KCBR Blog

By Vi Keeland

RELEASING JULY 17^TH

BLURB

The first time I met Caine West was in a bar.

He noticed me looking his way and mistakenly read my scowling as checking him out.

When he attempted to talk to me, I set him straight—telling him what I thought of his lying, cheating, egomaniacal ass.

You see, the gorgeous jerk had wined and dined my best friend--smooth talking her into his bed, all along failing to mention that he was married.  

He deserved every bit of my tongue-lashing and more for what he'd done.

Especially when that lazy smile graced his perfect face in response to my rant.

Only it turned out, the man I'd just told off wasn't the right guy.  

Oops.  My mistake.  

Embarrassed, I slunk out without an apology.  

I was never going to see the handsome stranger again anyway, right?

That’s what I thought…until I walked into class the next morning.

Well, hello Professor West, I’m your new teaching assistant.   

I’ll be working under you…figuratively speaking. 

Although the literal interpretation might not be such a bad thing—working under Professor West.

This was going to be interesting…

LINKS

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times Bestselling author. With more than 1.5 million books sold, her titles have appeared in over eighty Bestseller lists and are currently translated in sixteen 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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An excerpt from Beautiful Mistake…

The class was completely empty. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was still in my seat. If he did, he was good at ignoring me as he packed up his laptop. 

“Contrary to the rumors you’ve probably heard, I don’t bite.” 

I jumped when he spoke. Now that the lecture hall was no longer filled with students, the acoustics of the large space bounced his deep voice all over the walls. 

I stood and began my walk of shame down to the front of the classroom. There was no doubt I owed the man an apology, even if he wasn’t a professor—a professor who would be my new boss for at least the next fifteen weeks. I wanted to kick myself in the ass for not apologizing last night before I left the bar. Now it would seem like I was only doing it because of the situation I was in. 

Which was true, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t want it to seem that way.

I took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry about last night.”

His face was unreadable. “I figured you might be, right about now.”

“I obviously thought you were someone else.”

“So I assumed. You thought I was the asshole. The one with the big dick, was it?”

I shut my eyes. For the last ninety minutes, I’d replayed the entire exchange from last night over and over in my head. I thought I’d remembered everything I said, but apparently I hadn’t. When I reopened my eyes, Professor West was still watching me. His stare was pretty damn intense.

I started to babble. “My friend Ava went out with this guy Owen for a month or so. He was full of shit from day one, but she didn’t see it. Actually walked up to her when she was leaving work one night and said, ‘Do you mind if I walk you home? My mother always told me to follow my dreams.’ She fell for it, the entire act, from the first day. Then one Saturday, he was supposedly out of town on business, and she was across town running errands for her mother. She took a shortcut through Madison Square Park on her way back from the grocery store and ran into him. He was with his wife and kids.”

“And you thought I was him, apparently?”

I nodded. “She came in during my shift and started drinking Long Island iced teas. When Owen walked in, she pointed to where he was standing and said he was the one in the blue shirt.”

“And we were both wearing blue shirts, I take it?”

I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Ava last night. “Actually, no. Ava’s not much of a drinker. Turned out she was more sloshed than I thought. Owen’s shirt was brown—not even black that could be mistaken as navy or something.”

I saw Professor West’s lip twitch. 

“Anyway, I’m really sorry. I barely gave you a chance to speak, and then when I realized what had happened, I was so mortified I didn’t even stop to apologize.”

“I accept your apology for last night. Even though you shouldn’t be approaching a man in the hallway to tell him off alone, your intentions were admirable.”

I should have shut up and been grateful he’d accepted my apology. Should have. “Why can’t I approach a man in the hallway?”

He leveled me with a stare. “Because you’re five foot nothing in a loud bar, and no one would have heard you if I’d dragged you into the men’s room and locked the door.”

I folded my arms over my chest. “I can take care of myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I said you shouldn’t put yourself in those situations.”

“But you insinuated that I couldn’t by making that statement.”

He zipped his leather bag closed. “Ms. Martin, I just accepted your apology for calling me an asshole last night. Would you like me to retract that acceptance?”

God, I really was an idiot. Being around this man seemed to turn me into a psychopath. “No. I’m sorry. I acted like a jerk, and I’d like to start over, if that’s possible.” 

He nodded. “Everything prior to this morning is forgotten.”

“Thank you.”

“But this morning is not. I won’t accept lateness. Don’t let it happen again.”

I swallowed. “It won’t.”

He lifted his worn, brown leather laptop bag over one shoulder. “Meet me here at five tomorrow. We’ll go over the syllabus and the classes you’ll teach, as well as my grading rubric.”

That was smack in the middle of my shift, but I’d figure something out. “Okay.”

“Are you done for the day?”

“I am. I actually have to get to work. I’m covering Ava’s shift because she isn’t feeling too well after last night. We both work at O’Leary’s.”

“You waitress there?”

“Waitress, bartend, occasionally tell off patrons.” 

That earned me a full smile from Professor West. God, he should do that more often. No, forget that. He definitely shouldn’t.

“I’ll walk out with you.”

We walked through the halls together and out to the parking lot. When we arrived at my car, I stopped. “This is me. So…five o’clock tomorrow?”

Professor West looked at my beat-up old Subaru. “You’re parked in a spot reserved for the Provost. You got a parking ticket.” He squinted. “Actually, it looks like you have two parking tickets. Was your inspection expired or something?”

Crap. “Umm…no. I keep an extra ticket in the glove compartment and stick it on my windshield when I’m forced to park illegally.”

His brows shot up. “Inventive.”

“Obviously it doesn’t always work.”

“Obviously.”

“They need more parking. When you’re late, it’s impossible to find a spot.”

He studied me. “Lateness is a frequent occurrence for you, I take it?”

“Unfortunately, it is.” 

“Then I should clarify something I said earlier.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I won’t be late for your class.”

 He took a step closer and leaned in. “I’m glad to hear that, Ms. Martin. But that’s not what needs clarification.”

I swallowed. God, he smells good. 

“Earlier I told you I didn’t bite students.” He smiled, and I felt the wickedness from it shoot down to some interesting places. “I don’t. But I make no promises about not biting feisty TAs.”

★★★★

We hope you enjoyed this extended preview!

There are three little words most guys don’t want to hear on the first date. Not those…I mean these… “knock me up.”

This single gal has had enough of the games, the BS and the endless chase. I know what I want most, and it’s not true love. It’s a bun in the oven, and I’m not afraid to hit up my sex-on-a-stick co-worker to do the job. Ryder is gorgeous, witty and charming — and he’s also a notorious commitment-phobe. That makes him the perfect candidate to make a deposit in the bank of me.

I won’t fall for him, he won’t fall for me, and there’s no way baby will make three.
Right?

****

There are four words every guy wants to hear on the first date — “your place or mine?”

When my hot-as-sin co-worker makes me a no-strings-attached offer that involves her place, my place, any place — as well as any position — I can’t refuse. Besides, I've got my own reasons to take her up on her deal even with her one BIG condition.

There’s no way I’ll want more from one woman than any position, any where, any night? Except . . . what if I do?

Note: Be prepared to swoon and fan yourself from the heat! This full-length standalone contains lots of hot baby-making s-e-x, happy tears, naughty jokes and a hot, swoonworthy hero you will fall madly in love with. 

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EXCERPT:

“Ooh, look! A new one just was added to the database,” Penny coos in excitement as she points to the screen.

We’re gathered around my iPad at Speakeasy, our favorite Midtown haunt, perusing the latest offerings on a bank I’ve been in touch with in Manhattan.

“He’s five-foot-nine. College educated. Plays the violin. And he has red hair,” Delaney reads, then runs her fingers over the ends of my hair. “Do you want little redheaded babies?”

I laugh. “I think I’d like the choice whether they should have red hair or not, and clearly I’m only bringing recessive genes to the equation.”

Penny swipes left dramatically as if the new donor is a Tinder no. “Anyone else? And are we ever going to see what they look like besides when they were five years old?”

I shake my head. “In most cases, only childhood photos of donors are posted. Every now and then you hear of a woman who’s seen adult photos of her donor, but that’s highly unusual, and only allowed at a few, select banks. It’s actually quite rare to even see high school or college photos, since a lot of donors only do it because it’s anonymous.”

Penny points to the screen, reading another donor’s profile in frustration. “Look. This guy is six feet, has blue eyes, played hockey in high school, went to UCLA, and works in tech. But what does he look
like?”

“Unfortunately, we’re just going to have to imagine,” Delaney says, with a heavy sigh.

Penny reaches for her red wine. “That makes me so sad I need a drink.”

“And let’s be honest, looks do matter,” Delaney adds.

I nod vigorously. “They do. That doesn’t make me vain, right?”

My girls shake their heads in unison, defending my stance. “We all want a cute elephant baby for our matriarchy,” Penny says, patting my hand.

I laugh. “But seriously. You think it’s reasonable to want a handsome donor, right? In addition to all the other things that are obviously critical. Not a serial killer. No criminal record. College degree. Height, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Absolutely,” Penny says, setting her wineglass down with a resounding smack. “How are you possibly supposed to say a green-eyed, five-foot-ten, college-educated man with no murder convictions is
enough?”

“It’s like online shopping without seeing what you’re buying,” Delaney adds. “Who buys anything on the Internet without seeing a photo? You don’t shop for shoes just by the size, color, and style. You need to
see them. Try them on.”

“I don’t think trying on is an option.” I wink.

Delaney sticks out her tongue. “But you need to see the goods. You can’t fly blind.”

I reach for my water. No more chardonnay or mojitos for this mama-to-be. I’ve had all my health screenings, too, and my doctor sees no reason why I can’t get pregnant. All I need is the other half. “I
just wish I knew more about these men.”

Penny peers at the site’s latest offerings once more. “This is crazy. You can select whether someone has skills in auto mechanics, plumbing, or kickboxing. You can choose if your donor has detached earlobes, a
particular kind of eye spacing, and his favorite subject in school. You can even opt for someone who’s a good cook. But you can’t see if his jawline is actually square, if his lips are truly full, or if he’s as handsome as you’ve dreamed.”

I scrunch my forehead and imagine my dream candidate. Briefly, my mind is blank, but then an image pops into my head. “I just wish I knew the guy was going to be a Ryder Lockhart level of hot,” I say, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, he is a hottie,” Penny says, and Delaney nods her agreement. They’ve both met him at my work events and the occasional group happy hour.

“He’s gorgeous. Just the other day I found myself cataloging his features. He really does have it going on. Plus, he’s smart and funny and good to animals.”

Penny hums mournfully. “Too bad he’s not a donor.”

“Ha. Yeah, it’s a bummer he hasn’t made a deposit at this sperm bank.” I tap the screen. “I’d order up one serving ASAP. Get that turkey baster inside me stat,” I bark as if I’d be saying that to the nurses
while I tell them to shoot me up with Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

Wait.

Ryder Lockhart’s DNA.

The clouds part. The sun rises. The bells ring. Never have three words sounded more like a perfect solution to a problem.

About Lauren Blakely:

A #1 New York Times Bestselling author, Lauren Blakely is known for her contemporary romance style that's hot, sweet and sexy. She lives in California with her family and has plotted entire novels while walking her 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 eighty times, and she's sold more than 2 million books. In June she'll release THE KNOCKED UP PLAN, a standalone contemporary romance. To receive an email when Lauren releases a new book, sign up for her newsletter! laurenblakely.com/newsletter

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PLUS ONE 

By Aleatha Romig

Release Day: May 16^th

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.

PREORDER 

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Kobo and Google Play coming closer to release

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

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.

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EXCERPT

Chapter 1

I push the thought of my mother's call away and concentrate on my friend, Shana. As I do, the slippery napkin escapes my hold. Quickly, I slide from my seat to retrieve it.

"Excuse me," a deep voice says as black leather loafers stop precariously close to where I'm now kneeling to rescue my napkin. 

Seeing the shoes, I look up and suck in a deep breath. 

Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work. 

My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I've ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis.

His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. "Miss Jones."

Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn't just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis. 

"Mr. Willis," I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously I take a step backward. As if the moment weren't awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels. 

Swiftly, he reaches out, grabs my elbow, and steadies my footing. Though he just saved me from making an even bigger fool out of myself by falling face-first into what I can only imagine is a hard, defined chest, my mind is suddenly consumed with the electricity of his touch. The energy heats my skin as his grasp lingers. 

Bombshell, an all-new sexy and swoony standalone from CD Reiss is coming May 1st! 

Bombshell by CD Reiss

Hollywood bad boy Brad Sinclair always gets his way, whether it’s the role he wants or the bikini-clad model he has to have. But when a bombshell gets dropped in his lap in the form of a dimpled five-year-old from a forgotten relationship, he knows his life is about to change forever.

Cara DuMont isn’t exactly thrilled when she gets assigned to be the nanny for the latest box-office king. She has one rule: no celebrity fathers, especially single ones with devilish good looks and rock-hard abs.

But as soon as Cara meets Brad and his adorable little girl, she knows she’s in for a world of trouble. Because there’s something about the way Brad looks at her that makes her believe that some rules are meant to be broken…

Excerpt:

He was tapping on my bedroom window. It was 2:17 in the morning.

I got out of bed, dressed in sweatpants and black T-shirt and slapped the window open. He practically fell through it, adorable in his wet tuxedo and red eyes.

 “You’re drunk.”

“I like you. I want you to like me.”

“Go to bed.”

He leaned back out the window, paused. “Do you like me?”

“Against my better judgment, I do.”

“Okay.”

He was so drunk he could barely stand.

“Please go to bed.”

He gave me a salute and walked right through a sprinkler, toward the front house. I closed the window. Brad was lying in the grass facedown, arms and legs in a big X, getting sprinkled on.

I could leave him out there.

I could, he deserved it. But I couldn’t.

I put on sneakers and a hoodie and went outside. He was face-first in a mud puddle. The sprinklers had shut off.

“Brad?”

He didn’t move. I pulled his arm until he was on his back, then pulled both wrists and pulled forward. If I’m making it sound easy, it wasn’t. I slipped and fell in wet grass, and grunted like a tennis player. But I got him to sitting. Half his gorgeous face was dotted with mud.

“Brad?”

No answer. I slapped him. Nothing. Slapped again, harder. He groaned.

Then I pulled my arm back and really hauled off and whacked him.

“Ow.”

“You have to wake up. I can’t carry you.”

“That hurt.”

I crouched, getting my shoulder under his arm.

“Okay, I’m going to count to three. On three, stand up.”

“Do you know you’re beautiful?”

“One.”

“And you smell like a fruit cup.”

“Two.”

He looked at me, the weight of his head tilting his face at an angle to mine. 

“You’re the queen of the house.”

“Three.”

We lurched up. Took a step left. Adjusted. Stood steady.

“Can I just sleep here?”

“No. Nicole isn’t going to find your drunk ass on the lawn in the morning. Lean on me.”

We took one step forward, then two. I held his wrist with one hand and his waist with the other. The front of his tuxedo shirt was brown with mud. I got wet wherever his clothes touched me.

“Do you have fantasies, ever?” He hopped onto a new subject as if it was completely natural.

“Like about what?” I asked. His arm around me, his breath soft in my ear. Even his dependence was kind of a fantasy.

“You know what bothers me about fantasies?”

“Watch this chair here. Whoa.” I pulled him left, narrowly missing tripping over a lounger.

“You never know if you’re getting it right,” he said.

I turned to him, and found his eyes taking up my entire field of vision and my nose two inches from his.

“Like when I fantasize about fucking you.”

We almost tripped on the entrance. I swallowed my lungs, stomach, and heart in one gulp. He was drunk. He didn’t mean it. He never thought about fucking me. 

Not Brad Sinclair.

He was my boss.

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About the Author

CD Reiss is a New York Times bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn't pick up she's at the well hauling buckets.

Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master's degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere but it did give her a big enough ego to write novels.

She's frequently referred to as the Shakespeare of Smut which is flattering but hasn't ever gotten her out of chopping that cord of wood.

If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine. 

Connect with CD Reiss:

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From NYT Bestselling author Laurelin Paige, discover a whole new world filled with sex, love, power, romance and dirty, filthy rich men.

When I met Donovan Kincaid, I knew he was rich. I didn’t know he was filthy. Truth be told, I was only trying to get his best friend to notice me.

I knew poor scholarship girls like me didn't stand a chance against guys like Weston King and Donovan Kincaid, but I was in love with his world, their world, of parties and sex and power. I knew what I wanted—I knew who I wanted—until one night, their world tried to bite me back and Donovan saved me. He saved me, and then Weston finally noticed me, and I finally learned what it was to be in their world.

And then what it was like to lose it.

Ten years later, I’ve found my way back. Back to their world. Back to him.

This time, I’m ready. I've been down this road before, and I know all the dirty, filthy ways Donovan will try and wreck me. 

But it’s hard to resist. Especially when I know how much I’ll like it.

Excerpt: 

After she was gone, I walked over to the windows and drank in the scene. The Town Center was high enough that it had an unblocked view of downtown Manhattan, Brooklyn, and beyond.

Giddiness surged through me, starting like a pinprick at my center and moving out through my veins in all directions until even my fingers and toes felt warm.

I was really here.

I made it.

It wasn’t the way I thought it would be, but in the end, it still came out of my time at Harvard. I’d always known that connections made the difference in a career, and here I was. Finally. At the top of the world, looking out.

I couldn’t stop grinning.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” a male voice came from behind me.

Still smiling, I glanced up and caught his reflection in the window.

And everything disappeared.

The world that had buzzed below, the beautiful scene, the excitement that had unfurled through my body—all of it evaporated and all that existed in its place was a pale, hollow shell of myself and the man in the perfectly tailored suit behind me.

I turned to look at him directly. Our gazes smashed together, and my legs nearly fell out from under me.

“Donovan,” I rasped. It was a miracle that I managed to find enough voice to say that much.

And there was so much more that had to be said. So much more that I hadn’t prepared for. Which was ridiculous since I’d talked to him so many times in my head over the years, practiced so many conversations, but never did he show up out of the blue looking so dastardly handsome in a dark gray three-piece suit, his face rugged with scruff, his eyes hazel and earnest despite the playful smirk on his lips.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I wasn’t even sure how to breathe anymore.

He broke our gaze to nod out the window at the skyline, walking toward me as he said, “I’m sure you found the Empire.”

Though his focus was now on the scenery, I didn’t take my eyes off him as he approached. He didn’t stop until he was right beside me. So close our shoulders would touch if I coughed. Tension ran off him like foam spilling over from a mug of beer. Good tension. Bad tension. I wasn’t sure if there was a difference when it came to Donovan.

Which was why I was screwed if he was here.

Why the hell was he here?

“I thought you were in Tokyo.” I couldn’t stop staring at him. He’d gotten more refined with age, and rougher at the same time. His hair was short and his curls gone, giving him a polished look he lacked before. The lines by his eyes were more defined and his expression seemed harder than I’d remembered. It made him sexier.

As if he was a man who needed to be sexier than the one I knew.  

“I came back two months ago,” he said offhandedly. “That’s it right there.” He leaned his face in close to mine as he pointed to the famous structure. “Do you see it?”

Fuck if I cared about the Empire. I was in Donovan Kincaid’s orbit. What else was there in the world?

About the Author: 

USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author Laurelin Paige is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She's also a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn't do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio. She is represented by Rebecca Friedman.

Connect with the Author: 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LaurelinPaige/

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Web site: www.laurelinpaige.com

I’ve been many things.

I’ve been a son and a stepbrother. An Army captain and a Vice President. 

But only with Him am I a prince. His little prince.

Only with Maxen and Greer does my world make sense, only between them can I find peace from the demons that haunt me. But men like me aren’t made to be happy. We don’t deserve it. And I should have known a love as sharp as ours could cut both ways.

My name is Embry Moore and I serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States…for now.

This is the story of an American Prince. 

Excerpt: 

Ash opens his eyes and gives me a sleepy smile.  It’s such an unfamiliar look on him, both the openness of it and the happiness, and I stare into his face, drinking it in like a man dying of thirst.  After Carpathia, after Morgan, after me, after Jenny—I never could have believed that I would see Ash breathe and smile without all that torment suffocating him.  Seeing it, if only for a few minutes, feels like some kind of gift, an unearned blessing.  I reach out and trace his jaw, predictably already rough with stubble, and then run the pads of my fingers over his sleepy smile.

“Is it morning?” he asks.  My cock jumps again at the sound of his voice.  It’s always a little rough around the edges, like someone took sandpaper to his words, but right after sleep, his voice is pure gravel, masculine and hungry.

“Almost.”

“Where is she?”

She.  Our Greer.  Once again, I feel the hollow space in the bed where she should be, and I have a brief moment of amused anxiety, because if I can’t stand to be apart from her when she’s in the restroom, how on earth are the three of us going to survive the next two and a half years?  Or shit—six and a half years if Ash gets re-elected?

“She’s in the bathroom,” I say, trying to suppress this new awareness of how hard our future is going to be.  “I just woke up.”

Ash makes a noise in the back of his throat, and his hand moves on my stomach again.  Moves down, sliding past my navel.  My dick is hard now, hard and pulsing against the cool air.  

“I love it when you first wake up,” Ash tells me, his voice no longer sleepy but still graveled and rough.  “Your eyes look darker with your pupils that wide, and your cheeks get flushed, and your body…” His wicked hand brushes over my crown, swollen and dusky in the dark.  “Your body always looks so willing for whatever I want.”

His hand closes over my shaft and squeezes, and I moan.

“So willing,” Ash repeats in a murmur, and then I expect him to flip me over and push into me, but he doesn’t.  Instead he lets go of my cock and climbs over me, lowering his heavy, hard body onto mine so that our cocks are pinned between our bare stomachs and our chests press together.  His lips pass over mine, the slightest brush, and then he does it again, smiling as I tilt my face up greedily to catch his mouth in a real kiss. 

He teases me once or twice more, coaxing a frustrated whimper from somewhere deep inside me, and then he puts us out of our misery and lowers his mouth to mine, parting my lips with his and licking deep into my mouth.  His kiss is slow, but possessive, and he drives the pace and the depth.  I can barely breathe, he kisses me so deeply, but I don’t care. I don’t want to, don’t want any air that Ash himself hasn’t given me.  After a few minutes of this, he pulls back slightly and then presses his forehead to mine.

“Oh, Embry,” he says, his voice cracking.  “How much I’ve missed you.”

My chest cracks open along with his voice.  “Will you ever forgive me?” I whisper.

“For what?”

It’s hard to speak the words, even in the dark.  “For not marrying you.”

His breath leaves him.  “Embry…”

“You can be honest with me,” I say, wanting to be his brave little prince.  Just this once.  “I deserve it.”

His hands frame my face as he pulls back to meet my eyes.  “It will always hurt, Embry.  I can’t pretend that it won’t.  But surely you must know by now, and I’ve told you before…I’ll take you any way I can have you.  If all you’ll give me is a few stolen nights, then that’s what I’ll take.”    

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"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

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GRIP Synopsis:

Resisting an irresistible force wears you down and turns you out.

I know.

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.

EXCERPT:

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!

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