Friday, March 31, 2017

Plus One by Aleatha Romig

A fun, sexy new stand-alone from New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig.

He's sexy and confident, the kind of man every woman notices. You know, the one with the to-die-for body and panty-melting smirk. And then there's the way his designer suits drape over his broad shoulders and big...well, we've all heard the rumors, the ones that say he's up for any challenge.

But I can't see him that way. He's my boss—technically one of the owners of the company where I work—and definitely not in my league. Men like him don't notice women like me, and they don't date them.

And I don't date men like him.

Until that one time that I catch him in a compromising position when I'm also in need of a last-minute date for a wedding...and then it's not real. It's blackmail.

For one weekend, he's my plus-one.

Beautiful and unobtainable.

From the moment she walked into my office with those stunning blue eyes and crazy sensual curves, she's been on my mind. Three years and never once has she acted interested in me. Usually I flash a million-dollar smile and women fall to their knees, some literally.

Not her.

Then on the occasion that I agree to let another woman do that—fall to her knees—guess who happens to catch us?

It may not be the most conventional way to get on her radar, but I didn't get this far in business without knowing when to seize an opportunity. If this sexy little firecracker with perfectly kissable lips thinks she can blackmail me into attending her cousin's wedding, I'm going to jump at the chance to be her plus-one.

You love her darker side. Now it's time to meet Leatha, the lighter side of Aleatha, as she trades her renowned twists and turns for laughs and love with this sexy new stand-alone romance, PLUS ONE.

Aleatha Romig is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in Indiana. She grew up in Mishawaka, graduated from Indiana University, and is currently living south of Indianapolis. Aleatha has raised three children with her high school sweetheart and husband of nearly thirty years. Before she became a full-time author, she worked days as a dental hygienist and spent her nights writing. Now, when she's not imagining mind-blowing twists and turns, she likes to spend her time a with her family and friends. Her other pastimes include reading and creating heroes/anti-heroes who haunt your dreams!
Aleatha released her first novel, CONSEQUENCES, in August of 2011. CONSEQUENCES became a bestselling series with five novels and two companions released from 2011 through 2015. The compelling and epic story of Anthony and Claire Rawlings has graced more than half a million e-readers. Aleatha released the first of her series TALES FROM THE DARK SIDE, INSIDIOUS, in the fall of 2014. These stand alone thrillers continue Aleatha's twisted style with an increase in heat.
In the fall of 2015, Aleatha moved head first into the world of dark romantic suspense with the release of BETRAYAL, the first of her five novel INFIDELITY series that has taken the reading world by storm. She also began her traditional publishing career with Thomas and Mercer. Her books INTO THE LIGHT and AWAY FROM THE DARK were published through this mystery/thriller publisher in 2016.
Aleatha is a "Published Author's Network" member of the Romance Writers of America and a member of PEN America.  She is represented by Kevan Lyon of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.

Standing His Ground: Greer
by Jamie Begley

Standing His Ground: Greer

Porter Brothers Trilogy #2 by Jamie Begley 
Publication Date: March 31, 2017 
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

The Porter brothers were raised to live and die by Three Rules.
One, a Porter always keeps what’s his. 
Two, a Porter leaves no enemy standing. 
Three… Greer’s been searching for love in all the wrong places. 

He wants kids … and lots of them, so it’s time to get busy and find the lucky woman to share his bed and his life. Though there isn’t a lot to choose from in the small town of Treepoint, he has managed to narrow his choices down to three. The strange thing is, the one he’s falling in love with remains a mystery, hiding her face and name in the messages she sends from behind her computer. 

The mysterious woman may dodge his questions about her identity, but it’s only a matter of time before she finds out that this Porter brother won’t back away from something he wants, and he wants her. Come hell or high water, he will find the one who goes by KentuckyGirl and make her his, despite what anyone says, even her. And KentuckyGirl is going to find out the last Porter rule the hard way: A Porter always stands his ground and leads his prey into his waiting arms…

“I was born in a small town in Kentucky. My family began poor, but worked their way to owning a restaurant. My mother was one of the best cooks I have ever known, and she instilled in all her children the value of hard work, and education. Taking after my mother, I’ve always love to cook, and became pretty good if I do say so myself. I love to experiment and my unfortunate family has suffered through many. They now have learned to steer clear of those dishes. I absolutely love the holidays and my family puts up with my zany decorations. For now, my days are spent writing, writing, and writing. I have two children who both graduated this year from college. My daughter does my book covers, and my son just tries not to blush when someone asks him about my books. Currently I am writing five series of books- The Last Riders, The VIP Room, Predators MC, Biker Bitches, and The Dark Souls. All my books are written for one purpose- the enjoyment others find in them, and the expectations of my fans that inspire me to give it my best.”

By Her Touch by Adriana Anders

Undercover cop Clay Navarro left the Sultans biker gang a changed man. Its ringleaders may be awaiting trial, but he wears the memory of every brutal act he was forced to commit tattooed across his skin. He doesn’t have space in his messed-up life for anything gentle—not now, maybe not ever.

Dr. Georgette Hadley is drawn to the damaged stranger’s pain, intimidated but intrigued by the warmth that lies beneath Clay’s frightening exterior. But when the Sultans return looking for revenge, she finds herself drawn into the dirty underbelly of a life forged in violence…that not even her touch may be able to heal.

Adriana Anders has acted and sung, slung cocktails and corrected copy. She’s worked for start-ups, multinationals and small nonprofits, but it wasn’t until she returned to her first love—writing romance—that she finally felt like she’d come home. Today, she resides with her tall French husband, two small children and fat French cat in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she writes the dark, gritty, steamy love stories of her heart.

He’d fallen asleep. Either that or he’d gone to that place, wherever it was, that he seemed to go on her table. Only this time, George’s hands were on him. She felt heavy and warm, and his back was big and strong and supple, but so sweet, laid out for her, waiting, needing…

Dear God, what’s wrong with me?

He was numb by now. He had to be—as numb as the cream would make him, which wasn’t very. Another dip, another swipe, and his flesh rippled beneath her touch. Maybe not asleep?

She wanted to put her hand on his head again and push him down, but there was nowhere to go. She
wanted to lean into him and over him and maybe just stretch herself across all that muscle and bone. Desire settled into her pelvis as she stroked his shoulders, ran a hand a little too far down an arm that had absolutely no need of numbing cream. None.

What the hell is wrong with me?

But still, she couldn’t quite convince her body to stop. Slowly, she kneaded her thumbs around those
beautiful scapulas, felt him shudder slightly, and pulled away, hyperaware of how strange her actions were—how unethical and wrong, but maybe…maybe just…

“Don’t stop,” he mumbled, and honestly, that was all she needed.

His back—this solid, robust plane—was like the culmination of all of the backs she hadn’t had the pleasure of touching over the years, and goodness, she wanted it. She wanted his back.

Wanted his back?

Was this how it felt to go crazy?

George stepped away, embarrassed and more than a little worried for her sanity. Was she really, truly, going to cave in and do things she might very well—no, would definitely—regret over some stranger’s back?

He grunted—or maybe it was more of a groan—and twisted his neck so one shadowed eye peeked out at her.

“’S the best thing that’s happened to me in fu…frickin’ years.” His voice came out low, almost on a whisper.

“This is…” George couldn’t get the words out, she was breathing so fast. “This is weird. I can’t… I don’t—”

“No. Feels good. So damn good.”

“Just…me touching you?”


There was hardly any hesitation at all, and then the succubus wearing her skin stepped forward. Closer, until her belly was level with his hand. “Are you numb?”

She reached out and stroked him, right on that horribly defacing burn, wondering if he could feel her.
Wanting him to.

“No,” he said, even breathier now. “No, the opposite. Numb when I walked in. Now. Shit. Now, it’s all nerves.”

The weight in George’s belly turned liquid, spread out on a wave of shivery sensation that she hadn’t felt since she’d been just a kid, squished in the backseat of Dylan Dean’s bright-red Mustang with nothing between her legs but his hand, and nothing in her head but blind teenage lust.

“Here?” Her fingers caressed him where his skin had melted into unsightly whorls, tracing the jagged surface and wishing he’d let her do more. Although, even as she thought that, she wasn’t sure if she meant more as in treatment for the burn, or more right now, to his body.

To him.

“Yeah. There. Just…” He groaned, then begged, “Please.”

Possessed, she caressed him, up his side, almost to his armpit and its tuft of dark hair. It looked sexual,
that hair, like something she wasn’t supposed to see. Then tracing along the top of his shoulder to the back of his neck and down, down, down his spine, the bumps adding texture along the way, the rocky road of his body the most enticing thing George had ever seen.

More sounds escaped him, little grunts that said he liked what she did, and those fueled her even more.
Lord, she wanted to flatten herself on top of the man, to cover him, and… What? Hump him? No. Not really.

Make him feel good? Touch every little bit of him? Heal him? Protect him from whatever hell he’d been through?

With a snap that surprised even her, she removed the glove that separated his skin from hers and lightly—oh so lightly—felt the reality of his flesh without the barrier of Nitrile in between. The noises were hers this time, and the contact was kinetic, burned the air, turned the heat up, ate out her brain.
His hand, right there on the edge of the table, somehow turned until his palm rested flat against her belly—not pushing, just…absorbing, fingers taking in her softness, exploring her the way she was him.

Before she knew it, she’d curled her palm around that hunk of a shoulder, leaned in until more than her lab coat pressed against the man, her breathing shaky and short. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, in a dream. The bridge of her nose skimmed his hairline, and she took him in, smelled him, got a bigger dose of what she’d only guessed at until now. And it was good, elementally good, unexplainably, animalistically perfect. A smell she could dive into and live off of.

She pulled back. “Got to stop. I’ve got to stop.”

“Hang on.” His hand reached for hers, grasped it, skin to skin, and held on tight. “Don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, but it’s making me crazy.”

“I don’t know; I don’t know. I’m not… This isn’t me,” George muttered, eyes clearing. She pulled hard at her hand, blinked hazily at the man laid out before her, and moved toward the door. “I’ll be…I’ll be right back.”

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Wild Ride by Julie Ann Walker

The hero we've all been waiting for…

Ethan "Ozzie" Sykes
Former Navy SEAL
Underground operator for Black Knights Inc., the covert government defense firm disguised as a custom motorcycle shop

In a black-on-black international mission that went seriously sideways, Ozzie was badly injured—now he's stuck at BKI headquarters in Chicago, champing at the bit to get out into the field again. To his disgust, he's tasked with distracting Chicago Tribune ace reporter Samantha Tate, who's been trying to dig up the dirt on BKI for years. Turns out Samantha's beauty, intelligence and sense of humor are a seriously big distraction, and Ozzie's losing his desire to keep her at bay.

Ozzie's tired of hiding, and Samantha may be the best—and worst—person to share his secrets with...


It was half past eight on a Wednesday night, so pickings were slim. Most of the patrons were single dudes looking to tie on a buzz before heading home to fall into bed, catch a few z’s, then wake up and start the daily grind all over again. A few couples were snuggled into the booths or sitting at the high-tops having a nightcap before calling it a day. And then there was the foursome of ladies playing pool. In their late twenties and dressed to the nines in business attire, they seemed the answer to Christian’s prayers. Except for the fact that they were hooting and hollering, kicking off their high heels, and doing their best to get sloppy.

Girls’ night out.

Ozzie knew better than to intrude on that.

“You might be out of luck,” he lamented to Christian, eyeing one of the pool players as she stumbled toward the jukebox. “And worse still, this one looks like a Taylor Swift fan.”

Christian glanced over his shoulder at the woman as she drunkenly studied the jukebox’s screen. “If she plays sodding ‘Shake It Off,’ I grant you permission to un-holster my Walther and shoot me in the face.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They waited, shoulders tense, as the jukebox loaded the woman’s selection. It was “Shake it Off.”

“Right-oh. Never mind the shot to the face,” Christian declared. “I have a better idea. Let’s get good and pissed and then ring up a cab to take us home. Delilah, luv, fetch us two vodka shots, yeah?”

“You’re both pathetic,” Delilah declared after plunking the vodka down in front of them. “It’s not like they wanted to leave either of you behind.”

And by they, she meant the Black Knights. The most select, most secretive group of covert operators ever to sign up to do Uncle Sam’s dirty work. They were Ozzie’s teammates. His friends. And they were all now half a world away, disrupting the Islamic State’s supply lines in order to weaken the group’s defensive and offensive capabilities.

Well, except for Zoelner. He was in London helping to hunt down a mysterious underworld crime lord aptly named Spider.

But that’s just splitting hairs. Because whether it was chasing ISIS or shadowy international figures, it all came down to one thing. Every Black Knight was engaged in making the world a safer place. Every Black Knight except for Ozzie and Christian. And Christian would be heading into the field again soon. His burst eardrums, courtesy of a recent mission when he’d been forced to fire a 50-cal. in an enclosed space, were mostly healed.

And there they were again, the self-pity and remorse. Ozzie tossed back the shot and welcomed the burn of the liquor, hoping it would pickle those stupid pits in his stomach.

“It’s not that we feel sorry for ourselves,” Christian said after downing his shot. “It’s that we’re sharks. If we stop swimming, we die.”

“Oh, for the love of tequila.” Delilah’s expression was unsympathetic. “Neither of you needs to do anything but what you’re doing, which is healing up. Besides, we like having you around, Christian. You brew a freakin’ mean cup of tea.”

“God save the Queen.” Christian winked and saluted her with his beer.

The we Delilah mentioned were the wives and girlfriends of the Knights—Delilah being one of the former. All the ladies had taken to gathering in the big warehouse in the evening, because at precisely seven p.m. local time, one of the guys in the field would make an encrypted satellite call back home to say a quick hello to his better half and let the other better halves know that everyone in Syria was A-okay. The tension in the shop in the minutes leading up to that phone call each day was palpable. Just one more reason he and Christian were sitting at a bar in the middle of the workweek. Just a little nip to take the edge off.

Ozzie lifted his beer to wash down the bite of the shot. No sooner had he set his glass on the bar than the front door burst open and a Tasmanian devil, otherwise known as ace reporter Samantha Tate, came barreling in. Her right shoulder drooped under the weight of one of her giant oversized handbags, which was stuffed full of the myriad piles of crap she carried around.

Christian took one look at her, turned to Ozzie, and started whistling the tune to “Me and My Shadow.”

Ozzie elbowed him.

“Watch yourself, wankstain.” Christian pretended to reach beneath his jacket for his Walther.

“Please. You wouldn’t shoot me. I’m the only one who’ll go to Fadó’s to eat bangers and mash with you.”

“True,” Christian admitted. “Still, remind me why you think it’s a jolly good idea to go mucking about with a reporter? I cannot wrap my mind around you knowingly shagging someone who could blow your cover. You off your trolley, or what?”

“First of all,” Ozzie assured him, “I’m not shagging her.” Although every time I see her, I’m damned tempted.

“Well, that is a first,” Christian said.

“And second of all,” Ozzie went on as if Christian hadn’t spoken, “you have nothing to worry about. I treat her like a mushroom.”


“I keep her in the dark and feed her shit.” Which is really starting to bother me. I fucking hate lying to her. Of course, Ozzie kept that to himself.

Christian narrowed his eyes. “You filched that line from a movie.”

Ozzie feigned a playfulness he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Movie quotes and song lyrics, home slice. They’re my bread and butter. Besides, you know that old saying.” Ozzie saw the moment Samantha spotted him and started heading in his direction. The woman had a way of walking that reminded him of female sailors. They had hips so they moved like women, but their naval training taught them efficiency of motion. That was Samantha Tate in a word. Efficient. And beautiful. Last weekend, when they met in Lincoln Park for a picnic on the grass, the sunlight had dappled through the leaves of the trees, bringing out the auburn and gold highlights in her curly, mink-brown hair, and he had been so stunned by her simple loveliness that he hadn’t been able to breathe.

“Which old saying would that be?” Christian asked.

“‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

Christian narrowed his eyes again. “You expect me to believe she’s your enemy? That all these lunch dates and coffee dates are…what? A smoke screen?”

They had started that way. But it’d quickly become…more.

“So you got me,” Ozzie admitted. “I like her. The woman burns words the way a magician burns flash paper—quickly and with a lot of show. It stimulates my brain.”

“I’m certain it stimulates something,” Christian scoffed, the end of his sentence a bare whisper as Samantha closed in on them.

“I see you have your boyfriend with you tonight, Ozzie.” She hopped onto the barstool beside him. Her soft, powdery-smelling body lotion reached out to him, filling his nose and triggering a cascade of goose bumps. It happened every damned time she got close. He’d scoured the shelves at Walgreens, sniffing every bottle of body butter and balm they sold trying to find out which brand she used so that he could…what? Use it to whack off with? For the love of Spock’s ears. He was pathetic. 

“Good to see you again, Christian.” She waved across him at the Brit.

“Ah, Christian’s not gay,” Ozzie assured her, ignoring his body’s interest at her nearness and focusing on the lively banter she had come to expect from him. “He’s just really pretty. But I can see how you’d make that mistake, what with the hair product and the tailored clothes.”

Christian grunted.

Samantha nodded, waved her hand through the air, and was on to the next subject. “Well, gents, it’s official. The zombie apocalypse has started. On my beat today, I covered a police-on-police shooting, a ten-car pileup on the Kennedy Expressway, an outbreak of salmonella brought on by a restaurant knowingly serving tainted sushi, and a string of B and E’s where the perps turned out to be two thirteen-year-olds who claimed to be in love”—she rolled her eyes at this—“and fancied themselves the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.” She signaled Delilah. “Make Momma one of your specialties, would you, please? Extra dirty with three olives.” 

Then she turned back to Ozzie and Christian. “But you two have nothing to worry about. Zombies eat brains, so you’ll both be fine.”

See. Verbal flash paper. Crackle! Poof! Ahhhhh! Ozzie felt a smile—a real smile—tug at his lips.

Christian harrumphed. “I shouldn’t think you know me well enough to judge my mental acuity.”

“Maybe not. But you have to be a little lacking in the IQ department to willingly pal around with this one.” Samantha hooked a thumb toward Ozzie. The sparkle in her dark eyes was positively mercenary.

“That’s a bit like the pilot calling the hippie high, yeah?” Christian raised brow.

“Oh, you think I want to spend time with Mad Scientist Hair here?” Samantha pretended incredulity. “No, no. I feel sorry for him. I mean, who wouldn’t? Just look at him.”

Ozzie made a face and gifted her with a terse hand gesture that used his third digit.

“Spoken like a true scholar,” she said.
A crack of laughter blasted out of him. And when Samantha turned to thank Delilah for the martini, he took the opportunity to study her profile.

She was beautiful. Her brown eyes glowed with intelligence, and she had one of those faces that drew you in. No one feature stood out as terribly arresting or unique, but all her features fit together to make an enchanting whole.

And then there was the gap between her two front teeth. It was small. Just a sliver of space. But it was totally, wonderfully her.

Samantha tipped back her martini glass and took a giant sip, eagerly sucking down the gin and olive brine like it was a gift from on high. When she lowered her glass, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and let loose with a dainty, feminine-sounding burp. “I am woman. Hear me drink.”
Another bark of genuine laughter shot out of him, and all he could think was… God, that feels so good. Most of his jocularity was forced these days. But when she was around, he felt…more like his old self.

Then it occurred to him. Samantha Tate, the woman he and the rest of the Black Knights had avoided for years, the woman he should probably still be avoiding, had somehow wormed her way into his life, under his skin, and in so doing had become…his friend.

Who’d a thunk it?

Julie Ann Walker is the USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author of the Black Knights Inc. romantic suspense series. She is prone to spouting movie quotes and song lyrics. She'll never say no to sharing a glass of wine or going for a long walk. She prefers impromptu travel over the scheduled kind, and she takes her coffee with milk. You can find her on her bicycle along the lake shore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission. For more information, please visit or follow her on Facebook and/or Twitter @JAWalkerAuthor.