


THE VIRGIN GIFT by Lauren Blakely
Release Date: December 2nd
Cover Designer: Helen Williams
Front cover: PhotoGraphyKM
Back Cover: Steph Bowers/Photographer & Model
THE VIRGIN GIFT, the second book in The Gift Series, an erotic series of standalones, by #1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely, is a red-hot, panty-melting exploration of all sorts of fantasies and it’s coming to Kindle Unlimited and audio on DECEMBER 2nd!! Ebook will be 99¢ on release day only! Ebook will be 99¢ on release day only!
“Another winner! You won’t want to put Nina and Adam’s story down. And just wait until you see what number eleven is on Nina’s list…”
–Sarina Bowen, USA Today bestselling author of Moonlighter
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More about this series of red-hot standalone romances: https://laurenblakely.com/thegiftseries/

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More about this series of red-hot standalone romances: https://laurenblakely.com/thegiftseries/

Blurb:
I might be a virgin, but I know what I want in bed. It’s just that I haven’t found him yet.
So I’m stunned when charming, laid-back Adam volunteers to work through my sexual wish list. That’s when I discover the voracious, filthy-mouthed, after-dark alpha in my next door neighbor. And I’m enthralled — in and out of the bedroom.
Every night we explore my fantasies, and every morning I try harder not to want more from him. Because there’s no item on my list about falling for the guy. Besides, we agreed to the last item already — when we’re done we walk away.
But every fantasy unlocks another. Each hotter than the last. Until I discover there’s one last thing on my to-do list to check off. One so forbidden I can’t figure out how to ask him or what it might to do my heart…
The Virgin Gift is a red-hot, panty-melting exploration of all sorts of fantasies. Get a fan! This full-length book is a scorcher!

About the Author:
A #1 New York Times Bestselling, #1 Wall Street Journal Bestselling, and #1 Audible Bestselling author, Lauren Blakely is known for her contemporary romance style that’s sweet, sexy and witty. Her heroines are strong and smart and her heroes have hearts of gold and fantastic funny bones. She lives on the West Coast with her family, including her smoking hot and hilarious husband and her two brilliant and kind teenagers. She has plotted entire novels while walking her dogs — she might have four dogs, or maybe five. If she’s lucky, she’ll soon have six dogs. With fourteen New York Times bestsellers, her titles have appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestseller Lists more than 100 times, and she’s sold more than 3 million books.
She’d love to give you a free book today! Check out her web site to grab your free read: laurenblakely.com/one-free-book/

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“If you’ve enjoyed watching The Crown then you are going to go wild for this times about a thousand.” Kylie Scott, New York Times bestselling author
To celebrate the new cover, Emma Chase has put Royally Yours on sale for 99 cents!

Princess Lenora Celeste Beatrice Arabella Pembrook had an unusual childhood. She was raised to be a Queen—the first Queen of Wessco.
It’s a big deal.
When she’s crowned at just nineteen, the beautiful young monarch is prepared to rule. She’s charming, clever, confident and cunning.
What she isn’t… is married.
It’s her advising council’s first priority. It’s what Parliament is demanding, and what her people want.
Lenora has no desire to tie herself to a man—particularly one who only wants her for her crown. But compromises must be made and royals must do their duty.
Even Queens. Especially them.
**
Years ago, Edward Langdon Richard Dorian Rourke, walked away from his title and country. Now he’s an adventurer—climbing mountains, exploring jungles, going wherever he wants, when he wants—until family devotion brings him home.
And a sacred promise keeps him there.
To Edward, the haughty, guarded little Queen is intriguing, infuriating…and utterly captivating. Wanting her just might drive him mad—or become his greatest adventure.
**
Within the cold, stone walls of the royal palace—mistrust threatens, wills clash, and an undeniable, passionate love will change the future of the monarchy forever.
Every dynasty has a beginning. Every legend starts with a story.
This is theirs.

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Cover Designer: Hang Le
About Emma:
New York Times bestselling author Emma Chase writes contemporary romance novels known for their clever banter, emotional, and sexy, swoonworthy moments. Her books have been translated into over twenty languages around the world.
Emma lives in New Jersey with her amazing husband, two spirited children, and two adorable, but badly behaved, dogs. She has a long standing love/hate relationship with caffeine.
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Shay Gable hated my guts, and I hated hers, too.
We went out of our way to avoid one another at all times. When she came my direction, I went the other. When we locked eyes, she’d turn and walk away.
All of that changed the day I was presented with a challenge. It started out as a stupid bet: make Shay fall in love with me before I fell in love with her first.
That was an easy bet for me to win.
I didn’t love, I hardly liked.
Yet slowly the game started to shift. Shay made me crave things I never knew I wanted like love, happiness, and her.
The closer we grew, the more she challenged my darkness, and the parts I kept locked away.
The hurts.
The pains.
The truth.
The game between us became too real, our feelings intermixed, and the risks of hurting one another grew higher.
But you know what they say…
All’s fair in the game of love and war—especially the heartbreaks.

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Excerpt
Landon
Spin Seven was a mixture of spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven. When it was my turn, I reached out to the bottle with no concern about whether or not it would land exactly where I wanted it to go. At fourteen years old, I’d learned how to perfect my spin-seven skills in order to kiss the girl I wanted.
Though, this time, I knew there wasn’t going to be a lot of kissing going on. More like yelling.
The bottle spun and spun, around and around. Shay’s eyes stayed glued to the glass beer bottle. The moment it started to slow down, I watched her lips part as she quietly muttered, “No, no, no,” before it stopped directly in front of her.
The circle began oohing and aahing at the idea that the two sworn enemies were on their way to the closet together for seven minutes straight. They were all here for that show, and I knew the moment we stepped into that closet, the door would be surrounded with people whispering and pressing their ear against it from the outside, trying to catch a snippet of what was going on behind closed doors.
I stood from the circle and gestured toward Shay. “Please,” I offered. “Chickens first.”
She grimaced, her thick, full eyebrows lowering a hair before she pushed herself up from the floor and headed toward the closet in haste. We both stepped inside and stood nose to nose.
“Okay, friends, you know the rules,” Eric said, grabbing the handle of the door. “Seven minutes in heaven—or, in your case, hell. Have fun!” He slammed the door shut, and the moment it happened, Shay whined with irritation.
“I can’t believe I’m locked in here with you for seven minutes. I could think of a million things I’d rather be doing,” she grumbled, probably with a pout.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know…watching paint dry.”
“Well, since we’re here, we should probably spend our time wisely,” I joked, moving to unbuckle my jeans, knowing it would bother her. I wished I could see the annoyance on her face. I loved when I got under her skin enough to make her nostrils flare.
“Oh my gosh, remove that idea from your mind, Landon, and stop messing with your belt, because there’s no way in hell I’m touching you.”
“I’ve thought about it before,” I said, my voice low and tame.
“Thought about what?”
“Kissing you.”
She huffed sarcastically. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“You’re right, it’s not.”
“I know.”
It was true, though. It’d happened once—and only once—after Lance’s funeral. I had spent a lot of weeks being out of it, using alcohol to cope with the shitstorm raging inside my head, and I was a bit unstable. If my friends hadn’t been looking out for me, I would’ve probably gone overboard. I remembered walking into school one day and seeing Shay standing there at her locker with a few of her friends. She was laughing and tossing her head back in such a genuine way, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I kept thinking about how she’d held me weeks prior and stayed with me during the lowest point of my life. She had been there—my enemy—taking care of my scars. And as I’d stared at her in the hallway, I’d thought about thanking her—walking over to her, parting my lips, and giving her my gratitude. I wasn’t used to people doing shit for me with no hope of anything in return, and Shay had done it without any expectations.
I remembered looking at her eyes, and then moving down to her slender nose, and then her cheeks, then those juicy lips.
I wondered how those lips would taste if I used mine against them to thank her. I wondered if she tasted like the candy she was always popping into her mouth. I wondered if she dripped of the angelic sin I always claimed her to be. I wondered for a split second…considered it for a blink in time…and then she slammed her locker, walked away, and I sobered up.
Still, I had considered it.
We both went quiet for a few moments before I cleared my throat again. I didn’t like silence. Silence and I didn’t get along too well. “Just one kiss, Chick. I can keep it a secret.”
“You keep secrets the same way you keep girls. AKA, you don’t—other than Monica.”
“Monica’s not mine.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that she thinks you’re hers.”
I smirked a little. “You jealous of her?”
“Jealous of her having to deal with a guy like you? Never in my life.”
“Whatever you say, Chick.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me Chick,” she snapped. “I hate it.”
“You want a new nickname, sweet cheeks? I can give you a new nickname, sweet cheeks.”
She shivered in disgust. Good. There was nothing I enjoyed more than getting on her nerves. “Not that either.”
“I’ll keep working on it.”
“Or you could just call me by my name.”
“Nah, Shay’s too ugly a name to leave my lips.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you more.”
“Yeah, but I hate you the most.”
I snickered. “You really think you can get a guy like me to fall in love with you?”
“Yes. I’m positive, actually. People are the easiest to read, and that includes you.”
“You can’t read me, Shay.”
“I can, like an open book.”
“Okay.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and turned on the flashlight, lighting up the small space. “Read me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want me to do this? Reading people is kind of my gift, and you might not like what I have to say.”
“I never like what you have to say, so this time shouldn’t be any different. Go for it.”
She rolled her shoulders back and stretched out her arms as if she was about to deadlift me. “Okay. You’re fake, Landon.”
That was it? That was the big reveal? “What the hell do you mean I’m fake?”
“I mean exactly that. You. Are. Fake. F-A-K-E. Fake. There is nothing real about you. You’re a walking lie.”
I laughed. No joke, I actually laughed out loud, which didn’t happen often for me. It was a deep-rooted, belly laugh.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I questioned. “Everything about me is real. I’m the realist damn person you’ll come across in our town.”
“No,” she disagreed with a shake of her head. “You are the fakest. You’re even faker than the new boobs Carly Patrick got for her eighteenth birthday.”
“What?!” I breathed out, stunned by her words. “I’m not fake, Shay.”
“It’s not a big deal, Landon.” She shrugged her shoulders and went to picking at her nails. “People seem to love your fakeness.”
“I’m not fake,” I argued again, my blood boiling at this point. “Plus, I’ve seen Carly’s boobs up close and personal. Those are straight in-your-face, nips-don’t-flick fake. There is no way in this world I’m more fake than those silicone watermelons. I’m a lot of shitty things, but fake isn’t one of them.”
“Okay then, can you answer a question for me?”
“Anything.”
“How many people know you’re sad?”
“The hell kind of question is that?” I barked.
“A very straightforward one,” she replied. She seemed so cool, calm, and collected—one of the many things I despised about her. It was as if her life was always so solid. I wished for that kind of stable structure, and seeing that she had it annoyed the living hell out of me.
“How long have you been sad, Landon?”
I glanced at my watch. “About a solid three minutes now, because being trapped inside this closet with you is complete hell.”
“Aren’t you the one who wanted to come in here with me?”
“Bad call. A lapse in judgment. I forgot how annoying you are.”
She smiled. She freaking smiled at me, pleased by my annoyance. “Are you going to answer me about your sadness?”
“Are you going to suck my dick?” I replied.
“Do you always do that?” she asked, tilting her head to the left as she studied my expressions. She was doing that thing she did—reading me. Taking note of my movements and the tightness of my jaw, taking in every inch of me.
Don’t let her read your pages, Landon. She couldn’t have even handled my prologue.
All my walls were up, and I wasn’t going to let her knock them down.
“Do what?” I questioned.
“Use sarcasm to shield your hurting.”
“There’s nothing hurting here. Look at this life. I have money, badass parties, and girls throwing themselves at me—why would I have anything to hurt about?”
“Maybe because money, girls, and parties don’t make a person happy. I see how miserable you are in your eyes.”
I grimaced and whisper-hissed, “You don’t know shit about me, Shay.”
“Then how am I able to get under your skin so easily? If that wasn’t true, if you weren’t sad, why would my saying that bother you so much?”
“You don’t,” I calmly replied.
She did.
She was pushing me, making me uncomfortable with the fact that she did seem able to see the parts of me no one else could. Anger was building in my chest, and I needed to defuse it before it became too big.
“Maybe it’s best if we shut up for the rest of the time,” I told her.
“For the second time in my life, I agree with you.”
Shay sat down on the floor of the closet, and I did the same, leaning back against some coats that were hanging. How did seven minutes feel like seventy? Was time moving at all? This was hell.
Then came the silence. The silence that brought out heavy thoughts. Shay could read my mind somehow, and so, when the silence became too much, I cleared my throat and tried to make small talk in hopes of shutting my own brain up. “A chicken and Satan walk into a closet—stop me if you’ve heard this one.”
She laughed a little.
It was quiet and low, and dammit, I’d never heard Shay laugh at anything I’d ever said before, so that was new. What was also new was the small part of me that enjoyed hearing her sound.
“Landon?” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Just shut up, all right?”
Yeah, okay.
“One more minute, you horny hatebirds!” Eric called out.
We both stood, and I took a step closer toward her. “I get you not wanting to kiss. That’s intimate and personal, but if you want, this is your last chance to touch my cock while no one’s looking. I won’t stop you.”
“No thanks. I’m allergic to peanuts,” she said so effortlessly and loudly, causing the crowd on the other side of the door to burst into laughter.
Shay smirked again, feeling proud of her little dig at me. That beautiful, annoying smirk I loved to hate.
Shay: 1
Landon: 0
I wasn’t worried, though. The game was just getting started. She might’ve scored one point, but I wasn’t going to let it happen again. We were playing on my field, and Shay didn’t know what she was up against.
_________________________________

Michel’s Review
***2019 Favorite***
I get so excited every time Brittainy C. Cherry releases a new book. I know I am in for a reading experience that will play on all of my emotions while being thoroughly entertained. Brittainy takes her readers along on the life journey of all her characters. Her characters become our friends, our family, and a part of our hearts. As readers we identify with all aspects of their lives including the struggles, failures, and victories. We celebrate their growth as individuals. Most of all we celebrate their ability to love unconditionally and accept it without reservation.
Readers met Landon and Shay in Brittainy’s previous novel, Eleanor & Grey. They were the devoted friends and family that always offered their support, strength, wisdom, and unconditional friendship. They were both very strong people who could weather any storm. Never in a million years could I have predicted what was going to be unleashed in their story!
Landon was the life of the party, the one to always bring a sense of joy, and light heartedness. Beneath the surface he’s anything but lighthearted. He suffers from severe depression which goes beyond circumstantial causes. It’s an inherited genetic disorder that needs more than wild parties, wild sexcapades, and recreational drugs can provide. Although his best friend Grey sees some of his pain, he doesn’t know how deep it runs and is deflected by Landon’s ability to hide his pain. There is one person who sees the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. He hates that she can see his demons, he hates that she can see him. He doesn’t want her to see that part of him but at the same time that part of him needs her to help him through the darkness. Shay is the only person who sees his pain. She sees Satan lurking beneath his sexy good looks and irresistible charm. His darkness is desperately reaching out for her even though he despises that need.
Shay has a gift of seeing people for who they are beneath the surface. She has trained herself to look beyond what the world sees. The amazing thing about her gift is her ability to be empathetic, compassionate, patient, kind, and loving. She leaves judgement out of the equation. Landon is the one person she hates because of how careless he is with other people’s feelings, how he uses girls like a revolving door, and how dismissive he is to those who try to help him. She purposely steers clear of him until the day she sees his undeniable pain at his darkest moment. She can’t turn her back on him when he is hurting so badly. She can’t allow him to push her away. Landon isn’t easy and he can push harder because it is easier than reaching out. She’s going to keep pulling him in until he can no longer push back.
Landon & Shay: Part One is only the beginning of this difficult life journey. Somehow I know they are both going to be okay because I saw glimpses of it in Eleanor & Grey. What Brittainy has in store for these two characters is going to take them to hell and back. Without a doubt they are both going to survive the in between and come out stronger people. Together they are going to learn to embrace every side of the human spirit and validate every emotion and feeling they have. They are going to learn to deal with their darkness and reach for the light. They are going to learn the real definition of love and hope. They are going to learn to use these emotions as their coping mechanisms.
In a sense I can’t wait to see what comes next for Landon & Shay but I am preparing myself to experience all aspects of human emotions. Brittainy C. Cherry can take her readers on a beautiful journey no matter what is in store because she has a gift of showing the beauty of the human spirit. That is what makes a great love story!
_________________________________
About Brittainy
Author Brittainy C. Cherry is an Amazon #1 bestselling author.
She has been in love with words since the day she took her first breath. She graduated from Carroll University with a Bachelor Degree in Theatre Arts and a minor in Creative Writing.
Her novels have been published in 18+ countries around the world. Brittainy lives in Brookfield, Wisconsin with her fur babies.
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#FATE
Cambria Hebert
(GearShark, #6)
Publication date: November 4th 2019
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, LGBTQ+, Romance
What’s meant to be will always find a way.
Perfection isn’t an illusion.
I met it, held it in my hands.
But then it slipped right through.
Perfection isn’t an illusion.
It’s elusive, cleverly evasive, and, in many ways, a horrible tease.
I’m not a man to be toyed with.
Quiet, thoughtful, and even sometimes careful,
but never someone to taunt.
Even the most controlled men have a breaking point.
I just met mine.
Why mess with perfection?
You don’t.
Unless perfection messes with you.
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo
—


Author Bio:
Cambria Hebert is an award winning, bestselling novelist of more than twenty books. She went to college for a bachelor’s degree, couldn’t pick a major, and ended up with a degree in cosmetology. So rest assured her characters will always have good hair.
Besides writing, Cambria loves a caramel latte, staying up late, sleeping in, and watching movies. She considers math human torture and has an irrational fear of chickens (yes, chickens). You can often find her running on the treadmill (she’d rather be eating a donut), painting her toenails (because she bites her fingernails), or walking her chorkie (the real boss of the house).
Cambria has written within the young adult and new adult genres, penning many paranormal and contemporary titles. Her favorite genre to read and write is romantic suspense. A few of her most recognized titles are: The Hashtag Series, Text, Torch, and Tattoo.
Cambria Hebert owns and operates Cambria Hebert Books, LLC.
Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Pinterest
GIVEAWAY!

—————-

Reese
I’m done.
Getting ditched at the altar is nothing compared to being humiliated there in front of three hundred shocked guests. Apparently I’m no good at spotting the signs your man’s a cheating liar. So I set off solo on my honeymoon to Hawaii, where I realize I’ve got this life thing down just fine on my own.
Friendships and laughter? Yes.
Adventures? Absolutely.
But relationships? Hell no. Never again.
Knox
I’m a man of few words. My reputation as a moody prick is deserved, but only the handful of people who really know me see the man beneath the professional mask.
I’m a protector. A warrior. That part is true. But the world doesn’t get to see the rest of me. And women don’t seem to mind my gruff exterior—my bed’s always warm.
I’m content with life—loving it, even—or so I thought. But when I meet a beautiful pastry chef with a broken heart and a smile that softens me down to my soul, I realize I wasn’t really content at all before her.

Mrs. Eric Darnell. I’ve practiced saying it and writing it, but it still doesn’t feel real. There’s a part of me that’s still scared, but this is the right thing. After nine years together, where else can our relationship go?
At the sound of a sniffle, I turn to my maid of honor, my best friend Mandy, who’s already crying. I never knew her to be a softie. The ceremony hasn’t really even started yet. She takes a tissue out from around her bouquet and wipes the corners of her eyes.
“Before we begin the ceremony, let us pray,” the pastor says.
“Hang on,” Eric blurts out.
Did he just say hang on as our wedding ceremony was about to start? My heart skips several beats as I look around to see what’s going on. Is there a medical emergency? Why else would Eric go off script?
The pastor and I both stare at him as he closes his eyes and grimaces.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sighing as he opens his eyes and lets go of my hands.
As my hands drop to my sides, an icy shiver zips down my spine. He let go. I only asked him for one thing when we talked on the phone this morning, honoring the tradition of not seeing each other on our wedding day. Hold onto my hands the entire time.
The church is still, everyone seeming to hold their breath as they wait for Eric to speak. My heart races and my hands start to shake as I realize something’s not right here. There’s no medical emergency.
“Reese.” Eric’s tone is both apologetic and pleading. “I need to tell you something. I want to go into this marriage with a clean conscience.”
I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat. This can’t be happening. In all my worst-case scenarios about what could go wrong on my wedding day, I never imagined this.
I worried I’d be having a heavy period today. That I’d trip on my way down the aisle and face plant in front of everyone. Or that the last week of stress eating would catch up with me and my dress wouldn’t zip up.
But this? Never this.
Eric lets out a shaky breath and says, “Please forgive me. I did something so stupid.”
Mandy’s crying intensifies. I feel like I could pass out at any second.
“Uh…” the pastor looks between me and Eric. “Do you two want to step out for a moment?”
“What did you do?” I ask Eric, my voice nearly a whisper.
The sound and scent of the ocean has vanished. I can only feel my racing heart and a creeping sense of complete dread.
“So now it was stupid?” Mandy demands loudly. “Eight months together and you’re saying it was a mistake?”
The guests collectively gasp.
As it sets in, I’m too stunned to even breathe. Eric. Fucked. Mandy. A lot.
My bouquet falls to the ground, making a whooshing sound as it hits. My breathing is more of a pant now, an angry, breathy pant with a growl now surfacing.


Brenda Rothert is an Illinois native who was a print journalist for nine years. She made the jump from fact to fiction in 2013 and never looked back. From new adult to steamy contemporary romance, Brenda creates fresh characters in every story she tells. She’s a lover of Diet Coke, chocolate, lazy weekends and happily ever afters.

BLURB
Once upon a cold, dark night, a Russian killer stole me from an alley.
I’m dangerous, but he is lethal.
I escaped once.
He won’t let me do it twice.
The revenge is his.
The betrayal is mine.
But so are the lies to protect the ones I love.
We’re cut from the same twisted cloth. Both merciless. Both damaged.
In his embrace, I find hell and heaven, his cruelly tender touch destroying and uplifting me at once.
They say a cat has nine lives, but an assassin has just one.
And Yan Ivanov now owns mine.
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EXCERPT
“So, how long have you worked at the bar?” the guy with the skull tattoos—the seemingly kinder one—asks when I remove my winter jacket and we sit down in the living room. With its Soviet-style orange wallpaper and brown drapes, this place looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the eighties, but the ratty couch we’re sitting on is surprisingly comfortable. Maybe I will take him up on his offer to sleep here. That is, if they don’t kill me and dump my body in the river before sunrise.
I think my captor was just testing my language skills with that proposal, but I can’t be sure.
“Mina?” the man prompts, and I realize I zoned out instead of answering his question. Now that some of the adrenaline is fading, the extreme exhaustion is back, muddling my thoughts and slowing my reactions. I want nothing more than to stretch out on this couch and fall asleep, but I might not wake up if I do.
The Russians might decide that what I heard merits killing me rather than just keeping me captive overnight.
“I’ve worked there for a couple of years,” I answer, my voice shaking. It’s easy to sound terrified… because I am.
I’m with two men who may want to kill me, and I’m in no state to defend myself.
The only thing that gives me hope is that they haven’t already done so. They could’ve easily murdered me in the alley; they didn’t need to bring me here for that. Of course, there’s another possibility, one that every woman must consider.
They might be planning to rape me before killing me, in which case bringing me here makes perfect sense.
The thought makes my stomach churn, the old memories threatening to crowd in, but underneath the fear and disgust is something darker, infinitely more fucked up. The brief sizzle of arousal I’d experienced at the bar was nothing compared to how it had felt when the dangerous stranger caged me against the wall, caressing my face with that cruel gentleness. My body—the weak, ruined body I’ve spent the past year hating—had come to life with such force, it was as if fireworks had ignited under my skin, liquifying my core and burning away my inhibitions.
Was he able to sense it?
Did he know how badly I wanted him to keep touching me?
I think he did. And more than that, I think he wanted to. His eyes—a hard, gem-like green—had watched me with the dark intensity of a predator, taking in every twitch of my lashes, every hitch of my breath. If we’d been alone, he might’ve kissed me… or killed me on the spot.
It’s hard to tell with him.
“Do you like it? Working at the bar, I mean?” the tattooed man asks, bringing my attention back to him. Now he is easy to read. There’s unmistakable male interest in the way he looks at me, an obvious gleam in his green eyes.
Wait a sec. Green eyes?
“Are you two brothers?” I blurt out, then silently curse myself. I’m so tired I’m not thinking straight. The last thing I need is for these two to imagine I’m gathering information on them, or—
“We are.” A smile lights up his broad face, softening his harsh features. “Twins, in fact.”
Shit. I did not need to know that. The next thing I know, he’ll be telling me his—
“I’m Ilya, by the way,” he says, extending one big paw toward me. “And my brother’s name is Yan.”
Oh, fuck. I’m so screwed. They are going to kill me. “Nice to meet you,” I say weakly, shaking his hand on autopilot. My grip is as limp as my voice, but that’s okay. I’m playing a damsel in distress, and the more convincing I am, the better.
Too bad the act is mostly real these days.
Ilya squeezes my hand gingerly, as if afraid of inadvertently crushing my bones, and hope nibbles at me. He wouldn’t be so careful with me if they were planning to brutally rape and kill me, would he?
As if reading my thoughts, he gives me another smile, an even kinder one this time, and says gruffly, “I’m sorry about my brother. He’s used to seeing enemies around every corner. You will walk away from this unharmed, I promise you, malyshka. We need to keep you overnight as a precaution, that’s all.”
Strangely, I believe him. Or at least I believe that he intends me no harm. The jury is still out on his brother—who chooses that exact moment to walk in, carrying a cup of tea in one hand and two beers in the other.
My breath catches in my throat as he—Yan—sets the drinks on the coffee table in front of us and sits down between me and Ilya, unapologetically wedging himself into the too-small space. Instinctively, I scoot to the side, as far as the couch allows, but that’s only about six centimeters, and my leg ends up pressed against his, the heat of his body burning me even through the layers of our clothing.
He’s shed the suede winter jacket he was wearing earlier, and is now dressed like he was in the bar, in the stylish dress pants and button-up shirt. Except his sleeves are rolled up, exposing muscular forearms lightly dusted with dark hair.
He’s strong, this ruthless captor of mine. Strong and superbly fit, his body a deadly weapon under those perfectly tailored clothes.
“Tea,” he says in that smooth, deep voice of his, so different from his brother’s rougher tones. “As per the princess’s request.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, reaching for the cup. My hands are visibly shaking, my breathing is shallow, and I’m sweating—and none of it is an act. I can smell the clean, masculine scent of his cologne—something sensual and airy, like pepper and sandalwood—and his nearness unsettles me, making my insides riot with a confusing mixture of fear and desire. Even if he wasn’t danger personified, I’d be drawn to his magnetic good looks, but knowing what I know about him—about what he does and what he might do to me—I can’t control my helpless response to him.
Even my tiredness recedes, leaving me jittery and high, as if I’d downed two liters of espresso.
I’m acutely aware of his gaze on me as I bring the cup to my lips and take a sip, suppressing a hiss at the scalding temperature of the water. I’m trying not to look at him, to just focus on my tea, but I can’t help staring at his hands as he reaches over and grabs a beer, then twists off the cap with a practiced motion. His fingers are long and masculine, and though his nails are neatly groomed, the calluses on the edges of his thumbs belie the elegance of his appearance.
This is a man used to doing things with his hands.
Terrible, violent things.
A normal woman would be repulsed by the thought, but my heart hammers faster, and an aching pulse starts between my legs, my underwear dampening with liquid heat. The darkness in him calls to me, making me feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
It’s as if like recognizes like, the wrongness in me craving the same in him.
Ilya picks up the remaining bottle, his hands thick and rough, with a few tattoos on the back. There’s no pretense in him, no attempt to hide what he is behind an elegant mask. “To new friends,” he says, clinking his bottle against his brother’s and then, more gently, against my cup of tea. I risk a glance at him, but catch Yan’s hard green gaze instead.
I quickly look away, but not before a betraying flush crawls up my neck and covers my face. “To new friends,” I repeat, staring into my cup as if I might see my fate written in the tea leaves. I’m not sure I want Yan to know about the effect he has on me—though he probably already does.
I’m not exactly at the top of my game tonight.
“Yes, to new friends,” Yan murmurs, his large hand landing on my knee and squeezing it lightly.
Startled, I look over at him and see him tipping back the beer, his strong throat working as he swallows. It’s a strangely sensual sight, and my insides clench as he lowers the bottle and meets my gaze, his eyes darkly intent as the hand on my knee moves a couple of inches up my thigh, closer to where I’m wet and aching.
Oh God.
He knows.
He definitely knows.
“Ilya,” he says quietly, still holding my gaze. “Make us a couple of sandwiches, will you? I think Mina here is hungry.”
“She is?” Ilya sounds confused as he stands up, and I look up to find him frowning at us—specifically, at my thigh, where Yan’s hand is resting so possessively. Slowly, tension permeates his big body, his hands flexing at his sides as his gaze swings to his brother’s face.
“I don’t think she’s hungry,” he bites out, his voice low and hard. His eyes cut to me. “Are you, Mina?”
I swallow thickly, unsure of what the right answer is. If I’m reading this right, Yan has just staked some sort of an exclusive claim on me, one that I would reinforce if I admitted to this made-up hunger.
Is that what I want?
To send away the brother who’s been nice to me, so I could be alone with the man who proposed dumping my body in the river?
“A… a sandwich would be nice.” The words don’t seem to belong to me, yet it’s my voice saying them, even as my brain scrambles to figure out the implications. “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Ilya’s mouth thins. “Fine. I’ll see what we have in the fridge.”
And turning around, he stalks off, leaving me on the couch with his brother.
AUTHOR BIOS & LINKS
Anna Zaires
Anna Zaires is a New York Times, USA Today, and international bestselling author of sci-fi romance and contemporary dark romance. She fell in love with books at the age of five, when her grandmother taught her to read. Since then, she has always lived partially in a fantasy world where the only limits were those of her imagination. Currently residing in Florida, Anna is happily married to Dima Zales (a science fiction and fantasy author) and closely collaborates with him on all their works.
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Charmaine Pauls
Charmaine Pauls was born in Bloemfontein, South Africa. She obtained a degree in Communication at the University of Potchestroom, and followed a diverse career path in journalism, public relations, advertising, communications, photography, graphic design, and brand marketing. Her writing has always been an integral part of her professions.
After relocating to Chile with her French husband, she fulfilled her passion to write creatively full-time. Charmaine has published over twenty novels since 2011, as well as several short stories and articles. Two of her shorts have been selected by the International Literary Society for an anthology from across the African continent.
When she is not writing, she likes to travel, read, and rescue cats. Charmaine currently lives in France with her husband and children. Their household is a linguistic mélange of Afrikaans, English, French and Spanish.
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Dirty Letters
Release Date: 11/05/2019
A Contemporary Romance Novel
New York Times Bestselling Authors Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward
*****
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*****
BLURB
I’d never forgotten him—a man I’d yet to meet.
Griffin Quinn was my childhood pen pal, the British boy who couldn’t have been more different from me. Over the years, through hundreds of letters, we became best friends, sharing our deepest, darkest secrets and forming a connection I never thought could break.
Until one day it did.
Then, out of the blue, a new letter arrived. A scathing one—one with eight years of pent-up anger. I had no choice but to finally come clean as to why I stopped writing.
Griffin forgave me, and somehow we were able to rekindle our childhood connection. Only now we were adults, and that connection had grown to a spark. Our letters quickly went from fun to flirty to downright dirty, revealing our wildest fantasies. So it only made sense that we would take our relationship to the next level and see each other in person.
Only Griff didn’t want to meet. He asked that I trust him and said it was for the best. But I wanted more—more Griff, in the flesh—so I took a big chance and went looking for him. People have done crazier things for love.
But what I found could change everything.

EXCERPT REVEAL:
The small dining room table had a pile of mail. I’d had Dad’s mail forwarded to my house, so mostly it was just catalogs and junk. Once a month, Mrs. Cascio sent me everything that arrived, even though I’d told her it wasn’t necessary. I mindlessly fingered through the pile, not expecting to see anything worth keeping. But I stopped at an envelope addressed to me—well, not me, but Luca Ryan. That was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. In second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Ryan, started a pen pal writing program with a small town in England. We weren’t allowed to use our real last names for safety reasons, so the entire class used her last name—hence I was Luca Ryan. I checked out the return address for the sender’s name.
G. Quinn
Wow, really? It couldn’t be.
I squinted at the postmark. It was from a PO box in California, not England, but I didn’t know any other Quinn other than Griffin. And the handwriting did look pretty familiar. But it had been close to eight years since we’d exchanged letters. Why would he write now? Curious, I ripped it open and scanned right to the bottom of the letter for the name. Sure enough, it was from Griffin. I started at the beginning.
Dear Luca,
Do you like scotch? I remember you said you didn’t like the taste of beer. But we never did get around to comparing our taste in hard liquor. Why is that, you might ask? Let me remind you—because you stopped answering my letters eight damn years ago. I wanted to let you know, I’m still pissed off about that. My mum used to say I hold grudges. But I prefer to think of it as I remember the facts. And the fact of the matter is, you suck. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been holding that shit in for a long time. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not obsessive or anything. I don’t sit in my house thinking about you all day long. In fact, there have been months that go by when thoughts of you don’t even enter my brain. But then some random thing will pop into my head out of the blue. Like I’ll see some kid in a pram eating black licorice, and I’ll think of you. Side note—I’ve tried it again as an adult, and I still think it tastes like the bottom of my shoe, so perhaps it’s that you just have no taste. You probably don’t even like scotch. Anyway, I’m sure this letter won’t find its way to you. Or if by some miracle it does, you won’t answer. But if you’re reading this, you should know two things.
1. The Macallan 1926 is worth the extra cash. Goes down smooth.
2. You SUCK.
Later, traitor, Griffin
What in the hell?
____________________________________________________________
______________________________________
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

PENELOPE WARD:
Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of contemporary romance.
She grew up in Boston with five older brothers and spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor. Penelope resides in Rhode Island with her husband, son, and beautiful daughter with autism.
With over two million books sold, she is a 21-time New York Times bestseller and the author of over twenty novels. Her books have been translated into over a dozen languages and can be found in bookstores around the world.
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VI KEELAND
Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles have appeared in over a hundred Bestseller lists and are currently translated in twenty-five languages. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.
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*****
OTHER BOOKS BY VI KEELAND AND PENELOPE WARD:
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We Shouldn’t:
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Too Good at Goodbyes by RC Boldt
Release Date: October 29, 2019

Too Good at Goodbyes, an all-new standalone contemporary romance by RC Boldt.
First Top 40 hit at age seventeen? My first tabloid breakup scandal quickly followed.
Earned my first Grammy? Discovered Mommy Dearest was embezzling my money.
Landed a leading role in a movie? My fiancé called off our engagement the next day.
I might have a multi-million-dollar recording contract, a sold-out world tour, and more money in the bank than I ever imagined, but every time I hit a milestone in my career, my personal life suffers.
Then in steps my new bodyguard, rugged and with a past I connect with. The closer we get, the more powerful my feelings grow, complicating our professional relationship.
I thought Kane would be different. I hoped he’d be the one man to stand by my side, undaunted by the fame and attention that trails me.
The press calls me the “Ice Princess of Pop” because of my unyielding façade throughout heartbreak and betrayal. Perhaps it’s time to show them the real me.
With every syllable, I pour out my emotions and allow them to puddle, forming lyrics from my soul’s breath. And with each word, my broken heart cries out for Kane, begging him to help me break this pattern.
To help me stop being so d*mn good at goodbyes.
A stand-alone, contemporary romance.

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Excerpt:
SIMONE
Present Day
The Super Bowl Halftime Performance
Hard Rock Stadium
Miami Gardens, Florida
Facing what’s estimated to be over sixty-seven thousand people with my favorite guitar strapped snug against me, I prepare to sing my final song.
Standing up here in front of thousands of fans is second nature. I performed in countless dive bars before breaking onto the scene and securing my first record deal, then moving on to sold-out world tours. Which means I shouldn’t have sweaty palms like a preteen working up the nerve to talk to her crush.
My heart shouldn’t be racing like a horse competing in the Kentucky Derby.
My stomach shouldn’t churn as though I’ve eaten ceviche from a questionable food truck.
Tremors shouldn’t affect my hands like a virgin embarking on their deflowering.
None of this should be afflicting me. But it is.
Because of him.
Because of the current state of my heart.
But this is how I deal with heartache. With tragedy. With…life.
“This is a little different, and I hope you like it,” I rasp into the mic. Noise from the cheering fans is deafening, and like every time I perform, the surreal quality never quite fades.
Tonight marks the first time I’ll share a song I wrote about someone who eviscerated my heart entirely. My other relationships—and subsequent failures—pale in comparison.
It’s no secret that love and broken hearts inspire great songwriting. With regard to the latter, it’s never hard to find someone mourning an unrequited love, suffering heartache, or wishing they’d find their own glorified everlasting love.
But have you noticed when male musicians write about it, they’re never on the receiving end of the snide, sarcastic comments of, “Oh, poor thing. He’s rich and famous and can’t find love. Boo-freaking-hoo.”?
Yet when I write lyrics that are the closest thing to ripping out my heart and putting it on display for the world, I receive the “She’s probably selfish and put her career first” or “She probably cheated, and now she’s regretting it” or “Mm. So sad. The Ice Princess of Pop is heartbroken.”
My response? Fuck that noise. I’m writing from my heart and soul, regardless of how damaged they might be at any given time. And as long as my fans continue to support me, I’m going to keep on keepin’ on.
“I’d like to dedicate this song to a special person.” I duck my chin, willing myself to maintain composure. “It’s called ‘Embers.’”
Once I strum the first note on my guitar, everything around me fades. My voice emerges from the shards scattered within my chest where my working heart once was.
When I play that final chord, I see tears streaming down the faces of the fans in the front rows. And yet again, I’m reminded of something all too easily forgotten. That there are others who can relate to lyrics written from my soul’s breath.
Because in heartache, we’re never truly alone.

Ashley’s Review
Storyline: 4 stars
Characters: 4 stars
Heat Factor: 4 stars
Overall Rating: 4 stars
Too Good at Goodbyes by RC Boldt is the first book I’ve read by this author and will certainly not be the last! This book was very well written taking the reader into the pages of Simone and Kane’s journey of recovering from heartbreak of past relationships and to finding love again.
This book is follows Simone King, the Ice Princess of Pop and her temporary bodyguard Kane Windham. Living in the limelight isn’t easy and hasn’t painted Simone as the warmest of people but deep down behind the gossip and rumors is someone who has learned to ignore the media and the fabricated stories they tell.
Kane is recovering from a bad breakup. When he’s given the position of Head of Personal Security for Simone King his initial thoughts of the Ice Princess of Pop aren’t high as he’s seen what the media has said about her but what he’s not expecting is to find someone else completely. Someone who isn’t like what the media has made her seem.
The writing in this story is so good, I cannot say that enough. RC Boldt has created a special story and has really created a book that’s more than just pop princesses and their bodyguards. This story has lots of heart and emotion which bring the characters to life. This book is a slow burn!!! Don’t go in expecting Rockstar sex right off the bat. It’s a necessary slow burn that leads to the development of Simone and Kane’s relationship.
4 stars
About RC Boldt:
RC Boldt enjoys long walks on the beach, running, reading, people watching, and singing karaoke. If you’re in the mood for some killer homemade mojitos, can’t recall the lyrics to a particular 80’s song, or just need to hang around a nonconformist who will do almost anything for a laugh, she’s your girl.
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