Oliver by FG Adams releases on APRIL 6th!
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Soulmates destined to collide.
Six years after surviving a tragic loss, a photograph of a young woman turns Oliver Bishop’s world upside down. He’s on a mission, tracking her from state to state. Each stop bringing him closer to finding her. Will his search find the ghost vixen, or will the madman stalking her get to her first?
After fourteen years of running from a nightmare, Fallyn Blackwood barely escaped her stalker’s clutches in Washington. When a sexy stranger walks into Ray’s Diner, her entire world shifts on its axis. Scared and determined, she finds herself fighting his protective nature—and her desire. The problem is, she’s not looking to be saved.
He’s come too far to back down. He found her, and he won’t let go. Freedom from the past is within his grasp, and he’ll fight for her love.
By the time I’ve showered and changed, the delectable aroma of pizza permeates the room. Oliver is perched on the bed, taking up most of the space, with a piece of mouth-watering heaven in his hands. His hair is wet and he has a new change of clothes on. Where did he shower? Do I really care? He looks good enough to eat.
Just then my tummy grumbles, reminding me of another hunger. I lift the box. When I notice what he’s ordered, I freeze in my tracks.
“You don’t like chicken and jalapeño pizza? Ever since trying it in Texas, I don’t want another flavor. I’m obsessed.”
He snorts, takes a bite, and points to a corner desk.
“I ordered a salad and chicken tenders if you would rather have that.”
“It’s not that. It’s my go-to pizza of choice. Harper devours mine at least once a week.”
He stops chewing and stares quizzically my way.
“You don’t say?”
I wonder what else we have in common. Is he the yin to my yang, the Tom to my Jerry, the warmth needed to melt the ice in my heart?
Before I have time to respond, he asks, “Beer or wine?”
“Beer, of course,” I answer immediately.
“Football or baseball?”
“Football. You know I’m from the south. We love our teams.”
“Gator or Nole?”
“Florida Gator all the way, baby. Before all this happened, I planned on going to college in Gainesville.”
I shrug, push the haunting memories back, and focus on enjoying the game we are playing.
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Neither. Chunky Monkey.”
“Really? Okay. What about river or beach?”
“Depends. Do we fish or swim?”
“Then river. Okay, stud, my turn.”
From out of nowhere, a devilish grin appears. He inclines his chin then sinks his teeth into the steaming pie.
“Sunrise or sunset?”
I chew a jalapeño and wait.
“Ford or Chevy?”
“Country or rock ’n roll?”
His forehead crinkles deep in thought before he answers.
“Nope can’t choose. Love ‘em both.”
Mouth full of yumminess, I reply, “Fair enough, Ollie. I totally agree with you. Spring or fall?”
“Well, since that’s when I kissed you, fall is my preference, baby.”
I stutter, shocked by his answer, and whisper, “Hipster or bikini?”
“Then I won’t tell you what I’m wearing under these clothes,” I playfully banter.
About the Authors:
F.G. Adams writes contemporary and paranormal romance about sexy alpha heroes and feisty-mouthed heroines. The wonder twins forming F.G. enjoy a healthy obsession of reading that started at a young age. Their books reflect an avid imagination that was cultivated by their grandmother who taught them the mind has no limits and to use both hands when reaching for the stars. Partners in writing, they both thrive on creating unique storylines for you, the reader to enjoy.
When not writing, you can find them on a beach with their significant other enjoying the waves or riding a Harley on a country road somewhere in the USA.
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I’ve let the world weigh down on me; pull me under until nothing makes sense anymore. Maybe that’s how I let myself get into the mess I’m currently in? Maybe that’s how I’m in my current situation with a man I knew could save me from a fate worse than death. Even if being with Cameron, giving him the very part of me, the only part that’s worth anything—my body—might very well ruin me, I have to survive.
Drug lord. Crime Boss. Murderer. I should fear him, be horrified by what he wants from me, by who he is. But instead, I find myself wanting to please him, wanting to give myself over completely.
Because I know that gives me control over him.
Cameron Ashton reins over the gritty underworld, the danger and violence of depravity, from his throne. A pistol is his sword, and apathy is his second-in-command. I know he’s dangerous, know he’ll break me and not think twice. But he’s my only chance, the only way I’ll survive.
He’s possessive and controlling. And he does own me, every part of me. The darkness in him runs stronger, deeper than it ever had in me. Maybe we’re not so different? Maybe giving up my control to Cameron, giving him my very soul, makes me the powerful one?
Maybe, in the end, I’ll be the one who owns him.
Warning: This is a filthy, dark romance. There may be subject matter and triggers that are sensitive to some readers. In the end, this IS a romance, albeit a twisted one. If you’re looking for a story that gives you the warm and fuzzies, this is not the book for you.
The sweat running down the valley between my breasts was reminiscent of fingers moving along me. I was hot, my body flushed, my heart racing. Everything in me felt alive, ready to tear through my skin like another entity wanting to escape.
I was drunk, and I felt incredible.
The bodies pressed tightly against me, moving sexually, suggestively, made me feel even better. It made me feel alive. I moved with them, swaying to the music, inhaling the scent of sex and alcohol that seemed to surround me. I was sure a lot of people would be fucking tonight. No doubt it would be dirty, their inhibitions having been left at the club as they took home a random person. It would be the kind of sex that drunk people had, sloppy, carefree.
I wasn’t a good girl. I didn’t follow the rules. And my life was less than memorable. I lived like today was my last, because for all I knew it would be. It could be.
I came to this club when I couldn’t stand the box that was my life, the one that was sealed tight, no airholes, no light getting through the crack. I got wasted, danced until my body was covered with sweat, my muscles sore, and some poor, hard-up frat guy got off in his jeans by grinding against my leg. I was a wreck in many ways, and I had no doubt that people assumed I was slutty by the way I dressed, by the way I moved on the dance floor.
I wasn’t light. I was darkness wrapped up in a five-foot-five frame, with dark hair, a wild streak, and no one to stop me.
Maybe I was a contradiction to myself, a lost girl who didn’t know what she wanted in life. But it’s who I was, how I got through each day.
I embraced it, knowing that maybe my upbringing made me this way, that having an absentee mother, a drunk for a father, and a penchant for getting slapped on occasion by said parents had shaped the woman I now was.
I wasn’t broken, but I was damaged.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with my parents or what I didn’t have growing up: love. Maybe I was just born this way.
Either way I didn’t try and stop it. I didn’t try and change.
I thought about lying, pretending I was someone else. Instead I said, “Sofia.”
I wanted him to get off, because knowing I had that kind of control, that kind of power, fueled me. But on the other hand I felt disgust, mainly for myself. I felt and smelled his hot, liquor-laced breath along my neck. I shivered, and the way he groaned made me assume he thought it meant I was into this.
I wasn’t, but I didn’t stop from grinding on him.
I lifted my hands, closed my eyes, and just thought about something else. I wasn’t here, wasn’t trying to get this guy to come in his pants. I was far away, so distant that nothing could touch me. I was the one who had control, and that control made me feel free, alive.
“Come home with me. Hell, let’s go back to my car.”
I shook my head. He needed to shut up.
“Come on, girl.” He ground his dick against me again. He felt small, even though he was hard.
“No. Either shut up and dance with me, or go find someone willing to go home with you.” I didn’t even know if he heard me over the rush of the music, but if he said one more word, I’d just go get a drink.
He tightened his hold on my hips, digging his small dick into my back. “I bet you’re wet for me right now, aren’t you?” His breath was hot, humid. It was acidic and I gagged.
I was bone-dry, not even the teasing of arousal playing over me. I never felt anything when I danced with these guys. It was what made me feel free, made me feel powerful in an otherwise unstable world. I might not have any kind of control with my personal life, with my finances, with anything that could ground me, but at this club, where the drinks flowed, the sex was potent, and my power was immense…I was the one in charge.
I’d been called a dick tease, a bitch, whore, a cunt…any and all of the above. None of that mattered. They were verbal bullets, and in this club I wore my bulletproof vest.
Pushing my way through the throng of bodies, the air stale, humid, the heat suffocating, I said a silent prayer that the line to use the bathroom wasn’t up the ass. But there were still a few girls ahead of me. I leaned on the wall, resting my head back against it, and stared up. I noticed the video camera aimed right at me. There were several in this hallway, two in the back, one pointing at me, and another aimed at the dance floor.
I had no doubt there were a dozen more at other locations. Although this place was wild on most nights, it also had a reputation for being safe—well, as safe as a nightclub could be. It had just been renovated by the new owner over the last year, a man I’d heard rumors about, and one I never wanted to meet.
Dark and dangerous. Violent and psychotic. He’s not a person you want to meet in a dark alley. He’d just as soon slit your throat for looking at him the wrong way.
I feel sorry for anyone who pisses off Cameron Ashton, because he’ll solve that problem with a shovel and a six-foot-deep hole.
Pushing off the wall when it was my turn inside, I used the facility, went over to the sink to wash my hands, and stared at myself in the mirror. The girl who stared back looked sad, and not in an emotional way. My reflection showed a hot mess. My eyeliner was starting to smear under my eyes, pieces of my dark hair stuck to my temples, and the lipstick I had on, once red and vibrant, now looked dead and colorless.
I finished in the restroom, pushed my way through the crowd, and finally opened the door that led outside. The cool night air washed over me, and I involuntarily closed my eyes, moaning softly. It felt good out here, the crush of bodies and heat a distant memory the longer I stood here.
The alcohol that had once numbed me, clouding my head with the nothingness, started to clear. Maybe I hadn’t been as drunk as I’d thought. Being behind those doors was like another world. The lights, music, the people trying to get off any way they could, brought you down low to a depraved, sticky and disgusting level. It’s what I loved.
I glanced up, the streetlight close by bright but not quite reaching me fully. Looking to my left, I noticed another security camera, this one pointed at the front doors. Never let it be said this place didn’t have their shit together.
The sound of a lighter going off to my right had me glancing over. I saw the flare of the flame, smelled the scent of the cigarette as its owner inhaled and then exhaled.
I exhaled. God, of course the guy from inside, the one with the small dick and the need for me to go home with him, would be out here. I didn’t bother replying, didn’t want to engage. Instead I turned my head in the other direction and glanced at a few people across the parking lot smoking. I felt the lightest touch on my arm.
I glanced to my right, and before I knew what was happening, that light touch from the asshole turned into him pulling me farther into the shadowy side street.
the sexy soldier was a dare she couldn’t resist…
the sexy soldier was a dare she couldn’t resist…
event planner Beth Brannigan’s best friend dared her to kiss a cowboy. She
should have said no. Instead, she said please…again and again. If
her brother finds out she’s dating—okay, kissing—okay, sleeping with—one
of his military buddies, he’ll kill her. Assuming he doesn’t kill his friend
Ranger Brick Mitchum isn’t a relationship kind of guy. But then he meets Beth
and starts to wonder if maybe it’s time he settled down. She’s mysterious.
Unpredictable. Curvy in every way he needs… And hiding something. He’s just got
to figure out what.
do. Let’s play truth or dare.”
adamantly shook her head. “Let’s not.”
use something to lighten things up. So, let’s see…” Her friend’s gaze narrowed
as she tapped a finger on her chin. “I can’t help but feel there’s something
you’re not telling me about the Roadhouse. The fact you knew about the line dancing
has my Spidey sense tingling. So…truth: Did you meet someone there the last
time you were in town?”
about her friend’s astute superpower. “What are you talking about?”
determined, blue gaze bore deep. “Either tell me the truth about that weekend
or take a dare.”
Ever. She’d always taken the “truth” option of the game during their
adolescence. She couldn’t risk reprimands or hospital bills back then. Not much
had changed. But she wasn’t about to reveal her sexy cowboy weekend, either.
With a lift of her chin, she held Rachel’s gaze. “Dare.”
wicked as satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “I dare you to kiss the next cowboy
who walks through the gate.”
that! What if he’s married?” She jumped to her feet and headed to a nearby
trash can to toss her garbage. “Not happening.”
shrugged. “You have to. You chose dare. But, I’ll amend it to: you have to kiss
the next single
cowboy who walks through the gate. We’ll watch for wedding rings. And just
because you’re not looking doesn’t mean you can ignore the da…amn.” Her friend
blinked. “Wow, Beth. I almost wish you’d given me the dare. Turn around
and check out your ‘single’ cowboy.”
chance to protest, Rachel grasped Beth’s shoulders and physically turned her to
face the gate and one hell of a sexy cowboy. Well over six foot of solid muscle
that rippled under a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans hugging lean hips and
thighs, the guy oozed hotness she felt with an invisible wave of heat.
was…him. The cowboy from two
weeks ago. Seriously? What were the chances he’d walk back into her life at
that exact moment? “Uh…”
there’s not a wedding ring in sight. Now go over there and kiss him.” Her
snickering friend pushed her after the hunk striding toward the livestock
section of the fair. “Go on before he gets away. Or is that what you wanted?”
together. The knowing tone in her friend’s voice revealed she expected Beth to
she’d lose the dare. It was childish and irresponsible, and she didn’t have
time for foolish games. But she did have time to help her friend de-stress. Her
friend who was also her client. It was Beth’s duty to put her client at ease.
So, technically, it was her duty to kiss the sexy cowboy whose body she knew as
well as her own.
she was sticking to it.
clapped her hands.
fists, Beth set her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched after the hot guy
striding away from her down the fairway. So what if she’d decided he was part
of her past? The opportunity was too good to pass up. Things like this never
happened to her.
fairgoers, she avoided running into two children wearing a blue coating of
cotton candy, and closed in on her prey. Her confidence rose with each step.
Not only had she received her first ever dare, she was actually in the position
to have the upper hand on the challenge.
touch of anxiety mixed with excitement. She pushed them both aside and smiled
when the cowboy suddenly stiffened and came to a halt. It was as if he could
feel her presence as sure as she could feel his. Not wanting Rachel to see the
guy’s expression, Beth didn’t give him a chance to turn around. She slid in
front of him, her anxiety fading at the pleasure curving his mouth into a sexy
grin, dimpling his cheeks.
deliciously scruffed jaw, pulled his face down, and kissed the ever loving heck
out of him.
Today bestselling author of Romaginative fiction. Her hot, humorous, and
heartwarming stories include cowboys, men in uniform, and some sexy, primal
alphas. With a husband in the military fulltime, and a household of nine, she
never runs out of material to write, and has rightfully earned the nickname
Lucy…and sometimes Ethel. From short to epic, her books entertain readers
across a variety of sub-genres, and one has even being hand drawn into a Japanese
translation. Now, if only she could read it.
Title: Redeemed (Love Seekers #2)
Author: Maria Vickers
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Designer: T.E. Black Designs
Release date: 3/17/2017
✨ Add to Goodreads ✨
✨ Blurb ✨
Chad Alexander is a playboy that leads a life full of comfort, ease, and fun. With enough women at his beck and call to keep him from getting bored, he doesn’t understand why there is one woman constantly on his mind. She infuriates him, gets under his skin, and makes him desire her more than any other woman he has ever known. He loathes Rayne for the way she treats people she thinks are beneath her. In fact, he wants to teach her a lesson that will leave a lasting impression on her. But when it’s all said and done, why can’t he leave behind the one woman he can’t stand?
Rayne Sampson is a beautiful woman who has men throwing themselves at her feet with one bat of her eye lashes. She is a woman that men write sonnets about, but she isn’t happy. Disgusted by her brother’s new wife, Rayne refuses to accept Emma in her life. Rayne knows that Chad has it out for her, however, she’s decided she’ll be the one teaching the lesson this time. Can she ignore the way her body yearns for his touch long enough to prove her point?
Fighting each other, the passion between them ignites, leaving them both burning. Will they survive “the lesson” Chad sets out to teach her? Or will they both be incinerated before they reach the end of the line?
Sometimes facing defeat is the only way to find yourself redeemed.
🌟 EXCERPT 🌟
I watched her.
I watched her because I could do nothing else. From the time the happy couple announced their engagement, to tonight’s wedding, I watched her. I had to make sure that everything turned out perfectly. That no one, and I mean no one, ruined Emma’s special day. Emma deserved that much and so much more.
And so I watched and waited for something to happen. I waited for her feelings to change, for her to accept the changes happening in her life—in everyone’s lives—and for her to realize nothing would change Bryan’s feelings.
Rayne needed to come to grips and realize Emma and Bryan belonged together. All of the hate and anger Rayne directed at Emma for stealing her big brother, changed nothing. They loved each other, and tonight they solidified it with vows.
More than anyone else I knew, Emma deserved this. She had fought through so much hurt and strife after developing myasthenia gravis—a neuromuscular condition that made her weak—and she finally found her prince. She finally had her happy ending.
And I watched her too, because I couldn’t turn my eyes away from her. Emma was unique. Bryan had thrust her into my life, only to steal her away from me. I lost her, and while it hurt and I wanted to grab her and carry her away from him, even I couldn’t do that to her. If I needed any proof of how deeply her feelings ran for my friend, her face and eyes spoke volumes as she walked down the aisle toward her groom earlier today.
French horns signaled the beginning of the wedding march, and shifted and spun around to gaze down the makeshift aisle created in the sand with the white wooden folding chairs. The rows were not neat or straight, the sand prevented them from being perfect, and add to that the fact people had been sitting and now stood, had adjusted the chairs to be a bit haphazard. But no one cared. Least of all the bride and groom. They only had eyes for each other.
Her father had one arm wrapped around her waist and the other held hers in order to steady her. She had refused to use her walker or cane to walk down the aisle to her future husband. And honestly, I couldn’t blame her. She slowly took one step at a time down the path that led to Bryan Sampson, fumbling only once, but luckily, her father caught her before she faltered too much. The sand was too much for her to navigate, but it had always been her dream to have a beach wedding—a carryover fantasy from before she got sick—and Bryan decided she should have everything her heart desired; wedding and all.
Gazing into each other’s eyes as she made the slow journey that would herald their new life together, love shone brightly in her brown eyes. Bryan was her world. I tore my eyes away from her briefly, turning to look at the groom from my perch beside him as one of his groomsmen, and his own expression reflected the same emotions: love, happiness, peace. These two belonged together.
Bryan was dressed in a pressed black tuxedo, while a lace gown that went only to her ankles adorned her body. No train or tail or whatever the hell they called it. It was perfect for her. Strapless, it accentuated her boobs and ass—two of her assets I loved to ogle, even if Bryan hated me doing it.
She never realized how much I cared about her.
Today wasn’t about me though. Today, I watched as my two friends promised each other forever. I watched as Rayne seethed, shooting daggers at the bride. And I watched as two people who deserved all of the happiness life had to offer, lost themselves to each other and forgot about everyone else. They belonged together.
And I would be damned if Rayne did anything else to make them or anyone else miserable.
I couldn’t understand why the raven haired beauty spewed hatred at Emma, as if it came as second nature to her. It seeped from her pores. Why? What had Emma ever done to her? Nothing.
My focus followed Rayne to ensure she didn’t do anything to ruin today. She was on the move. I tried to follow her while the small crowd of guests made their way to the dance floor, however, before I could take one step, a little old lady halted me. Recognition flared. I had seen her the night before at the rehearsal and then again at the dinner following, but other than that, her identity eluded me.
“Young man, this is a wedding, not a funeral.”
“P-Pardon me?” I stammered flabbergasted. Who the hell was this woman?
“Oh my. Where are you from?”
It was the same reaction I had from several people. While I had lived in the States since my childhood, a slight British accent lingered. “U.S. by way of London. Could you repeat what you said?”
Patting my arm, she said, “You look like you are either going to commit murder, hide a body, or your best friend just died.”
“What?” I blinked, trying to wrap my head around what this little old woman said. “Who are you?” Clenching my fists, I hoped and prayed for patience while I at the same time demanded answers from her. It wasn’t her fault. The poor woman probably felt confused or maybe had one too many to drink, but I couldn’t help my annoyance. I should be keeping an eye on Rayne, and this woman, prevented it with idle chit chat.
“That’s my name. I’m Grace. I met Bryan when he flew in to see Emma one day. We had the pleasure of sitting next to each other on the plane. When he told me his story, I simply knew they would get married. So I put him on my bucket list and told him I would be here for the wedding. Imagine my delight when he actually remembered me and sent me an invitation. Do you know that I made my flight arrangements right after I opened the envelope? It’s true. They are such a lovely couple. My husband, Bert, would have thought so too. He might have been a gruff Navy man, but he was a closet romantic. I think you might be too.”
“And why would you think that?”
“I can tell. There is just something about you,” she answered me with a grin and a wink.
Shaking my head, I tried to clear it in order to process her side of this odd conversation, however, I could not stop myself from looking at this weird woman as if she had two heads. “Grace?” I stopped after that question. My head spun, and I was only able to really grasp one fact and hold onto it with both hands: her name.
“Are you slow dear? Did you drink too much?” She patted my arm again, gazing up at me with what I could only describe as sympathy.
Slow? What the fuck was this woman saying? “Look…” What did she say her name was again? Apparently, I had let go of that factoid as soon as she asked about my mental capabilities.
“Right. Grace. Look, Grace, I appreciate your concern—”
“I’m not concerned.”
Only the manners that had been engrained into me as a child prevented me from rolling my eyes at this old braud, and the temptation to run my hand over my face in frustration had me once again clenching my fists at my sides. “You’re not concerned,” I repeated. Crap! I really did sound slow.
“No, I can tell your feelings run deep and your heart is in the right place.” Her voice became almost melodic as she giggled.
Had she noticed how much I wanted to put Rayne in her place? Or had she noticed how my eyes would periodically drift over to the bride in those moments my brain lost the battle to my heart? “They are,” was the only thing I could say because regardless of which one she was referencing, they were both true. As much as I wanted to wring Rayne’s neck, I still cared about Emma. Everything I did was to make sure she never had to stress about Rayne and her particular brand of hate ever again.
“Don’t worry. She has a lot to learn, but when Rayne finally figures it out, a new world will open for her, and you’ll be right there.”
“Maybe to kick her ass…uh pardon me.” My face started to burn scarlet all because I cussed in front of an old woman.
Waving her hand in the air, she said, “No apologies needed. Maybe she does need a kick in the ass. I heard what she’s been doing, but she doesn’t understand. Be gentle.” With that, she walked off, disappearing onto the crowded dance floor in the ballroom Bryan and Emma had rented for their reception.
It surprised me to hear that Grace knew what Rayne had been doing to Emma. Hate overflowed from Bryan’s sister. She’d called Emma broken, unworthy, ugly, liar, and a host of other names. Rayne did not like Emma because Emma was sick and usually used some sort of device to get her from point A to point B. No other reason. I knew there were people like that in the world. I mean hell, my sister Megan had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and I had seen how people looked at her when she used a cane, but that didn’t make it right. Why did people act like they were lepers when they couldn’t control what happened to their bodies?
No, Rayne was a first rate bitch and needed to be taught a lesson.
✨ Want to start from the beginning? ✨
Exposed (Love Seekers Book #1)
✨ Add to Goodreads ✨
✨ Blurb ✨
Your twenties are supposed to be some of the best, and certainly the most fun of your life, but for Emma Taylor, turning twenty-five brought her world crashing down around her. Four years after being diagnosed with a debilitating disease, her love life is non-existent. A series of failed blind dates–courtesy of her friends–has left her feeling depressed and defeated. Intent on turning to her best friend for a vent session, Emma sends off a rapid-fire instant message, except her message ends up in someone else’s inbox. The inbox of hot Navy pilot, Bryan Sampson–her friend Mel’s best friend, and Emma’s secret crush.
Bryan Sampson has only met Emma Taylor one time during a night of karaoke while on leave, but in one night, she managed to make an impression. She seemed timid and uncomfortable in her own skin, but underneath it all, he could see how strong she had to be in order to cope with her disease. So when her message catches his eye, he opens it without a second thought, and realizes almost immediately it isn’t intended for him. Now that he’s read it though, he can’t turn his back on her and feels duty bound to help the cause. Besides, what else is he supposed to do with his free time? He vows he will help her find love never suspecting that the more he talks to her, the more he finds out about himself…the more she occupies his thoughts.
Emma is determined to face her demons thanks to Bryan’s encouragement, but little by little she begins falling harder for the one person who isn’t ashamed of her or her disease. Can she put her heart on the line and take the risk? Can she convince Bryan that love, her love, is worth it?
Sometimes all it takes is one person to expose the beauty within.
✨ Buy Links ✨
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2jIV41g
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2jhlkU3
Amazon CA: http://amzn.to/2kzdphW
Amazon AU: http://amzn.to/2kFBo2l
B&N Paperback: http://bit.ly/2jhrMdR
✨ About the Author ✨
Maria Vickers currently lives in St. Louis, MO with her pug, Spencer Tracy. She has always had a passion for writing and after she became disabled, she decided to use writing as her escape. She has one novel published now and will be publishing her second novel in September 2016.
❤✨ From the Author ✨ ❤
Life is about what you make of it. You have to live it to the fullest no matter the circumstances.
I have always loved books. Not only creating the stories, but reading them as well. Books transport me, and when I was younger, I would run into walls because I refused to put my books down even for a second. Take note, walking with books is not advised. LOL.
With my books, I just want to share my stories with the world. I want others to be transported or to feel the emotions my characters feel. That is my goal with my writing. If I can do that for one person, I succeeded.
Getting sick changed me and my life, but it also opened doors that I thought were closed. Today, even though i cannot do much, I still have my mind and I can write.
Join her reader group, Maria’s Love Seekers: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1362108480474447/
“I can’t stop thinking about this book…One of my favorite reads this year. Maybe ever. Kennedy Ryan took some of the most complex issues of our time and made them poetic, insightful, and deliciously sexy…5 massive, gripping stars!” – USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Adriana Locke
Keep reading for an EXCERPT of Grip by Kennedy Ryan
FLOW releases on February 25 and will be totally FREE!
GRIP releases on March 2nd straight to #KindleUnlimited!
➡Add GRIP on GR: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31207572-grip
➡Get #GRIPPED (Be notified by email about cover reveal & release):
➡Check out more information here: http://kennedyryanwrites.com/grip/
Resisting an irresistible force wears you down and turns you out.
I’ve been doing it for years.
I may not have a musical gift of my own, but I’ve got a nose for talent and an eye for the extraordinary.
And Marlon James – Grip to his fans – is nothing short of extraordinary.
Years ago, we strung together a few magical nights, but I keep those memories in a locked drawer and I’ve thrown away the key.
All that’s left is friendship and work.
He’s on the verge of unimaginable fame, all his dreams poised to come true.
I manage his career, but I can’t seem to manage my heart.
It’s wild, reckless, disobedient.
And it remembers all the things I want to forget.
FLOW (The GRIP Prequel) – Releasing FREE a few days before GRIP!
In 8 years, Marlon James will be one of the brightest rising stars in the music industry.
Bristol Gray will be his tough, no-nonsense manager.
But when they first meet, she’s a college student finding her way in the world,
and he’s an artist determined to make his way in it.
From completely different worlds,
all the things that should separate them only draw them closer.
It’s a beautiful beginning, but where will the story end?
FLOW is the prequel chronicling the week of magical days and nights that will haunt Grip & Bristol for years to come.
GRIP is the full-length conclusion of their story.
I wanted to keep this pain locked away, private. Until now. Until Grip. His eyes rest on my face. I feel his compassion, and it weighs so much I want out from under it. I turn my head to escape the honesty between us for a few seconds. Just for a reprieve. As soon as I look over the side, I realize my mistake.
“Oh, God. We’re so high.”
Breath charges up my throat, panic pushing out the last few minutes of peace. My heart jackhammers. Blood rushes to my head, and the world spins. I grip my head to make it stop.
“Hey, hey.” Grip scoots closer, eliminating the distance between us. “Put your head down as far as you can.”
The safety bar keeps me from putting my head between my knees, but I don’t think it would help anyway. Nothing helps. It’s irrational. I know I’m safe, but fear mocks me and makes me its bitch. I hate it, but I can’t stop it.
“My mom used to tell me to recite things,” Grip says from above me. “Like to distract myself when I was scared. To give me something else to focus on.”
It only makes me more anxious that I have nothing I can recite. Fear jumbles all my thoughts together, so discombobulated that I can’t even assemble the digits of my phone number.
“I can’t think of anything.”
“Okay. Hold up.” He rubs my back in soothing strokes that don’t soothe. “I’ll do it. Just listen to my voice. Focus on what I’m saying.”
I can’t focus. I can’t stop the encroaching darkness, blurring my edges and knotting my interior. It’s never been this bad, and it would happen right in front of Grip.
“I’ll recite “Poetry” by Pablo Neruda. My favorite actually.” Grip’s voice is warm but disembodied as I press my eyes closed. “It feels like he was writing my life story. Like he knew there would be this kid who needed something bigger than himself, and he wrote this to guide that kid to a different path. This has always felt like more than a poem. It’s personal. It feels like my prophecy.”
The emotion, the honesty in his voice compels me to hazard a glance at him. In the faint light of the moon and the bright lights of the carnival, I see his face. Beautiful and bronzed, a sculpture of bold bones and full lips. His eyes are intent, never looking away from mine as he begins.
His deep voice caresses Neruda’s sentiments of how poetry called him from the street and away from violence. Of how writing saved him from a certain fate and opened up a world he’d never imagined. And Grip’s right. The poem could have been written for him . . . could have foretold the story of a boy called, not from the streets of a Chilean city, but from the streets of Compton.
Passion weaves between his words and conviction laces every line. He means these words. He loves these words. Amazingly, as he’s reciting a poem I’ve never heard before, someone else’s words illuminate Grip to me. I see him clearly. A man deeply committed to his craft and who views his gift as a miracle of circumstance. As cocky as he is, I see him humbled by the means to escape a path so many others never leave. And if the poem tells his story, his eyes are a confession, never straying from mine, holding mine in the moonlight, his voice liquid poured over something sweet. As he approaches the end, my fears are forgotten, but I’m still stuck on a Ferris wheel under a darkened sky, and nothing has ever been more fitting than the final words, in which the poet says he wheeled with the stars and his heart broke loose on the wind.
There are too few perfect moments in this life. Far too few of us get them, but I am privileged to have this one with this man. When he empties his chest of his heart and empties his body of his soul for me under a starry sky on a Ferris wheel. And I know. In this moment, I know that I’m lost to him. It has been a matter of days. It has been a string of moments. It has not been long enough to tell him, but in my heart, I know I am lost.
“Did that help?” he asks.
He searches through the dim light for my fear or my panic, but they aren’t there anymore. He leans closer, so close his breath whispers over my face. I don’t know when he realizes that fear has gone and that something else has come, but I see the change in his eyes.
I think he might be lost in me, too.
The inches between our lips disappear. At the first brush of his mouth on mine, I know this kiss will never end. It will live on in my memory for the rest of my life. His lips beg entry, a tentative touch that blazes through my defenses and hastens the rhythm of my heart. I clutch his arm, skin and muscle, satin over steel. A thousand textures collide. The hot silk of his mouth. The sharp, straight edge of his teeth. The firm curve of his lips. The taste of him. God, the taste of him makes me moan. He cups my face, fingers spearing into my hair. I press so close the heat of his body burns through the thin fabric of our shirts.
“Bris.” He says it against my lips before trailing kisses down my chin. His mouth opens over my neck, hot and wet, and I arch into him, the pleasure like a train in my veins. Rushing. Vaulting. Exploding.
“Oh, God.” I’m a panting mess. My hands venture under his shirt, desperate, nails scraping at his back. “Keep kissing me.”
He’s back at my lips, devouring, our tongues dueling, dancing. This kiss has a cadence, his head moving to the left and then right, on beat, a syncopation, a simultaneity of lips and tongues. His mouth slants over mine, hot and zealous, and I link my fingers behind his head, clinging, afraid this will end. Afraid to lose the enormity of this moment. At the top of the world, so close we could almost touch the sky and with only the stars watching, I found out what a kiss should be.
About the Author:
Kennedy loves to write about herself in third person. She loves Diet Coke…though she’s always trying to quit. She adores her husband…who she’ll never quit. She loves her son, who is the most special boy on the planet. And she’s devoted to supporting and serving families living with Autism.
And she writes love stories!
For updates, new releases, giveaways and other adventures, subscribe to her newsletter: https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/j9u8i3
After spilling her tea, she discovers she has no gas in her car. Add that her arm keeps sticking to her dress from syrup left on the console of her car, flustered feels like an understatement.
Then she sees her new boss.
Graham Landry is the epitome of NSFW in his custom-fit suit, black-rimmed glasses, and a look so stern her libido doesn’t stand a chance. Being flustered is just the start of her problems.
Her punctuality is only the start of his. With a pink slip in hand, he’s been waiting on his new secretary to show up only to let her go. Then she rushes in with her doe eyes and rambling excuses, smelling like bacon and lavender. The termination paper falls to the side as she falls in his arms.
This is a disaster in the making. Not because of his pinpoint exactness or her free spirit, but because when they’re together, the sparks that fly threaten to burn the whole place down.
“Those things always lead to dangerous situations,” he says, his eyes trained on me.
I shift in my seat, the throb between my legs growing stronger by the second. “People do it every day and survive.”
“They may survive, but don’t things get messy?”
“Only if they do it right.”
His chair flies backwards and he’s to his feet and next to me before I know what’s happening. He doesn’t ask that I stand, but he doesn’t have to. It’s implied and my body reacts accordingly to his silent command.
We stand face-to-face, our breathing ragged. Our chests heave with the anticipation, the possibility, of what might come next.
“You are, quite possibly, the most dangerous of them all,” he says, his voice rough.
“Why is that?” I breathe.
“There’s no plan for you.”
“But you’ve already penciled me in, haven’t you, Graham?” I ask, finding the courage to play this little game with him. Being strictly professional is incredibly hard, and this is way too easy.
I can flirt with the best of them in a bar or on a college campus. But here, with him, it’s a game all its own. A level I had no idea I’d ever be a contender in. Maybe I’m not, but I’m going to play the hell out of it while I’m here … even though if I keep it up, I might not be here for long.
“What do you want, Mallory?”
“I want to do all the things you ask of me and do them better than you ever expected they could be done.”
A rumble emits from his throat as his eyes darken. My knees go weak and I grab the table with my left hand to ensure I don’t fall.
He licks his lips and flips his gaze to my mouth. I think I whimper as I lift my chin, waiting to see what he does next. My entire body is on fire for this man, my heart thumping so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
He moves so my back is pressed against the table, our food long forgotten. His hands are on either side of me, caging me in. Our eyes locked together, he leans in, a slow smirk spreading across his gorgeous face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Landry. Ford is here to see you,” Raza chirps through the line.
We exhale simultaneously, a giggle escaping with mine. There’s nothing funny about this, but the energy has to come out in some way.
“Mr. Landry?” she asks again.
“I’ll be right out. Thank you, Raza.”
“Oh, you’re so welcome, sir.” The line clicks off and Graham marches across the room and punches a button. The light on top indicates he’s not to be disturbed.
I busy myself with cleaning up our lunch, and before he’s at my side again, I have everything bundled up.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say like nothing just happened.
“Mallory …” He runs his hand through his hair, leaving one lock sticking up. Knowing what that will look like if we walk out together, I reach up, hesitating for a split second, before smoothing it out.
His hair is silky against my fingers. He jumps when I touch him at first, but doesn’t back away. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing went on in here. I refuse for it to look like something did. That’s the way rumors get spread, Mr. Landry.”
“Mallory, I …”
I get a final look at his face, reach up and straighten his tie as his eyes go wide, then turn towards the door. “I’ll send Ford in.”
“Yeah?” I turn to see him over my shoulder. He’s standing by the table, his hands in his pockets looking frazzled. When he doesn’t respond, I place my hand on the knob. “I’ll have that file back to you before I leave today. Thanks again for lunch.”
I walk out before I can change my mind.
She resides in the Midwest with her husband, sons, and two dogs. She spends a large amount of time playing with her kids, drinking coffee, and cooking. You can find her outside if the weather’s nice and there’s always a piece of candy in her pocket.
For sneak peeks, giveaways, and more, please join Adriana’s Facebook Group, Books by Adriana Locke, or her Goodreads group, All Locked Up.
Author: TL Smith
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: February 1
I couldn’t do broken.
Broken is what he was.
Broken is what I will always be.
To his eyes, that held so much despair, I couldn’t look for long.
To his fist, that clenched so tightly, like he was locking away the sorrow.
To his lips, that never uttered a word, from the years of heartbreak.
And despite it all, I couldn’t stay away from him.
It was like he was drowning in an ocean, and I wanted to grab his face, and whisper to his lips, “Don’t forget to breathe.”
This was how I fell for a man. A man who was so lovesick, I was afraid he would drown me in that same ocean he was lost in.
I used to believe I was a strong woman, a good woman, a faithful woman. I had dreams, things I wanted to accomplish, places I wanted to visit. Things I wanted to do and see.
My hands rubbed softly on my upper thigh. I tried to stop the wince that accompanied that action, but escaped me anyway. My hand lifted slowly, I looked at my nails, they were chewed right down to the skin. I used to love my nails, now I looked at them and despised them as much as I despised my weaknesses—the pitiful looks that I got from others, my hair that hadn’t been colored for over a year, my dry and broken skin that felt like sandpaper, my gaunt and haggard eyes.
My mind—well, that’s beyond repair. Questions like ‘would I ever be pretty enough or smart enough’ for his love ran rampant through my mind. Instead, all I got was his fists. They loved me, he told me so.
I listened hard as his footsteps came closer. I hadn’t cooked dinner because I’d lost track of time, sitting in that bathroom, listening to my own heartbeat, reminding me that I was still alive. Reminding me I could still breathe, still function, but only barely.
His fists crashed down hard on the door rocking it on the hinges, my body pulled itself in tighter, gripping harder onto the very foundations of my sanity. It didn’t want me to move, it wanted me to stay safe, to heal.
My mind knew otherwise. It knew that if I didn’t move within the next sixty seconds, more would follow, his patience would run thin, very thin. The second wave of his fists came down on the door, this time the ferocity of the jolts moved the door back and forth. I could hear the sounds of wood cracking and splintering slightly with every impact. My arms pull tighter, my body went rigid.
I internally screamed at myself to shift—just to get up and move.
You can do it I told myself. But my body had had enough, knowing that it couldn’t take any more punishment. It plain and simply didn’t want to accept any more.
I loved him so fiercely, so blindly that I gave him my all, and in return he gave me fractions of himself then his fists. His punishments hurt, but then he would kiss me with scolding passion, telling me I was the only one for him. I wanted to believe what he told me, I wanted to believe that our love could overcome his evil actions. I wanted to believe that five years ago when he first struck me—believing it was my fault—that it would only be that one time, and that he loved me so much he would never dare hurt me on purpose again.
Pushing thirty seconds, the time had clicked away in my head slowly. Those thirty seconds felt more like a lifetime. Again I attempted to force my body to move, screaming that there was only a mere thirty seconds at the most remaining. Yet again, it chose to ignore me. It was like we had been separated, something I knew I should have done with Jamie the first time five long years ago. Love is blind.
There was three more sets of pounding and counting, his cold hard voice started to permeate through the bathroom door. He told me to open it, to get out there. I didn’t reply, afraid of how my voice would deceive me.
I tried wiggling my toes, using all my concentration to work on that tiny action. It worked, I closed my eyes and willed my legs to move.
I just need to stand, I prayed to them.
The pounding had gotten harder, the banging louder as he frantically went about his fourth attempt. His temper was now raging. If I didn’t open that door in the next ten seconds, it would be torn from its hinges, I knew it would.
My hands clenched into fists, my eyes closed, a single tear escaped my eye. I wondered why, as my hand went up to touch it. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried or the last tear I’d shed. It all stayed inside, eating and chewing away at me. A war within my body raged that I knew I couldn’t win, but chose to try.
I looked down at my wet finger, while my other eye remained dry.
How odd. A single tear? Just the one escaping and running for its freedom. I wiped it across my shirt so it couldn’t escape. If I couldn’t, it couldn’t. It was only fair.
My hand landed on the door handle just as his hammering came again, and I managed to turn and open it. He stood there, tall and expansive. Stunningly gorgeous. He’d come straight from the gym, his shirt was off, his shoulders broad. His skin glistened with sweat.
How could someone so evil look like that? His mouth was tight, his hands were opening and closing at his sides. With all the pounding he’d done on the door, there were tiny blotches of blood on his knuckles. He was attempting to release the anger he had for me through his tight-clenched fists. I didn’t even know why. His hazel eyes closed, just for a brief second, enough time for me to take a deep breath before he stepped closer and I instinctively shuffled back the smallest of steps hoping he wouldn’t notice.
His hand came up, my insides screamed, my body wanted to bolt. But it was a gentle hand that touched my face, deceiving me again. I never closed my eyes to him anymore, I wanted to see the look on his face, store it in my memory for safe keeping every time he was angry. At first, it was to collect clues, to consider what it was I was doing to make him angry, and now it was just a habit. I couldn’t close them, even when I was choking I couldn’t close them. I needed to see that demonic fire in his eyes, remember it, preserve it, use it.
“Baby,” he whispered, stepping even closer. His touch on my skin was hot, scalding, burning me with an intensity that could melt steel, while his other hand grabbed at my hip. He leaned in, his lips touched mine, just softly.
I loved him, I hated him. I couldn’t figure out between the two feelings which were worse.
“I’ve missed you.” His hands came around my hips, circling, until they reached my ass and he squeezed hard. He breathed me in when his mouth left mine. Slow and soft kisses touched my shoulders. This was the part I hated myself the most for. That no matter how much I hated him, he was the only man who knew how to touch me. To make me only see him, to only want him. I. Hated. That.
He pushed himself into the bathroom fully, shutting the door that I struggled so hard to open. Closing it like there was no effort at all involved, while I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster within me to open it. He lifted my tender body, placing me in the shower, stripping my dress, and kissed every mark that he’d marked on me. I didn’t move, and soon he was as naked as me, the cold water running down my breasts. His hands ran up and down not so tenderly this time as he lifted and slammed me against the bathroom wall. My breath hitched. My breathing became hard for two reasons, one it hurt and two he was about to make me come. Even when I knew it was wrong, even when he whispered his love in my ear, I screamed internally my body shaking.
He carried me to our room, a room that was full of everything that was his. A single drawer to my name. I didn’t have much, he didn’t allow me the pleasure of my own things.
He laid me on the bed then got on top of me, his eyes shone brightly.
“I’m leaving you.” I rush the words out.
It was my body, my mind, and it seemed to have gained some control. My insides screamed, why must you do this? His eyes went wide, my hands started to sweat. Those beautiful lips became hard to mine. His hands moved from my side, snaked up around my neck, and I took one last breath as I watched the love of my life, the only man I’d ever loved, squeeze the life right out of me.
Like it was nothing.
T.L Smith Lover of chocolate, books, but mostly words.
T.L Smith loves to travel, loves to shop for books, sometimes shoes 😉
Don’t be shy about contacting T.L Smith, she doesn’t bite, hard!