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Since I was a young girl, I've always loved horror movies and crime shows. The darker the better. Thanks, Dad! About a year ago, I was watching a repeat of Criminal Minds and went to bed that night brainstorming ideas for a book. Once I finished writing Dead Butterflies, I basically just shelved it because well ... life got in the way and did a dark and ugly number on my spirit. Fast forward a few months ... I woke up one morning and opened up the manuscript and pretty much re-wrote the whole thing and just decided I'd worked way too hard to let my personal drama keep me from publishing a story I loved and put my whole heart into writing. Dead Butterflies is book one of what, for now, is intended to be a duo. Dead Eyes Open is book two and the story of Damian Kinnard, Derek's younger brother who is a gay man. Stay tuned for more on that. Both books are romantic suspense, crime thrillers, and are standalone reads. Keep reading for a free chapter of Dead Butterflies and enjoy.  North Texas knows him as Mr. Car Aficionado for his charm, good looks, and cheery television personality. I know him as someone who triggers warnings and red flags in my head ... and makes my heart race. He claims we're nothing but a hopeless, cruel tragedy and maybe he's right. He's done despicable things. Unforgivable, vile, evil things. But none of that seems to matter when he's touching me. Sometimes a girl just has to say screw it and go with her heart. Some risks are worth taking... Some secrets are worth keeping hidden... Dead Butterflies Playlist: Seether … Forsaken Five Finger Death Punch … The Bleeding Breaking Benjamin … The Dark of You Saul … King of Misery A Day to Remember … Resentment Killswitch Engage … Always Starset … Monster Papa Roach … The Ending Breaking Benjamin … Dear Agony Korn … Right Now Bad Wolves … Heaven So Heartless Breaking Benjamin … Hollow 10 Years … Waking Up Godsmack … The Enemy My Darkest Days … Come Undone Five Finger Death Punch … Jekyll and Hyde 3 Doors Down … Let Me Go Seether … Driven Under Staind … Just Go I Prevail … I Don’t Belong Here Asking Alexandria … Alone Again Seether … Wasteland From Ashes to New … Wait for Me Pop Evil … Survivor Static-X … Bled for Days Architects … Dead Butterflies Five Finger Death Punch … Question Everything Bullet For My Valentine … Tears Don’t Fall Red … Pieces Pop Evil … Breathe Again Korn … Start the Healing Chapter Seven
Derek Twenty miles out of the city limits, the FM road leads to a secluded area surrounded by trees and not much else. I turn off the headlights and ease around to the side of the shithole of a home where I park the silver Chevy Tahoe loner vehicle between two overgrown oaks. An older model BMW M5 covered in thick dust—which I know from recent research belongs to Gallow—sits beneath the carport. I’m so damn fired up that it feels like a dozen fists punching and twisting my insides. Men like Gallow are rotten trash. Vermin. Shit on the soles of my shoes. They deserve every bit of their fate and all need to be eliminated. Slowly. Painfully. And this individual concerns someone close to my heart, which makes it even more necessary. This is goddamned personal. This is for my best friend, for his great-niece, and for his family. For my brother… my mother. Casting a glance around the place, I’m relieved to see the old mobile home a few hundred feet down the road is still dark, still abandoned, the front door still hanging by its hinges. Nothing but hungry rats, cooing pigeons, peeling paint, and decay live inside the walls of the rundown house. Catty-corner across the street is a nicely set up manufactured home, the lights also out at this late hour. Owned by a retired couple in their late seventies, if my research was correct, this shouldn’t be an issue. They’ve probably been asleep for hours. Warm and humid with the temperature still lingering in the upper eighties at one a.m. has me yearning for cooler weather. Sticky sweat has my shirt clinging to my back even with the air conditioning blowing out a heavy stream of cool air. Hell, even the trees must be looking for shade in this lingering heatwave. For a moment, I gaze upward at the silvery moonlight that’s shining with perfect, graceful ease and the millions of bright stars that look like falling tears. Then I step from the SUV, cover my boots, and reach for the disposable leg covers that end at the top of my thighs, giving me full access to my pockets. I follow with a fleece ski mask and lightweight nitrile gloves. That’s when I feel it. When I hear it. The slight breeze behind me. The gentle ring of his voice in my ears. The facetious tone of his words and the soul-filled gift of his laughter. And loss. Torment. Deep, agonizing resentment and gut-clenching outrage. Trapped in memories, I take a deep inhale of breath and make a quick phone call. “I’m here. Should be ready for you and the bus around two. I plan on spending a few extra fun-filled minutes with this fucker.” Freddie Gallow. Twenty-four. Former athlete for one of Dallas’s largest prestigious private high schools. Comes from a long history of money and the Gallow real estate fortune. Word has it that young Freddie’s family sent him packing after he fell into a lifestyle of drugs and alcohol instead of pursuing a professional career in the family business. Filthy goddamned bastard. He shall die young. And slowly. Savagely. Agonizingly. In just a few scant hours, Freddie Gallow will be nothing more than a long trail of cold, wet, unrecognizable ashes and another statistic of a drug deal gone bad. “And if this is too close to home for you, buddy, Abe and Marco can handle it. Stay out of this one if you need to.” “Not a chance. I want to see his blood on the ground and watch his fucking flesh turn to burnt dust. I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing the job is done and this man will breathe no more.” Sean’s response is indifferent, almost evil. “Two o’clock, then.” “Two o’clock,” Sean confirms. I end the call and gather my things from the back seat of the Kinnard loner with its blacked-out windows and altered license plate and catch a faint stench of something resembling dead flesh from somewhere in the near distance. Waves of rancid, overpowering stink have bile bubbling in my throat, and I swallow hard and briskly. Then, with the quick run of a firm palm over both my front pocket and the blade behind me, I confirm both weapons are nicely secure and pull my backpack over my shoulders. With restrained, stalking steps, I near the back door and turn the knob. It’s no surprise to find it locked, yet it only takes seconds to jimmy it open. Stale smoke radiates in the kitchen, a wave of muted light shining from the oven clock. An open pizza box rests on the counter with a housefly buzzing over a trail of crumbs. Two empty bottles of Heineken rest in the sink with a crumpled napkin lodged inside one of them. The place reeks with a need for a deep cleaning. A few footsteps ahead, I see the faint glow of a flat-screen television. Gallow reclines on a brown, tattered leather sofa with a round table next to the arm. Four rows of crystal-white powder are spread out in even fine lines on a hand mirror. A bottle of water rests in his lap, and he’s rubbing his forehead as if trying to ease a headache while staring up at an old western movie with John Wayne wearing an eye patch and drinking something from a small, dark bottle. With olive skin, dark eyes, and a head of thick nearly black hair that’s cut short, the guy is decent-looking, other than he’s a good thirty pounds underweight. From what I’ve seen on social media, he’d once been a real gem with the ladies. My jaw clenches at the sight of him. “Evenin’.” Terror sparks in the dilated, glazed eyes of Freddie Gallow as they meet mine. Dressed in a worn pair of athletic shorts that have seen better days, he jumps up off the couch, a bottle of water falling from his hand to the floor beneath him. “What the fuck? Get out of my house or I’ll blow your goddamned head off!” Panic-stricken, Gallow reaches between the cushions of the sofa. But before he’s retrieved what I suspect is a weapon, I’m on him, reaching for his neck. Stupid, idiotic moron. “Wrong, motherfucker,” I hiss. “Now do exactly as I tell you. Step away from the couch and turn around and face me. Slowly. Carefully. Hands at your sides.” Gallow grits his teeth. “Kiss my motherfucking ass,” he says, then struggles to release himself from my grip. “Step. Away. From. The. Couch,” I reiterate, my tone low and bitter. “Unless you want me to sink my blade through your asshole.” He does as I said and faces me, his bottom lip quivering. I reach into the pocket of my hoodie and remove my phone, then pull up a photo. Beautiful. Young. Long shiny dark hair. Glistening white, perfectly-shaped teeth. Dressed in a cheerleading outfit with a big embroidered “L” across her chest, she looks happy, at ease, like any other content teenage girl living life and enjoying adolescence. But like all the others, she’s another young kid who ended up making one senseless move—a fatal one. “You know this girl?” I shove the phone under his nose. Gallow shrugs, his stare aloof. “Maybe. Maybe not. What the fuck’s it to you?” My response is a silent but relentless deep knee in the nuts. He screams in agony and reaches for his groin. “What the fuck?!” he seethes, the color draining from his face. “That was for this little girl who overdosed on the shit crank you gave her, and before you open your trap, forget trying to feed me any bullshit denials. They have identified you. Took a little coaxing, for obvious reasons. But in the end, as we both know, money talks. Tomorrow, this information goes to the cops. So you, Gallow, are up shit creek with no paddle in sight. Either way, you lose. It’s either prison for a few years, being the new pretty boy and the newest bitch on the floor, or you end up a dead man by my hand. Now, should you play nice and tell me what I want to know, I may return the favor, be a little more polite, and make this a little less uncomfortable. Tell me where I can find a dealer called CD.” Gallow heaves out a laugh and wipes an arm across his runny nose. “Go fuck yourself, narc! I’m not telling you shit! And those cunts came to me looking for a good time. They wanted to party, so we motherfucking partied. Hard. Hell, I’m just a businessperson doing his job. I only gave them what they paid for. And as for going to the pigs? Do it. It won’t change shit. My old man has more zeros on his bank account than you can probably even count. I’ll end up with another friendly slap on the hand. Maybe a few months’ probation before the DA seals my records. Just like last time. Just like the next time.” I almost laugh in his face, tempted to tell him that Daddy can’t help with this one and Mama’s tit is all fucking dried up. When I reach behind me for my backpack, my knee cramps up, the old skateboard accident rearing its ugly head at the worst possible time. I damn near stumble to the ground and the side of my ski mask rises on one side just enough to expose me. A smirk covers the fucker’s face. “Well, fuck me! How about that? I knew you sounded familiar,” he says in a tone laced with spite that has me wanting to pull the goddamned tongue from his mouth, cut it off with my blade, and feed it to him. “You’re the pretty millionaire that all the ladies drool over. Ain’t you got enough money in your pockets already? The car business not paying out like you thought it would, squealer?” I jerk the mask down my face then reach in my backpack for a role of Gorilla in case the need arises, along with a full syringe, which I roll between my gloved fingers in front of his eyes. “Ever hear of a strychnine cocktail, fucktard?” I lean over against his ear. “Only takes ten to twenty minutes before the spasms begin. Another few before every muscle in your body will convulse until your backbone arches continually. The convulsions then lead to what’s called lactic acidosis, which in layman’s terms means hyperthermia or overheating. Next, Gallow, comes the breakdown of skeletal muscle, postictal depression, and paralysis of the pathway that controls breathing. And then there’s the best part yet, the cherry on top. Sweet, painful asphyxiation and slow, agonizing death. Ever wonder how long you can hold your breath underwater? I’ve heard that most folks last about two minutes.” “You’ll fucking pay for this.” “That’s doubtful. But hey, let’s you and I take our time, shall we? First things first.” I reach for the mirror and shove it underneath his nose. “Let’s motherfucking party. Hard. All of it, fuckface. Snort it nice and deep. You’re going to need it.” Gallow trembles as a glisten of cold sweat breaks out over his eyes. “No, man. I don’t want it right now. I—I don’t need it.” I set the mirror to the side, almost tempted to plunge my blade into his kidney and watch him bleed out. “Trust me. You need it.” My knee connects with the worthless vermin’s nuts again, much harder than before. His agonizing sob makes me grin. Clutching his groin in misery—sweet, painful misery—he doubles over, trying to catch his breath and keep from puking. “Fuck you, dude! My family will ruin you.” His words only worsen the fire inside me. With a huff of a laugh, I reach for his cock, then twist and squeeze. “There’s only one person here who’s going to end up ruined, you dumb bastard. And that, Gallow, is you. And by your own shit dope, along with the added gift of my special cocktail made just for you.” I smirk, then squeeze again. He screams in pain. “Your choice, dude, though you sound more like a little bitch-ass pussy when you scream. Now, I can stay here all motherfucking night and drag this party out for as long as you like, or you can do what I said and snort the fucking blow.” “You’re gonna fucking kill me over some dumb slut who was too ignorant to know when to stop? Fuck, man. I’m no babysitter. I can’t prevent the stupid mistakes kids make. I’m just like any other man. Trying to pay the bills. Trying to survive. P—please don’t do this.” His eyes go upward like he’s seconds from passing out, and I land a savage palm across his face then pull the cordless, half-inch driver-drill from my pack . “Tell me where I can find CD or give me his full name. Then maybe I’ll refrain from using this nice little jewel and perhaps even let you keep most of your teeth. And your tongue. Possibly even your nuts.” “I can’t do it, man. I can’t rat somebody out that way. Just kill me,” he says with his bottom lip quivering. “I—I don’t give a fucking shit anymore.” “So be it. We’ll play it your way. Take a few seconds first. Make your peace with Jesus.” I toss the drill aside and instead reach for the needle-nose plyers in my backpack and press them against his lip. “Last chance, Gallow. Names! Now! Before my patience runs fucking out. And I can promise, you don’t want that.” A gush of red coats his teeth after I squeeze the plyers over his central incisor, and he glowers at me when I show him the bloody tooth. He spits a clump of blood mixed with shards of fibrous ligament at my feet, and I lift a hard knee into his groin again. He howls in misery while a trickle of snot mixed with blood runs from his nose. Beautiful. Perfect. Right on target. Cocaine can trigger loss of smell, nosebleeds, and general inflammation to the nasal septum. Gallow is congested, primarily on his right side, and probably doesn’t even realize his nose is bleeding. With an annoyed huff, I reach for the mirror and shove it back under his runny nose. “Snort it, fuckface. All of it. Every. White. Morsel. Or I’ll remove each of your teeth slowly and painfully via this pretty little drill beside me. Then I’ll be the gentleman that I am and let you cut your tongue from your mouth before I feed it to you in pieces.” “Okay! Fuck!” he sobs with terror in his eyes. “Do anything you want. Slice my goddamn neck open. Pull my fucking teeth. Inject me with your poison. Just stop kicking me in the nuts!” Twisting, incessant rage boils inside me like billowing fire. They’re all the same, these small-scale dope pushers. Sorry as sorry comes. Money-hungry motherfucking cowards who rely on young kids to fill their bank accounts. With that familiar, innate, deep need to rid every petty dealer I can manage, the monster inside me stirs to full life. Obviously, I don’t do this for money. There're more zeros in my bank account and trust than I can ever spend. Money I don’t give two fucks about, and which I’d gladly toss into a fiery pit of flames just to return to that day and have my family back. This is personal. It’s necessary. This country’s grossly negligent court system is failing its people. It’s neither fair nor equal and only ranks twentieth on its quality of criminal justice. My brother, Sean’s great-niece, and the hundreds of other victims are losing to the failed punishment of these pathetic loser punks, most especially those with rich families like Gallow. Sadly, the numbers continue to grow instead of decline. So, is it wrong to take matters into my own hands? Is it an unforgivable sin, as the Bible states? An instant stairway to Purgatory? I suppose by many more standards than not, it fucking is. But where is the justice for these innocent kids? These broken families? Where is their revenge? Where is their destiny? Why is my brother in the fucking ground? Why did my mother die of a goddamned broken heart? Sobbing and trembling, Gallow snorts the coke deep into his sinuses and I decide that I’m done here and inject the syringe into the jugular vein. “Night night, Gallow. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” “Fuck you, pretty boy,” he responds. “You’re no better than me.” “Never claimed to be.” Once his body starts spasming and rolling on the floor like a squashed bug, it only takes minutes before hypothermia sets in. Sweat beads over his brows. Shivers gain control over his body as his temperature drops and his nervous system fails. His speech slurs, the vessels in his eyes shattering as his oxygen supply depletes itself. Perfect. Thirty minutes later, I’m looking into dilated pupils filled with terror and heavy sweat covering skin that’s taking on an odd shade of purple from cyanotic tissue damage. Piss pools around his distorted-looking torso. Five teeth and part of a tongue that the bastard chewed off himself rests beside his leg. Reaching for the Ruger just because I fucking feel like it, I aim right between his eyes, pull the trigger, and watch a thin trail of scarlet gravy exit the wound. “As we sow, so shall we reap, fucker.” I suck in a deep breath, one more, then snap a photo on my phone, gather my things, and walk out the same door I came in. My days as a killer aren’t over. Not yet. Maybe never. I am a businessman, a madman, an exterminator. And I won’t stop. Not until I smell the one aroma never to be erased from even the strongest of men—the slow-roasted, coppery tang of burning flesh and the man only known to me as CD. I am with you… always.
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Blurb: Rayne St. Cyr, Marquess of Seaford, is resigned to marry and produce heirs. He then learns his bride is partaking of a Season, arranged by her father, the Baron, to force his hand. His honor impugned, the secret behind the arranged marriage additionally fuels his ire. Believing Lady Emma to be no different than her odious father, St. Cyr hatches a nefarious plan: quickly marry and seclude her, visiting only to beget those heirs. Lady Emma Newmark is kind and caring, though at the mercy of her widowed father. Now, rushed into marriage, isolated in a ruined castle with a man who exudes contempt—yet draws her all the same—she despairs. Spurned and humiliated, left with servants who apparently plot her demise, she runs away, preferring to choose her fate. Rayne comes to his senses and saves her, but can a new plan gain her forgiveness—and love?  Excerpt: Hysteria nibbled around the edges of her current forced calm. “My lady.” There it was, her name forgotten. Again. Good, the more formal, the better. “Emma.” She started. He was prescient. She was doomed. Cautiously looking his way, she said, “My lord?” He was staring, his amber eyes darkened, his chin propped on steepled fingers, and she couldn’t look away. He said, “When we are alone, I’d prefer you call me Rayne. I realize I hadn’t given you leave before, just as I now presume to call you Emma, but—” She was shaking her head, seemingly unable to stop the motion. Was she to have given permission first? Was that what he was inferring? That she was at fault? Again? Exhaustion swatted at her like a horse’s tail on a fly. Then some imp from childhood overtook her, and she spoke without censoring herself, her speech taking on a life of its own, forgetting her vulnerability. “Not once did you indicate a need for familiarity, St. Cyr. Nor did you invite it. Your reserve, your very formality, a certain rudeness, to be frank, clarified our respective roles. You’d already judged me and held me to my father’s standards. You hate me! Hold me in contempt! And brought me here where I would be forgotten until you … until you could send word to … do away with me. All that nonsense about heirs, seducing me—it was all prevarication and, and lust. When all I wanted, all I coveted, was a child. Ch … children. And what I nearly did…” Aware her voice had risen and then broken on the last of her tirade, Emma caught up a patched napkin and pressed it to her mouth, aghast. The broth scalded up her throat, and she choked, watching her husband’s face. The bronzed skin was ashen, and what could only be horror painted lines and shadows across his handsome features. He shoved to his feet, and she mirrored him, somehow avoiding his grasp, her feet screaming with pain but not deterring her in a headlong rush to somewhere, anywhere. There was no need for further games and fake sensibilities now. She’d doomed herself, and terror gave her wings. It wasn’t enough. St. Cyr’s longer legs cut the distance, and he swept her up, ignoring her pitiful struggles, and carried her up the stairs. Mrs. Murrow’s and Floyd’s startled visages flitted across her peripheral vision, and then she swooned.  Buy Links: Evernight: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/the-fall-that-kills-by-peri-elizabeth-scott/ Siren: https://www.bookstrand.com/book/the-fall-that-kills-mf Amazon: The Fall That Kills - Kindle edition by Scott, Peri Elizabeth. Romance Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-fall-that-kills Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-fall-that-kills-peri-elizabeth-scott/1139129145?ean=2940164858728  About The Author:
Peri Elizabeth Scott aka Allyson Young lives in cottage country, Manitoba, Canada where she and her husband pretend to work well together in their seasonal business. She has always enjoyed the written word, and after reading an erotic romance, quite by mistake, decided to try her hand at penning one. That was followed by a mix of spicy (Ally) and sweet (Peribeth) romances in various genres as well as a post-apocalyptic adventure without a lick of romance by Peribeth. A bestselling Amazon author, a hybrid, and a coauthor, as of January 2021 she has published seven series and more than a dozen standalones, with others in the works. www.perielizabethscott.com peribeth@hotmail.ca https://www.facebook.com/sweetnspicyauthor/ DREAMLAND Beth D. Carter Dicen Burke had it all. As lead singer in the world famous rock band, Dark Army, the world lay at his feet. But the path to super stardom warred with a painful past and during a performance the demons haunting him finally descended. Unable to stop the self-destructive path of alcohol and drugs, when he fell, he fell hard. He wakes up in a world he doesn’t know. The Twenty-first century rocker is now in the 1920’s, lost and bewildered. He’s taken in by Juliet Fox, a beautiful woman trying to be a positive influence in her brother’s wild lifestyle among the Hollywood Motion Picture elite. Dicen does his best to adapt, and with Juliet by his side, he discovers a world that offers him a clean slate. But when he’s pulled back to the present, separated by time from the one person that gives him a reason to live, will he find a way to push past his demons as well as find Juliet again?  What inspired you to write Dreamland? Ever since the genre exploded in the mainstream romance world back in 1986, with the publication of Timeless Passion by Constance O’Day Flannery, I have loved time travel. It had always been my goal to write time travel in a unique way, and Dreamland certainly delivers on that! I love all the books I’ve written, but I have to admit, this one is my favorite. Tell us something about the novel that doesn’t appear on the blurb or the excerpt. Okay, obviously if the book is set in Hollywood during the Roaring Twenties, I had to mention someone famous. So…Dicen and Juliet go to a party and he sees a man that’s slightly familiar. Juliet tells him it’s John Barrymore, and he replies now he sees the resemblance to Drew. Juliet asks who’s that, and he replies “Just a girl I know.” I think the scene is hilarious! How much research went into Dreamland? I wanted this to be as authentic as possible so a lot of research went into the lingo. The 1920s was a completely unique time period, rich and beautiful as well as dangerous and frivolous. We as readers know what’s right around the bend for these people, how the world descends into the Great Depression, and we feel that live-or-die exuberance from the characters. And it’s heartbreakingly intriguing. That’s what I love about this book and these characters. The Roaring Twenties lingo: Bimbo: refers to a macho man Giggle water: liquor, alcoholic beverage Half-seas over: shitfaced Jake: okay, as in “Everything’s fine” Ossified: drunk Big six: tough, like a six-cylinder engine Keen: appealing, good looking Balled up: messed up Bee’s knees: great Rummy: drunk man Applesauce: ridiculous Drugstore cowboy: man hanging around the street corners Excerpt: “Hey you,” a soft voice commanded. “Open your eyes please.” He tried to obey, struggling to push past the lingering darkness that clung to him like a second skin. God, he felt horrible. “That’s it,” she soothed. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” Finally, he managed to raise his eyelids. An angel leaned over him, staring into his eyes. She smiled at him so he smiled back. He had always thought it would be demons that would come collect him when he died so it amazed him that heaven was calling. “Ah, a set of beautiful baby blues,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. “Hello, handsome.” He opened his mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come. His tongue felt swollen, dry. He forced himself to swallow to try to get some saliva flowing. “W-what happened?” She cocked her head. “Bad hooch I’m thinking. Gotta be careful of certain juice joints. Come,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let’s get you sitting upright.” He hadn’t realized he’d been lying down but as she helped him up, he realized the halo around her head had been nothing more but the flickering of a street light accentuating the midnight hue of her hair. When he was vertical once more, he finally saw all of the woman’s features. Short bobbed hair held back by a headband made of crystal beads while dark eyes watched him from under thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. Her lips were a cupid’s bow, painted a deep red. Her skin a flawless pale shade that contrasted sharply with her heavily made up eyes. “Like what you see?” she asked. He blinked. “I always like my fans. Where am I?” One of those thin eyebrows arched. “That hooch must’ve really made you balled up. You’re off Hollywood Boulevard, of course, belly up in an alley.” He looked around, completely baffled. How the hell did he get here? Where was the stage? The screaming fans? Kieron, Van and Tony? “Do you have a name, handsome?” “Yeah, sorry. I’m Dicen Burke.” He waited. He waited for the name to sink in, for her eyes to widen, for her to begin batting her eyes in an attempt to flirt her way into his bed. “Juliet,” she said. “Juliet Fox. I was looking for my brother, Thayer, and figured I’d find him upchucking out here and instead I find a keen big six. Say, you’re no drugstore cowboy are you?” “Excuse me?” Her lack of a response to his name, along with slang he didn’t understand, threw him. “You know, a guy that hangs around street corners looking to pick up ladies. Just so we’re clear on the matter, I ain’t that kind of girl,” she informed him, the smile on her face lessening the harshness of her tone. “Have you seen another man out here, by chance, throwing up?” She confused him. He shook his head and then wished he hadn’t when it throbbed. “God, I need an aspirin.”  Where to Buy:
https://www.evernightpublishing.com/dreamland-by-beth-d-carter/ Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2ZHel9F Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2Zq2uMZ Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2VDlGpo Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2Ajug54 Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1030642 Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/dreamland-67 Bio & Social Media Links: I began reading my mom’s Harlequin Presents in the fifth grade, and from the first story I knew I wanted to write romance novels. I like writing about the very ordinary girl thrust into extraordinary circumstances, so my heroines will probably never be lawyers, doctors or corporate highrollers. I try to write characters who aren't cookie cutters and push myself to write complicated situations that I have no idea how to resolve, forcing me to think outside the box. I love writing characters who are real, complex and full of flaws, heroes and heroines who find redemption through love. You can find me on the web at: http://bethdcarter.blogspot.com/ https://twitter.com/BethDCarter https://www.facebook.com/bethdcarterauthor https://www.instagram.com/bethdcarter/ https://www.bookbub.com/profile/beth-d-carter Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/BethD.Carter/e/B00EOTD1T0/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1385417145&sr=8-1 Watch the Book Trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YXCKdpjlb7U  Michael Bassey Johnson once said, “People will walk in and walk out of your life, but the one whose footstep made a long-lasting impression is the one you should never allow to walk out.” When my dad told me we were moving to a little shit hole of a town called Springhill, Texas, my first day at school was filled with nothing but anger in my head and a huge chip on my shoulder. I never realized that one move would change my life. Never contemplated returning some nineteen years later torn between what was most important—a daughter—and the man and woman who still ached for me just as deeply as they did one another. But someone is stalking the woman I love, the mother of my daughter. Her museum has been burned to the ground, her Jeep vandalized, and confidential suggestive photos sent to her family. Secrets will be exposed. Truths will be unveiled. Lives will forever be changed. Will these revelations bring us closer … or will one person from our past ruin everything and destroy our chances at forever?  Chapter Three Jason When I was fifteen, my dad announced over a dinner of grilled hamburgers and my mother’s tropical fruit salad, that we were making another move. This time to a small shit-hole of a town in far West Texas called Springhill. My dad was a hard-working man—an oilfield worker. Raised in a family of six in Southeastern Massachusetts, William Nathaniel Lee decided way before he graduated high school that the oilfield was the place for him, and not the cranberry bogs where he’d watched his father and many of his peers work since he was a young boy. Oilfield work guaranteed good money and didn’t involve fancy educations or high-powered skills, just hard manual labor. Dad had gone to work with William, Sr. many times growing up. He’d seen it all. Grueling hours of standing in flooded bogs from dawn to dusk, back-breaking physical work in the cold rain, dealing with insects, weeds, and fungi. William, Jr., aka ‘Dad’ or ‘Pops’ chose roughnecking over the cranberry bogs in his early years, earning a decent blue-collar living for his family. But also requiring moves from city to city, state to state, following the ever-changing ups and downs of the oil and gas industry. Three changes of residency in four years meant another new address. Another new school. Boxes to unpack. New people to meet. New churches to join. Leaving was never easy, but this move had been more than just setting up a new house, making new friends, or adapting to a new town. This move changed everything. It was life-defining. A turning point. One that would forever change who I was and who I would become. I stood in the cafeteria line, new to town, alone, uncomfortable, staring at what they were calling meatloaf. Mediocre-looking at its best, there wasn’t much of anything I wouldn’t eat other than anything green and classified as a vegetable, but the overpowering scent of garlic in this place had bile rising up my throat. Perfectly squared cubes of gray-looking meat. Vegetables that were near mush. Dry mashed potatoes that were most definitely instant. I grunted in disgust. “Looks like utter, putrid shit, doesn’t it?” The low rumbling tone had me spinning on my feet and looking to my right. His voice was heavy. It was powerful, robust, one that demanded you listened as it spoke. It was cultured and smooth, but potent, commanding, and possessive. And when I got my first good look at him, I would have dropped my last dollar that he had to be from one of the swanky ranching families in the area. It wasn’t that he was dressed particularly fancy, but he just had that kind of aura to him that stopped you in your tracks. Features strong and defined. Eyes the color of the earth. Lips full, thick, and bending into a sly grin. Slightly wavy, tousled dark hair. All framed by a distinguished chin and muscles rippling underneath his shirt that made my body flush warm. Just one look at this guy and his wide shoulders, flat stomach, and long sturdy legs clad in faded Levi’s leading to scuffed-up brown western boots, and I was positive that he was someone special, someone who would be in my life for years to come. I felt drawn to him, like right then and there he was claiming me with silent whispers that one day I would be his. From that very moment, I wanted to know him better. My God, I ached to know him in wrongful ways a boy was only meant to know a girl. Ways I knew were unethical and unjust and ungodly. Ways that, for the next two years of my life, I would try my best to forget and overlook. Ways that would only grow stronger as I grew older. “Smells like utter shit as well,” I responded, while wondering why someone like him chose to eat someplace like this when surely he had a hired cook and fancy meals waiting for him at home. He took a step closer—his shoulders almost touching mine, his chocolate eyes narrowing as he held out a strong hand—while shame, remorse, and a deplorable urgent need and hunger sucked the air from my lungs and lodged deep in my throat. In that split second, something powerful and almost soothing told me this person would one day be my kindred spirit, my soul mate, and my eternal companion. “Keith Ryker.” His lips curved when he held out a hand to shake, the sound of his cultured voice electric, the glimmer in his eyes bright, yet flashing with something dark, wicked, and powerful. “Name’s Jason Lee. Glad to make your acquaintance.” Less than five years later, I was following my old man’s footsteps. Working in the oil patch. Hauling parts to far-flung sites. Roughnecking on a pulling unit. And living the life of a bi-sexual man. And now, in my mid-thirties, I’ve moved up the ladder and landed myself a good-paying job with a nice retirement package and long list of quality benefits. I’ve traveled all over the world. Met hundreds of interesting people. I’ve visited beautiful blue sandy beaches, high, snow-covered mountains, and cities full of trash, smog, and poverty on every other corner. Working in the oilfield industry has given me the opportunity to relocate to a long string of cities and states, and even countries. Yet, out of all the white sandy coastlines, snow-covered Alps kissing the heavens, and peaceful drifting waterfalls, I chose Springhill. For one reason—to be a part of my daughter’s life, even if she doesn’t know who her true biological father is. And though there are times that I feel like life would be simpler somewhere else, deep down I know I wouldn’t have it any other way. But along with all the good always comes the bad. Picking up where I left off has been hard. Excruciatingly. While I live out my life in Springhill, enjoying my growing bank account, driving fancy cars, and traveling the world, I’ll stand by Keith and Jen. I’ll watch them live as man and wife, share tender touches, trade loving smiles, raise children, while I remain the same old Jason. A man torn. A man lonely. A man broken. Keith and Jen will carry forward. They will live on, move ahead, and have everything, as I stand firm, survive, persevere, pretend that my insides aren’t in bloody painful pieces, and continue to have … nothing. **** My mind is in shreds. At no time have I ever considered something so vicious as this in the small country town of Springhill. Arson… Motherfucking hell, what I’ve just witnessed is a picture I will never erase from my mind. Warm water runs down my back and releases some of the tight tension while I scrub the nauseating stench of smoke from my skin. Fifteen minutes, maybe longer, have passed since I stripped out of my soiled clothes and stepped inside the shower, but I can still feel the heat of the flames. Still smell the ruins of destruction. Still see pain flashing in Jen’s eyes, anger, rage, and guilt in Keith’s. All as I stood shocked, helpless, and hopeless. Yearning to comfort Jen in my arms. Desperate to relax the remorse and stress from Keith just the way I know he likes. Christ, I pine for all that I’ve lost. Some days I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead with this hole in my heart bleeding and aching, cold and bitter. I just want him … and her … and us. So. Motherfucking. Much. Steam has misted the mirror and clouded the air when I step from the shower. I flip on the exhaust fan then reach for a towel with a wave of fatigue creeping up on me. I’m suddenly tired as fuck, ready to grab a bite to eat and crawl into bed. After I toss the wet towel onto the vanity, I leave a trail of water behind me and saunter into the attached bedroom, naked, my body hard with need, my mind swirling with a dozen thoughts. “Jesus fucking Christ! Nothing like sneaking up on a man when he’s naked!” Keith is standing with his hip against the door frame. His hands are inside his pockets. His eyes are glued to mine and glazed over with a look I know all too well. He’s tired. He’s stressed. He’s worried. He’s hard as iron underneath his jeans. For seconds that feel like minutes, we both stand and stare. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. His cocoa-hued gaze doesn’t budge. It’s like cement against mine. When I can no longer stand to look at his symmetrical bone structure, the high and prominent cheekbones, a tightened jaw rough with several days of stubble, and that perfectly thick erection that I’m dying to touch, I break the uncomfortable silence. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Something dark, something deep, something threatening flashes beneath his hardened expression. A look I crave and need and long for, and one that almost undoes me. “Think you know why I’m here.” He takes long strides in my direction, boldly, fearlessly, and stops only inches in front of me with his lips coiling in some sullen kind of emotion. For a fraction of a minute, his gaze lingers on mine, his eyes dark and stormy. He slides a rough hand down the length of my stomach, stopping at my dick. “Your eyes are hungry,” he says with a husky drawl. “That beautiful cock of yours is dripping with arousal.” He presses his warm lips into the hollow of my throat that I feel absolutely everywhere. “And your neck is flushed … boy.” And with that, his fingers are sliding underneath the back of my hair. He’s pulling my lips to his, swallowing them, his tongue dipping deep, probing and stroking as he kisses into my mouth with a desperate ferocity like he not only craves the kiss, but more of a have-to-have kind of kiss. “I fucking need you. You need me. We complete each other. So stop fighting what’s inevitable.” With one hand palming my length and the other moving around toward my windpipe, his jaw tenses when I inadvertently release a sensual moan. Every damn thing he’s doing feels so fucking good. I want nothing more than to let him take me out of this hell-filled misery, bend me over, sink his teeth into my flesh, and then feed every inch of his cock inside me until he’s balls deep. With his palm pressing against my throat, I can barely catch my breath. My hands itch to reach out and touch him. My knees are shaking to drop before him. My lips crave the taste of his warm, salty release … and my cock is hard and ready to turn the proverbial page. To flip him over, spread him apart with my palms, and take him hard and deep with no compassion, very little or no lube, and show him I’m not the same Jason as before. Right now, at this moment, I’m not his boy. I do none of these things I’m thinking. Instead, I pull back, my chest balled with emotion, my body in confusing misery, my heart splitting right down the middle. “No,” I manage to say without falling apart. “We’re not doing this. You’re married. You have two girls to raise. My daughter to raise. And whoever did this to the museum knows something. You damn well know it. And I won’t put the people I love at risk. So, just go.” Fucking fuck. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Part of me wants to apologize for what I’ve just said and ask him—plead with him—not to go. The other side of me hears my dad’s voice telling me to stay strong and stand tall. Before any words form, his thumb is brushing against my chin and his lips are crushing against mine again. My body is weakening, my willpower turning to dust. He moves lower and sucks hard at the sensitive part of my neck. Teasing. Taunting. Punishing and tormenting with the wicked warm feel of his mouth and the small touch of pain and pleasure he knows I crave and desire. “Seeing my marks on your neck turns me to fucking stone.” His lips press to my ear. “With your dick that damned hard and your heart thudding against your chest, give me one good reason to believe you don’t want me to stay. Stop playing these mind games, Jason. Let me give you what we both need, what we’ve always needed.” There’s almost an urgency in his tone, one that pulls a moan from my chest. He shifts, then bites, shifts again, bites again, and leaves what I know will be a red trail underneath my ear. “Christ, Keith.” He steps back and we share another long moment of miserable silence with his hand still squeezing at my cock. His eyes are fixed, hungry, and damn near black. They’re pinned to mine like unmovable magnets. “Jason, I don’t want to leave. I don’t think I can.” Grudging, bitter torment fills his tone while his gaze turns to liquid. “I miss you. God help me, I miss you. She misses you. The three of us need to be together.” “Jesus,” I respond without breaking eye contact. “People will talk. People will motherfucking crucify. They already have.” Confusion stirs like bubbling acid inside my chest. I crave this man more than should be humanly possible. This pain, this incessant need inside me is worse than any form of hell, more agonizing than an open wound, more excruciating than burning flames against my flesh. Every word he’s spoken is true. I want the three of us. I long for him and me and for my time with Jen. These needs own me, dominate every thought, and rule every action. They crawl inside me like a painful cancer and linger like the red-hot fires of the nether world. But it can’t be. It won’t work. I’ve told myself a hundred times that it simply isn’t logical. Not now. I place my hands on either side of his shoulders. “You chose Jen. Jen chose you. You’re married. You have a family, a responsibility. Go be with your wife. She’s upset. She’s scared. She needs her husband right now. And she loves you so much, dammit. Just go.” His eyes glisten with torment, frustration, and anger. He gives a huff of laughter then runs a rough finger over my trembling lips. “And who the fuck do you think sent me here, Jason?” “Doesn’t matter. Go home, Keith.”  Buy Links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/3hWL8jj Smashwords: https://bit.ly/2CEllMv Nook: https://bit.ly/2Z4uG7P Kobo: https://bit.ly/2BxkZSy Apple: https://amzn.to/3hWL8jj Evernight: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/call-me-sweetheart-by-lacee-hightower/ Follow Me on Social Media:
Book Bub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors//lacee-hightower Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Lacee-Hightower-Aughor-495594097304430 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/laceehightower8786 Twitter: https://twitter.com/LaceeHightower Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15905270.Lacee_Hightower  ] The inspiration for each of my books has always surfaced either from a past experience, mainly from my childhood, or from someone I’ve recently met or encountered in some way. This series was literally written after recalling an afternoon spent in a park that was no different than any of the others I’d spent there. I grew up in a small town in West Texas with a population of around 3,000 people. With no movie theatre, no bowling alley, no shopping mall or any kind of real entertainment, kids were forced to create their own ways to kill time. Hanging out in parks, on the side of a highway, in a parking lot, or in a tunnel (yes, a tunnel) were basically what we did. This series is extra special to me because it’s written with three very close friends in mind. Call Me Sugar was written on a mere whim after a phone conversation with an old friend. Like always, we were talking about old times and all the silly things we used to do in our little town. Once our conversation ended, I immediately remembered a particular afternoon spent in the park. Bees kept chasing one of us (not me thankfully). They seemed to appear out of absolutely nowhere. We laughed so hard that day watching him run from those bees and even today, I can remember him yelling, “Why the hell do they only chase me?” It’s funny how simple things like that are the things you never forget. I have dozens of silly memories from that little town, some that I think of often, others that I’ll take to my grave trying to forget. Anyway, after I ended that conversation I thought, “Hmm. I feel a story here.” The park and museum this story revolve around are both real places. All four characters in both Call Me Sugar and soon to be released book two, Call Me Sweetheart, are real people. Of course, I have to mention that the sex is all purely fictional. Sadly, one of the heroes, aka Jason, died tragically at an early age, while one of two heroines, aka Rylee, didn’t truly have an abusive mother, nor did she take her own life. In addition, the other hero in the book has been happily married (to a woman) for many years. Being that I’m still friends with him, I figured he may have me murdered if I didn’t clarify that one small fact. As for the other female character in the book, I guess you can figure out who that was meant to be. Again, ALL FICTION. One last little thing. Anyone who knows me also knows that music is a big part of my life. I take it to heart if that makes sense. I’ve had playlists for each of my books with a list of songs that make me feel closer to the characters. I’ve included those just for kicks. SUGAR & SIN PLAYLIST: Highly Suspect – “16” A Day to Remember – “Resentment” Tool – “Forty Six & 2” Seether – “Breakdown” Keith Urban – “We Were” Starset – “My Demons” Breaking Benjamin – “The Dark of You” Crown the Empire – “Blurry” Killswitch Engage – “I Am Broken Too” Five Finger Death Punch – “Question Everything” Seether – “Forsaken” Godsmack – “Under Your Scars” I Prevail – “Hurricane” Eli Young Band – “Always the Love Songs” Bad Wolves – “Hear Me Now” Shinedown – “How Did You Love” 10 Years – “Fix Me” Thirty Seconds to Mars – A Beautiful Lie”  Chapter Three
Jen 301 Scenic Drive had once been a simple little house covered in white siding, the windows dressed with sky-blue shutters, and a long row of shrubbery winding down the entire length of the large yard and hiding it from the street. Just after dawn on Saturday mornings, like precise clockwork, my brother stood outside trimming the hedges to an even perfection, while I had the chore of dusting and vacuuming as my mother tackled the laundry of four and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors. With the trailer only inches from the driveway edge, I finish easing the Jeep underneath the attached carport, my heart racing in my ears. Holy shit, this place is nothing like before. As I scan the yard, the first thing I notice is that the shrubbery is replaced with a charming scalloped-spaced white picket fence separating the lawn from the street and the next-door neighbor. The house’s siding is the same, still white, only newer. Black shutters replace the blue. When I see the missing swing that once hung from the roof overhang on the side of the house, my throat tightens, but then just as quickly, I’m staring at its replacement hanging on the end of the newly built wraparound porch, which brings a massive smile back to my face. Suddenly, I’m chomping at the bit to hang ferns down the length of the porch and hoping this West Texas sunshine will keep them thriving. With dozens of memories shuffling through my brain, some wonderful, some melancholy, life had seemed so much simpler. Scratches at my windowsill late at night. Whispers through the screen. Bees in the park with the sun beating down. My mother running her two-day-old car straight through the living room wall. It’s these silly heels I wore today. My foot slipped right off the brake. This house is a bittersweet reminder of shared meals, household chores, arguing over curfews, tending to a sick parent. Sweet. Loving. Somber. Heartbreaking. And now, 301 Scenic and its new porch swing, white picket fence, and all the thick green grass blanketing the yard is owned by none other than the man who took my virginity, betrayed me, and broke my heart, which makes Keith not only my new boss but also my landlord. My God, I’m really doing this. I must be crazy. Hands shaky and heart thundering wildly, I reach underneath a bronze flowerpot full of blooming pink and white begonias to retrieve the key. With only seconds passing after I unlock the door, a sudden eagerness sends me traipsing through the three-bedroom house and looking inside cabinets and closets, opening and shutting shades and wood blinds, staring out windows. Holy shit balls, this is a brand-new house! Dark distressed wood covers the floor in the sunken living room while beautiful white crown molding runs between the freshly painted gray walls and ceiling. Built-in shelving, finished out in white with a niche in the middle for a flat-screen television covers the wall where a large antique buffet table once stood, and flat Roman shades in a lighter gray than the walls showcase the four white windows facing the street, which was originally a long picture window. Surprisingly, he’s left the large walk-in closet in the corner of the living area, which I’m thankful for since this house never had much storage. When I open the door, my chest tightens for a few seconds and I almost sense the faint smell of gun oil with visions of my dad’s gun collection, along with the vacuum cleaner, spare luggage, winter coats, and men’s hunting apparel that once filled the moderate-sized space. Keith has ironically done exactly what my daddy used to say he was going to do before his health got bad. He’s added three rows of shelving and a stack of built-in drawers that weren’t here before. Jesus, I love the thought of no longer having to stash odds and ends underneath my bed. After throwing myself into bringing in what I can and spending the next two hours rummaging through suitcases, hanging clothes, and emptying half a dozen boxes, I sort through a few toiletries then blow out an exhaustive breath. My body feels like it’s been run over by a semi and I need a shower, some food, a cold drink, and a bed. Four AM, the early hour I’d pulled out of my apartment this morning, seems like a century ago. Bone weary and ready to drop, I unpack a towel, grab fresh panties, and strip out of my clothes then stare into the floor-length mirror still hanging on the bedroom door just as it was over a decade ago. Once trimmed in white, it’s now a deep, brushed bronze to match all the door handles and fixtures throughout the house. Emotions swirl in my belly like choppy sea water as I take a long glance into the mirror at the bags underlining my eyes, the little to-no makeup left on my face, hair that is stringy, straight, and in need of a good washing, and my body that’s slick with sticky sweat. I take a deep breath, another, then another, then close my eyes and rake my hands down my sides, my nipples tightening at thoughts of Keith. The hay barn behind his house. Those lips covering every inch of my body. Those hands exploring and discovering all my hotspots. The rope he used to bind my wrists. The belt he used on my ass and inner thighs, and the pain that turned to hot pleasure as his thick erection severed my hymen for the first time, while he controlled me. Empowered me. Dominated me. Changing me for life. Smooth hands run down the length of my naked body as I lose myself in every single detail of that day and burn hot with need for a man’s touch, a man’s mouth, a man’s weeping erection. Desire pulses deep in my core as dark images course through my mind, images of his hands—large and rough—all over me. Fingers—lengthy and flexible—probing inside me. Lips—warm and moist—teasing and tasting me. Dear God, I want to be on my knees, bowing my head, offering, giving, ceding, submitting. His. One finger grazes my clit while another pushes hard and deep into my sex. My eyes squeeze tightly shut as I plunge inside, my thumb gently rubbing the swollen peak. It feels good. So damned good. Still, it’s not enough … not enough. Shit, Jen. Forget him. Your best vibrator is right inside your travel bag. With thrusts growing deeper, breath becoming fervent and rapid, I bend the tip of my finger and brush the hidden, velvety inner spot that sets my body on fire. My head drops back as the familiar tingle in my belly grows deeper, one man entering my mind as a climax is only seconds from ripping through me. Him. “Knock kn—” Vulnerable, defenseless, and mortified, I spin on my foot with the color draining from my face and a scream tearing through me at the familiar honeyed voice and sight of the provocative cowboy in the doorway. My mind is an instant blank as we stare in frozen silence, his eyes searching mine as I search my brain for any kind of reasonable words to speak while feeling like a blithering half-witted idiot But when his dark brown gaze does a slow, gradual, nearly painful sensual downward slide before lifting and locking onto mine, lacking even a trace of embarrassment, politeness, or courtesy, it takes only a split second to know that there’s only one kind of danger I’m in—the kind that can wound my pride and most definitely my heart. Awareness flickers in his amber-colored stare, which makes me shudder and hits me deep in the stomach. For seconds I just stand there in all my naked glory, motionless, staring just as hard, shocked, appalled, flushed with humiliation, and turned on out of my mind. Sweet merciful fuck! God, I’ve missed him. After he tips back his black cowboy hat, he gives me a beautiful close-up of that handsome face that I’ve never forgotten, and his hands dip into the pockets of faded black jeans hanging low and snug around his waist, hugging his ass and thighs just right, and paired with a wrinkle-free, lightly starched, black button-down shirt that pulls tightly across the width of his chest and shoulders. Shiny, square-toed boots covered in exotic leather hit every single one of my hot spots being a true Texan woman who loves a man in a fine pair of boots, and from what I can see, his hair is much shorter now but still shiny and dark with deep brown sideburns leading into a neatly trimmed beard that I can literally feel brushing up my thighs. He’s cowboy, businessman, and jock all combined into one, and I can’t keep from sucking in a breath at the sight of him. Need powers through every inch of my body and I want to experience every sexual act that two people can with this man. Vile things, shocking things, sinful things. I want his mouth, his hands, his body. I want his control, his influence, his reign. And that damn facial hair … I want it touching me absolutely everywhere. Greed radiates through me in an almost unnerving force, when in fact, I know I should be feeling indifferent and resentful. But I want him. I want us. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, when they rake hungrily back down my body as he takes in every inch slow and steady, a blistering swelter licks over my skin and comes to rest deep inside my core while my nipples stiffen to hard peaks, all which leaves me with two choices here. First, I can act like what I’m doing is perfectly normal and just utter something stupid like “Miss me, cowboy?” Or I can try acting like my female scent isn’t making it perfectly obvious what I was just doing and pretend he’s simply barged into my home without the common courtesy of knocking and caught me in the middle of changing clothes, maybe scratching my leg or smoothing lotion on my skin, instead of relieving the ache in my sex that’s been lingering since I drove through San Alba. Right, Jen. He’ll fall for either of those things. When. Hell. Freezes. Over. But rebounding on pure instinct, I grab the towel beside me and wrap it around myself like it’s a crucial life preserver while he shifts awkwardly and moves those addictive eyes slowly upward. Our gazes cling, transfixed, as his yellowish-tinted irises flicker with the same strength, determination, power and command as they had before. My God, he was striking before. But now, he’s sexual magnetism. He’s charisma, strong muscle-bound, small rural-town hotness. He’s heat, sex, and sin. I shiver, shift restlessly, then take a deep breath, and he does the same. Something crackles in the air between us and shoots a sea of flames straight up my spine, the magnitude of sexual tension between us after all these years surpassingly stronger than when we were teens. My pussy throbs as it perfumes the air with my arousal, and for a quick moment, I can sense the sting of leather from his worn belt, hear his relentless unyielding demands, and feel every thick vein of his slick girth sliding in and out of me desperately and mercilessly while he grasps my neck. He’s the reason I need to submit to a man. Soft whimpers rise up my throat and I no longer care about the fact that he once broke my heart or that he stopped communicating with me altogether two years ago. Don’t care … don’t care … just don’t. My stomach is quivering wildly, my pulse quick and heavy like a barrage of bullets. “Keith. I—I’m…” He stiffens then swallows hard. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Jen.” His concentration strays to the boxes stacked beside me and his hands leave his pockets and reach for the back of his neck to crack the tension. “The door was open, and I wanted to make sure you got here safe and sound and let you know I’ve a got a couple of ranch hands who …” For what seems like a boundless minute, he pauses then drags his eyes back over my towel-clad body. "Fucking hell. Finish … getting dressed, or get some rest … or Christ, do both. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day, sugar.” The edge to his tone brings another pool of arousal between my thighs while my stomach flutters with delicious thoughts of rough, controlling, extraordinary sex with this man. Heat simmers through absolutely every inch of my body, which leaves me with a strong but petrifying inclination to drop the towel, ask him not to leave, and show him just how heavy and tight my breasts are, how swollen my clit has become, how wet he’s made me. My God, I want him in ways I don’t understand. With a parting nod, I shove away the need crawling between my thighs and release some kind of ridiculous-sounding giggle that resembles more of a cackling then respond with a near silent, “Cool,” because not only am I little shaky, dumbfounded, and rattled, and a whole shit-ton of mortification and humiliation, but also because I haven’t the slightest idea of what else to say. With his fawn-tinted eyes blazing hot like fire, he drags a hand down his face then turns to leave with what I think is a small bend of a smile and definitely a bulge behind his jeans, while I’m left cringing at the sound of his boots against the wood floor, my pulse marching through my ears, and wishing I knew what to say, what to do, and how to make him stay. "Lock the door behind me, Jen.” Just like that, he’s walking away while every part of me wants to shout, “Please come back,” then drop to my knees, remove his boots and jeans, and take his thick cock between my lips. But when I hear the front door slam, it’s obvious that he has other ideas. An unpleasant ache flickers inside me. I don’t belong to Keith. I never have. Keith Why are you doing this? Through an ocean of tears, those were the last words she ever spoke to me, the words that left me yearning to die a long painful death. I remember every minute of that day and the long lingering silence between us, the first tear sliding down her cheek, the minute Jason got in my face, so fucking livid at what I’d done that his eyes sizzled like a raging fire. I remember it all like it was yesterday. “You’re nothing but a spoiled pretty boy,” he’d said while stabbing a long finger into my chest. “A rich little ranch kid who gets all the pussy he wants and only cares about his own needs and no one else’s.” “You talking about her being hurt?” I’d countered. “Or you, Jason?” “Fuck you, Keith. Fuck you and your egomaniacal attitude.” Guilt plows at my chest all over again as I pull out of the driveway and onto Scenic Drive with blood surging hot and fiercely to my groin while I try to process what I just walked in on. Christ, I should have called her before I just waltzed through the door like I had a right to do so. Another thoughtless shit move on my part. I swallow the last drops of lukewarm bottled water wishing like hell it were something strong and smooth. Frustration pulls at my chest with a compelling need to pull over and curb-stomp something. Fourteen years ago, she’d been stunning. But Christ if she’s not beautiful today, still radiating that smell of vanilla and fresh-cut flowers, her body lean but curvy, tits small but made for my palms, a shaved pussy carved for my tongue and cock, an ass just full enough to enjoy the forceful sting of my palm, and those jade-green eyes flashing with their cock-hardening, whitehot fire look of a woman who knows just exactly what her body needs and wants. Jen Boylan is strong. She’s determined, desirous, and sensual. She’s submissive. Sweat beads over my brow, and my dick is still rock hard. “Fuck.” I adjust the steel brushing my zipper while fantasizing about my fingers in that pussy, my mouth on that pussy, my cock inside that pussy. She belongs here. In Springhill. With me, goddammit. I thirst to touch her. I need to touch her. I ache to touch her. I loved her then. I love her now. This time, I won’t let her get away.  Cassie Fortuna flees back to her own pack, broken-hearted, after discovering her intended’s interest in another woman. Despite shifters being monogamous, it seems Ben isn’t. As her twenty-fifth birthday approaches, and her heat, she resigns herself to returning—there is no one for her in Mystic River and her only sibling and her family live in Blue Star. Besides, she’s over Benjamin Kraft. Ben hopes Cassie came back for him but is unable to breach her cold façade to finally share his dark secret. Secrets have a habit of coming out, however, and Cassie is stunned by what she learns. Intent on making things up to her, Ben succeeds in winning her back. Having never gotten over him, she embraces their new relationship. But Cassie and Ben could be in danger, as well as someone else important to him when others learn his secret. Is the risk worth the reward?  Excerpt: She was cutting the crusts off a peanut butter and jam sandwich when she felt him. He moved almost silently, but her wolf was attuned and threw itself against the boundaries she’d enforced on it. His scent reached her next, that spicy fragrance with a hint of musk, and Cass the woman swallowed a moan. After setting the knife down, she transferred the sandwich from the cutting board to a plate before turning with it held in front of her like a tiny shield. Or an offering. It took a massive effort, but she met Ben’s stare with a cool, polite one of her own. “Hey, Ben.” “Cass.” He sauntered closer and leaned one hip against the fridge. Having no desire to engage in small talk, she snagged her cup and moved past him, now intending to eat her breakfast in her room. “Jett tells me you’re back for good.” “That’s right.” She was nearly out the door when he moved with that deceptive speed he had, grasping her elbow. “I’d like an explanation.” When hell froze over, not that she’d pretend she didn’t know what he was referring to. With a calm she didn’t feel, especially with her wolf begging for freedom, she shifted her weight to face him, and her elbow came loose. “I changed my mind about you. About … us. And I was too chicken to tell you to your face. Sorry. I’m such a girl.” He watched her with the same steady regard she remembered so clearly, only without the warmth he’d faked in the past. How he’d charmed her… Old news. She fought her humiliation and looked into his eyes. Ben had golden eyes, and she suspected his wolf was almost always at the surface but within his iron control. Thank god for that control because he hadn’t allowed them to become intimate, something that puzzled her to this day. Because surely, if he’d played the amazing sex card—and she just knew it would be amazing because his kisses made her melt—she’d have been a total pushover. In any event, passion couldn’t cloud her thinking, even if her wolf might not agree. Her animal hadn’t yet matured, but it still knew what—who—it wanted. Her other side was surely smarter. “You’ve changed,” he finally said as she waited him out. “What happened to you?” You happened. Shoving back the thought, fearful it would echo in the room, Cassie lifted a shoulder, careful not to spill her coffee. “Nothing happened to me, Ben.” Shaking his head, he backed up a little, and she breathed in the extra space. “I don’t get it, but I will. I like puzzles.” God help her. With a smirk that hurt the corners of her mouth, she said, “I’m not a puzzle to be solved, sorry. I came back to seek a mate. Jett has granted me permission to make my choice.” She blinked at the sudden bleaching of his sun-kissed skin, as if all the life-giving blood had drained away. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth set, a muscle clenching in his jaw. And then his face relaxed, and he laughed. The sound grated across her senses, like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Our Alpha has been gradually changing the time-honored rules. Accommodating the females more and more. Some don’t approve, but we need to consider the period we live in, and I’ve been a supporter. Until now.” “Excuse me?” The mug of coffee and the plate were weighing her down heavily, like an extra tiny punishment she had to endure as part of the interrogation. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means that when flighty, spoiled females are given the right of choice, I question our Alpha’s wisdom.” Successfully defeating the urge to throw her coffee in his face, Cassie found the right words. “I suppose you’ll have to take that up with him. With my brother-in-law. Be sure to mention the spoiled and flighty part.” Her comment hit the mark. Ben flinched, barely, but she caught it. He knew he’d crossed a boundary, and she wondered what he’d do to fix it. He surprised her. Passing a hand over his face, he said, “Dammit, Cass. What happened between us? I can’t believe we’re sparring like this. I can’t fathom how you left without so much as a goodbye or an explanation. Aside from that note.” “You’re sparring, Ben. I’d prefer not to converse at all.” She made her exit as quickly as she could without appearing to flee. How could she tell him what she’d overheard? “It’s not over, Cass.” His final words floated behind her, but she pretended not to hear. She didn’t care to interpret his … warning? Promise? Threat? She gained the privacy of her room—shades of that fateful night—and shoved the door closed with her hip. Her coffee was lukewarm, and her sandwich had the consistency of flavored paste, but she grimly consumed both. She’d survived her first encounter with Ben and hadn’t given anything away, and had seen him dig himself a hole. With any luck, he’d widen it on his own and fall in. Buy Links: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/alternative-destiny-by-allyson-young/ SALE! https://www.amazon.com//dp/B089585DNH https://www.bookstrand.com/book/alternative-destiny-mmf https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/alternative-destiny  About the Author:
Peri Elizabeth Scott aka Allyson Young lives in cottage country, Manitoba, Canada where she and her husband pretend to work well together in their seasonal business. She has always enjoyed the written word, and after reading an erotic romance, quite by mistake, decided to try her hand at penning one. That was followed by a mix of spicy (Ally) and sweet (Peribeth) romances in various genres as well as a post-apocalyptic adventure without a lick of romance by Peribeth. A bestselling Amazon author, a hybrid, and a coauthor, as of May 2020 she has published seven series and several standalones, with others in the works. www.perielizabethscott.com https://www.facebook.com/sweetnspicyauthor/ Those Who Survived Part One Lainey is one of the few that survived the virus that ravaged the human population. In order to remain safe, she stays away from people, preferring to live on her own. Not trusting anyone. Until one night she’s attacked and rescued by a stranger who insists that there’s still good in the world. Nolan has a fantastical story of a new civilization in Canada, and urges her to go with him. Lainey doesn’t know if she believes him or not, but the unknown is enough to scare her away. Yet day after day he slowly breaks down her walls, opening her up to the possibility that she might be strong enough to take a chance not only on him, but herself as well.  1.What was your inspiration behind this book? I love writing about dystopian worlds because you can basically create your own version of the future. And since I happen to like writing about women who don’t know their own strength, this genre lets my imagination soar. 2. Do you ever find yourself slipping away and becoming so immersed in your story it affects how you relate to others? Yes. I’m an introvert to begin with, but when my brain is filled with how to write the next scene I can go for days and forget to call my mom or put off grocery shopping until the next day, and then the next day after that. Before I know it, a week has gone by without shaving my legs. Gross. 3. Are you in any of your books? There’s a little bit of me in every book, I think. Maybe it’s just a random thought or a gesture, but something of me is in all my characters. 4. Are you a plotter or a pantser? Total pantser, although in my mind I do have an idea of where the story is headed. My characters always surprise me when they make a one eighty from where I thought the story was going. But as a writer you should always listen to your characters, because they’re basically your muse talking to you. 5. What is your favorite line, or scene, that you wrote in Come With Me? I had a difficult time coming up with a title for this story. I wanted something clever but one line kept jumping from the page: Come with me. Nolan says it several times to Lainey. I eventually reached a point where I realized that one phrase meant everything. 6. If you could choose, which published author would you like to brainstorm with and why? Lisa Kleypas because I love how she paces her novels and I’d love to pick her brain on how she plots them out. Or Julia Quinn because she’s hilarious and I have a feeling she likes wine like I do. 7. When you were little, did you ever think you'd be a published author? What was your "dream" job as a child? My dream job as a child was being Indiana Jones. When that didn’t pan out, I became responsible by going into the medical field. Being an author was always in the world of fantasy. I grew up in the early Eighties in the backwoods of Missouri, so no, I never thought in a million years I’d be a published author. Thank holy heck for modern technology! Ebook publishing opened up doors to me, and to many talented authors, to make our dreams possible. 8. What was the worst job you ever had while working towards being a published author? I worked one day as an assistant to a urologist. I thought seeing penises all day long would be cool but come to find out, there’s a big different between thirty year old penises and seventy year old ones. 9. And last, do you have anything you would like to say to your current readers or to those that haven't yet read your work(s)? First, I’m a really funny person but my humor is dry, bordering on sarcastic. I put a lot of that in my stories, usually in the form of a sidekick or secondary character. Second, I write stories because I want people to read them. I write for the love of writing. And I love feedback. Yes, I’m trying to make a living but nothing makes me happier than to get an email from someone saying they liked something I wrote (or if you didn’t like it, please nicely tell me why it sucked). So drop me a line anytime to say hi…you can find me on Facebook, Twitter & Instagram: https://twitter.com/BethDCarter https://www.facebook.com/bethdcarterauthor https://www.instagram.com/bethdcarter/ Name 5 pet peeves that simply drive you insane. My 5 writing pet peeves… 1. My job. When I go to my day job I have to put my writer brain on hold and sometimes that is so irritating, especially when I get an epiphany about the plot. 2. Insomnia. You’d think staying up at night would be a great time to write, but insomnia turns your brain to mush and renders it unable to string coherent words together. 3. Social Media. Need I say more? 4. My muse. I’m hard at work trying to write out a complicated and scene and she’s like “Wait! I’ve got this awesome idea for another story!” Most of the time she wakes me up at three am. Bitch. 5. Character changes. Most of the time I can envision the beginning and ending to a story, but every once in a while the ending slips away, due to the direction of where the characters take me. When that happens I struggle a lot to maintain the plot. I’ve shelved some great stories because of this. PG Excerpt: “You’ve amassed quite a bit of provisions.” “I scavenged the homes of people who left. I never went into the ones where the dead were.” “Because the houses had become tombs?” She sat down on the couch. “For a while, when the wind would blow a certain way, I would catch a whiff of the dead. It made me want to throw-up. I think the remaining people made an exodus out of here because of the smell.” He sat down next to her. “Why didn’t you go with them?” “Didn’t really have anywhere to go,” she replied with a shrug. “I’ve thought about leaving for a long time but always wondered where would I go? What would I face out there? Without a solid plan, it just seemed too risky.” “And you don’t take risks,” he concluded. “No, I don’t.” “I was a risk.” He tapped his chest. “Bringing a stranger into your sanctuary was a huge risk.” “You had a dozen times you could’ve hurt me,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Something tells me I can trust you and my instincts are rarely wrong. You can help me put the fence up so I’ll be protected, and then you can continue on your journey.” “There’s another option you know.” She cocked her head. “What’s that?” “You can come with me.” This was the second time he’d mentioned that, and like the last time, she shook her head. “I’m not cut out for that type of unknown. Besides, I don’t know you.” “You know me more than you think you do. Come on, name three things you know about me.” “I don’t-” “I bet you could quote just about every English lit novel ever written,” he said, interrupting her. “You don’t trust that easily, but when you do, your devotion is complete.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And your least favorite color is red because it reminds you of blood.” She blinked, completely taken aback. “How could you possibly know all that?” He shrugged. “Observation. Come on, say three things about me now.” “You…used to be in the navy. And you’re from Arizona.” He nodded. “And?” “I, uh, don’t know your least favorite color. Or your favorite.” “I like green and hate purple,” he said. “But you got two out of three. That’s a start.” She admired his confidence but didn’t hold out much hope he’d be around long enough for her to learn anything else about him. All the while, ignoring a little voice that had been gaining volume in her head, pushing her to do that very thing. To run. Escape. Yet fear held her back. “You’re wrong, you know,” he murmured. “The person who would bike ride all the way from Malibu to Sherman Oaks is completely up for an unknown adventure.” R Excerpt: Sex had never been that big of a deal for her, and the couple of men she’d slept with never rocked her boat. It became easier and less messy to ease the occasional sexual need herself. Draping her knee over the ledge, Lainey wished she had thought to bring a toy with her. So instead she closed her eyes, slid her fingers between her thighs, and imagined Nolan watching her as she pleasured herself. She glided her fingertips over her skin, starting at her throat and letting the backs of her fingers trail down her chest. Between her breasts. Over her flat stomach. The water sloshed gently against her labia, providing its own stimulation. Gently, with featherlike touches, she brushed her fingertips over her pussy lips. The tease made her hips undulate and her climax rise sharply. She wanted to come so bad, but just as she was about to let herself fall, a slight noise startled her. She jerked her eyes open and saw Nolan in the doorway, staring intently. Embarrassed, she pulled her hand from between her thighs and lowered her leg back into the water. “W-what are you doing?” she asked, her voice dry. Heat burned on her cheeks. “You didn’t have to stop,” he murmured. “Uh, yeah, I did.” She tried sinking lower in the tub to hide herself. “Please. Leave.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for bothering you. But there is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, Lainey. We all need to find comfort in our lives.” She wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. “Oh my God,” she muttered. “Just go!” He did, leaving as quietly as he had appeared. Rising from the bath, she quickly dried off and rushed to put on clothes, all the while chastising herself for being so vulnerable. She should never have brought him here to her home. How could she ever face him again? That night she hid in her room, unable to go down for dinner and sit across from him. To see the smirk on his face, knowing he caught her pleasuring herself. She spent the evening writing him a letter so she could slip it under his door, asking him to leave. Hours later, when it was all quiet, her stomach kept growling with hunger. Opening her door to make sure the coast was clear, the house lay completely still and silent. She looked down the hallway and saw Nolan’s door was closed. Moving slowly, quietly, she headed downstairs for a snack, finding a granola bar and some chips. Not the healthiest, but enough to take away the hunger pangs. Going back upstairs, she took the letter out of her back pocket, ready to slide it under Nolan’s door. However, it was no longer closed, and a low moan came from inside. The voice in her head told her to run away, go back in her room and hide, but that devil riding on her shoulder urged her forward. Step by step, until she stood at the entrance of the darkened room. Outside light filtered in, highlighting the big man lying naked on his bed. His hand gripped his cock, stroking it from base to tip. The sight captivated her, the letter forgotten in her hand. His big body arched in his pleasure, and she couldn’t help but realize he did this for her. To show himself in the most vulnerable light just as he had seen her. Lainey stepped further into the room, unable to stay back. He turned his head, their gazes locked. “I’ve been thinking of you,” he said, his voice almost guttural. He held out his hand and she stared at it for a moment, the conflict inside her mind came roaring back an in instant. She knew what taking his hand meant. Come with me. Buy Links: Evernight: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/come-with-me-by-beth-d-carter/ Amazon: https://amzn.to/2L3GHUv  Bio:
I began reading my mom’s Harlequin Presents in the fifth grade, and from the first story I knew I wanted to write romance novels. I like writing about the very ordinary girl thrust into extraordinary circumstances, so my heroines will probably never be lawyers, doctors or corporate highrollers. I try to write characters who aren't cookie cutters and push myself to write complicated situations that I have no idea how to resolve, forcing me to think outside the box. I love writing characters who are real, complex and full of flaws, heroes and heroines who find redemption through love. You can find me on the web at: http://bethdcarter.blogspot.com/ https://twitter.com/BethDCarter https://www.facebook.com/bethdcarterauthor https://www.instagram.com/bethdcarter/ https://www.bookbub.com/profile/beth-d-carter Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/BethD.Carter/e/B00EOTD1T0/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1385417145&sr=8-1  Ex-boxer Mike Logan struggles to put a brutal past behind and make ends meet as a bus driver. When a young runaway settles for an all-night ride, he seizes the chance to do a good deed—get her home safely. But first, they’ll drive around and talk. What he doesn’t anticipate is that this broken night angel is also a sexy little minx needing a lot more…and not just the gentle kind. **This is an expanded edition of the story previously featured in the anthology Passion, Pleasure, Pain in 2019** #Dark #Erotic #Romance Available from: Amazon.com / Amazon.uk / Barnes & Noble / Kobo / iBooks / Smashwords Universal buy link Put the book on your to-read shelf on Goodreads  Excerpt: She gives me a long, languorous look. I think I know what it means: She’s interested by my wild side. Dark attracts dark. She believes she’s found the same kind of fallen angel as she is, a soul mate. Wrong, kiddo. What you need is someone good, not broken like me. She reaches over the table to pat my chest. “So hard. Jesus. You definitely work out.” Her touch sends electric sparks to my groin. My cock pulses. I push her hand away. “Don’t do that.” “Why?” “It’s inappropriate.” “Why?” I sigh. “I’m thirty-two, you’re what?” “Nineteen.” “Nineteen, that’s very young. I could easily be accused of taking advantage of you. Did you see how the waitress treated me?” She crosses her arms underneath her boobs. “But I’m an adult, and I have boyfriends.” “You have boyfriends.” “Yeah.” “Like, many?” “Yeah.” She holds my gaze. I don’t know why I had to make a deal of that. She continues, “So, it’s not like I’d let anybody touch me if I didn’t want them to.” “Well, I don’t want you to touch me. Let’s go.”  About the author:
Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After a deep dive on the unforgiving world of gangsters with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between romantic suspenses, dark erotic romances, and crime thrillers. Meet Lea Bronsen on: Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / BookBub / Instagram / Goodreads / Amazon LION HER ASS OFF Blue Valley Shifters, Book 2 By: Sarah Marsh  Just like any other shifter, Julie always imagined meeting her mate and living happily ever after with the charming male of her dreams. Nothing could have prepared her for the shitstorm that was about to become her love life. With her luck though, shouldn’t she have expected it? Hector has lived his life knowing that he’d become Alpha of Blue Valley one day. Turns out, acting like you always have it together and living it? Well, those are two very different things. He panicked when he first realized that his sister’s best friend was his mate, now he must rise to the occasion in hopes that he can salvage the rest of his life—but no pressure. Deacon had no idea what fate had in store for him with a new start in Blue Valley, meeting his mate and her ‘plus one’ wasn’t it. These two are so mixed up in the past it seems almost impossible to make things right and move forward. Good thing he’s a professional.  EXCERPT: Julie was very proud of herself for waiting until seven the next morning before she climbed the trellis to Heidi’s bedroom window and snuck in just like she’d done a million times since they were children—well, maybe not exactly the same. This time, she had the forethought to listen at the window to make sure all occupants were still sleeping. The last thing she needed was to interrupt her bestie getting ‘serviced’ by her new beaus. But given the fact that the current bane of her existence was most likely sleeping in a room down the hall, she simply couldn’t risk the front door. She had just eased the window shut and turned around to a rather large mound of bodies in Heidi’s double bed, thankfully still covered by a quilt. Her legs were bent, preparing to launch as a devious smile crept over her lips… “Wak—ahh!” She squeaked and jumped back as a low growl split the previous silence and two sets of golden feline eyes popped open in the dim light of dawn. “No, Julie,” Mason growled. “No eggs and no damned bakey! We’re taking back that spare key unless you agree to never come through our door before 8:00 AM again.” “She came in through the window,” Wade muttered before pulling a pillow over his head. “What’s happening?” Heidi groaned before her eyes opened slowly. “Hey, babe, what’s going on? Why do you look like hammered shit?” “No.” Mason placed a huge paw over Heidi’s face, and Julie struggled not to laugh, as her twenty minutes of sleep last night threatened to snap her mind. “You can have a key to our new place if you agree not to barge into our bedroom at ungodly times in the morning.” “Okay … unless it’s an emergency.” She reluctantly agreed with the giant, naked tiger in her best friend’s bed. “Great, now can I please get back to cuddling my mate—” “It’s an emergency!” Her voice bellowed to the ceiling as she interrupted him, causing giggles to erupt from Heidi and curses from the men on each side of her. “You are an emergency.” Mason groaned and followed Wade’s lead to pull a pillow over his head as Heidi tried to climb out from in between the two of them. “Awww, you’re so sweet, thank you.” She knew he hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but she was a wolf and was therefore genetically predisposed to only hear things she wanted to. “Is there a reason you’re using the window instead of the door?” Heidi asked as she pulled on a robe. “Oh Goddess, did Derek get drunk and pass out in his lion form on the porch again?” “No…” Wow, this confession was going to be tougher than she thought it would be. Julie didn’t think Heidi would be mad that Hector was her mate, but there was a very good chance that she was going to be furious that Julie had known all these years and didn’t say a Goddess-damned thing about it to her best friend in the entire world. There was really only one way to deal with this, Julie knew that. So, she’d do what she’d always done when it came to delivering bad news to a lion shifter female—she’d Band-Aid that bitch off quickly and then dive for cover. “I’ve known for the last six years that your asshole brother, Hector, is my mate, but he pretended like it wasn’t happening and he obviously doesn’t want me, so I don’t want him either and last night he lost his mind and said it out loud in front of your brothers and your dad and now I don’t know what’s going to happen!” It all came out in one overly loud, long, run-on sentence and when it was done, Julie covered her face with her hands and waited for the worst. Huh. I wasn’t expecting the worst to be a bunch of heavy breathing… She moved two fingers aside so she could see what was happening, and in case Heidi tried to maul her, she would still only lose one eye. To her surprise, Heidi, as well as both of her mates were just staring at her with their mouths hanging open. The seconds ticked by and Julie watched closely as her friend’s expression moved from shock to realization, then a murderous look clouded over and Julie waited to get yelled at for betraying the one person she loved most in the world. “That … arrogant, selfish, know-it-all, big-haired son of a bitch!” Heidi screamed, her hands clenching as her claws slid from her fingertips. “I’ll kill him!” Now it was Julie’s turn to stand there in shock, but lucky for them all, Heidi’s mates recovered quickly as they both grabbed her before she could yank the bedroom door open and go find her big brother. “So … you don’t hate me?” Julie’s words were quiet, but they stopped Heidi in her tracks like she’d used a bullhorn. “For not telling you all these years?” “Oh, babe.” Heidi pulled her in for a big, lion-sized hug, and for once, Julie didn’t struggle. She just took the comfort her friend offered. “I don’t hate you. I wish you had told me, though. I can’t imagine how awful this must have been, going through it all alone. But don’t worry, we’ll fix it.” Julie sighed. “I don’t need you to fix anything, Heidi. There’s nothing left between me and your brother. He made his choice, and I made peace with that years ago.” Liar. The worst thing that cat-bastard ever did was make me have to lie to my best friend, and now he’s doing it all over again. From the look on Heidi’s face, she suspected Julie wasn’t being honest, but she was thankful Mason interrupted. “Well,” he announced, looking at his phone. “I think the first thing we should do is get both of you out of here and away from that asshole lion. My assistant just texted the house is ready. Let’s go.” “Good plan,” Julie agreed and walked to the exit, ready to get away from the slight scent of Hector that was lingering in the hallway. When the room went silent, she looked behind her. “We’re not climbing out the damned window.” Wade rolled his eyes at her. Tigers. So danged bossy. BUY LINKS: Evernight: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/lion-her-ass-off-by-sarah-marsh/ Amazon: https://www.amazn.com/dp/B084BYSCVS Smashwords: https://bit.ly/36GSkcm Nook: https://bit.ly/319LdIi Kobo: https://bit.ly/2RJPTlb Bookstrand: https://bit.ly/2S1QA8m  Sarah Marsh was born in British Columbia. She’s only recently began her writing career finding it the perfect outlet for taking the edge off a nine to five job. She’s a science fiction and romance junkie and when her imagination started to take the characters she’d read about even further in their adventures she decided to try writing something of her own. Her biggest weaknesses are animals of any kind … she even loves the ones that wake you up at four in the morning because they can almost see the bottom of their food dish. When it comes to life in general she’s a big believer that laughter is the best medicine and that there’s no such thing as too much love, which is why she’s such a sucker for a happy ending. SOCIAL MEDIA:
Blog: http://sarahmarshfiction.com/ Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/sarahmarshfiction/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/SM_fiction Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sarah_marsh_fiction/ Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.ca/sarahmarshfiction/ Facebook Street Team link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/955387561187276/ Newsletter sign up: http://eepurl.com/b50yvX Bookstrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/sarah-marsh Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/sarahmarshfiction Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14226436.Sarah_Marsh Evernight Publishing: http://www.evernightpublishing.com/sarah-marsh/ Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sarah-marsh THE SCARLET DOVE By: Beth D. Carter Genre(s): Historical Romance / Menage Content Warning: contains violence, strong language, and explicit sex scenes, including anal sex Can Liza find her place in a lawless world? Whem Liza Trent decided to become a mail order bride out west, she never imagined her fiancé would die before she arrived. His death places her in debt, and the only way to pay off the money is by auctioning off her virginity against her will. When she’s rescued by two handsome men, she mistakenly thinks they’re assassins. Despite her reservations, she accepts their protection. Only the two men, Apollo Beck and Blue Hawke, aren’t assassins. They’re Texas Rangers sent after a man who preys on women, and their dangerous hunt has just brought Liza into the line of fire. Confused with the attraction she feels for two men, Liza has a difficult decision before her: commit to loving Apollo and Blue or commit to her burning desire to become a doctor…unless she’s found and taken for revenge first.  QUESTIONS: 1) Please tell us a little about your new release (The Scarlet Dove) without giving too much of a spoiler away. First of all, it’s a historical ménage romance set in 1888. It’s about a woman trying to find her place in a male-dominated world that has set parameters for how “proper” women should be. 2) Did you found any cool tidbits in your historical research for this book? So a lot of this story is about my heroine, Liza, and her desire to find her place in the wild west. She has a wild dream of becoming a doctor. I did a lot of research on if that was a possibility. I always try to use historical characters in my stories, if possible, and I was able to incorporate some of that into The Scarlet Dove. 3) Was it difficult getting the heroes to a point where they could let their guard down and be open to the possibilities of love? My two heroes, Blue and Apollo, are cousins. They’re tracking a dangerous killer and abductor of women. When they come across Liza, they’re unprepared for their attraction to her. I think it confuses the hell out of them and their jealous of each other. A ménage relationship isn’t in their radar at all, so love takes them by surprise. 4) How did you find that great balance between conflict and romance? Conflict can intensify emotions. I like using it to develop a bond between the characters. 5) What part of the story was the most fun to write? There is a very funny scene where Apollo and Blue put Liza on a train, and then realize the bad guy is on the train, so they race after it and jump onto it. It was like writing out a scene in a movie. The dialogue is hilarious. 6) Do you have a favorite line? I have so many it’s hard to narrow down to just one. Apollo and Blue have a great repertoire, flowing back and forth. Many lines can’t be taken in one context since there is a reason behind it. Here’s one: (in response to Apollo asking “What can happen on a train?” ) “Remember when you asked what could happen on a train?” Blue murmured back. “Now you know.” 7) What is your favorite subgenre of romance to write? I love paranormal and apocalyptic stories. They are very freeing to the imagination, and IMO, it really strips down a person’s relatability. I’ve just finished up an “end of the world” story, book one, and am plotting the second one now. 8) Are you in any of your books? Don’t all writers put themselves in their stories? There’s a little bit of me in every book, I think. Maybe it’s just a random thought or a gesture, but something of me is in all my characters. 9) When choosing the title for your book(s) do you have a process or do you wing it? Ah…titles are very important to me! Some are based off songs (A Man After Midnight came from “Gimme Gimme Gimme” by ABBA) and some come from a lot of thinking and soul searching. Sometimes I think of a unique title and try to build a story around it. The Scarlet Dove got it’s name because the nickname for prostitutes was “soiled dove”. I changed the name to scarlet because Liza is a red-head. 10) What’s on the horizon? Several things. I have a story coming out in an anthology. I’m finishing up edits in the last book of my World of Danger series. I submitted book 1 of 2 of an apocalypse story. I have a time travel ready to submit. And I have a couple more outlined, waiting to be written. EXCERPT: "It's him," Liza whispered in a hate-filled tone. "The man who tricked me." "Reynolds," Blue spat. "All three of you!" Reynolds screamed. "You'll pay! You'll pay for everything!" The gun wavered in an unstable hand. Blue and Apollo glanced at each other and then charged forward. A shot exploded and Apollo went down. Blue tackled Reynolds to the ground. The two men rolled around, each trying to get the upper hand. Apollo did his best to try to focus on the two men, but agony lanced through him as he tried to get to his feet. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, and he honestly didn't know how bad he was shot. And then a pair of soft, steady hands took his away. "Let me see," Liza softly said. "Uh," he moaned. "Blue—" "Is holding his own," she interrupted him. Though she carefully probed, the pain rippled through Apollo, and he halted her hand. "You need medical help," she told him. "Get Reynolds first," he panted. Her eyebrows arched. "You know him?" "I was sent to kill him." Her mouth fell open, and she looked from him to where Blue still fought with Reynolds. "There's a blade in my boot," he whispered, wiggling his right foot and bringing her attention back to him. "Give it to Blue." She hesitated for only a second before reaching for the marked boot. He felt her hand slide in and grab the hilt. She slid it free and rose, turning to the fight that had attracted several people's attention. "I have a knife, Blue!" she called out. In a flash, Blue spun away from Reynolds and grabbed the knife from Liza's shaky hand. As he turned back, he let it fly. They watched as it flipped end over end and buried itself into Reynolds's shoulder, right where the arm and chest met. For a moment, no one moved. Then the confused crowd rushed to help Reynolds, who stumbled away, and Blue turned to grab Liza's hand and hurry over to Apollo. "You need medical attention," he said without preamble, mimicking Liza's earlier statement. "Not here," Apollo growled. "Help me up." "You should rest," Liza said. "You think anyone is going to help the people responsible for burning down half the town?" As he sat up with a gasp of pain, Blue let go of Liza's hand to help him stand. "Is Reynolds dead?" They all looked at the small crowd that had moved in to help Reynolds when the blade had got him, only to see the crowd starting to point at them and talk. Reynolds was nowhere to be found. BUY LINKS: http://beachwalkpress.com/the-scarlet-dove/ https://www.amazon.com/Scarlet-Dove-Beth-D-Carter-ebook/dp/B0846M5HWQ/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the%20scarlet%20dove%20by%20beth%20d.%20carter&qid=1580170317&s=digital-text&sr=1-1&fbclid=IwAR05mVntQoxCoAO1XCvJkkIy3mD4UqYPHP-ZpUmnCUdn4mKjnBt2TPprTkE  Bio and Social Media Links:
I like writing about the very ordinary girl thrust into extraordinary circumstances, so my heroines will probably never be lawyers, doctors or corporate highrollers. I try to write characters who aren't cookie cutters and push myself to write complicated situations that I have no idea how to resolve, forcing me to think outside the box. I love writing characters who are real, complex and full of flaws, heroes and heroines who find redemption through love. I love to hear from readers so I’ve made it really easy to find me on the web: https://twitter.com/BethDCarter https://www.facebook.com/bethdcarterauthor https://www.instagram.com/bethdcarter/ http://bethdcarter.blogspot.com/ https://www.bookbub.com/profile/beth-d-carter Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/BethD.Carter/e/B00EOTD1T0/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1385417145&sr=8-1 |
LACEE HIGHTOWER
