Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Alace Sweets by MariaLisa deMora - Pre-order Spotlight



#AlaceIsMyFavoritePsycho



 
From the author of the Rebel Wayfarers MC series, MariaLisa deMora,
 comes the dark thriller “Alace Sweets”
Release date – January 9th
Pre Order your copy NOW!
...

Revenge really IS sweet. ~Alace Sweets.
A dark thriller, this book is not a light read. Filled with edge-of-your-seat suspense, this intense story commands the reader's attention as it drives towards the explosive ending. Alace Sweets is a vigilante serial killer, with everything that implies and is sure to trip all your triggers. Be ready.
At seventeen, Alace Sweets turned a corner in her life, taking the wrong shortcut home from school.
Resisting the harsh knowledge her attackers will never be made to pay for their actions, Alace takes a stand. Justice must be served, and if fate’s scales are out of balance, she’s determined to set things right as best she can.
When the laws of men fail, the rules of Alace prevail.
















Monday, December 18, 2017

Scoring with the Wrong Twin by Naima Simone - Pre-Order Blitz


Scoring With the Wrong Twin
by Naima Simone
Series: WAGS, #1
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Release Date: January 15, 2018



Shy, awkward Sophia Cruz has a hard time telling her vivacious identical twin “no.” But when her sister begs her to swap places for a modeling shoot, she caves … again. Then Zephirin Black walks onto the set. The brooding, aloof, and gorgeous tight end for the Washington Warriors. But she can keep it professional… She has to. Because the adorkable Cruz twin has no luck with guys once they compare her to her sister.

After a bad break-up, Zeph hasn’t been big on second chances—and even less with trust. But he finds himself giving please-call-me-by-my-middle-name-Sophia both. The woman he’d dismissed as a spoiled cover model is different from the first time he met her. Quirkier. Funnier. Definitely sexier. What started as one night turns into another…and another…and another…

Still, Sophia can’t go on keeping her secret from him. But telling Zeph the truth will mean losing him for good.




Suddenly needing this photo shoot over—desperate for space—Zephirin set Giovanna gently on the floor. Her delicate fingers with their bright blue polish dented his skin as she clutched his shoulders for a second too long after he’d released her. And fuck it, a goddamn Tibetan monk couldn’t have barred the mental image of those same nails leaving marks on his sweat-dampened skin and flexing back as he drove into tight, hot, wet flesh.

And God knew he wasn’t a monk.

Shifting back a step, he placed that much-needed distance between them before he did something deranged and ludicrous like throw her over his shoulder and christen one of these walls.

“Can we try one more?” She turned to Gerald again, and Zeph ground his jaw, surprised he didn’t breathe molar dust. Her last request damn near killed him. What now?

“You have this.” The photographer waved. “Let’s see what you got.”

When she pivoted toward Zeph again, took a step toward him, he narrowed his eyes on her, suddenly wary. His muscles tightened, preparing themselves for her touch. For whatever she planned—

She sank to her knees in front of him.

Fuuuuuck.

No way in hell could he have halted the growl that rumbled in his chest and up his throat. Not with her lowering further into a pose that reminded him of Princess Leia at the “feet” of Jabba the Hutt. Except she faced him, her mouth almost level with his cock. Jesus, if he closed his eyes, he could feel her breath on his flesh even through the nylon of his pants. If God suddenly imbued him with the strength of Samson, Zeph still wouldn’t have been able to control the blood pumping straight to his cock, filling it. Hardening it. And when she tipped her head back, lifting her gaze to him, he glimpsed that knowledge in those chicory eyes. Noted the gleam of arousal. Fucking drowned in it.

Unconsciously, and without her permission, he threaded his fingers in the thick silk of her hair, gripping it. Tugging it. Tipping her head a little farther back.

He caught the soft gasp of breath that escaped her parted lips. Didn’t miss the flutter of her lashes. Or the runaway beating of her pulse within the shallow dip at the base of her throat.

“Damn,” someone whispered.

But Zeph didn’t glance up. Refused to free her from his regard. Even when Gerald’s camera started firing away like the rapid pulses of a disco strobe light. Holding the pose and staring down into her upturned face should’ve been uncomfortable; it had been in the past. But with every sense attuned to her—the delicate aroma of her perfume or shampoo teasing his nose; the stroke of her hair against the over-sensitized skin of his hand and wrist; the searing press of her breast against his thigh—discomfort didn’t register. Just the greedy impulse to open his mouth over that fluttering pulse and set his tongue to it. Set it racing harder.

Only when the photographer instructed her to look at him did he allow her to move. But his hand remained tangled in her curls, the cave dweller part of him he hadn’t known existed needing to remind her of his control, of who touched her. Fucking claimed her.

Gone was that gentleman he’d been raised to be. He’d been transformed into this primal being by a woman with sultry eyes, a sex-roughened voice, and a walking wet-dream body.

“I do believe we have everything we need.” Gerald beamed at them, handing his camera to an assistant who rushed forward to take the piece of equipment. “Great shoot.”



Digital:
Amazon ~ Barnes & Noble ~ iBooks ~ Kobo

Audiobook:
Amazon ~ Barnes & Noble


USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights— writing sizzling romances with a touch of humor and snark.

She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bulletproof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.







Monday, December 11, 2017

Roll The Dice by Wayne Avrashow - Book Tour Excerpt


Roll the Dice
Fiery Seas Publishing
November 28, 2017   
Political Thriller

What happens when one of America’s biggest rock stars leaves the Las Vegas stage to run for the United State Senate?  

The ultimate celebrity candidate, Tyler Sloan is no stranger to politics – his estranged father was a California governor who narrowly lost a Presidential campaign. He runs as a political independent, refuses campaign contributions, and dismisses special interests and lobbyists.

Sloan is caught in a political campaign fraught with; sexual scandal, corruption and conflicting loyalties.  Will he be able to navigate through political turbulence and his own past to win the race?

Buy Links:



EXCERPT FROM ROLL THE DICE BY WAYNE AVRASHOW
CHAPTER FOUR

Sloan eyed Chris Collins deliver her remarks with pitch-perfect tone and cadence. Republicans were breathing rarified air as Collins led in the early polling. Sloan studied her as she bolstered her words with gestures, timely pauses, and full smiles—a performance that held all the spontaneity of an Olympic synchronized swimmer.
            Rogers’s remarks were an octave too loud as he nailed every touchstone of the progressive agenda. When he began citing a boring laundry list of his voting record, Sloan’s confidence spiked; his opponent was as thrilling as a mashed potato sandwich.
            Sloan rose from his seat as Rogers and Collins cast steely glances toward him in a prefight staring down of an opponent. Sloan returned a playful nod to Rogers and a quick smile toward Collins.
            The union delegates greeted Sloan with a thunderous ovation. Many delegates hoisted pre-printed signs in the air that read, “I Believe!” Approaching the lectern, Sloan stooped to autograph numerous Teamster caps that were thrust toward him.
            Sloan understood that public speeches were not analogous to the child's game of skipping rocks on a lake’s surface and watching the resulting ripples. Once released in the public domain, the speaker “owned” those ideas, and proposals dismissed as “silly” could guillotine a public career.
            “Good to be back,” Sloan opened with a broad smile. “I haven’t been on a Vegas stage for . . . what? Five weeks?”
            Sloan noticed the near-hypnotic nods of a middle-aged woman who gazed upward from the front row. He understood how any brush of her pedestrian life with his celebrity would bestow upon her an ephemeral wisp of status to share tonight on social media and to regale her co-workers at tomorrow’s coffee break.



About the Author:

Wayne Avrashow was the campaign manager for two successful Los Angeles City Council campaigns and a Deputy/Chief of Staff to those two elected City Council members. He served as a senior advisor for a successful city-wide referendum in the City of Los Angeles, co-authored ballot arguments on Los Angeles County-wide measures, served as Chairman for a Los Angeles County ballot measure, and was a Los Angeles government Commissioner for nearly twenty years. He currently serves as a Board Member of the Yaroslavsky Institute, a public policy institute founded by long time Southern California elected official, and now UCLA professor, Zev Yaroslavsky.
His background in politics, government, business, and law provides unique insight into the machinations and characters that populate political campaigns.
Wayne is a practicing attorney who specializes in government advocacy, real estate, and business law. Formerly, he was an officer in two real estate development firms.  As a lawyer-lobbyist, he has represented clients before numerous California municipalities and in Nevada and Idaho. He has lectured at his law school and taught at Woodbury University in Los Angeles. He has also authored numerous op-ed articles that appeared in daily newspapers, legal, business, and real estate publications.  In addition, he is the author of a self-published book for the legal community, Success at Mediation—10 Strategic Tools for Attorneys.


Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Forsaking Hope by Beverly Oakley - Blog Tour Excerpt and Giveaway


Forsaking Hope
Fair Cyprians of London By Beverley Oakley
Beverley is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here

About the Book: 
Two years ago, she missed their secret assignation and disappeared without a trace. Now the divine "Miss Hope" is in Felix Durham’s bed - a 'surprise cheering-up gift' sourced by his friends from London's most exclusive brothel. Felix is in heaven - and he wants to stay there. So does Hope, but she can’t. Hope Merriweather lives by a code of honour – even if she’s a prostitute. Having sold her soul, she’s prepared to sacrifice everything else to protect what she believes in. Even if honour – in her eyes – comes at the cost of thieving and breaking hearts. Including her own.



Available for preorder here:
~*~*~*~*~*~
Excerpt: 

Chapter One
Wilfred Hunt. If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair she was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom oppressively over her. With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s benefactress—procuress, employer and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting: Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one. Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her hair to the texture of wool but her crowning glory these days was supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her – before they were thrown back into the street from where most had come. Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame who knew her history would understand her loathing for this man, above all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the willful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I won’t—” Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would serve as an example to them. No one crossed Madame Chambon. The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose twitched and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age. Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly. The Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man about town who visited 56 Albemarle Street was frequently rendered ecstatic by the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual. “You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discerning customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls arranged in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room that intransigence would not be tolerated. “Mr Hunt has requested you.” She paused and when Hope remained silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his residence then you will go.” Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that indentured a girl for life unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her though she'd have forsaken all the dupion silk and Spitalfields lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny – and her body - if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every second day. Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned. “How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat pocket book. “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands, clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall, slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the prison to which she was returning. She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.” Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of your family.” Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the surface. “Not even a sister?” Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research. Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public. “Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.”

~*~*~*~*~*~
Author Info: 
Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her first her 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley became a journalist.
Twenty-six years later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North Sea.
Since 2009 Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances, mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery, intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off a thrilling race to save someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel from the noose – it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt Scotch.
Beverley lives with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.


You can get in contact with Beverley at:

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Black Mercy by Stacy McWilliams - Release Day








Release Day - Black Mercy - Stacy McWilliams  
Author - Stacy McWilliams
Book - Black Mercy
Release Date - 3rd December
Hosted by Hooked on books Promotions




Mason Michaels has it all professionally; he’s a rock god, a shrewd business man and excellent at managing bands, but his personal life is full of struggles.



He has struggled since his wife left him with their baby and has closed himself off emotionally. It's a struggle as he tries to balance his parenting duties with his band and business. Sex is just sex and his assistant is more than happy to meet some of his needs, but when his friend dies of cancer and leaves him with a newborn baby, he needs to hire help.

He doesn’t expect Amber to walk in. At first he’s resistant because she’s gorgeous and he wants more than her employment services. Can he resist this beauty as she becomes a part of his life?

Amber Davis is also struggling. She’s lost her fiancĂ©, her job, been disowned by her family and is awkwardly staying on her best friends couch when she lands an interview with the infamous Mason Michaels.

She needs a live-in position and is good at working with kids so when her friend’s sister gets her an interview as an au pair for Mason, she’s grateful for the chance. As she moves in her life becomes complicated and she finds herself falling for her boss.

Mason is ‘sex on a stick’ and Amber finds it difficult to resist him, but can she trust him with her heart? Or will he be just another in a long line of recent disappointments?













FOLLOW STACY MCWILLIAMS








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