Saturday, November 14, 2015

Cover Reveal & Giveaway: A Very Werey Christmas

Shifters * Mistletoe * Hot Alphas
R.M. Gilmore - Becca Lee - Ashlea Rhodes
C.C. Wood - Aimie Jennison - Dahlia Donovan

 Available November 24th 

 Add to Goodreads

Shifters, mistletoe, and a whole lot of alpha heat are just waiting to be discovered.

Join the pack and explore six new paranormal worlds as the weres determine exactly what they need to fall in love or lust over the holidays.

Now Available for Pre-order

A Hot Tree Publishing Anthology

Winter's Moon by R.M. Gilmore
Randy can guarantee the winter's moon will bring two things to her pack: fun and trouble. This year, she's not sure she's ready for either.

Pull of the Moon by Becca Lee
Cadence, alpha to the Denton Pack, isn’t looking for a mate, nor is she looking for trouble, but both arrive in the form of Dane. This Christmas, Cadence will discover just how far she's willing to go to protect what's hers.

Not Even a Mouse by Dahlia Donovan
This Christmas, feather-tailed glider shifter, Kat Strudwick, and the polar bear shifter, Declan Garett, discover true love where they'd believed only the hell of unrequited love existed.

Snow's Christmas Wish by Ashlea Rhodes
A chance encounter with a lone Vampire in a small town could lead to the fate Snow, a were on the run, had given up on. With magic in the air, can a Christmas wish come true for Snow and Ink?

The Witch and the Wolf by C.C. Wood
Candela wanted a distraction from her meddling family and found it in Blake. But will one night be enough for either of them?

Cure for Christmas by Aimie Jennison
Santa can't perform miracles, but Blake has a risky offer that could answer all of Caitlin's prayers. How far would you go when all hope is gone?

Release Blitz: DRAGONFLY by Lana Sky

Dragonfly Bnner

Title: Dragonfly
Author: Lana Sky
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: November 14, 2015



Sheltered by an overprotective family, Amy Sager—a shy twenty something poet from Canada—just wanted to break out of her shell and be free to live her own life. What better way to assert her newfound independence than by moving to San Francisco?

However, when she meets a tall, blood-drenched stranger she gets more than she bargained for. Jackie is everything she should never want. Violence, lies, and even murder taint this strange man, but she finds herself irresistibly drawn to him…like a moth to flame.

When their relationship strains her loyalty and his livelihood, it isn't long before violence consumes her independence and Amy’s quest for freedom turns into just another story of a good girl caught on the wrong side of the tracks, too far gone to turn back.

Lana is having a release party on NOVEMBER 14TH and she will be having some great giveaways that will run for 24 hours. Be sure to join here . 

Buy The Book


He smells like blood.  

The scent clashes with the harsh aroma of sesame seed oil, coffee, and chai tea, burning the inside of my nostrils.  I find myself sniffing deeper without meaning to, breathing him in—though I don’t dare look up from the book lying open on my lap, and I never stop reading aloud.

“These violent delights have violent ends...”  My voice trails off as my grip on the page slips, accidentally smudging a neat row of printed font.  Just like that, Shakespeare becomes a black stain on my sweat-soaked fingers, and I can’t stop thinking the same thing over and over again.  

It has to be a lot of blood.

The smell churns my stomach.  I have to breathe in through my mouth, which doesn’t really help me escape the other flavors wafting from his corner.  Smoke.  Not exactly like that from a cigarette…it’s more pungent than that.  Acrid—as if someone dumped lit charcoal on my tongue, and I’m instantly reminded of the time Rory took me to his precinct’s gun range in some misguided attempt to help me “break out of my shell.”  

I will always remember that sound.  The weight of the weapon in the palm of my hand.  The smell that filled my lungs the moment I’d pulled the trigger.

The man watching me from the back of the semi-crowded restaurant smells like blood.  He tastes like gun smoke.  He has eyes like midnight that watch impatiently as I fidget beneath the spotlight.

“And in their triumph die.”

Scattered applause erupts from the audience, but it’s noticeably halfhearted.  Rather than read one of my own poems, I’d recited a classic: the ultimate cop-out.  Boo.  Hiss.  Snore.

On another night, I’d die of embarrassment and swear to try harder next time.  Tonight, I’m shaking for an entirely different reason as I scramble up from the stool and make my way off stage.  May, the host of tonight’s impromptu poetry night, smiles at me.  I try my best to smile back, but I can’t quite make my lips move when my eyes are too busy drifting in the opposite direction.  

To him.  His hands are hidden within the pockets of a black leather jacket, which shields most of his muscular frame.  He’s also wearing a normal pair of jeans, but they seem abnormally coated in dark splotches.  They catch my eye and send my brain scrambling to come up with a logical explanation.  The result of the earlier rainstorm?  Or the cause of that fucking smell?

Breathe.  The silent command helps.  I suck in air and blow it out as I make my way through the narrow dining room while someone else takes the vacated stage.  Her poem is original, and she recites each word clearly, displaying a distinct flow—though I only hear the opening line:  “Life is but a series of cruel intentions…”

It’s still enough to resonate inside me, more deeply than Shakespeare’s words ever could as I shove my tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet into my bag.

Life is a series of cruel intentions.  Some inflicted by others.  Some we inflict upon ourselves.  Like the way I take the time to button up my coat before palming the brass handle of the main door.  For a moment, it’s almost like I’m a normal woman preparing for a normal walk home from a night of humiliating herself for the umpteenth time.

normal woman who isn’t counting the heavy, abnormal footsteps following in her wake.  One.  Two.  Ten.  Fifty.

It’s like my shadow has substance, matching me step for step with every inch that I travel toward my apartment.  Some nights, it’s easier to pretend that the sounds are just from the many other commuters heading home—I’m not the only person in the world, after all.  If I try hard enough at make-believe, I can imagine that there is no specter who creeps closer once my apartment building comes into view.  Neither is there any suspiciously warm air ghosting the back of my neck.  Nor is there a hand that shoots out the moment I reach for the battered door to my building, pinning it in place.

“Will you let me in tonight?”  The voice is gruff—male—and the name he calls me isn’t in English.  On his tongue, it sounds like “woo deep moie.”  

Butterfly girl.

Altogether, it’s such a cheesy line that I choke on something that could have been a laugh in another setting.  Tonight, however, when paired with the blood—God, I can taste it now that he’s this close—the words take on a bitter edge.  There’s a challenge hidden in his tone.  A challenge that’s always there, no matter how many times we play out the same scenario.   

“Have you wised up, Amy?”

I mull that question over.  It’s late, and it’s quiet enough to hear the sounds that drift through the paper-thin walls of the building.  Someone coughs.  A woman laughs.  A television blares.  My fingers tremble as they clutch my canvas messenger bag, and I shift it to my other shoulder in an attempt to hide the nerves.

“You’re afraid,” he deduces, each word heating the back of my neck like the blast from a furnace.

“You’re bleeding,” I counter, lowering my voice to a whisper.
Drip.  Drip.  I swear I can hear each telltale drop hitting the pavement while a familiar urgency shakes me to the core.  Let him in, damn it!  For some reason, it’s so much harder this time to wrestle one of my hands from my side and use it to swat his away.  As he withdraws, I curl my grip around the metal handle and pull the door open, revealing a narrow hallway, painted gray.  

“Come in.”  I choke out the words, but he’s already on my heels, driving me up the three flights of stairs to my flat.  The hallway is empty this time of night, thank God, but I can’t escape this insane feeling that a million pairs of eyes are on me at once.  Peeping through the cracks beneath the doors.  Lurking behind the bars that shield the scattered windows in the hallway.  Crouching underneath the ratty staircase.

Our invisible audience watches me race for the green door with the peeling paint and fish my keys from the side pocket of my bag.  “Come in,” I repeat, though he’s already at my back, shoving me inside the moment I fit the key in the right slot.

“Sake,” he gasps out while staggering to the armchair in the corner of my living room.  For the first time, I turn to look at him.  Really look.  He stands out from the shadow like a twisted Ying Yang symbol—just pale skin, marred by countless obsidian swirls that blend in with the darkness.  Black hair falls messily across his face, obscuring most of it, but his eyes shine through, and they are darker than anything else in existence.  Pure black.  They meet my own as he snaps his fingers twice.  “Get the sake.”  His words come slower this time, betraying the accent he typically works hard to disguise.  “Hurry up.”

“Um…”  The nervous sound tears from my throat before I can help it, as I turn to the cramped corner that doesn’t deserve to be listed as a “full kitchenette.”  My fingers tremble even more as I push open the cupboard underneath the sink and reach for the shoebox tucked beneath the snaking pipes.  I feel a stupid sense of guilt when I settle the box on the counter and pry off the lid.  Stay away from alcohol, Amy, Dad always warned.  The stuff will bring you nothing but trouble.  Just ask your mother.

Inside the shoebox, two green bottles clink together like the sound of my promise breaking.  “Does it matter which one?”  I choke out.  The black characters printed on each gray label differ slightly.

From across the room, he laughs darkly under his breath.  “Whichever one looks more dangerous.”

I settle on the bottle that has an extra character drawn in—just a single black line.  Then I swipe a random cup from the cupboard above the sink and turn to him while wrestling off the cap of the bottle.  Carefully, I pour a hefty amount into what I’m mortified to discover is a Minnie Mouse mug from a trip to Disneyland ten years ago.
“More,” he commands, and I quickly tip the bottle again, filling the mug nearly halfway.

“Show me it,” I urge the moment I come close enough.  I steel myself by setting the bottle and mug down on my coffee table, next to my worn volume of Emily Dickinson’s My Letter to the World and Other Poems.  With my eyes on the gray cover, I acknowledge the hiss of him shedding his coat, followed almost immediately by the sound of more droplets of moisture striking the floor.  Some of it rain.  Some of it not.

I take my time looking up again and observe him from beneath my eyelashes.  His legs seem uninjured, at least; his jeans cling to the muscle around his upper thighs, enhancing the strength he exudes even while sitting.  Near his right pocket gleams a dark black stain that I choose to assume is grease.  By the time I reach the white shirt shielding his upper body, that fragile illusion shatters.  It’s speckled with red.  The color is so vibrant in some places that it almost looks deliberate:  ruby colored tie-dye.

I notice the wound then—a cleanly cut slash surrounded by the darkest splotches of red. It’s just underneath his collarbone on the left side of his chest.

“Knife?” I wonder, the back of my throat tight.

He nods just once and meets my gaze, those impossible eyes searing me from the inside out.  “Knife.”

I inhale sharply, surprised by how little my fingers shake.  “I’ll get the kit.”

He nods and shifts to a more comfortable position, spreading his legs apart and bracing both hands on the armrests of the chair.  I can tell from the way he stiffens that he’s aware of just how much blood he’s losing.  A muscle in his jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth and sits forward slightly, trying his damnedest not to get any on the chair’s peach-colored upholstery.   

The misplaced concern makes something inside me ache.
“How many do you think you’ll need this time?”  I call as I drift over to the hall closet beside the front door.  The calm is all forced.  Only God knows how deep the wound is.  Just how close the knife had come to striking his heart.  Just how much time he has left if I don’t get him closed up fast enough.

He chuckles again, the sound raising goosebumps over my skin.  “As many as my ‘butterfly’ thinks are necessary—” He breaks off for a suspiciously wet cough that I struggle to ignore.


Tucked on the shelf, above a row of hanging sweaters, is a bright pink Hello Kitty lunchbox.  I carefully pull it down and carry it by the handle over to the armchair.

“It’s gonna hurt,” I warn as I flick back the lid, revealing a disgusting array of pink thread and a pincushion shaped like a rubber duck.  I had never been so ashamed of my own naivety before him.  I used to be just Amy Sager:  the woman who wore bulky sweaters, knitted in her free time, and liked to attend poetry readings at ten o’clock at night—even though she rarely gathered up the nerve to read her own work.

“You promised that I’d hear my poem tonight,” he scolds as if reading my mind.

I shrug and ease a needle from the pincushion.  “That’s not really important at the moment…”

From the corner of my eye, I see him nod just once.  “Hand me the drink.”

Up this close, his voice resonates in my bones.  So deep and yet so soft at the same time.  It’s the kind of voice that could easily get on stage and recite that cliché line from Romeo and Juliet but earn a standing ovation doing it.

Obediently, I set aside the kit to pass him the Minnie Mouse mug brimming with alcohol.  He throws his head back, but when he hands me the mug again, I’m surprised by how little he actually drank.

“For you,” he says in a tone that warns me not to argue.  However, his eyes are playful, peeking from beneath a damp fringe of black hair.  “Your hands shook so badly the last time.  I need them steady.”

My cheeks heat up at the memory of the mangled scar on his left inner thigh.  Without a word I accept the mug and tip it back.

God, that stuff burns.  I struggle to choke down a sip.  Then another while he watches.  His hands—steady despite the way he winces at every movement of his arm—are there to ease the mug away.  He’s not laughing now as I fish a strip of colored thread from the bottom of my kit and try to eye how much length I’ll need while he strips off his shirt.

In an instant, I know why he wanted my hands steady.  The knife pierced him right along the edge of the ornate collage of black ink that forms the wings of a massive dragon tattoo, which I know spans the length of his back.  There will be a scar—he won’t be able to help it—but a somewhat neat job might salvage the overall effect.

An artist to the end, he is.

I’m amused by that facet of him even as my mind races with the questions I don’t dare ask.  Who, this time?  How?  Why?  Where?

My city—once calm on the surface to my woefully sheltered self—is now a smoldering volcano, spitting up white-hot bits of magma.  He’s just a small piece of it, searing me alive while I prime the eye of a needle with hot pink thread.  

I’d learned in the past few weeks that regular sewing needles aren’t the best for stitching flesh when the blood makes everything slippery.  Thinner, quilting needles work a little better, along with a sturdy gauge of thread that won’t tear under strain.

Nana sure would be proud that I am using the skills she taught me, solely to decorate throw pillows in mutated images of cats, for this.  Small stitches, Amy.  I can almost hear her correct me as I tie off the thread with a secure knot.  “Take your time.  There’s nothing worse than getting a tangle in the thread and having to start all over…”

I inhale sharply when I turn back to him and eye the ink painting his beautifully sculpted chest.  The gash is bleeding in the center of it.  His eyes are on my fingers. They reflect a sense of trust that blows my mind with the same intensity with which he’s blown the rest of my life apart.

Biting my lip, I reach for his discarded shirt and use the edge of it to wipe away most of the blood.  “Sorry,” I apologize in advance before I wad the fabric up and press it to the gash with as much force as I can muster.

He grits his teeth.  Sucks in a breath.  Swears.  Whatever he says is in Cantonese, but I catch the gist after months of having him spoon-feed me terms.  “Sorry, sorry,” I say again—a side effect of the Canadian blood in me.  Most Americans can’t seem to stand that much remorsefulness.
But he isn’t American, and in his world there is no such thing as an apology.  No concept like regret.  Regardless, his gaze burns deep into my own as I continue to hold the pressure for exactly ten more seconds.

The moment I let up, he grabs the bottle of sake and lets half of it pour into the wound and run right down his front, pooling in his lap.  I reach for my threaded needle and he sucks in another breath, his fingers clutching the armrests on either side of him. Before I start, he nods to his right knee with an authority I can’t resist.  I want you here.

I carefully perch myself on his lap and settle against his chest while I prepare myself.  Then I try to prepare him, even though he doesn’t need my reassurance.  

“Easy does it.”  The words come out in a rush as I pinch as much of the skin closed as I can with two fingers and then go in with my needle.  

Stitch.  Stitch.  Inhale.

It’s a simple routine that gets me through the worst of it—his smothered grunts of pain, a few more muttered curses.  Halfway through, though, I have to stop—leaving the needle dangling from a strip of bloody thread—to snatch the Minnie Mouse mug from the floor.  My grip slides so much that I have to prop the edge of the mug on the crook of my opposite elbow just to take a sip.  I set it down empty, my eyes streaming and throat burning.  With a steady inhale, I turn away from the scarlet smeared over Minnie’s smiling visage and then get back to it.

His blood paints me all over by the time I finally tie off the final stitch.

The job is as neat as can be expected.  I’m almost proud of myself, considering the room is starting to blur and the delicious burn of alcohol leaches through my skin.  It’s almost enough to counter the fear, and I notice just how handsome the man sporting the bloody wound actually is, with a stern jaw, perfect mouth, and mocking smile.  His eyes are the most beautiful of all—obsidian set within a porcelain face.  He leans forward before I can react and swipes his tongue along my bottom lip as if stealing the last drops of sake away for himself.  My already racing heartbeat doubles.  The scent of blood dissipates, and I start to smell him underneath: the rich aroma of coconut and spice and a million other nuances I will never truly uncover.

I wish I was brave enough to swipe him back, but I can only turn away to fish a packet of alcohol wipes from the kit.  I carefully clean the blood off the needle and then stab it into the pincushion.  Next, I attack my hands while he watches.

He doesn’t say a single word while I do my best to wipe away his blood.  Instead, he shifts against the back of the chair, cradling my body with his.  His heat seeps through my sweater.  My body reacts, tensing…tightening up.  I shudder when his fingers find that groove at the nape of my neck and he teases it with his thumb, absently stroking a path down to my shoulder.

“Ten,” he declares after glancing down at the row of stitches holding his wound together.  His voice is steady again, the accent firmly under control. “You did good, butterfly.”  

I suck in air and consider the words I want to say next.  “Thanks,” I blurt on a sigh, rather than ask one of the many unspoken questions hanging between us.  Why do you smell like gun smoke?

Instead, I rest my head on his shoulder and just breathe him in.  For four beautiful minutes he lets me almost forget why he’s here.  What this means.  But then he shifts, and I feel a sense of dread knowing what will happen next.

Sighing, I watch as he gingerly reaches into his pocket and withdraws a plastic sandwich baggie that contains a single white pill.


I obey without question.  With painful slowness, he plucks out the pill between two of his fingers and places it on the tip of my tongue.


I do, and even though it’s too soon for the narcotic to have any effect, my eyelids feel heavy and the aftereffects of the sake lull me into a heavy sense of calm that makes it easier to curl up on his lap, ignoring the blood and the fact that I will need to buy yet another cover for my armchair.

He whispers Cantonese to me as my eyes fall shut, and I feel myself drift off.

  About Lana Sky Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea

. Website | Facebook



Friday, November 13, 2015

Release Day: Never Expected Love by SM Stryker

Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Designer: Alpha Queens Book Obsession
Photography:Ian Sane Images
Release Date: November 13, 2015

Richard Stone devoted his life to work and family. When his parents died tragically, the life he'd known came crashing down, causing him to spiral out of control. That is until the postcard came. 

Nicole House was graduating college when the unthinkable happened. Brutally attacked, he life was forever changed. Leaving her family, dream job and the only life she knew behind, she moved, hoping she could escape her attacker and she shame that fateful night left her with. 

Two people who Never Expected Love are brought together
But will the demons secrets and fears of their past stop them from their future?

Shelly (SM) married her husband 28 years ago. It was important to her to be able to stay at home to raise their four daughters.
She wasn't an avid reader, but picked up a book a few years back and it made her re-think about writing, more as a healing process than anything else.
Always wanting to write a story about her life, well at least part of it. She knew it would make a great story...or soap opera, but kids and sports and work and and and. She just never made the time to write. As she got older and her girls grew and left home, she started to rethink the idea of writing again.
Deciding not to put it off any longer, in 2014 she emailed a few of her favorite authors that gave her some very good advice. A year and a half ago she started. It was a labor of love; this was part of her, part of what she lived through as a child and older, it was a story that was all too common of one.
Through lots of tears, she wrote her first book that had a large part of her life in the story, that book was Stolen Innocence. Now she finds that she has to write, this is her outlet her sanctuary, and in every book, she writes there is always part of her life written into it.
When not writing, she is with her photographer husband or with her children and grandkids. She loves the outdoors and being one with nature.


Thursday, November 12, 2015

Cover Reveal: Breaking Free by Allana Walker



Breaking Free
By Allana Walker
Genre- MC/Mafia/Dark Romance
Release date-24th November

Alexa Bardo always dreamt of a future, a future where she could help others, by becoming a doctor. One mistake from a family member snatches that future away.

At the age of nineteen she was thrown into a marriage with a man she doesn't love, but has no choice but to stay. Feeling suffocated by her husband, Ash De Costa, son of the Don of The De Costa Mafia. She knows she needs to escape. Will the help of the Devil's Reign MC help break her free? The Devil's Reign MC are tasked with a mission, a mission that brings back memories for a couple of members. One in particular, Tyler Cross. While hell bent on revenge, will he get more than he bargained for? ***WARNING*** This work of fiction is intended for ages 18+, due to the language used and scenes of violence

About this author

Allana lives in Dundee, Scotland with her husband and two daughters.

She has always had a passion for reading and until a few years ago, started secretly writing. She had always debated sharing it but never had the confidence to do so, until now. In her words; 'Life is too short to regret things we could have done and wishing the should've, would've, could've's.'

She wants to show not only her dithers but to everyone else, that you can do whatever you want when you put your mind to it.

She loves reading a range of genres, particularly MC, Mafia and romance.

Other than reading and writing, Allana loves to help out other authors, watching WWE, dancing around the room with her daughters, or at the cinema with her husband. She also loves to bake, it's her stress reliever.


@allanaw15  #BreakingFree #coverreveal

Cover Reveal: The Power of a Woman by Gina Whitney and Leddy Harper

TPOAW Front 
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All of us live with a demon inside. Some days, you control the demon. And other days, it controls you. But the one thing that never changes is that it’s always hungry. It feeds on lust and longing. You may slumber, but the demon never sleeps. It tempts you into crossing every line you’ve ever drawn, and all the while, it tests you, haunts you. And once it has turned your loved ones into enemies, the demon has consumed you whole. ~Jordana

Jordana Albanese grew up in a world that spun with lies, secrets, and multiple sins. Her father, Gene—reigning king in the Mafia for the last few decades—never protected her from his underworld dealings (La Coso Nostra). She learned at a young age that in order to survive in her world, one must be dominant. She wore the shield of control on a daily basis, but all she wanted was to slip it off and discard it like yesterday’s laundry. Except, letting it go would mean letting it all go. And she didn’t want that. She learned of a compromise—to let go of control in private, behind a closed door, with the orders of him. Not simply to be controlled, but to be dominated. The only problem was that her ambitions cut bone deep. Deeper than her Dom’s belt on her ass. Deeper than the marks from the restraints he used to subdue and pleasure her. The enduring marks were not visible to the human eye. They were profound wounds—scars—on her soul that only she could feel. 

And that’s where she found the perfect balance in the two. Her submissive tendencies served her well in the bedroom. However, in public, she was very much as dominant as her male counterparts.

@ginamwhitney   @LeddyHarper  #coverreveal #ThePowerOfAWoman 

TPOAW Teaser

About the author

Gina Whitney

Gina grew up reading Judy Blume, and Nancy Drew books. She was raised in the town of North Valley Stream, New York(Long Island), and attended community college for fashion design. At 19 years old, she opened a boutique. She's published four novels so far. Blood Ties(PNR), Beautiful Lies, Saving Abel, Forgiving Gia and soon Luca. When she's not writing, you can find her with friends and family. She resides in Massapequa, NY with her two beautiful boys. Reading has always been a passion and obsession of hers. You can usually find her typing furiously while shouting obscenities over her latest WIP. Her guilty pleasures are: a good laugh, being snarky, espresso, Pistachio ice-cream, alternative music, sunflower seeds, I.P.A's, twizzlers, and above all steamy swooning angst filled novels. She's pathologically obsessed with anything to do with royals, Games of Thrones, White Queen, Vampire Diaries, Resurrection, SOA, The Vikings and The Originals. If you'd like to chat, hit her up on Facebook or Twitter.


Leddy Harper

Leddy Harper had to use her imagination often as a child. She grew up the only girl in a house full of boys. At the age of fourteen, she decided to use that imagination and wrote her first book, and never stopped.

She often calls writing her therapy, using it as a way to deal with issues through the eyes of her characters.

She is now a mother of three girls, leaving her husband as the only man in a house full of females.
The decision to publish her first book was made as a way of showing her children to go after whatever it is they want to. Love what you do and do it well. Most importantly Leddy wanted to teach them what it means to overcome their fears.


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Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Cover Reveal: Blue Dream by Xavier Neal

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Title: Blue Dream
Author: Xavier Neal
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Model: Ben Amerson Photographer: Shauna Kruse
Kruse Images & Photography: Models & Boudoir
Publisher: Entertwine Publishing
Release Date: Dec. 2, 2015

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  First love. Last love. Only love. Well, at least that's how Ryder Collins thinks of the girl he lost because of his addiction ten years ago. While Ryder is battling the demons of his past to save his future, he will start to question the nightmare that has become his reality and the illusive blue dream that he swears started it all.



blue dream 1 teaser

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xavier 3   
Xavier Neal lives in Texas where she spends her time getting lost in writing, reading, or fandoms she recently discovered. Whether she is enjoying books or movies, she continues finding inspiration at every turn to bring more exciting stories to life.

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Amazon Author Page:
Twitter: @XavierNeal87
Goodreads Author Page:


Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Release Blitz & Giveaway: Forbidden Temptations by Janine Infante Bosco

Forbidden Temptations Blitz Banner

Forbidden Temptations by Janine Infante Bosco Tempted #2 
Publication Date: November 10, 2015 

Forbidden Temptations Cover

Buy (FREE with Kindled Unlimited!): Amazon

Anthony Bianci Since I was a kid all I ever wanted to be was a gangster. I wanted to be feared, to be respected, and for everyone to know my name. And then she came into my life. I never planned on falling in love with the mob boss’ daughter. She was forbidden but somehow she became mine. She made me crave things I didn’t even know existed and made me forget about the things I thought I wanted. My quest for power faded away and was replaced by my undying love for her. Until reality bit me in the ass and I was sent to prison for three years, doing time for a crime I didn’t commit. Now I’m out and she is creating a life for herself, just like I always wanted for her. Only I’m not a part of that life. I won’t ruin her any more than I already have with my poisonous lifestyle. No matter how tempted I am.
  Adrianna Pastore I wanted him from the very first time I laid eyes on him. He was everything to me, my first love and probably my last. Then my father ruined our perfect little life, and he walked away from me. I tried to fight for him, for our love, but he pushed me away. When the love you crave is beautiful, yet forbidden, you can’t help being tempted. So I’ll fight for him. For us. Even if I’m the only one fighting. Book #2 in the Tempted Series (Can be read as a Standalone)

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Forbidden Temptations Full Cover Jacket


I knew all years ago nothing would come close to making me feel the way I did whenever Anthony kissed me. Even when he was kissing me goodbye he made me feel like he cherished me. I believed him when he said he’d love me forever, his actions speaking louder than his words. I hope he knew I felt the same way. I angled my head, giving him better access to devour my mouth. The thing about kissing someone goodbye is you don’t get a second chance to do it right. In that moment you have to put everything into one kiss and that’s exactly what we did.

The last several years, everything we had gone through, everything we had felt for one another entangled in this kiss. I savored his taste. I memorized the way his teeth felt scraping against my raw lips, the gentle lap his tongue took across them to soothe the sting. I didn’t want him to take away the sting, wishing I would always feel the burning sensation that prickled against my sensitive flesh as a reminder of my Anthony. His mouth left mine and kept going back to press butterfly kisses against my lips before dropping his hands to my shoulders and taking a retreating step backwards. I swallowed as I dared to meet his gaze. “Let me grab a shirt and I’ll walk you out,” he said, gruffly. I nodded wiping my cheeks with the sleeves of my sweater. He turned around to walk into his bedroom and that’s when I saw the ink taking up his entire back The shocked gasp that escaped my mouth caused him to look over his shoulder at me.

The instant he saw my face realization set into his features and he closed his eyes. “Turn around,” I demanded, softly. He sighed, his shoulders went lax, and he dropped his head. I took a step closer and stared in awe at the beautiful artwork covering his skin. There are beautiful clouds drawn across his shoulder blades all of them shaded in hues of gray and blue, almost matching his eyes. Through the clouds, there are rays that shoot down the center of his back like rays of an eternal light. The year two thousand five looks as though the rays illuminate the numbers. My eyes travel down to the center of his back where there is the letter A written in a familiar handwriting. My first thought is that my eyes are playing tricks on me but when I take, a closer look there is no denying it. The A inked onto his skin is a replica of the A I scribe every time I sign my name .Just when I thought there were no tears left to cry, I feel my eyes fill with water as understanding dawns on me. I push back the tears and force myself to continue my perusal of the intricate tattoo he has forever etched into his flesh. There are flames that begin just beneath the waistband of his sweat pants and travel wildly, vibrant oranges, yellows and reds, all depicting an inferno as they make their way to the A.

The year two thousand ten scribed between the flames of hell. I reach out and trace the A with my index finger, feeling him flinch at my touch. He gathers his bearings and remains completely still as my fingertip continues to trace the A. My eyes fixate on the two years, two thousand five was the year it all began for us, and two thousand ten was the year it ended. He must’ve been reading my mind because he turned around shielding his tattoo from me as he gazed in to my eyes. “My heaven and my hell,” He whispered, roughly explaining the sentiment behind the ink that forever marks his skin. I stare at him for a moment, stripped of any words. What do you say to that? To the man telling you to forget he exists only to discover he’ll take a piece of you with him wherever he goes. You say nothing because nothing you could ever say would be enough.

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Janine Infante Bosco

Janine Infante Bosco lives in New York City, she has always loved reading and writing. When she was thirteen, she began to write her own stories and her passion for writing took off as the years went on. At eighteen, she even wrote a full screenplay with dreams of one day becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild.
Janine writes emotionally charged novels with an emphasis on family bonds, strong willed female characters, and alpha male men who will do anything for the women they love. She loves to interact with fans and fellow avid romance readers like herself. She is proud of her success as an author and the friendships she's made in the book community but her greatest accomplishment to date would be her two sons Joseph and Paul.


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