

IMG_0569

Katy, who writes rom com is the softer sweeter side of Raven McAllan and is the author of both Regency and contemporary stories.

She lives in the Trossachs, in Scotland on the edge of a forest, with her long suffering husband, who is used to rescuing the dinner from the Aga and passing her a glass of wine as she works.

Katy/Raven loves hearing from her readers and you can find her at www.ravenmcallan.com where all her social likes for Facebook and twitter are also found.

Second Chances for Lottie Botte is the second of her Devon trilogy. The first New Beginnings for Bryony Bennett is also on Amazon.

The third story, about Maisie will be released next spring.

Untaming Delilah by Ashlynn Monroe #PNR #scifi #DarkDesire #werewolves #RomanceBooks @ashlynn_monroe

cooltext325592022362924

 

The need to possess Delilah controls Mick, but he’ll do
whatever it takes to keep her safe.

 

Untaming Delilah (Destined Mates 1)

Publisher: Changeling Press
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Delilah’s rare medical disorder has made her a virtual prisoner of her guardian, Doctor Peter Amun, and the drug he created to keep her alive. She spends much of her time alone, buried in Gothic romance novels. But she often feels a strange connection — as if someone’s watching her.

Mick’s uncle has kept him locked in the old dungeon-like basement of the hospital since he was a teenager, but his consciousness can escape the hell of his existence for a time as he sees thru the eyes of the one woman he cannot live without. Delilah stirs what’s left of the man left inside the beast Mick has become. Delilah’s blood is an addiction he cannot escape — his body burns every time he feeds.

When a stranger joins forces with them to put a stop to Doctor Amun’s experiments, Mick is forced to accept a bond he doesn’t fully understand. The need to possess Delilah controls Mick, but the urge to protect her from what he has become fills him with bitter rage. He knows he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

GET IT TODAY!

 

SNEAK PEEK

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2015 Ashlynn Monroe

“Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City…” Jonathan sang.

“I swear if you actually said ‘hello’ like a normal person I’d think you were body snatched by aliens,” Delilah said, attempting to cut him off. The song was his usual greeting. His cliche musical rendition of her name had been sweet for about twenty seconds, and now she found it completely irritating.

He grinned. Jon was a nice, albeit obnoxious, senior biology major, and Peter’s lab assistant.

Delilah stood outside the McArdle Laboratory for Cancer Research at the UW Madison campus. The breeze brushed her skin. A stronger gust penetrated her cotton T-shirt, raising goose bumps on her arms. She shivered. Cold was Wisconsin’s favorite temperature, but this was early September and she was dressed for a warmer day.

Jon held the door for her as she hurried inside the facility. Heat flowed over her and the realization the furnace was already on was a relief and surprise. Delilah’s tense muscles loosened up. Peter wouldn’t be happy if he saw her.

“Your dad is going to be pissed off if you get sick, Delilah,” Jon warned, almost as if he’d been reading her mind.

She shrugged. “Peter Amun may be the closest thing to family I have left — he became my guardian after my parents died, and he’s still my doctor — but he’s not my father.”

Still, Peter would freak if she caught pneumonia again. When she was sick, he couldn’t get accurate results from blood tests because her white blood cell count went up. Without the results, he couldn’t give her the right dose of the #5-23 injection to stave off the seizures.

“Really?” Jon genuinely sounded surprised. He had only been Peter’s assistant a couple of weeks, long enough for her to know way too much about him, but not long enough for her to be comfortable spilling the sad tale of how she came to live with the doctor her parents had trusted.

“Yep. He’s a good man, but he’s not my dad.” That was as much as he was going to get from her. If he really wanted to know, there were others in the facility willing to gossip about poor, sickly Delilah and her rare brain tumor that made her see crazy shit.

“What’s going on in your head? You went like a million miles away,” Jon muttered with a hint of annoyance in his tone. He pushed his shaggy brown hair out of his face.

“Nothing that would interest you, I promise.”

“I don’t know, you seem like the kind of girl with deep thoughts and big plans,” Jon said in a flirty way that made her inner voice groan.

“I think I was wondering which Kardashian I want to be when I grow up,” she lied.

Jon grinned. “Aren’t you cute.” Jon put emphasis on the word cute.

As soon as someone discovered she had a terminal illness, interaction always got weird, so she didn’t flirt back. He was incredibly handsome, and that made it harder for her to ignore him. Poor Jon didn’t deserve to be the next person she needed to console over her imminent demise.

“Oh, that’s right, I was wondering if they ever found the body of Peter’s last assistant. He liked to bother me too… And then there was that experiment that went horrifically wrong…” She let her voice trail away absentmindedly and cringed for effect.

Jon’s big hazel eyes widened, just a little, and his nostrils flared. He always asked her questions, but something made her hold back from giving him straight answers. There was something different about the lab assistant that she just couldn’t put her finger on. Jon backed off, actually side stepping to give her more room.

Relief flooded her and she grinned as she walked a little faster toward the stairs.

 

 

Driven by Dragonblood by Lynn Burke #Shifters #Dragons #BDSM #Bisexual #Menage @AuthorLynnBurke

61303005_884763355204745_4551361416048672768_n

Driven by Dragonblood

Blood Born Series 3

By Lynn Burke

Publisher: Evernight Publishing

Release Date: May 28, 2019

 

*WARNING: This title contains explicit sexual scenes, BDSM, and anal sex.

More dragonblood than human, Primrose Cadet yearns to find her fated mates and ease the loneliness of her secluded life. But with her beta behind psychiatric bars and the other denying his beastly nature—and hers—she’ll have to fight for them, even if it means exposing her heritage.

A manipulative voice in his head promising he can fly landed Jaxon Denham in the psych ward. Eighteen and legally allowed to finally leave his parent’s enforced prison, he searches out the golden goddess of his dreams, the one the voice within claims will give them the release they crave.

Doctor Patrick Macaire fought his inner darkness for thirty-four years, living a life of self-control and discipline to prove his sanity. When a barely legal boy and seductive siren threaten the foundation of his calm existence, he’s driven to battle the voice inside and remain untouched.

But fate is clever, and Patrick’s relentless mates won’t allow him peace, catching him up in unhuman-like passion that threatens his self-identity. Will he accept he’s an alpha dragonblood born to dominate his mates, or will his human side keep the three from fulfilling their destiny?

 

PURCHASE LINKS:

Evernight Publishing 25% SALE: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/driven-by-dragonblood-by-lynn-burke/

Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/DRIVENBYDRAGONBLOOD

B&N:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/driven-by-dragonblood-lynn-burke/1131766341

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/driven-by-dragonblood

SCRIBD: https://www.scribd.com/book/411663768/Driven-by-Dragonblood

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/941221

 

Driven by Dragonblood-evernightbanner-series

EXCERPT:

The second night I’d stood cloaked outside Lockwood’s eastern wing, the need to be impulsive, something I’d never dealt with before, fought my better judgment. Regardless of my beta’s mental state, I had wanted to sneak into his room and allow him to have his way with me, claim me like my inner dragon longed for.

Luckily, my ancestors had kept informative records in the cavern’s library of my sheltered upbringing, so I understood all the possible sexual positions—and means of giving pain for pleasure—as most alpha blood born were known for. Unfortunately, I had no personal knowledge of such things, and my dragon was determined to undermine my will to wait for his freedom.

My fingers ached from grasping the chain-link fence to keep my human form in place. The energy linking me to the window strengthened and pulled taut as a shadow moved into view. Even with my dragon sight, I couldn’t make out the color of his hair or eyes, but as he turned his head side to side as though seeking out where the energy attaching us came from, I took note of a strong nose and full lips, a square jaw I wanted to lick and nip with my teeth as he thrust into me.

Arousal, hot and wet, rose between my thighs, same as the previous night, and I bit my lips, my dragon’s needy growl rumbling in my chest as my beta locked his gaze on where I stood, cloaked by a dragonblood gift and darkness.

Want.

My human form wanted, too, and I swallowed as my dragon attempted to take over in a burst of golden light I quickly squashed. “Soon,” I promised with a whisper.

Through the tall, barred windows, I realized my beta’s hand moved over his body, the heat in the energy linking us rising. Did he touch himself? He propped his forehead on the window, shoulder hunched as though in pain, and again, I fought the need to shift, tear through the fence and walls to free my beta mate.

His form stiffened, and head tipped back, and the most luscious race of tingles swept through me, settling in my core.

Need.

Lower lip between my teeth, I released one hand from its hold and slid my fingertips down over the front of my leggings where I throbbed. I gasped as the feather touch grazed the hardened nub at the top of my slit, and I rubbed back up over it, my hips bucking on their own as though he thrust into me, burying against my womb.

Heat exploded like a blinding light through the energy between us, capturing my human form and my inner dragon in a euphoric race to the stars. I cried out, unable to keep my lips sealed as wave after wave rippled through my body, pulsing my pussy where his hard length ought to be.

I gasped for breath, my stare on the window as he slowly moved away from sight seconds later. Wetness coated my leggings, the sweet scent of my cum rising to fill my nose.

Please.

My dragon whimpered with the need for more, for our beta’s physical touch, but I tore myself away from the fence and focused on the motel’s room where I would plan my silent, cloaked assault on the mental hospital where one of my mates remained locked inside.

I would free him come morning—or die trying to.

© Lynn Burke 2018

 

ABOUT LYNN BURKE:

Lynn Burke is a full time mother, voracious gardener, and scribbler of spicy romance stories. A country bumpkin turned Bay Stater, she enjoys her chowdah and Dunkin Donuts when not trying to escape the reality of city life.

Website: https://www.authorlynnburke.com/

Blog: http://authorlynnburke.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Author-Lynn-Burke-555282497937461/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorLynnBurke

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

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/lynn-burke

 

 

Snowfyer by Marteeka Karland #rockstar #RomanceBooks

cooltext325591029517273

 

SnowFyer’s lead singer meets his match in a fiery redhead.
The only question? Which one is cockier?

 

2761

Publisher: Changeling Press
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Seth Snow: One hundred percent cocky bastard, Seth has never met a woman whose panties he couldn’t get into. He is the frontman for SnowFyer, a hard rock band with a bad reputation.

Scarlett Fyer: Sister to SnowFyer’s lead guitarist and the band’s manager, Scarlett is an excellent musician herself. Among her many talents is driving Seth crazy. As she sees it, the man is too damned cocky for his own good. Well, things are about to change.

SnowFyer: With the band in need, Scarlett has to put aside any misgivings she has about fronting a band the caliber of SnowFyer. Unfortunately, Seth is the one to voice her lack of experience. Which won’t do. At all. What’s a girl to do? Take the rooster by the comb and pull until something gives…

 

GET IT TODAY!

 

SNEAK PEEK

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2018 Marteeka Karland

“Seth!” The busty blonde caught his attention as she flashed a perfect set of double D tits for him to sign. No bra, naturally. Beside her, not to be outdone, a brunette dropped her short shorts and bent over for him to sign one lusciously rounded ass cheek. The hot-pink thong with sparkles in the triangle disappearing between her cheeks seemed to wink at him in the glitter of camera flashes. After signing his name with the black Sharpie she provided, he gave the globe a light slap. She squealed in delight.

“Ladies,” he said, cocky grin in place.

“How about a little kiss,” the blonde said, winking at him while still thrusting her tits at him, shaking them a little. There was no doubt what she meant for him to kiss. Ever agreeable, Seth leaned down and sucked her nipple between his lips, licking the ripe bud with his tongue in a flutter.

“Ohh!” she cried, threading her hands through his long locks. “I can return the favor in your room if you want.” She giggled when he let her nipple go with a loud pop.

“Both of us could,” the brunette pouted, not to be ignored. She gave the blonde a side eye, having realized she’d been bested in the autograph arena.

“Another time, ladies.” He chuckled. “The show’s over, but there’s still work to do.” He gave each woman a passionate kiss while the cameras clicked and flashed happily away. Then, just for shits and giggles, he pulled them both to him so they shared a three-way kiss. This was all part of who SnowFyer was. All part of the show. But Seth loved it. Loved knowing he had his pick of women. Groupies weren’t normally his style, but he couldn’t deny the appeal some of them presented. Like this pair.

It seemed like there wasn’t a single woman in the whole Goddamned universe who didn’t want a piece of Seth Snow. As evidenced by the mob of them outside the sold-out arena. And his hotel. SnowFyer was as popular as it ever was, and he was the frontman, rivaled in popularity only by Arsen, his lead guitarist. The band was the hottest thing going today. Had been for nearly two decades. Though they were aging by today’s standards, no one seemed to be able to get enough of them. Every album they released made it to number one on the Billboard Hot One Hundred. Every song made it at least into the top fifty. There seemed to be no end to it.

With a wave and a cocky grin, he strode back to the bus, head high, the image of confidence and arrogance. He’d just walked away from what would surely be a very hot fuck, and he couldn’t care less. Probably because he was a cocky bastard. The second he entered the bus and the door closed, Seth was a different person. All business.

“You going to be able to make it one more show?” Arsen had his left hand in ice water.

The lead guitarist winced as he removed his hand, drying it on a nearby towel. He flexed it several times before shaking his head. “No. I’m done.”

 

 

Dire Wolves by Sam Cheever, Shelby Morgen, Lena Austin, Cynthia Sax #boxset #BBW #InterracialCouple #shifters @changelingpress

cooltext325592022362924

 

In the wilds of Northern Alaska, the last of the Dire Wolves
fight for their very existence…

 

CHG_DireWolves

Publisher: Changeling Press
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

ABOUT THE BOOK

Blind Spot by Cynthia Sax: Years ago, Pavel lost his eye, three members of his pack and his position as alpha. Can Maggy help him find a reason to live again?

Whiteout by Shelby Morgen: Zan gives John a reason to want to live as a man again. But before he can make that kind of promise, he’s got unfinished business to take care of.

Silence by Lena Austin: Noel Miller, a vampire with a few scars of his own, wants to be more than Cam’s sign language interpreter. If only the werewolf will let him into his life — and heart.

White Heat by Shelby Morgen: Heather Grant’s got far too much experience working with stubborn males. She figures it would serve both Alphas right if their pride blows their cover. But someone’s got to salvage the mission.

Foxed by Sam Cheever: In remote Alaska, Sinopa finds a new love, a new life, and a killer with a grudge.

Publisher’s Note: This box set contains all previously released novellas in the Dire Wolves series.

GET IT TODAY!

SNEAK PEEK

Excerpt from Silence by Lena Austin
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2014 Lena Austin

“Danse Macabre” was a lousy choice for a ring tone, but Detective Cameron Douglas always thought about it when he had the least amount of time to change the ring to something else. The tune was the last he’d ever hear. Cam didn’t know that sad fact, or he’d have changed the ring sooner.

Cam snatched the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open as soon as he saw it was his boss, Lt. Kraynak. “Hey, Mark! You caught me just leaving the mayor’s office.”

“Yeah?” Mark’s voice always sounded nervous, but at that moment, he sounded as squeaky as a girl. Cam always wondered if Mark was as closet gay as Cam himself. “How’d it go?”

Cam sighed. The investigation into the death of the mayor’s secretary, Margaret Lund, was supposed to be kept very quiet and low-key. “We got the blood from her apartment at the lab, looking for DNA. They seem to be consistent with the defensive marks found on her body despite floating around in the St. John’s River for a while. I’ve got a few good leads.” He had to be vague. Cam couldn’t exactly tell his boss he was a werewolf and he’d caught an odd, masculine scent in Margaret’s apartment. He knew any sort of masculine odor didn’t belong in that apartment because Margaret and his mother had been lovers for over twenty years. Not exactly what you want the whole world to know. Mom had been in the closet all her life, and he wasn’t about to out her when she was mourning “Aunt Maggie’s” death. Dad would turn over in his grave, the day care she’d run for fifteen years would close, and her life would be in ruins. What she and Maggie had enjoyed just wasn’t ever going to be public, and that wasn’t admissible evidence anyway.

He could see it now. Him, on the witness stand. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m a werewolf you see, and I sniffed this odor…” He winced, even to himself.

“I don’t like it, Cam. You shouldn’t be on this case. Ms. Lund was your mother’s best friend. You could be called prejudiced in court.” Mark popped another gumball in his mouth. Cam heard it rattle against his teeth before it crackled as he chewed it into oblivion. Mark’d been trying to quit smoking again, and kept a gumball bank on his desk.

“I don’t like it, either, Mark. Where His Honor got the idea I’d be the only detective who could do the job is beyond me.” Cam was in sight of his car at last. The covered parking garage across the street from City Hall was a piece of shit like all the rest of downtown. Half the security cameras didn’t work at the best of times, and the roof leaked whenever it rained. So where was he parked? On the roof. In the rain. Of course. So he was wet. It was Florida. Not like he would melt. He was a werewolf, not a witch, and this wasn’t Hollyweird.

The beep in his ear made him jump, and the caller ID told him it was Mom. “Hey, I’m at my car. Hang on a sec.” Cam flipped over to his mother’s call and sat down on a bench about fifty feet from his car, in the shelter covering the elevator. “Hi, Mom.” He frowned and noticed the hood of his car was slightly ajar. That was odd. He distinctly remembered changing the oil the previous Sunday and slamming the hood closed because he hated working in the hot sun.

He never heard her answer. Hell, he never heard anything except the biggest boom on the planet.

Waking up wasn’t like someone flipped on a light switch. It was more like a lazy Sunday morning when you didn’t have to be anywhere or do anything in particular, so you could roll over and laze in bed. That is, until your bladder or some other bodily need woke you up.

What woke him up was pain. Cam had the worst headache ever, even beyond hangovers and mild concussions from playing rugby. Cam felt like he’d been run over by a semi, too, with a backache from lying in one position too long on top of assorted injuries. Worst of all was the ringing in his ears. Tinnitus, he guessed. Not bad, since Cam had to assume he’d survived that explosion. Hell, he counted himself lucky when he opened his eyes and saw his left leg in bandages, not a cast. If a headache, a bum leg, and a case of tinnitus were all he had to suffer through, Cam was happy.

A nurse peeked in. She saw Cam was awake and smiled at him. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her over the ringing in his ears. She frowned when Cam told her she’d have to speak up, and would she bring him something for the headache and tinnitus? She turned around and walked out without another word. She was back with something she shot into his IV. Whatever it was put him out like a light. Pain, tinnitus, and consciousness all went away at once.

When next Cam could put two words together in a coherent sentence, the clock on the wall and the darkness out the window gave him a clue it was 7:30 PM, not AM. He’d slept away the whole day. Great. Now his ears were sore.

A young man in a lab coat read a book in the corner chair, even though the only light source was the fluorescent above the head of Cam’s bed. The guy’s eyesight must have been superlative. He looked up slowly, and Cam was completely arrested — pardon the pun — by his eyes. They were big, blue and so world-weary Cam wanted to — maybe buy the kid a cup of coffee and give him a sympathetic ear. Then the newcomer smiled, and the world was all sunshine and cheer. The young man tapped on the keyboard of his laptop without taking his gaze off Cam’s face.

Cam moved restlessly under that intense blue gaze that did not in the least match with the smile. Cam opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when the screen on a laptop left on his lap table brightened. He frowned and studied the screen. “Can you read this?” Surprised, Cam nodded without thinking.

The blue-eyed man smiled and nodded. “Good. How’s your tinnitus?” lit up on the screen in a standard IM chat feature of a common website.

“Um… should I answer aloud?” Cam felt suddenly adrift in a strange sea, unsure of himself for the first time since college. Still, he did an internal check, and the buzzing still filled his ears like a thousand crickets on speed. “Yep, still have the crickets.” The realization hit him. “The explosion caused this tinnitus, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Douglas. Please speak more softly.” The IM kept up easily, and the young man’s hands flew silently but rapidly over the tiny keyboard. Damn, this guy was good.

Oops. Cam wasn’t stupid. He knew that those with hearing issues often spoke too loudly, trying to over-compensate for their loss. He modified his volume. “Um. Sorry.” He clung to the thin thread of hope that the tinnitus was causing his hearing loss, but he knew a bunch of cops who’d neglected ear protection at the shooting range once too often. Tinnitus could be permanent, or worse, the symptom of something much, much worse.

The IM lit up with several lines in rapid succession. “My name is Noel Miller, and I am your ENT therapist.” Now the cheer was gone, and the face serious.

Cam’s heart hammered, and he swallowed to help his suddenly dry mouth. Fear, ice-cold and cruel, raced up his spine. Part of him was grateful he still had painkillers in his system. Deep inside himself, a little kid threw a major temper tantrum, even if he held himself rigidly under control. “I’m deaf, aren’t I?”