Just Like Animals
“Sir, car’s out front.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, but my feet were rooted to the cement floor of the club, my eyes transfixed by the gyrating blonde, as I tried to determine if I was seeing things.
Nope. It was definitely her. And she was drunk off her ass. Of that there was little doubt. Yet she still displayed an enviable natural rhythm out on the dance floor—with that barely clothed, to-die-for body that I had found myself jerking off to in memory on more than one occasion over the past ten years. More times than was probably healthy given the fact she was strictly off-limits.
More than off-limits. She might as well have been taboo. Maybe that’s what made her so attractive? Or maybe I was just a masochist.
Her girlfriends appeared equally inebriated. Men surrounded her like vultures. Two of them were putting their hands on her. I took a step closer without thinking. Then another.
I rationalized that I just wanted to confirm it was really her, to see her up close … make certain she was okay and that she had a safe ride home. I told myself I had only pure intentions this time.
I’d checked up on her over the years and knew that she’d completed medical school and was now finishing her residency at UCSF Hospital. And that she was engaged. A fact that came back to me in a blinding flash when she flung her arm up in the air and the enormous rock on her finger caught the flare of the strobe light.
She was engaged to some big-deal society schmuck. Silicon Valley trust fund baby trash. I’d seen their cheesy engagement photo spread all over social media six months ago and had pegged the guy a class A douchebag at first sight.
She’d looked radiant in the photos. Better than I’d even remembered. And happy. So fucking happy. A fact I’d had conflicting feelings about at the time.
She didn’t look happy now, though. And once again, I felt conflicted over this observation.
Sure, she was grinning as if having the time of her life, throwing flirty bedroom eyes at the men dancing with her as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if she wasn’t engaged to be married. But those eyes were red-rimmed and puffy beneath their well-applied makeup, and lined by dark circles. They looked more green than blue. She’d been crying hours earlier. I was sure of it.
My inner animal took over. Before I knew it, I’d nudged the guy at her back out of my way, my hands had encircled her tiny waist, and I was yanking her lush, round ass into the swiftly growing ache in my groin. Definitely a masochist. I delivered a mental push accompanied by a flash of yellow eyes to the asshole in front of her when he looked up to glare at me in protest. He did a double take and nearly tripped over his own feet trying to back away as quickly as possible.
I felt her body stiffen against me, a trickle of alarm tightening her muscles, a sliver of fear tainting her perfect scent. It only made her smell more edible. I groaned as my jean-encased cock swelled and lengthened against her ass, along with my canines. She attempted to pull away from me. And though it irritated me, at the same time I was quietly pleased. Impressed that even drunk she possessed strong survival instincts.
When I failed to release her, she tried to crane her head back to see who had taken hold of her and had scared off her dance partners, but I hauled her little body tighter in against mine to prevent it, my forearm crossing her chest, my palm caging her throat. I didn’t want her to recognize me.
Not yet. I wanted a moment between us where there was no history to get in the way. Where we could be two strangers dancing in a club, and I could pretend that I had a chance with her.
“Relax.” My thumb stroked back and forth over the rapid pulse beating in her neck. “One dance and I’ll let you go. Promise.”
I’d weighted my words with Alpha energy, and yet they sounded half-command, half-plea to my own ears. Regardless, they seemed to reassure her enough that the tension in her body dissipated. And soon that delicious body all but melted into mine as our hips began to move as one and my roaming hands took liberties they shouldn’t have. I couldn’t stop though. Not when I scented what it was doing to her. How wet she was getting beneath the scrap of material she was wearing.
She had one of those flimsy, strappy dresses on that looked and felt more like a form-fitting slip. Silvery pale grey in color and barely long enough to hit her upper thighs. My hands slid over the silky smooth material like they had every right to, feeling every hard ridge of muscle and soft mound of flesh that lay beneath. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and the temptation to explore her breasts—to feel those diamond-hard nipples through the thin fabric of her dress right there on the dance floor—was more than I had strength of will to resist in the moment. Not when all the blood in my brain had already rushed to my cock.
She was tall for a woman. Lean and fit but still curvy where it mattered most. And my God, those fuck-me legs! I remembered the first time I’d really noticed them. She had been fifteen and wearing a cheerleading uniform. And I’d never been able to look at her the same way since.
Those lean, muscular limbs looked about a mile long now in six-inch designer heels that she wore as comfortably as if she’d strutted out of the womb wearing them. I wanted to lick the length of those legs. I wanted to feel those toned thighs locked around my waist.
Clenching around my face.
Christ, I was a liar. There was no way I was letting her go after one dance.
She’d begun making those beautiful moan-y, breathy, I-need-to-come noises that only a woman can make, and I was close to losing my shit, debating whether to teleport us to privacy or sink my dick into her right there on the dance floor and worry about erasing the minds of onlookers later.
I looked down and saw that one of my hands was rubbing her upper thigh.
And it was wet.
Her thigh. Was. Wet.
I told myself it was only sweat from all of the dancing she’d done. And if I’d been human and unable to smell the difference, I might’ve convinced myself. But my other hand had wandered up under her dress from behind and was rhythmically squeezing and exploring the flesh of her thong-clad ass cheek, rubbing its way toward her hot, needy center—where she was dripping wet.
Fuck me, I needed to stop.
We needed to stop.
But instead, I brushed her hair aside with my chin until my mouth found her neck, kissing and sucking her perfect skin. She moaned and arched into me, and then she rubbed her ass up and down along the length of my erection.
I’d been so wrong before. The girl possessed no survival instincts whatsoever.
None at all.
Because she drew my hand that was on the front of her thigh straight up under her dress to her soaked pussy, and she came against my fingers before I had time to register what was even happening.
My mind blanked, retreating to a dark, desperate, possessive place where there was only the sound of her erratic, panting breaths, her frantic heartbeat, and the sensation of her fluttering, wet clit pressed against my fingers, her cum soaking my palm as I sank my canines into her neck.
Built: An Enemies To Lovers Second Chance Bad-Boy Billionaire Alpha Romance
“I hate you, Jake Warren. Loathe. Detest. Can’t stand to be around you. I—”
A wicked-slow smile spreads over Jake’s face. A smile that I’m almost willing to risk losing my job over to wipe from his smug mug.
One of the reasons I hate that face so damn much is that Jake’s face is perfect. Not perfect in the sense that it’s got nothing wrong with it, because there’s that tiny scar that cuts through his right eyebrow from when he fell out of the tree in Mrs. Gibson’s front yard trying to get my cat, Mr. Biggles, down from the maple tree. Jake was ten and I was seven. That moment, in my childhood, when Jake played Prince Charming to my weeping Damsel in Distress resulted in four stitches, a broken arm, and a saved Mr. Biggles.
But none of that matters now. None of it.
That was twenty years ago and ever since I returned home and took the job at Ryan & Sons Construction, my Dad’s construction company, there’s been nothing, and I mean nothing charming about Jake Warren. In fact everything about him has been downright loathsome.
I. Hate. Jake.
I should get a tattoo. Or maybe a t-shirt.
No matter how perfect his face and body are—those two things don’t matter because I can’t stand his full, cupid-bow lips and indented cleft chin, and I definitely detest his square jaw with high-cut cheekbones. And his dark brown, curly hair and ice-blue eyes that seem to see right through every part of me.
Like this very moment, he’s standing so close to me that I can practically feel his muscles pulsing beneath that sweaty white Stanford t-shirt he’s wearing.
So what if you went to Stanford and have perfect biceps and work with your hands and wear a tool belt slung low on your hips.
Jake stands in front of me with his hands on his hips, with those lips—those damned pillow-cushion lips—nearly even with my eyes, like he’s some kind of crown prince because he can lift a two-by-four, swing a hammer, and hang drywall…he stands there in his dirty Levi’s with that hip cocked, staring right at me. Knowing full well that he was the boy that saved my cat, kissed me when I was twelve, and saw me naked at sixteen.
And broke my heart at twenty-one.
Well, I’m not naked today. Nope, today I’m pissed. I stand in front of him just back from an afternoon meeting with a Chinese investor who may or may not want Daddy’s company to build two hundred new homes, with my hand on my hip, my tablet in my hand, ready to tell Jake Warren why he should never, never, never speak to a client because that is my job as the front-facing newly minted sales team at Ryan & Sons Construction, and while I’m deadly serious, Jake’s eyes are…are…wickedly playful.
His damn ice-blue eyes are wickedly playful in this completely inappropriate way that causes my nipples to harden and my lady-bits to tingle like they do nearly every day that I work with Jake. Which for the last ten months has been every damn day.
Nope. I hate him. Loathe. Detest.
“Becca”—he lifts an eyebrow and his gaze streaks up and down my body—“you know you love me.” His words are honey. Sweet and slow and slick and sticky and they pull me to him almost as certain as if he’d taken that big strong arm of his and snaked it around my waist and pulled me close.
Which he didn’t do, and in fact hasn’t done in what seems like nearly a lifetime, and another reason why I absolutely can’t stand this man.
“Love you? Ha! I just told you I can’t stand you. Do you even listen to me Jake Warren? Do you listen to anyone? Ever?” I wave the tablet for emphasis because the email I just got from a client—a very important client—proves yet again to me that a) Jake Warren never listens and b) he should be fired so that c) I can run Daddy’s construction company like I was meant to do without any interference from this clown.
“Oh, I hear you, Becca,” Jake says, those ice-blue eyes gazing right past me and toward the open doorway and the construction office filled with support staff and other guys that work for Daddy on various construction crews, all of which Jake Warren heads up. “I think everyone in the entire firm hears you too.”
“Fuck you,” I silently mouth. I take two steps backward, and press my stiletto to the office door, between us and the rest of the company and kick the damn door closed. “Private enough for ya?”
“Guess it depends on what you have in mind, Tiger.”
Heat floods my neck. No one. No. One. calls me Tiger—or no one has since Jake did all those years ago and there have been a whole lot of years, plus one college degree, an MBA, and a failed (very public) engagement since the last time Jake stood this close to me and called me Tiger.
“Becca,” I say between gritted teeth. “That’s Becca to you. Or, if you prefer, you can call me Ms. Ryan,” I say.
“Riiiiiight.” He takes a step closer. “And what if I prefer Tiger?”
I swallow and don’t move because deep down inside as much as I currently hate Jake Warren, I actually, if I’m honest, prefer him calling me Tiger too.
Titles: Redemption (Moonchild, #3)
Author: Kate L Mary
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Futuristic Steampunk
Publisher: Twisted Press
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Publication Date: Mary 16th, 2019
Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
Kate L. Mary is an award-winning author of Adult, New Adult, and Young Adult fiction, ranging from Post-apocalyptic tales of the undead to Speculative Fiction and Contemporary Romance! Her YA book, When We Were Human, was a 2015 Children's Moonbeam Book Awards Silver Medal winner for Young Adult Fantasy/Sci-Fi Fiction, and a 2016 Readers' Favorite Gold Medal winner for Young Adult Science Fiction. Her book, Outliers, was a Top 10 Finalist in the 2018 Author Academy Awards for Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction, and a First Place Winner in the 2018 Kindle Book Awards for Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction.
Reader Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/KateLMaryReaders/
Author: Michelle Dare
Genre: YA Paranormal Romance
Cover Designer: Regina Wamba at Mae I Design
Publication Date: March 22nd, 2019
Wake had lived in fear for far too long. Life hadnât been easy for him. Every day he resisted his natural instincts to claim the one female meant for him. An event from his past stopped him in his tracks every time his primal urges pushed him toward her.
Paige accepted the role she played in Wakeâs life. She was the one he wanted but never allowed himself to have. But when someone else showed interest in her, Wake had to decide once and for all.
Putting his heart on the line left the shifter vulnerable, something he never wanted to be again. And just when he gave in to his instincts, fate dealt the pair a cruel hand.
Nightmares came true, causing Paige to flee to the only place she felt safeâin the arms of Wake.
Pack life wasnât an easy life, but Paige wouldnât give up the man who held her heart. Only together could the two move forward and find the happiness they both deserved.
Michelle Dare is a romance author. Her stories range from sweet to sinful and from new adult to fantasy. There arenât enough hours in the day for her to write all of the story ideas in her head. When not writing or reading, sheâs a wife and mom living in eastern Pennsylvania. One day she hopes to be writing from a beach where she will never have to see snow or be cold again.
Facebook Reader Group:
Moonshine and Magnolias
Fantasy / Paranormal
Date Published: March 11, 2015
From the Salem Witch trials through the Nineteenth Century and beyond, the devilâs disciple pursues young and innocent Annabel Horton. During the Incident at Loudun in 1633 Urban Grandierâs soul was taken by the devil in a furious confrontation between good and evil. The once pious priest becomes the demonic priest. His curse is on Annabel for forsaking him to Lucifer and he pursues her through time as she taunts his beliefs and he reviles hers. As Annabel flees the devilâs fire she must take the bodies of those that the devil favors to protect her family. She must uncover the motive behind the illusive Ursula/Louis Boussidan, the scandalous cross-dresser who is pursuing her beautiful granddaughter, and she must learn, being one of Godâs most powerful witches, how to use her power. But will it be enough to save her husband from Urbainâs fiery inferno? Will it be enough to save her children from demons greater than themselves?
About the Author
The first novel I ever wrote, Dancing Backward In Paradise, won an Eric Hoffer Award for publishing excellence and an Indie Excellence Award for notable new fiction, 2007. The Story of Sassy Sweetwater and Dancing Backward in Paradise received a 5 Star ForeWord Clarion Review and The Story of Sassy Sweetwater has been named a finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year Awards. I have published in ESL Magazine, Christopher Street Magazine and I have also written early childhood curriculum for Weekly Reader and McGraw Hill.
The pen name for my fantasy and paranormal novels is Olivia Hardy Ray. There are two other books in the Annabel series, Annabel Horton and the Black Witch of Pau and Annabel Horton and the Demon of Loudun. Black Witch is book 2 in the series and should be published this year. Also penned by Olivia is my novel Pharaohâs Star and my soon to be released, Pindar Corners.
Aside from Southern fiction and fantasy/paranormal fiction I write womenâs fiction with two titles to be published in 2019 and my presently published Lies a River Deep.
As for pleasure I love wine, chocolate, dogs, cats and other creatures of the jungle. I also love to travel, read, write, watch films and go to theater. I value friendship, history, my enormously loving family and quiet times under a summer sun.
For the Reign
Title: Best Laid Plans
Author: E.M. Denning
Genre: MM Romance
Publisher: Paper Gold Publishing
Production Date: March 20th, 2019
Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
The Virgin Club
Blog: The Virgin Club
There is but one constant, inevitable truth in my life: What goes up, must eventually come crashing down.
My first memory of this recurrent theme happened when I was six years old. I was angry at my mother for putting me in time-out. Believing I was too grown up for such punishments, I set out to prove how self-reliant I was by running away from home. Most kids at that age would end up walking in circles because they know they aren’t allowed to cross the street.
My incident involved hiding in our neighbor’s old tree fort nailed between two pine trees. By the time they found me, my entire ponytail was drenched in pine sap. No matter how many times my mother washed my hair, the sap remained. She had no choice but to cut my hair off… all seven uneven inches of it. Of course this all happened a day before I started the first grade.
Needless to say, my first day of school wasn’t a pleasant one.
When I started this blog in college, the Virgin Club had a mission and a purpose we believed in: to never let the complications of sex and relationships sever the bonds of girl empowerment. To raise each other up as individuals who supported our own personal and professional goals.
The five of us made a pact to remain virgins until graduation.
Only three remained in the club by senior year, but we ended up as best friends. We were proud graduates who knew what we wanted and were ready to take on the world. Right?
Not so fast.
Keeping to my inescapable what goes up, must come down philosophy, it seems only fitting that during my first job interview, I tripped over a cord and face-planted into someone’s desk, breaking my nose. You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood that can come out of your face. By the horrified gasps of those in the office and their reluctance to come anywhere near me, you would’ve thought I had transformed into a hideous zombie, unsteady on my feet, reaching out for help and gurgling through the faucet of red flowing out of my nostrils.
Thankfully, someone did eventually come to my rescue. With watering eyes and searing pain, and in a state of panic from the amount of blood on my shirt and hands, I could put girl power on the wayside. Adrenaline doesn’t give a crap about your sense of independence or not wanting someone to be your “savior.” It has only one job—survival.
I took his help without shame.
Although I couldn’t see his face through blurred vision, I still remember his voice, calming me and telling me that I’ll be fine and how he had had his nose broken twice. My heartbeat eventually slowed to a more normal rate as he waited with me for an ambulance. There’s something reassuring about having someone by your side who understands you. Someone who had been through it and was willing to go through it again with you.
I never got his name, and I sure as hell won’t go back for a second interview.
So if you’re out there, I just wanted to say thank you.
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