“I’m so sorry, Saxon.” I wrap my arms around his waist; his chin drops to the top of my head. We may be opposites, but we sure fit together perfectly.
“No need to be sorry, babe. It’s life and the cruel way it shapes us.” His arms pull me closer to him until I’m drowning in everything Saxon.
“I hurt for you.”
He pulls his head back without letting go of me. His beautiful, scarred face drops to mine. “All this pain and hurt brought us together, that’s what we need to focus on.”
I smirk. “For being a big badass biker, you sure can go all romantic on my ass.”
He growls and then attacks my lips. I react without thinking, opening up to him. Our tongues dance together, exploring every single space inside each other’s mouths. Saxon presses his want for me into my stomach, causing me to giggle into his mouth.
He pulls away even though I know he doesn’t want to. “Don’t be spreading that bullshit around about me. I ain’t no Prince Charming here.”
I crook up an eyebrow in protest. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Darlin’, I’ll bend you over this fucking bike and take you from behind right out in the daylight.” Saxon whirls me around.
I can’t help the damn laughter rolling off me. His powerful palm presses down on the middle of my back while his other hand grips my hip.
“’Bout to Prince Charming the fuck out of you, babe.”
“Brick.” A gruff voice interrupts the playful banter. I wouldn’t put it pass Saxon to make good on his promise. I’d probably let him. I mean, come on. He’s bringing me to life. A life worth living. This might be the first time laughter has graced me in a long time. This man makes me forget everything and feel safe at the same time. It’s priceless.
Saxon pulls me up from his bike until my back collides with his chest. He keeps both arms laced around my front.
“Griff,” Brick barks back.
“Church, you dirty motherfucker.” The man called Griff takes a deep inhale on his cigarette.
“Fuck,” Saxon murmurs into my hair.
Griff strides right back into the club with no fucks given. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell these men aren’t worried about bedside manners. Saxon begins walking us forward.
I crane my neck. “Who was that?”
“Our sergeant of arms. He’s a brother.”
“Meeting where only brothers and the prez attend. Discuss club business. Nothing behind those closed doors leaves.”
Both of my eyebrows shoot up. I’ve entered a completely new world. It’s not until I step into the clubhouse that it hits just how far out of society these men function.
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Trouble by Avery Flynn
Release Date: June 27th, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Trouble, an all-new sexy standalone from Avery Flynn is coming June 27th!
A high school reunion is about to get down and dirty and a whole lot more complicated in this new romance from USA Today bestselling author Avery Flynn.
Brains and a badass attitude. That’s all troublemaker Leah Camacho took with her when she left Catfish Creek. She’d promised herself she’d never go back, but when the invite to her tenth high school reunion arrived along with the chance to show everyone who doubted her what a success she’s made of herself, she couldn’t resist. However, when she discovers a 15-carat, stolen diamond in her rental car’s glove box, there’s only one man she can turn to for help—the same sexy, stubborn domineering man who’d smashed her heart all those years ago.
Sheriff Drew Jackson knew a long time ago that Leah Camacho was nothing but trouble and has sworn to never get caught up in her again—no matter how damn sexy she is or how badly he’d failed to forget her. But, when the woman who test drove his heart right into a concrete wall rolls into Catfish Creek with some serious bad guys on her tail, it’s up to him to keep her safe—even if that means guarding her hot bod 24/7 without giving into temptation or losing his mind.
Spinning the wheel as he hit the brakes, he came to a stop behind the sports car at an angle that blocked it from reversing. Drew got out of his truck, keeping the open door between him and the other car and flicked open the leather strap on his hip holster that kept his sheriff’s office-issued 9mm locked in place.
“Get out of the vehicle,” he hollered.
The car’s driver’s side door opened wide. The first part of the driver to appear was one shapely leg wearing skin-tight denim punctuated with scuffed up black Doc Martens. Some sort of danger alarm sounded in Drew’s head, but not the kind that warned of bullets or other bodily danger. A woman got out, facing away from him, her hands up and her dark hair a long silky curtain that led his attention straight down her back to the high curve of her ass poured into those jeans. Parts of him that had no place in police business sat up and noticed. Her ass was a testament to the reason why society required women to wear full dresses for so long—because men were weak, lust-addled idiots when it came to asses like the one that looked more than a little familiar to Drew. His gaze snapped back up as his internal alarm went from quiet buzz to all-out blare. He knew that ass, that hair, and those damn boots.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
She did. Her lush mouth—one he knew far too well—was compressed into a tight line, her attention focused on something behind him. Leah Camacho was back and with her always came trouble—for him, for his sanity, and for the part of him that still thought of her at opportune moments in the shower.
“Drew,” she said, making his name sound like a curse and a promise. “Get on the other side of the door.”
Listening to Leah Camacho was the last thing he should be doing, but he did it anyway for reasons he didn’t understand. Just as he rounded the door, an extended cab pickup truck turned the corner. The tires were big, the windows dark, and the speed was slow. As it puttered by, Drew looked it over and mentally confirmed it didn’t belong to any of the usual suspects in Catfish Creek. Of course, the high school reunion was bringing in lots of folks who hadn’t been here in a while. At the corner, the truck sped up, peeling away from the stop sign and taking a hard right back toward the highway.
“Who was that?” he asked, the smell of burnt rubber drifting back toward them.
“No fucking clue but they’ve been on my ass for the past hour,” she said, reaching up and winding her long hair into a knot on the top of her head—the move emphasizing her amazing tits and making Drew’s mouth go dry. “I didn’t realize I’d be stopping on your turf.”
He bet not. After what happened last time they were together, she’d made avoiding him into an art form. However, the fact that he was the law in town, however temporarily, meant avoiding her was an impossibility because wherever Leah Camacho went, trouble was sure to follow. He glanced down at exhibit A.
“What happened to your tire?” he asked.
“No clue,” she said, her voice tight with a lie. “I must have run over something.”
Drew squatted down and took a closer look at the tire. It didn’t have a tear, it was just gone as if it had been a blow out. If Leah had run over something big enough to do that, she would have realized it.
“What in the hell is going on, Leah?”
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About the Author:
Avery Flynn is an award winning, USA Today bestselling romance author. She has three slightly-wild children, loves a hockey-addicted husband and is desperately hoping someone invents the coffee IV drip.
She was a reader before she was a writer and hopes to always be both. She loves to write about smartass alpha heroes who are as good with a quip as they are with their *ahem* other God-given talents. Her heroines are feisty, fierce and fantastic. Brainy and brave, these ladies know how to stand on their own two feet and knock the bad guys off theirs.
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★★★ EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT ★★★
THE LAST GUY
By Ilsa Madden-Mills and Tia Louise
© Ilsa-Louise Books, 2017
~ Rebecca ~
He kicks the door shut and without even turning on the light, he tosses me on my back on the bed. I prop up on my elbows. My dress is up around my waist, my bra is wet from Cade’s mouth, and my nipples are pointing right at him.
“Damn,” he rasps, and I watch, mesmerized as he reaches behind his neck to pull his shirt over his head, leaving his hair a sexy mess.
The light of the full moon blasting through my window covers him in a silvery glow. My stomach clenches when I see the lines of his muscles deepened by the shadowy light. My God, he’s gorgeous. He looks otherworldly.
“We really shouldn’t do this…” My voice is breathless.
He strides toward the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s focused, determined, and I watch long fingers unfasten his belt, the top of his jeans, his zipper.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Yes,” he murmurs as he cups my face. I sigh and lean into his palm, letting the sizzle between us electrify me. If I do this…if I go through with boning him…it’s going to be the best sex of my life, judging by the tiny raised hairs all over my body.
I scoot to the foot of the bed so I’m right in front of him and my head is level with his waist. Looking up, I slide my palms to his sides, pushing his jeans lower.
He’s standing in front of me in black boxer briefs. I slide my palms up and down against the hot planes of his pelvis, teasing him, tracing my fingers around the straining bulge of his erection. “We’re gonna regret this.”
A long shudder comes from him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded as he watches me. “I don’t think so, Stone. Not in a million fucking years.” He leans down and his lips capture mine, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth, exploring, owning me.
One Uptight Reporter.
One Ex-NFL Star.
Too Much Fireball.
The Last Guy is a new standalone romance from Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author Ilsa Madden-Mills & International Selling Author Tia Louise. Meet Cade Hill on June 12th!
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By: Ilsa Madden-Mills and Tia Louise
Photographer: Wander Aguiar Photography
Model: David Wills
Designer: Shanoff Formats
From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills and international bestselling author Tia Louise…
The first rule of office romance is don’t do it—especially if your dream is to hold the anchor spot on the nightly news and your boss is trying to get you fired.
But one look at Cade Hill, the sexy new sports director, and uptight reporter Rebecca Fieldstone is daydreaming about other things.
Sex in his office…
Sex in the on-set kitchen…
Sex in the supply closet…
She can’t stop thinking about the former NFL quarterback and how perfect he’d look between her sheets—except he’s an arrogant jerk with a huge…ego.
He’s the last guy she’d ever have a one-night stand with.
Cade Hill draws a thick professional line on office romance—until it comes to the hyper-focused Rebecca. He wants her, and he gets his wish when a chance encounter has them having the hottest sex of their lives.
It’s just a hook-up, she says.
When can we do it again? he says.
With Rebecca determined to keep Cade in the friend zone, it’s going to be an uphill battle for Cade to convince her he’s the last guy she’ll ever want.
About the Author
Wall Street Journal bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills and the “Queen of Hot Romance” Tia Louise are not a secret duo, but simply themselves.
Great friends, former English teachers, and southern gals in real life, they’ve teamed up to bring you laugh-out-loud naughty romances with strong leading ladies and sexy alpha males who know how to please their women—and who sometimes you just want to slap.
“Filthy, fun, and filled with heart. Hot Cop is going on my re-read shelf.”
–Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
Hot Cop, an all-new sexy, standalone from New York Times Bestseller Laurelin Paige and USA Today Bestseller Sierra Simone is coming June 13th!!!
Hot Cop by Laurelin Paige & Sierra Simone
Genre: Contemporary Romance
From NYT Bestselling Author, Laurelin Paige and USA Today Bestselling Author, Sierra Simone comes a steamy contemporary romantic follow-up to last year’s bestseller P*rn Star.
You have the right to remain sexy.
Anything you say can and will be used to get you in my bed.
You have the right to use my body to give yourself a delirious, life-changing orgasm.
If you have trouble…don’t worry, I’m a bit of an expert in that department.
There’s nothing ‘thin’ about my blue line, if you catch my drift, and trust me, I know how to put those handcuffs to good use.
Livia Ward wants a baby before she’s thirty. And even though Officer Chase Kelly is exactly the kind of cocky jerk this librarian has sworn off, he is undeniably hot. Both of them think they can give each other what they want–a few nights of fun for Officer Kelly, a no-strings baby for Livia–but this hot cop is about to learn that sex, babies, and love don’t always play by the rules.
I’m absolutely serious when I repeat my request. “Your baby. I want your baby.”
He swallows. “That’s.” He nods. “No.” He shakes his head. “I.” He fidgets in his chair, looking around the restaurant. “Waiter!” he calls to the server walking by who is most definitely not our waiter.
“Can I get you something, sir?”
“I’m going to need another drink.” Chase holds up his beer. “Another two drinks.”
“I’ll tell your server,” the waiter says and slips away.
I open my mouth but Chase says, “I’m going to need a minute.” I start to speak anyway, and he puts a finger up to silence me.
I sigh. I knew I was going about this wrong. I should have blown him first. Or I shouldn’t have approached this from the sex angle at all. Should never have let him think it was a date. Should definitely not have let him touch me like I did.
God, though. I can still feel his fingers. Feel how they brushed across my pussy. Feel how they stroked inside me.
I shiver at the memory.
He was right—I didn’t just come here tonight without panties because I didn’t want panty lines. The truth is I’d been prepared to use any means necessary to get what I wanted, including the old razzle dazzle. Problem was he razzled me first.
I should have been straightforward from the beginning. Hopefully this isn’t too botched to salvage.
I glance at Chase who is studying me, eyes squinted. He hasn’t indicated that he’s ready for me to speak, but fuck that. I have things to say.
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on the table. “Look. I’m not a crazy cop stalker, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or someone who’s trying to trap you into a marriage or a relationship or even child support.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Then what are you thinking?”
The twinkle is back in his eyes, which is a relief. “That you’re a crazy cop stalker who’s trying to trap me into a marriage or a relationship or child support.”
I stifle a laugh. “I’m not. I promise. I don’t want anything from you. Other than the baby, I mean.” And really hot sex. Repeated hot sex.
“You don’t want anything from me,” he repeats, somewhat skeptical.
I clarify. “I want a baby. But no marriage. No relationship. No child support. No parental claim at all.”
He finishes the last of his beer and leans back in his chair. “I still don’t understand.”
He’s a smart guy. So either he’s playing dumb on purpose or he’s caught up on some part of the details.
I decide to make it as simple as possible. Speak the language he speaks best. “It’s easy, Chase. You want to have sex with me.” I feel sensual and strong with my bold statement.
But suddenly I’m afraid I’ve jumped to conclusions and my confidence falters. “You do want to have sex with me, don’t you?”
It’s his turn to look at me as though I’m playing crazy. “Yes, Livia,” he says with wide emphatic eyes. “Yes.” He pauses only a second before adding, “Do I need to make myself clearer? Because I can, but it wouldn’t be appropriate in a public venue.”
I bite my lip, pressing my thighs closer together to ease the newest wave of agony. “I think we’ve already pushed the limits of public decency. But you’re the cop. You’d know better than I would.”
His lip curls up on one side, and I know he’s considering. Damn, what I’d give to have a peek at the naughty imaginings going on inside his mind, because I know they’re naughty from the gleam in his eye. Very naughty.
“Chase…” I warn.
“You’re right, you’re right. Already pushed the limits. Go on.” But the gleam in his eye remains, and I’m giddy knowing that I’m prey, and he’s a predator just biding his time.
“Okay,” I say, my voice barely steady. “So, when you have sex, there are these microscopic things called sperm that come out of a man’s body when he ejaculates.”
“Liv, I know about sperm. But go on ahead and tell me about ejaculation. I’d like to hear what you have to say about that.”
His gaze never leaves mine and I flush picturing his cum in unproductive places—places that won’t make a baby—on my belly, on my breasts, spilling down my throat.
No, inside me. That’s where I want it most.
I lick my lips. “I’m saying you want to put it in me. I’m just asking to keep it afterward.”
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USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author Laurelin Paige is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She’s also a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn’t do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio. She is represented by Rebecca Friedman.
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About Sierra Simone:
Sierra Simone is a former librarian who spent too much time reading romance novels at the information desk. She lives with her husband and family in Kansas City.
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My Best Friend’s Ex, an all new sexy, laugh out loud romantic comedy is coming June 1st. Preorder today!
My Best Friend’s Ex by Meghan Quinn
Publication Date: June 1st, 2017
Genre: Contemporary Romance
When I found an eviction notice taped on my apartment door, I had two options: find a comfortable cardboard box to call home, or move in with Tucker Jameson.
Seeing that cardboard makes me feel itchy, I chose the latter. Which shouldn’t be that big of a deal since Tucker is one of my good friends. And because he’s still pining after his ex-girlfriend and I’m trying to finish my nursing degree, there is nothing to worry about in the romance department, making my last semester an easy one to conquer.
Boy, was I wrong.
Rules are set, dinners are made, conversations are had, and a shirtless, swoony roommate walks around in nothing but a pair of black briefs, ruining me for every other man.
Before I know it, I turn into a panting, lust-filled woman begging for Tucker to kiss me, touch me, and show me exactly what is hiding under those briefs.
But with great orgasms, comes great consequences.
Tucker might be my friend and roommate but he’s also my best friend’s ex-boyfriend, making him completely off-limits. At least that’s what my brain is telling me, my heart is speaking an entirely different language.
“Morning,” Tucker’s deep voice rattles off the cabinets. It’s his morning voice, deeper, throatier—if that makes sense—and I hate to admit it, because he’s just my friend, but sexier.
Once my pupils adjust to the light, I take Tucker in. He’s standing in front of the stove, rubber spatula in hand, wearing a white long-sleeve Henley shirt, the top two buttons undone, a pair of worn jeans with a few paint stains on them, and tan work boots. Sweet Jesus, he makes construction look good. Strap a tool belt around his waist and stick him in front of a camera for the benefit of all womankind.
“Morning,” I say in reply, using the counter to help hold up my tired body. “You’re up early. What time do you have to go into work?”
“Around seven thirty. I like to get an early start before the boys come in.” He looks me up and down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. “You look good.” He motions around his head with his hand. “I really like what you did with your hair.”
I turn toward the window in the kitchen and check out my reflection. Sure enough, my long brown hair looks like a lion’s mane poofed out and framing my face with an abundance of volume. Beautiful.
There is no use in taming it, so I leave my hair as is and turn back toward Tucker. “Not many people can get this kind of height while sleeping.” I pretend to fluff my hair.
“Impressive.” He chuckles and then points to the coffee maker with the spatula. “Coffee is done, mugs are above in the cabinet. Grab me a cup, will ya? Eggs will be done shortly, bacon is warming in the oven.”
I do as directed, thinking it’s kind of cute how he’s including me in on his little morning breakfast. “I didn’t even know you had eggs. I was expecting to hit up Dunkin’ Donuts or Tim Horton’s this morning.”
He turns off the stove and reaches for two plates from the dish rack. “I went to Walmart this morning. Picked up a few things.”
“This morning?” I pour two cups of coffee and turn toward him. “What time did you wake up?”
“Four thirty,” he answers casually. “Got a quick run in, did some weights, took a shower and then went to Walmart.” He fills our plates with bacon and eggs and then nods toward the dining room, plates and silverware in hand. “I have a surprise.”
I follow him to the dining room where he flips on the light and reveals a card table fold-out dining set.
“You got a table.” I chuckle, loving that it’s a fold-out card table with matching chairs. Anything is better than the floor.
“And placemats,” he adds, as he lifts two plastic placemats from one of the chairs. “The options were bleak so I went with dinosaurs for me and Trolls for you. Given the look of your morning hair, Trolls was the right choice.” Clever bastard. He sets them on the table and then puts our plates on top of them.
God, it’s too freaking cute. Chuckling, I take a seat and hand him his coffee. “Look at you getting all domestic. I never thought you would be a placemat kind of man, I stand corrected.”
He rests a napkin on his legs, which are spread drastically, almost the length of the table and leans over to fork some eggs into his mouth. “Didn’t want our food to damage the plastic of this high-class table.” I love the humor in his voice, it reminds me of all the good times we had, before the end of his relationship with Sadie.
“Smart man, you want this table to last.”
“Of course, you don’t see fine furniture like this in houses anymore. Everything has to be so sturdy. What ever happened to rickety furniture and living through a meal with the threat of your food possibly kissing the floor at any point in time?”
“The horror,” I joke.
He looks up at me. Some of his hair is still wet from his shower. Pointing his fork at me he says, “Are you ready to be schooled?”
“Schooled on what?” I take a bite of bacon and my stomach jumps in excitement for finally rewarding it for waking up early. All right, I will admit it, getting out of bed was a smart idea.
“It’s Monday, babe. DJ Hot Cock has his song picked and ready to show you what real music is.”
“When was my music taste ever questioned? I like good music.”
“We’ll see.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. I watch as he flips through it until he lands on the song he wants to introduce me to. He presses play and sets his phone on the table. The light pickings of a guitar fill the small dining room. I don’t recognize the song, but I like the sound of it so far.
Just as I’m settling in to the sweet pickings of a guitar, the distinct voice of Zac Brown chimes in. I’ve known Tucker for loving EMO growing up, so his choice in a country song is very surprising to me, but when I look up at him, pure hometown country boy sitting across from me, it makes perfect sense.
And then the lyrics hit me. My Old Man. Zac sings about his father, hoping he’s proud of the man he’s become. I’m transported back to a dreary day in Whitney Point, where we grew up, when Sadie called me one Saturday morning. I was getting ready for the day. We were in middle school. Tucker’s dad was killed by a head-on collision, the dad Tucker just reconnected with, the dad Tucker had plans on moving in with to get away from his neglectful mom. Those next few days—and weeks—were a whirlwind of sorrow. Attending his funeral, my first ever funeral, seeing the look of devastation on Tucker’s face, wondering what he might be feeling, trying to channel his hurt, it was so much to take on as a teenager.
Glancing up, I take in Tucker’s expression. He’s lost in the music, in the words, just like me. When the song ends, I lean over and place my hand on his, our eyes meet and there is an unspoken understanding between us. I don’t have to say anything about his dad, about the tragedy we went through so many years ago together as friends. It’s all said between this silent exchange.
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About the Author:
A BLONDE AT HEART
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!