Esther has only craved to be loved by one man, the Wolfe who hides behind his broken ice blue eyes.

Unfortunately, the wild man she craves has desires that she doesn’t feel able to fill. These desires will destroy her if she allows them.

Wolfe, the road captain for the Savage Beast MC, is known for his ruthlessness. The forty-year-old has demons that haunt the beast inside of him.

He cannot be the man who deserves to love her. He knows it’s wrong. He knows it will break her, but he cannot help himself. She wants a wild man. He is as wild as they come.

Two souls searching for a way to find acceptance, love, and healing in physical pleasures. Both lost. One the devil. One a fallen angel. When they finally give in to their lust, their love blossoms like neither imagined possible.

Barefooted, I walk outside. The sun is hot in the late summer sky, it beats down on me immediately. Squinting, I head out toward the fencing at the edge of the property. I haven’t been outside of these gates in days. I’ve eaten whatever I can find in the kitchen, which to be honest, with a building full of men who have an aversion to vegetables, isn’t all that great.

My feet burn against the rock and dirt beneath them, but I don’t mind it too much. At least I can fucking feel something. The desert can be ruthlessly beautiful, much like Raff. Lifting my hands, I grip the links of the gate, resting my forehead against the hot metal.

“You thinking of running?” a deep voice asks, sending chills down my spine.

I don’t move, I haven’t heard that voice in days and it sounds like heaven. I should despise it. I should hate every part of it, but I can’t. Turning around, I look into his eyes and my heart sinks. He looks exhausted, he looks beat up, he looks like fucking hell.

“Raff?” I ask. He only shakes his head, his feet slowly shuffle toward me until my back is pressed against the fencing and I’m forced to tip my head back to look into his face.

His mouth slams against mine, his tongue forcing its way inside of my mouth and I moan when he tastes me. Lifting my hands, I grip his shoulders, digging my nails into the leather of his cut. His hips shift and I feel his hard length press against my belly.

I was born and raised in a small farming town in California. I met my husband when I was 16 and he was 19. We married four years later and have two little boys! We lived in Oregon for a few years while he served in the US Coast Guard.

Texas is now where we call home, where our boots rest, and where we’re raising our two little boys and a chocolate lab named Optimus Prime.

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Drummer Ryder Chord has been living half a life since he was sixteen and his twin sister was murdered. He throws himself into his music. When Lexi Evanovich joins the band, life becomes almost tolerable. Until one day when the rest of the band isn’t there and Ryder and Lexi have to share a hotel room: with only one bed.

Rule number one of band-dom: You never sleep with anyone in the band.

Rule number one of bro code: You never sleep with anyone’s sister. You definitely never sleep with your best friend’s little sister.

Rule number it’s so obvious it’s a count even a drummer can keep: You Never. Ever. Sleep with your best friend’s little sister when she’s in the band…and he is too.

I hear a very loud clomp of boots. Jase comes in the bus hauling Hit Man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Jase gives me one ‘I am disappointed in you, Goat-fucker’ stare, and walks right past us to put Hit Man down in his bunk.

Jase lays down in his own bed and turns away from me.

I point to my bunk and Lexi gets in it. I curl my big body around her.

I hug her tightly but that makes it worse, not better. What if it had been different? What if that guy had wanted to steal her away, not protect her? What if I had not been right on stage, but had been off stage stowing my gear? What if she had been kidnapped and— I can’t even finish the thought because my breathing gets so ragged and shallow I’m worried I’ll hyperventilate.

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t be like this when something might happen to you.”

Rewind.

Zeeter: ‘You can’t worry about what never was, what might be. You can’t stress about what hasn’t happened.’

Lexi: ‘I’m okay. I’m fine. He was a good guy.’

Me: ‘We don’t need her! I don’t need her.’

I try to concentrate on the now, on the feeling of Lexi in my arms, the bunk under my side. “What if she was taken by a bad guy?” I mumble to myself.  “I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

I rock back and forth, the motions slight, moving Lexi with me. “This can’t be my life. I can’t do this.”

I feel a warm, calming hand on the center of my back. Jase. He doesn’t say anything. He’s just there. Then his face must move closer, because I feel and hear his breathing. His breaths get slower and slower. In and out. In and out. Slower. Calmer.

His palm gets warmer, as if he is sending his assurance into me.

“You’re right,” he says. His voice is slow and deep. “You can’t do this. We do this. You never need to do this alone. Because…” he presses his thumb next to my spine, a steady, strong presence, “We are always a team. Always. We carry our burdens, our fears, and our successes together. That’s what we do. Even when it feels like we can’t.”

Jase uses his other hand to grab the back of my neck. He squeezes hard, and then even harder. “It feels like you can’t, yeah, but we can. If it feels like we can’t, that’s just a feeling. The truth is, we can. Because…” he pauses and squeezes my neck even harder, and it triggers some kind of response, like a cat being held by a parent, a primal feeling of safety. “Because…we are stronger than we realize. We are rock solid. Our past shaped us, but it does not define us. WE define us. And do you know what I say? We are pretty damn awesome. You suck eggs. But we, together, are magnificent. We can do anything.”

M. J. Roberts is a writer, editor, and teacher – with more than two million copies of her stories in circulation worldwide, Roberts is well loved for creating characters who feel as real as your most cherished friends. Roberts works to diligently to create believable, lovable characters, witty dialogue, prose ripe with metaphor, exciting plot twists, action that keeps you on the edge of your seat, and romance scenes that sizzle.

Roberts is a multiple award-winning author including first place in the prestigious Summer Lovin’ Romance Literary Contest 2015 for the novel Risk Your Heart.

Roberts also writes under the pen name Natasha Action. Roberts is originally from New York but lives in the southern United States for the purpose of endless comic material.

She’s married to a professional musician (A.K.A. The Rock and Roll God) because she is too busy tormenting imaginary characters and counting her blessing to pursue her longtime dream of Rock n’ Roll stardom herself.

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Kyra Jacobs is an extroverted introvert who has always called Indiana home. That means she’s well versed in fickle weather, pork tenderloin patties that don’t fit on a bun, and sarcasm. Putting her Indiana University degrees in Public Management to good use by day means Kyra does the bulk of her writing late into the night. Fueled by caffeine and funny memes, she weaves tales of love and relationships, including the humor and/or chaos both can bring. Kyra’s published novels range from sweet contemporary romance to chick lit and paranormal/fantasy.

When this Hoosier native isn’t at a keyboard, daydreaming through her fingertips, she’s likely outside, elbow-deep in snapdragons or on a sideline somewhere cheering (loudly) for her sporty sons. Kyra also loves to go bowling, tries to golf, and is an avid college football fan.

Standing here toe-to-toe with Felicity, he found his resolve wavering.

Not that it would matter. Another verbal joust or two, he sensed, and she’d be on her way. As much as he hated the idea of upsetting her, her staying bothered him far more.

Across the room, a perky mambo-style song began to play. Felicity’s features quickly shifted from irate to worried. She spun from him to retrieve a phone from her purse.

“Hey, Laur, what’s up? Wait, slow down. My duplex is what?”

Felicity turned and hurried toward the foyer, her voice a quiet rush. As she did, Edna rose from her chair and came over to smack him upside the head.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she said in a hiss.

“What? You always said honesty should come above all else.”

That earned him a second wallop. “You can be honest and still use tact, you nincompoop. I expect you to apologize when she comes back.”

“But—”

“No buts. If she’s been hired to be your personal assistant, then you let her. Heaven knows the poor girl and her son need all the help they can get right now.”

Scott hung his head. Saying it like that, Edna made him sound like some evil villain out to swindle a fair maiden. Not used to playing the bad guy, he tried to come up with a new plan.

Maybe they could work together to trick J.B. into thinking she was doing the PA thing. Because, aside from giving him a ride to his weekly doctor visits, there really wasn’t any other reason for her to be around. All he had to do was convince her to fib to his agent, and they’d both be better off. For the first time since this crazy arrangement had been sprung on him, Scott actually looked forward to his next conversation with her.

“Besides, that one’s a keeper.”

Oh no. He needed to put a stop to that kind of thinking, ASAP.

Scott threw his grandmother a warning look. “She’s not a date, Grandma. She’s my assistant.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her cotton-ball brows waggled. “Wanna put a wager on it?”

“Do we need to have another talk about your gambling problem?”

“Bah, Ohio’s taken the fun out of you.”

Felicity rushed back into the room, worry etched across her beautiful face.

 Wait, beautiful?

“As much fun as it was arguing with you, Scott, I’m afraid I need to go. My penny-pinching landlord finally cut one too many corners, and the apartment connected to mine caught fire earlier. Our half is in the process of being condemned.”

Scott could hardly believe his ears. She was leaving? And not because of him?

He felt badly for her, truly he did. But silently? He did a mental fist pump.

“Condemned?” Edna cursed, and not under her breath. “I always knew that Harvey Gregory was a no-good miser. But honey, where will you go?”

“To my cousin’s, to see if she knows anyone who can spare us a room for the next few days. Or maybe she’ll just shoehorn us into her basement. I don’t know.”

Guilt ate at Scott as Felicity’s voice wavered. As much as he wanted her gone, his heart went out to the woman and her smiley, shaggy-haired son. How much of their world had just been destroyed by the fire? “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No.” Felicity raised her chin, trying for bravado, but the sound was more of a hurt whisper. “My home, my routine. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“Nonsense,” said Edna.

She wouldn’t.

His grandmother’s gaze cut to his.

She couldn’t.

“You can stay here with us.”

She did.

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The second he walked through the door, she could tell he was trouble.

Grace knows better than to fall for a Hollywood bad boy like Scott Deacon. An arrogant movie star with a troubled past and a big honking chip on his shoulder? No, thank you. He may be sex on wheels, but beneath the charming facade he’s just another cocky jackass destined to make her job more difficult.

Except…

The more time they spend together, the hotter the fire between them burns. With every flirtatious smile and brush of his hand, she feels her defenses crumbling.

She wants to hate him, but instead she’s in danger of losing all control.

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“We’re here. Think you can walk?”

“Yeah, of course,” Grace insisted, jumping out of the car a little too quickly, because as soon as she stood up she felt lightheaded and her vision started to tunnel.

Scott reached out to steady her. “I’ve got you,” he said, wrapping an arm around her.

Grace let herself lean into him until her vision had cleared. And then she kept leaning into him and let him guide her to the house, because he was warm and comfy and it was a chilly night. His body was crazy firm, but also somehow snuggly, which didn’t seem like it should be possible, but there he was, being snuggly and firm at the same time.

As soon as they got to Grace’s front door, Scott let go of her and took a step back. The sudden loss of contact left her chilled.

“Do you have your key?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She dug in her purse for it and unlocked the door. When she turned back to him, it felt like he was standing even farther away than before, like he wanted to make sure she didn’t get any wrong ideas about his intentions. Message received.

Loud and clear.

“Thanks for the ride,” Grace said, being careful not to close the distance between them.

“Drink some water before bed, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious,” Scott said.

She offered him a smile. “I can tell. You know how I can tell? Because you’re making your serious face, which is totally different from your just joking around face.”

“Promise me.”

God, he was extra hot when he was acting like a mother hen. It was so unfair.

“I promise,” Grace said.

Unexpectedly, he stepped forward and wrapped her up in a cushy hug. “Goodnight, Grace,” he said against her hair before letting go of her and stepping decisively away from her again.

“Goodnight,” she mumbled and fled inside her house.

We’re just friends, she told herself firmly as she stood in the kitchen drinking the promised glass of water. He’d made that pretty abundantly clear tonight. Friends and nothing more.

Maybe if she repeated it to herself enough times, she’d actually accept it.

About Susannah Nix

Susannah Nix is the author of quirky contemporary romances about smart women and swoony men, including the Chemistry Lessons series of romcoms featuring STEM heroines and the Starstruck series of movie star romances. She lives in Texas with her husband, two ornery cats, and a flatulent pit bull.

When she’s not writing, Susannah enjoys reading, cooking, knitting, watching too much television, and getting distracted by Tumblr. She is also a powerlifter who can deadlift as much as Captain America weighs.

Website | Twitter | Facebook | BookBub | Instagram | Goodreads | Pinterest

Rule #1: Maintain Control.

Chapter 1

Gavin

I never walk into a room without a plan. I don’t care if I’m entering a board meeting or a bar—I map out my goals beforehand and prepare to execute them. Tonight’s birthday party for my girlfriend’s roommate is no exception. Right now I’m on a mission to locate my date on the rooftop terrace, strip off her panties, and leave her believing today is her special day.

“Gavin!” The twenty-something birthday girl grabs my arm. She’s named after a flower, but hell if I can remember which one. “Now that you’re here, darling, this party is officially lit.”

I raise a practiced eyebrow. “I’m not that exciting.”

Violet—that’s her name—laughs as if I’ve told a particularly hilarious joke.

“In fact, I need to return to work later,” I add.

I want to be clear. I’m not here for Violet’s bash. Tonight, I have a singular goal, and she’s waiting on the roof.

A young hipster in a tailored orange suit sidles up to me. “New product releasing soon, Gavin? I’ve heard rumors that you’re developing new software. If you’re planning a release, I could help with the PR. I’m starting a public relations group, and I’d really love for you to be my first client.”

And I’d love to lick my girlfriend until she screams my name.

I slap hipster dude on the back. “I’m afraid we want different things right now, my friend, and I’ve had a long day.”

Truth.

 “Before I talk business,” I continue, stepping away from the birthday girl and her admirers, “I need a drink.”

Lie.

 I’m eager to give Alexandra an orgasm, but the bar’s on the way to the stairs. I’ve been to the Brooklyn penthouse before, though I prefer having Alexandra come to my Manhattan apartment The twenty-something trust-fund crowd leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I wouldn’t have even crossed the east river tonight, but Alexandra sent me an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

I pause beside the temporary bar set up beside the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “The birthday girl and her friends would like shots. Tequila. Top shelf.”

The bartender nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Violet!” I call over my shoulder. “It’s tequila time.”

“Shots!”

The call echoes around the room. A group suddenly crowds around the birthday girl, eager to share in the celebrating. I take advantage of the distraction and open the sliding glass door leading to a terrace. Following Alexandra’s instructions like a treasure map, I find the stairs and climb two at a time.

Overeager? Hell, yes. I want this woman. Unlike her trust-fund former roommate, Alexandra actually works for a living. Her receptionist gig at my gym pays the bills while she tries to launch her acting career. Her friends fall in the take-them-or-leave-them category for me, but I’m crazy about Alexandra’s work ethic.

She understands me on an elemental level.

I grin like a fool when I reach the top of the metal staircase. I can picture my best friend’s reaction to my lofty claim. “Elemental? You just mean she’s good in bed.”

 That is precisely what I mean. But Alexandra takes “good” to new levels.

How do you tell if a woman shares your sexual kinks? I ask myself this question on every first date. Given my habit for choosing Mrs. Right Now—my best friend’s label, not mine—I’ve been on hundreds of first dates, and I still haven’t found an answer. And failure is not something I take lightly. I came from nothing, and now I’m worth more than one billion dollars.

Not that I’m into anything from the Fifty Shades playbook. I’m not that kind of billionaire. But nothing turns me on like sex with the possibility of getting caught. I’m not talking public parks or places that might lead to a night in a jail cell. I’ve had enough trouble in my life, and I’m not about to invite any more.

But a private rooftop terrace while a party buzzes below? The chance that one of the other guests or a member of the catering staff will hear my girlfriend’s moans and come investigate?

Oh, hell yes.

 I spot Alexandra by the railing. She’s staring out at the night sky. Beneath the full moon’s glow, I can see the tops of the trees in Prospect Park. Manhattan’s skyline is on the other side of the building, but all I want is a view of my girl, naked and draped over her outdoor furniture.

A sideways glance confirms the lounge chair is still up here. A heat lamp that would look more at home in a restaurant or at a wedding hovers over the lone chair.

She won’t freeze when I pull her dress to her waist.

 I cross the cement pavers and wrap my arms around Alexandra’s slim waist, drawing her back to my front. She can’t miss how the mental picture in my mind turns me on. The evidence is pressing against her lower back. Even in her three-inch heels, she’s a good bit shorter than my six-two build.

“I want to bury my face between your legs,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m going to lay you down on that chair, reach up under your dress, slide you panties down your legs, and—”

“I’m not wearing any underwear,” she announces in her low, sultry voice.

Her voice oozes with the promise of sex, and I would bet my BMW that men call to reserve the squash courts at the gym just to hear her purr in their ear. Until last month, I was one of those guys. After the second phone call, I stopped by the desk and asked her out.

Her response? “I knew you would come to your senses and take me to dinner.”

Bold, confident, and sexy as hell. Maybe she’s the one. Maybe I’ve finally found Mrs. Right.

I step forward, using my body to gently guide her across the patio to the chair.  We’ve been here before. Not on this roof-deck. Last time, we slipped away at a museum opening and found a quiet hall. No cameras. I made damn sure there wouldn’t be a recording of my girlfriend on her knees in front of me. But when I zipped up and we returned to the party, I knew I’d found a woman who saw more than dollar signs when she looked at me.

Now she steps free from my grasp. The front of her calves bump against the lounge chair. Then she turns to face me. “But I didn’t invite you up here for sex. At least, not to start.”

I school my expression, dialing down the exasperation and the lust. If she wants to talk first, I’m in. I give her my best you-have-my-complete-attention look, the one I’ve practiced in countless business meetings.

Alexandra is special. She deserves more than a quick orgasm during a party.

“I’m listening,” I say, shoving my hands in my suit pants pockets. I want to be clear. I’m not reaching for her. Not yet.

“First, I have something to show you,” she says.

I hear a trace of nerves in her tone, and I sure as hell like her use of the word show in place of tell. Most women I’ve dated for a month or more eventually have something serious to share with me. Their feelings. Their hopes and dreams for our relationship. Or the expected size of their future engagement ring.

For the record, I’ve never bought a ring.

Alexandra’s fingers work the latch on her clutch, and my gaze follows her movements. Her hands are trembling, hard. Finally, the latch gives, and I catch my breath.

I’m immediately turned on. My imagination’s running wild with the potential outcomes from her little game of show-and-tell. Whatever she’s hiding in her purse must be small. Something that pushes my bold, beautiful girl out of her comfort zone. Something that leaves her shaking.

She pulls out a thin slip of paper and holds it out to me.

My brow furrows. I pull my right hand free from my pocket and take it. It’s in my hand before I realize I’m not holding a paper, but a picture. The image is old and slightly discolored, probably dating back to the days when people used cameras and then visited the grocery store to develop the film.

Like when I was a kid…

No.

 My jaw tightens, grinding my molars together as I force myself to look at the image. My childhood and this picture—they aren’t connected. It’s not possible.

But a single glance tells me I’m wrong. I know that scrawny, beaten kid in the old photo. Any thought of sex suddenly takes a back seat to the dread stirring deep in my gut.

“How did you get this?” I demand, looking Alexandra straight in the eye.

She’s still shaking like a fucking leaf, but she’s holding her chin high. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” I say, biting out the words.

I’d thought I’d wiped all records of my humiliation off the face of the earth. But now I’m holding a picture of my weakest moment. I recognize the bathroom floor in the image. The tile matches the house where I grew up. And I should know. I spent a lot of time there, licking my damn wounds, knowing I would have to go to school the next day and face the fucking bullies again.

“There are more photos.” Alexandra nods to the one in my hand. “That one isn’t the worst.”

My grip tightens on the picture. Who is this woman? And how the hell did she get her hands on these images? I didn’t even know they existed until tonight. And I’ve spent a fortune to hide my past.

“What do you want?” I demand, lifting my gaze from the picture to look at her.

I take in her smug, excited expression. The nerves are gone, probably buried beneath the misconception that she’s won.

Fuck, I’ve been played. The thought crosses my mind, and I know I’ve come to this epiphany too late. I’ve been sleeping with the enemy this whole time, and I didn’t even have a damn clue.

“Money to start,” Alexandra announces. “One hundred million, in cash. The account information is on the back of the picture.”

“I’m not paying you off,” I snap. But I turn the image over to confirm there is an account listed. “Not for a bunch of pictures of some kid.”

I’m rationalizing now. No one would see these images and connect them to Gavin Black. If this woman tries, my public relations company will crush her. And there is no way Alexandra knows the full story. Gavin Black had a very different childhood than the one in this picture. There’s proof. I know, because I created it myself.

“It’s not just ‘some kid.’ I know who you are,” she says. “And I’m going to share what I know with every media outlet in this city.”

“The hell you will, you—”

“Unless we come to an agreement. One hundred million suggests you’re willing to work with me.”

“Bitch,” I murmur.

My breath turns shallow. I can feel the panic rushing to my chest, threatening to take hold like a heart attack, but I fight it.

So, she knows who I am? So do I. I’m New York City’s most desirable bachelor. I’m also a capable and effective businessman.

I take one more look at the picture. I am not that kid. Not anymore. I can’t be bullied as an adult, not like the broken, scared child in the old photo.

Taking the picture in both hands, I tear it in half. Then I rip the halves into smaller pieces. I look my girlfriend in the eye as I let the shredded remains fall to the ground.

Her mouth forms a half smile. “You’re angry and you’re lashing out.” She speaks to me in a tone I barely recognize. It’s the same sultry voice, but she sounds like a teacher from my worst nightmares. “I understand.”

“The hell you do,” I growl, careful to keep my voice low.

I refuse to draw the drunken revelers up here and make a scene. In part, because she’s right. I’m very close to losing control. I need to get out of here. Now.Turning on my heel, I walk toward the metal stairs.

“I’m not going away!” she calls after me. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Who the hell is this woman? Why was she waiting to blackmail me all this time?

I file the questions away and focus on making my way through the drunken melee in the penthouse. My cell is in my hand by the time I reach the exit. In the hall, I pause to text instructions to my driver. I need the limo downstairs by the time the elevator hits the lobby. My ride better be ready for a road trip, because there’s no way I’m going back to the office. And I’m not calling my publicist, or any other members of my elite, expensive PR team.

Not until I talk to my best friend.

The elevator arrives as I pull up the number and hit “call.” It rings over and over. Then the doors open, revealing a sleek, marble lobby as a familiar voice asks me to leave a message.

I step out into the crisp November night. “Kayla, I’m two hours away from you. I’ll be there at midnight. Be ready, because I’m going to do something I haven’t done in a long, long time.”

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————-

Hell is rising People are dying…all in the name of love.

Tell me, can the Devil and his Angel survive the flames?

Deception and Blood were the counterparts, but now, can Sophia and Creed navigate their way through the never ending Chaos?

When I wake the next morning, I don’t get out of bed right away; instead, I shift my gaze down to the warm body cuddled in my arms. I stare down at Sophia while she sleeps soundly in my arms a little longer than I normally do. My eyes trace the soft lines and features of her face. Her dark lashes are fanned across her cheeks that are tinged pink with warmth from sleeping. Her lips that are naturally pouty have seemed to grow in size during the pregnancy. Everything about her is the same yet so incredibly different. I’ve never thought pregnant women were beautiful, never thought much about them at all, but Sophia, the way she carries pregnancy, she looks like a fucking goddess. She’s never looked more beautiful than she does carrying my child.

I spent most of the dawn watching her sleep. Focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, her parted lips, the sensation of her soft skin beneath my rough hands. When I wasn’t doing that, I was talking to our little guy. It’s become a morning ritual lately. While his mom is still asleep, I chat with him about anything and everything. About how much I love his mother. How afraid I am for him to finally be here. About how much my mother would’ve loved him. But most of all, how much even now, I already love him.

Before Sophia, I never thought I was capable of love. But it seems because of her, I’m finding out my capacity for love and loving isn’t what I thought it was. What I feel for them both? I can’t even put it into words. It’s all-consuming. The love. The need to protect and cherish. And to think, if I’d never met her, I wouldn’t have this feeling. That feeling I get in my chest whenever I see her or whenever I feel him kick.

When the morning rays of light start to spill into the room, I press a kiss to her hair and slide out of bed to get dressed.

S.M. Soto was born and raised in Northern California where she currently resides with her son. Her love for reading began when she was a young girl, and has only continued to grow into adulthood. S.M. lives for reading books in the romance genre and writing novels with relatable characters. She refers to herself as a bit of a romance junkie. S.M. loves to connect with readers and eat copious of donuts that will surely lead to her demise (carbs are life).

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PURCHASE NOW!

PURCHASE IN PRINT FROM AMAZON

February, 1862

“Gather round, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, we have a most unique entertainment.”

Madame de Pompadour’s voice quivered with excitement as Grayson Powell, Viscount Wolfington, walked into The Market. He was late, but the unusual announcement grabbed his attention.

Despite the frustration that pulsed beneath his skin—not uncommon after a confrontation with his father—curiosity had Wolf veering away from the stairs and edging into the back of the half-filled salon.

The attractive madame continued her pitch, exciting the men, and a few of the women. “In a rare occurrence for an establishment such as The Market, tonight we shall have…an auction!”

Murmurs ran through the crowd. Moving closer, Wolf couldn’t help but find himself intrigued. Auctions occurred all over London, but most of them were of a questionable nature, typically featuring a virgin prize. He found the practice disturbing for multiple reasons, primarily because if the woman being auctioned was in fact a virgin, it was doubtful she was participating of her own free will.

Most of the time, the woman in question was not a virgin at all, which meant the buyer was being duped. Toss in the notion that buying and selling human beings smacked of slavery—a practice he could not condone, and England had outlawed in 1833—and all around it made the auctions an objectionable practice.

All of which made The Market holding one entirely outside the norm.

“The woman up for bid this evening is not a virgin.” Madame paused, drawing out the moment. “In fact, she is a woman of experience, who has been a wife to a peer of the realm and lover to a desert sheik. Tonight, she seeks an enthusiastic lover—or two—for a night of unrestrained passion.”

Wolf spotted his friends, Flint, Linc, and Arthur, milling about toward the back of the crowd. He stepped up and greeted them with a quiet nod.

“Interested in the auction, Wolf?” Linc grinned, a clear indication that he was most certainly intrigued by what Madame might have on offer.

“Not particularly. I have my doubts about these spectacles. Honestly, I would have thought The Market above such practices,” Wolf said and returned his focus to the front of the room as Madame raised her hands to quiet the murmuring crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lady Eatifi ‘Ahmar.”

Wolf’s heart suddenly leapt from his chest, only to lodge in his throat. A woman had appeared next to Madame de Pompadour, her hair a deep, fiery red that seemed to ignite in the gaslight. She might call herself Lady Eatifi ‘Ahmar now, but Wolf would know Julia Fairchild—or more aptly, Lady Wallthorpe—even if she were covered in robes from head to toe. And covered, she was not.

Next to him, Linc murmured, “Bloody hell, that woman is brazen. Wanton and brazen.”

And she was. Julia stood before a room full of mostly men wearing a puffy-sleeved chemise that ended far short of where such a garment should. Just below her breasts, the material banded and stopped, leaving her torso uncovered and exposed to all and sundry. The rest of the garment reappeared at her waist, creating a full-skirted look that swished about her ankles, offering suggestive peeks at her lower legs. Around her hips, she had wrapped a brightly colored scarf and a coin-draped belt, which tinkled as she paraded around the makeshift stage in her bare feet.

When she stopped at one end, she turned and flicked her hips, causing the coins to jangle and the material to swirl about her legs. Wolf’s mouth felt as though he’d ridden across the dells, only to be rewarded with cotton in lieu of water.

Finally, Lady Eatifi ‘Ahmar returned to Madame’s side and finished her tempting display with a shimmy of her shoulders that set everything to jiggling in the most enticing manner.

And with that, the bidding commenced.

“One hundred pounds from Lord Glennmore,” Madame announced.

It took mere moments for the bidding to reach a thousand pounds. With each subsequent raise in price, Wolf’s fury swelled.

How could Julia do such a thing? What of the scandal this would mire her in?

Had she no care for her reputation?

He listened to the lascivious men call out ridiculous sums of money for the privilege of slipping between her long legs, all the while watching for the point when the bidding slowed.

Wolf leaned over to Linc and nudged his friend. “How much blunt do you have on you?”

“Not interested?” Linc jabbed an elbow in his ribs. “I’ve got seven thousand pounds. Hit a run of luck at the tables tonight.”

“Can I borrow it? I’ll write you a draft on my bank.”

Linc grunted and handed him the wad of cash. “I don’t want the money. Share her with me.”

Wolf’s gut churned. Could he do such a thing? There was a time when he had been deeply in love with Julia. But he’d long ago closed off that part of himself, and willed it to wither and die. His intervention tonight was nothing more than common decency, a way to ensure she didn’t suffer at the hands of some pompous, overblown lord who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I plan to release her from any obligation to us.”

Linc sighed. “I rather figured. Go on, then.”

As the offers reached the five-thousand-pound mark, Wolf made his move. “Ten thousand pounds. Ready.”

The room grew quiet, except for a few mutters of annoyance from the previous highest bidders. Madame looked fit to burst, she was so pleased. Julia appeared surprised, almost as if she couldn’t fathom such a large bid.

Or perchance it was because it had come from him?

“Sold to Lord Wolfington!”

Madame’s excitement bubbled over, even as Julia leaned over and whispered in her ear. The enigmatic owner of The Market merely held up her hands, as if to say it was already done, and Julia frowned in response.

A few men grumbled, but it was clear Madame had achieved whatever her goal was, and she would not continue the auction.

Wolf pressed through the now-dispersing crowd until he reached the raised platform. Stepping up, he towered over the petite Madame de Pompadour, as usual, but the statuesque Julia still all but looked him in the eye. Years ago, when they had been young, her height and her refusal to appear of lesser stature was one of the many things he’d loved about her.

Wolf bowed over the proprietress’s hand. “Good evening, Madame.” And then he turned toward Julia, who automatically lifted her hand. Good manners always won out—even hers, so it seemed. “Ju—Lady ‘Ahmar, such a lovely surprise to see you again.”

Madame waggled her eyebrows. “Ah-ha! Now I understand. You know each other already.”

“Yes, we were acquainted many years ago,” Wolf replied. “But alas, she left me behind and gallivanted off to tour the world with her new husband.”

The bitterness over that turn of events was hard to squash down again, since it currently felt as though someone had ripped the bandage off the wound, causing it to seep anew.

“Well, that is what one does when they are deserted on a London street corner and left to be married off.”

Julia’s green eyes flashed sparks he’d never seen from her before. When he’d known her, she had been strong-willed, but soft-spoken

“And I suppose one also stays away from England for nearly ten years after his death?” Wolf let one of his brows rise, his anger refusing to be quelled.

“Such passion between you two, it gives me chills.” Madame’s eyes appeared glassy, and her cheeks flushed. “Alas, we must conduct business before pleasure.”

“Of course, Madame.” Wolf looked about and spotted his friend standing nearby. “Linc, can you take Lady…uh, ‘Ahmar, upstairs? I’ll be along in a moment.”

“My pleasure.” Linc held out his hand and assisted Julia down from the platform. Leaving Wolf to quickly follow Madame into her office to settle their business.

When he finally headed upstairs to find Julia and Linc, he tried to tamp down his more hedonistic instincts. He’d told Linc he planned to let her leave unmolested, which he fully intended to follow through with. But images of her standing on the dais with her torso exposed kept flashing through his brain. All that smooth, creamy flesh bared, and then the small peeks of her ankles as she’d stood barefoot.

Next his dastardly mind retrieved images that took him up her calves, over her thighs, and presented him with the notion of feasting on her sweet pussy. His cock flexed in his trousers, rising to the occasion, regardless of it being all in his mind.

Determined to be a gentleman, he willed his lusty thoughts to retreat and his shaft to soften as he steeled himself to see the woman he had once wanted more than his next breath.

~ ~ ~

Julia sat beside the man Grayson—no, Wolf—had called Linc.

Wolf? She tested the name out in her head, and thought about the man who had strode onto the makeshift stage to claim her. There had been a predatory quality to him that had not been part of the young man she had once known and loved. The moniker suited him far more than Grayson.

Linc eyed her speculatively as she sat across from him in the growing quiet. “Lady ‘Ahmar, it appears you have already met Lord Wolfington.”

Julia tried not to sigh as she thought of the idyllic young man she’d once known. “We were neighbors, many years ago.”

The blond man seemed to ponder that notion for a moment. “You must have been quite young.”

She couldn’t repress the smile that came to her lips as she remembered their youthful romps across the countryside near Marribone Manor, and then later, when they’d met again after he finished school and she had been launched into Society. He had acted the earnest, doting suitor during her first seasons, and made her believe in fate and fairytales.

While not the daughter of a peer, Julia’s father had been very successful in his business endeavors, which had afforded them the ability to move amongst the ton. Of course, as she later learned, that had all been done with a very precise purpose. Specifically, for her to marry into the peerage, thereby making her parents related to that upper echelon of Society versus the fringe dwellers they had been relegated to as nouveau riche upstarts.

“We were young and blissfully ignorant of gender and class expectations at the time.” Not to mention naïve about how unreliable love could be. Following her heart again was not a mistake she would make anytime soon. Memories of her past tasted bitter on her tongue, even as she waited for the source of all her heartache to reappear.

The door suddenly swung open, and she peered at two men and the ladies that accompanied them. However, Wolf was not among the small party.

“Hello!” One of the men, whose short-cropped hair fell in a soft wave of golden brown across his forehead, lifted a glass of amber liquid in a salute. “Where has Wolf gotten off to? I figured you two would be relishing your spoils by now.”

Julia’s cheeks heated at the obvious reference to their having won her in the auction. She drew a deep breath. She had known what would occur. Had even arranged for the event downstairs, but that knowledge didn’t mitigate the fact she had all but been forced into the event. Nevertheless, she had intended to make the most of an untenable situation.

Why shouldn’t I have the opportunity to explore a new sexual experience while holding the jackals of Society at bay?

Linc glared at the friendly man. “Hold your tongue, Dunmere. Lady ‘Ahmar is our guest.”

Dunmere’s eyebrows rose, but he ceased asking uncomfortable questions, which Julia was grateful for.

Then the door of the room swung open once again, and this time Wolf strode through, looking fiercely determined. About what, she had no idea. However, she hoped it had something to do with having hot, sweaty sex with her. And if that happened to include the boyishly handsome Linc, all the better. The man owed her a little pleasure after all the pain he’d caused.

“Julia—uh, Lady ‘Ahmar.”

Wolf seemed unsure for a moment as he pulled up short and stopped.

She rose to her feet. “Please, Julia is fine. My identity is no great secret, despite the nom de guerre.”

“Very well.” He nodded sharply. “I came to escort you home.”

“Home?” She was confused by his words, as images of the two men wrapped around her still teased her brain.

“Yes. Shall we?” He indicted the door, which he held open.

She crossed her arms under her breasts. “I believe we have some business to attend to first.”

Wolf’s golden-brown brows drew down over his clear blue eyes. “We do not.”

Her spine stiffened in indignation. “On the contrary, you won a night of sexual adventure with me, and I have no plans to renege on that promise.”

Just then, a group of noisy men and women stampeded past the open door of their room.

She let one brow rise. “Perhaps we could have this argument with less of an audience than the one both currently in the room with us, and the one passing by?”

Wolf grunted and waited until the man called Dunmere and the rest of his party departed. Then he closed the door with an imperious thud. “I bid on you with the full intention of releasing you from your obligation.”

Julia drew a deep breath. The man was going to be impossible about this. With no warning, she turned and wiggled onto Linc’s lap as he sat in a wing chair. Completely caught off guard, he had no chance to block her maneuver.

“Unfortunately, I have no such good intention on my part,” she continued. “You bid on me and won, and I fully intend to extract my night of pleasure from you and your friend. I believe you won together, did you not?”

Linc looked distinctly uncomfortable as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed her breasts closer to his chest and face. He coughed, then answered. “Yes, I provided some blunt.”

“Excellent. It was my preference that two men would win the night with me. Wolf, will you be joining us, or am I to be disappointed by you once again?”

She winced inside at her reference to their past, but she needed to move him off the mark. She needed to know what having Wolf as a lover might be like, just this once. Because despite her lingering anger with him, her body still responded to his mere presence.

To her excitement, Linc appeared to be game for her plan. His cock grew harder by the moment beneath her thighs. She turned her face so she was close to his ear and could whisper to him. “What will it take to get him to join us, do you think?”

“This secret conversation alone might do the trick,” Linc whispered back. “But if not, then maybe you could kiss me. That ought to get him moving…though hopefully not to punch me in the face.”

She chuckled and then leaned in and captured Linc’s lips with her own. Pushing past his teeth, she swept in to taste the whisky on his tongue and explore his mouth. He met her with a vigorous twist of tongues that reminded her of what it was to have a man touch her again. It had been nearly a year since she’d last felt the touch of a desirable man in his prime. And Linc fully met both requirements.

Though Wolf might easily obliterate the competition if he would remove himself from hovering near the door like a clucking hen.

And then his presence suddenly loomed over them, casting a shadow from the gas lamps along the wall. Rough hands, like those of a laborer, cupped her face and pulled her mouth from Linc’s. As she turned to look up at Wolf, their gazes met. His expressive blue eyes had shifted to a more stormy gray, and he slammed his mouth down on hers in a move that was pure declaration.

Julia’s senses reeled as Wolf kissed her. He tasted of man, and the faint hint of mint, which triggered the echo of a memory as their tongues tangled and twined. The wet slide was an erotic caress that had her nipples hardening and her pussy dampening in immediate response. Then one big hand slipped around to the back of her neck and hauled her up and off Linc’s lap. Once she was standing, Wolf pressed closer to her, deepening the kiss, as though he wanted to crawl inside her.

Behind her, Linc rose and pressed closer to her back, sandwiching her between them. He unfastened her belt, letting it fall to the floor with a muffled tinkle. Then he loosened the scarf at her waist and slipped it free from her hips.

Wolf broke the kiss, finally retreating for a much-needed breath. Julia’s head spun as she tried to take in the truth of the matter. The man she’d dreamed about for a decade was here in her arms, if only for one night.

How could she let the opportunity to bring every fantasy she’d had to life pass?

Wolf’s tumultuous blue gaze bore into her, demanding the truth. “Do you truly want this, Jules?”

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PURCHASE IN PRINT FROM AMAZON

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PURCHASE IN PRINT FROM AMAZON

Sorcha Mowbray is a mild mannered office worker by day…okay, so she is actually a mouthy, opinionated, take charge kind of gal who bosses everyone around; but she definitely works in an office. At night she writes romance so hot she sets the sheets on fire! Just ask her slightly singed husband.

She is a longtime lover of historical romance, having grown up reading Johanna Lindsey and Judith McNaught. Then she discovered Thea Devine and Susan Johnson. Holy cow! Heroes and heroines could do THAT? From there, things devolved into trying her hand at writing a little smexy. Needless to say, she liked it and she hopes you do too!

For more information about Sorcha, please visit her website, “Like” Sorcha on Facebook and follow her on Twitter, Instagram and Goodreads. Join Sorcha’s newsletter to be the first to hear about upcoming releases. She loves hearing from her readers. Email her directly at sorcha@sorchamowbray.com.

He’s known as Father Anton to his teammates—the brooding, sexy captain of the NHL’s Chicago Blaze has a reputation for…not having a reputation. Just like his diet and sleep routines, celibacy is part of Anton Petrov’s on-ice mojo. Or so they say. Anton stays mum on the subject. If the world thinks he chooses to abstain from sex, so be it. Better that than the truth getting out: there is a woman he burns for, but he can never have her. She’s his teammate’s wife, after all.

Mia Marceau is finally on her own. Now that she and her husband are living apart, she’s finding the peace she was desperate for. She spends her days in classes and late nights bartending, making her own way in the world at last. After what she’s been through, as long as her husband leaves her alone, she doesn’t plan to rock the boat. He still has the power to hurt those dearest to her, and she can’t demand a divorce with such a high cost.

A chance encounter with Mia has Anton hoping for a shot he never thought he’d get. And while she’s drawn to the intense, serious hockey center, Mia’s leery about playing with fire. That’s all Anton has ever known for Mia, though—a living, burning desire that won’t be denied—no matter the cost.

Anton

My brother’s a fucking asshole. I’ve known this since I first learned how to walk thirty years ago. My mom loves to tell the story about me taking my first tentative steps across our tiny Saint Petersburg apartment, my lips pursed in concentration. That is, until my twin brother Alexei crawled up behind me like a bat out of hell, laughing as he upended me and I fell on my ass.

“How’s that water?” He grins obnoxiously at me from across the table at our favorite Chicago steakhouse, his first glass of Heineken nearly gone already.

“Water’s water,” I say, shrugging. “How’s your liver?”

“My liver’s a fucking champ. It’s scrappy. If there was a Hunger Games for livers, mine would definitely be the winner.”

“You think?”

He arches his brows. “You only live once, man.”

Our server ends the conversation as he approaches with our dinner. Even though I devoured a salad already, my stomach growls as the plate with double portions of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables is set in front of me.

Alexei looks just as famished as he eyes his sixteen-ounce filet mignon and an enormous baked potato loaded with butter and sour cream.

“Another Heineken, sir?” the server asks him.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I’ll bring more bread, too.” The server picks up the basket Alexei emptied, slathering each piece with butter as I ate my salad. “Anything else I can get you?”

“I think we’re good, thanks,” I say.

We both eat in silence for a couple minutes, until my brother sets down his fork and gives me a stern look.

“You do realize I had the game tonight, right? If Lenz hadn’t been fucking asleep in front of the net, we’d have won. Easily.”

“Here we go.” I roll my eyes.

“Don’t start that shit, Anton. You know I’m right.”

“I know you lost.”

“Lenz practically escorted you to the inside of our net, man.”

“4–2.” I remind him of the score. “A decisive win, I’d say.”

“We’ll have a new goalie by Monday, guaranteed.”

“We smoked you, Lex. The big talking Comets got shut down.”

He glares at me as he puts a giant bite of steak into his mouth and chews it slowly. This is his old trick for thinking of a comeback when he’s got nothing.

My brother and I played on the same team from the time we immigrated to the US from Russia at age five until we both graduated from Boston College, where we played hockey on athletic scholarships. My full-time job in college, in addition to playing hockey and studying for class, was keeping my hard-partying brother out of trouble so he wouldn’t lose his scholarship.

After college, we entered the NHL draft and signed with different teams. There’s only room for one Petrov brother on an NHL team, because while our personalities are like night and day, we’re very much the same on the ice. We’re both first line centers who fight hard and never quit. Both team captains who accept nothing less than one hundred percent. And we’re also both stubborn as hell.

Alexei started out playing for Minneapolis, but now he’s with the Austin Comets and I’m with the Chicago Blaze. No one gives me more shit than my brother, but no one loves me more either. I know for sure he’d walk through fire for me, and I’d do the same for him. Dinner at Robertson’s Steakhouse is our tradition after every game we play against each other in Chicago, no matter how pissed off or beat down the loser feels.

A sexy CEO. A single mom. And a secret baby who is now eight years old…

A tipsy night in college resulted in Grace’s greatest joy–her daughter.

But now she sees the guy who gave her a fake name and number that night is stripping for a charity event without a care in the world.

When the feisty brunette confronts Brandon, finding out he has a daughter rocks his playboy world.

Grace wants answers. Brandon wants Grace. And Fallon wants a dad.

Is the ultimate party guy ready to strip it all bare…including his heart?

✦ Amazon https://amzn.to/2UmsDbj ✦ Barnes and Noble http://bit.ly/2UrFxF9 ✦ iTunes https://apple.co/2UrFyJd ✦ Kobo http://bit.ly/2Uo6N7n

He was giving her a warm look that did strange things to her insides. It reminded her of how she had felt at eighteen, life rife with possibilities. She’d been free, hopeful, a little wild.

She’d seen his blue eyes and jumped off a cliff.

It felt like a million years ago and yet here he was again. It was surreal.

Dangerous.

Somewhere inside her still lived that impulsive girl.

“Something’s pulling on my line!” Fallon yelled. The moment between them was broken. They both turned to look at Fallon.

Ironically, it was Brandon who pulled his hand away from hers.

Grace’s mouth went hot and she grabbed the bottle of water she’d brought down and took a huge sip.

Brandon was a sperm donor. Nothing more. That hadn’t changed.

Yet she watched him gently help Fallon reel in her line and she knew she was lying to herself.

Everything had changed.

And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

His best friend’s hot older sister.

Her younger brother’s annoying sidekick.

And one forbidden kiss in a bathroom in high school…

Sloane O’Sullivan is returning home to Minnesota, dreading turning thirty. Once the Mean Girl, she’s a lot more humble these days. And shocked to see how Little Dickie is all grown up and hot as hell, stripping at a charity event like he was born with biceps.

Working out has shed Rick Ryder of his despised childhood nickname. Now he leads a simple life. Work on cars, take care of his kid sister, have casual hookups. But when Sloane comes back to town single, he wants to finish what they started in that bathroom twelve years earlier.

It was complicated back then. It’s even more so now.

Because Sloane wrecks his bike.

And he’s her landlord.

And her brother will murder him if he has sex with her.

But sometimes you have to strip it all down to see what was there all along… even if it’s a secret.

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An introverted rich girl.

A stripper cop.

And a live-streaming kiss that threatens both their careers.

Cop Axl Moore is pretending to be a stripper for charity. But the cute blonde pulled up on stage seems to think he is the real deal.

When Leighton, director for the reality show Wedding Crashers, gets stopped by a cop she swears is actually a stripper, she’s determined to put the “f” in fun to save her job.

But their surprisingly potent kiss is caught on camera.

How do you recover from that?

A fake engagement…

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USA Today and New York Times Bestselling author Erin McCarthy first published in 2002 and has since written over sixty novels and novellas in teen fiction, new adult romance, paranormal, and contemporary romance. Erin is a RITA finalist and an ALA Reluctant Young Reader award recipient, and is both traditionally and indie published.

When she’s not writing she can be found sipping martinis in high heels or eating ice cream in fleece pajamas depending on the day, and herding her animals, kids, and amazing renovation-addicted husband.

Connect with Erin McCarthy

✦ Website http://www.erinmccarthy.net/ ✦ Facebook https://www.facebook.com/ErinMcCarthyBooks ✦ Twitter https://twitter.com/authorerin ✦ Instagram https://www.instagram.com/authorerinmccarthy/ ✦ Goodreads https://tinyurl.com/yc2xuxbw ✦ Bookbub https://www.bookbub.com/authors/erin-mccarthy

————-

The whole ride through the jungle was tense. Fin laid his palm on my thigh and my entire body locked up. It took all my strength not to jerk my thigh out from his grasp. I couldn’t piss him off so soon. I had to pick my battles, and this was not one of them.

Green whips past the open windows of the Jeep Safari in a blur of green. The thick bundles of trees clear into a wide space of sand and the distant sound of waves crashing against each other. A gleaming white jet stands proud and tall on a makeshift runway. The jet is smaller than your regular aircraft, or private aircraft, but the sight of it is still enough to have a ball of dread tightening in my belly. After the death of my parents, I’ve never been on a plane. I never even intended to.

My breathing escalates and my heart pounds a vicious rhythm. My gaze drifts toward Fin and I startle when I find his glare already glued to me. He’s been watching me, assessing my reaction to the jet.

He’s the reason my parents are gone—dead. He’s the cause and root of everything horrible that’s ever happened to me in my life, and he expects me to get in this plane? After he killed my parents, by having them cruelly murdered in a plane crash?

A surge of anger pumps through my body, prompting my arms and legs to tremble violently. Finlay pulls out a syringe filled with a clear liquid and my eyes widen. I shoot my gaze to his and narrow my eyes.

“I don’t need to use this again, Sophia, do I? I don’t want to treat you like my prisoner, but I will.” I swallow thickly and give an adamant shake of my head. I won’t let him prick me with that syringe any time soon. With a self-satisfied smile, Fin takes my hand and half drags me toward the jet, not even being mindful of my wounds.

I’m ushered onto the aircraft and the minute my seatbelt is on, Fin begins barking orders into his phone. The expression on his face is tinged with unbridled anger. I strain my ears, trying to hear what is being said on the other side of the line, but it’s useless. I’m listening to a one-sided conversation that makes zero sense and getting nowhere fast. The only comments that have me sitting taller in my seat are something about a warehouse and the mention of Chicago. Simply hearing the name of the city causes my heart to twinge. Creed comes to mind and it’s all I can do not to break down and cry. I shift my gaze out of the small window of the jet, preparing for a long flight.

S.M. Soto was born and raised in Northern California where she currently resides with her son. Her love for reading began when she was a young girl, and has only continued to grow into adulthood. S.M. lives for reading books in the romance genre and writing novels with relatable characters. She refers to herself as a bit of a romance junkie. S.M. loves to connect with readers and eat copious of donuts that will surely lead to her demise (carbs are life).

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