Monday, June 30, 2014

Blitz: The Seduction #3 by Roxy Sloane

The Seduction by Roxy Sloane
The explosive new series continues….

I thought he would protect me.
I believed his beautiful lies.
I wanted to give him everything – and I was willing to pay the price.

Now everything has changed.

He may be the Seducer, but I’ll be the one who takes the ultimate prize:

His heart.

*part three of the sinful, seductive new series*

New to the Series?! Grab parts 1 & 2 now!

Part 1:
All women look the same on their knees with their lips wrapped around my cock. 

You like to think you're different, special somehow. But trust me, I'll have you wet and begging for it before you can think of all those bullshit, good girl reasons why not.

I'm your darkest secret. Your dirtiest fantasy.

Who am I?

The Seducer.

And I've never lost a case.

Until her. Keely Fawes. My mysterious new target.

Someone wants to destroy her -- and I'm their weapon of choice.

Her secrets could be my undoing. Her innocence will ruin me.

But I don't care.

I'm going to show her how fucking good it feels to be bad. She'll come screaming my name if it's the last thing I do.

Part 2: 
Show me a woman who doesn't like to be dominated, and I'll show you a fucking liar.

It's OK, you can admit it. I won't tell. You want it rough and deep and dirty. You want to hear the steel in my voice when I tell you exactly how to please me. And you want to know, I won't hesitate to punish you if you don't follow my commands to the letter.
 Yeah, that's right. I'll punish you, and I won't go gentle either. I'll bend you over and spank that sweet ass until it's branded with my handprint. Until it hurts so good, you forget where the line is between pleasure and pain.
 Who am I? The Seducer. And now I'm in way over my head.
 I thought she was just a job to me, another girl to screw. But now she's under my skin, and I can't just walk away. My secrets are spiraling out of control, but I can't quit now. She doesn't realize the danger she's facing -- or that her biggest threat is me.
I want to protect her, but I could wind up destroying us both.

Roxy Sloane is a romance junkie with a dirty mind. She lives in Los Angeles with her hot ex-military hubby and her two kids. She loves writing sexy, complex stories about pushing the boundaries and risking it all.

Hosted by Mark My Words Book Publicity

Blitz: The Trouble With Flying by Rachel Morgan

When introvert Sarah boards a plane to fly home after an overseas holiday, the last thing she expects is Aiden, the guy sitting next to her who’s never flown anywhere before and refuses to shut up. Hours of random conversation later, they part ways. Sarah can’t stop thinking about Aiden, though, and wondering if she made a terrible mistake letting him go. Should she abandon her safe, predictable life and go in search of him, or would she be chasing a happily ever after that could never exist in real life?

The Trouble With Flying - PROMO Blitz
By Rachel Morgan
Young Adult/New Adult
Date Published: June 24, 2014

I don’t make friends on aeroplanes. I know there are people who like to strike up a conversation with the complete stranger sitting next to them, but that’s not me. It’s not that I’m an unfriendly person. It’s more the fact that the conversation centre of my brain seems to seize up in the presence of strangers, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what to say. And even if the other person is happy to simply babble on while I pretend to listen and be interested, I’d really rather be doing something else. Like reading. Or watching a movie. Or sleeping. Or trying to figure out how to stop crying.

Yes. Crying. Because if being shy and awkward isn’t enough, today I’m adding red eyes, tears, and suppressed sobs to the embarrassing mix.

I stare out the tiny, oval window at the patches of reflected light on the wet runway and silently ask God to leave the seat next to me empty. I can’t deal with a chatty neighbour right now. I’d rather watch the black sky and incessant rain until we reach cruising altitude. Then I’ll close my eyes and let sleep take the pain away.

Oh, STOP IT. It’s not like someone died.

I wiggle around a bit in my seat and sniff, trying to listen to my inner pep-talk voice. Think of the good things, I tell myself. I’m on my way home. I’m leaving behind the dreary, wet weather for a sunny, summer climate. That, at least, should make me happy. But thinking about home leads to thoughts ofwho I’m flying towards, and that only makes my stomach twist further.

I hear the sound of a bag being dumped onto the seat at the end of my row. There are only three seats between the window and the aisle—mine and two others—so there’s a fifty-fifty chance this person is about to plonk him or herself down right next to me.

I angle myself more towards the window and swipe my fingers beneath my eyes. I start the furious tear-banishing blinking. Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying. All I need now is for someone to see my blotchy, wet face and start asking me what’s wrong.

I hear someone settling into a seat. I don’t feel movement right beside me, so it must be the aisle seat. Fantastic. I send up a quick thank-you prayer and remind God that it would be spectacularly awesome if He could keep the seat next to me empty.

A tickle inside my left nostril alerts me to the fact that my nose is dribbling. I sniff, but it doesn’t help.Crap, where are my tissues? I lean forward and reach down by my feet for my handbag. Brown strands of hair fall in front of my face and block my vision, but if I can just get the zip open and feel past my purse to the tissues—

No. Too late. Now it’s trickling down my lip and I’m digging around in the bag and I can’t feel the stupid tissues and a drop of tear-snot just landed on my hand and yuck! I haul the ridiculous handbag—I told Jules I didn’t need something so big—onto my lap with one hand while holding the back of my other hand to my nose. And there the tissues are. Right next to my purse. Perfectly easy to find. I rip one from the packet and jam it against my nose to stop the tear-snot flood.

And that’s when I catch a glimpse of the guy sitting in the aisle seat. A quick sideways glimpse, but enough to tell me he’s cute. Excellent cheekbones, a strong jawline, and perfectly messy dark brown hair. Terrific. My nose is dripping snot in front of a cute guy. Not that I should care that he’s cute, or that he’s a guy, because it’s not like I’m going to talk to him, and it’s not like I’m even available—am I? I don’t actually know. And thinking about that makes me want to cry all over again—but STILL. I don’t want to look blotchy and snotty in front of a cute guy.

Rachel Morgan was born in South Africa and spent a large portion of her childhood living in a fantasy land of her own making. After completing a degree in genetics, she decided science wasn't for her--after all, they didn't approve of made-up facts. These days she spends much of her time immersed in fantasy land once more, writing fiction for young adults.

Enter to win a $20 Amazon gift card and (2) e-copies of The Trouble With Flying

Rachel Morgan was born in South Africa and spent a large portion of her childhood living in a fantasy land of her own making. After completing a degree in genetics, she decided science wasn't for her--after all, they didn't approve of made-up facts. These days she spends much of her time immersed in fantasy land once more, writing fiction for young adults.

Hosted by Reading Addiction Book Tours

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Sunday, June 29, 2014

Blitz: Love Edy by Shewanda Pugh

When Edy Phelps falls hard for her best friend, she knows nothing can come from it. Forget actual chemistry, or the fact that she cherishes his mother more than her own; centuries of tradition say that Hassan will grow up, marry the girl his parents pick, and forget his best friend: the dancer with the bursting smile. Except he can’t. In a world erupting with possibilities for the boy with a body of steel and dreams of the NFL, everything seems promised while nothing at all is; when he’s denied the girl he wants most.

Two hearts. Two families devoted through generations of friendship. Could Edy and Hassan really risk all that? And yet … how could they not?

Love Edy by Shewanda Pugh 

Publication date: June 24th 2014

Genres: Romance, Young Adult

Friday night. The sky hung heavy, seamless, with heaven’s stars blotted out by overbearing skyscrapers. Shrieks and a cacophony of cheers rang out, hysteria supreme in a microscopic stadium rocking on the edge of Boston’s South End. Thin and buckling bleachers rattled with the stomps of impending mania, shrill whistles and hefty shouts: those were the true sounds of redemption. Fourteen years and not a single touchdown against Madison High; fourteen years, but no more.
It had come at the hands of a freshman running back who couldn’t stop moving, a last-minute, fidgeting substitution. To others, his appearance must have seemed a concession, but Edy Phelps knew better. Edy Phelps knew him better.
He was hunger and discipline, jittery and ravenous, so rattled that nerves kept him shifting and stretching and pacing along the sidelines. Obsession fueled him, and kept him keen on an opportunity unwilling to come. Except that night, chance came to Hassan Pradhan. His chance. Finally.
It happened in a breath. A snap of the ball. A fake pass and Hassan thundered downfield at a speed only fear could sustain. His moment. His only moment. Take it. Take it. Run. Fly.
He could hear her thoughts—no, feel her thoughts. Edy was sure of it. They’d always had a connection. And it was in that way she aided him. Fists pressed to her lips, teeth slammed together, screaming with her soul. Soar. I know you can do it.
Just as the clock whittled to nothing, Hassan vaulted into the end zone.
A collective roar swallowed Edy and the crowd leapt as one. A win. Few would recall the last.
On her left, Hassan’s parents cheered: mother in a starched linen suit and pumps too prim for a game, father in a white button-up, belly pressing the fabric, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His mother, Rani, was without the brilliant red bindi she couldn’t do without, giving her forehead that naked look. On Edy’s opposite end were her parents, their absolute best friends, in the long-sleeved alumni tees reserved for football season, mother free of the skirt suits that dictated her days. Edy abandoned them all for the sidelines, for Hassan. She weaved round patches of shrieking upperclassmen, hopped over rows of empty benches, apologized to the fat man whose cocoa she sloshed, and ignored the slice of a sudden, early winter wind.
He’d done it.
All those nights, all those talks, round and round about the possibility of getting in a game, the two of them in bedroom shadows, careful to keep their voices low. Some nights he thought a chance would never come; others, he insisted it had to. Either way, he always said that if it did, when it did, he would do something worth remembering. And he had.
At the sidelines, Edy’s gaze swept a team clustered so thick, so honeyed together with the sweetness of victory, that she worried she might never find her neighbor, her best friend. 
Ice cut the air, and the glare of stadium lights had her like an ant under a magnifying glass in the noonday sun. She remembered the way the Dyson twins would burn insects and snicker, and she thought no, she’d be hot if she were a tortured ant, not cold. The fog of her breath seconded her motion.
She spotted him.
Edy had come to hug someone already occupied, someone surrounded by sweeping blonde curls, dark curtains of perfect hair, nestled by an endless supply of short skirts. Hassan draped an easy arm around a cheerleader with shimmering flaxen locks, mouth curling into a grin when a brunette of with pouty lips cried foul and claimed him as her own. Soft tans and the curves of certain womanhood donned them both. Edy looked from them to her own angular body and knew what she would find: all edges and sharpness, slender, muscles sculpted from a life of dance. The baggy jeans, football jersey, and sloppy poof of a ponytail she wore didn’t give her much to run with either. That hair used to be the brunt of Hassan’s endless jokes. Big enough to tip you back,” he’d say, before tugging it in absentminded affection. She fingered that hair with the same sort of absent- -mindedness, before looking up to see a blonde plant rosy lips on Hassan’s cheek.
Edy didn’t care about the movies, the books, the popular culture that insisted football player and cheerleader, jock and pretty girl, were a natural sort of fit. It wasn’t. They weren’t. It absolutely couldn’t be.
A girl like that couldn’t understand what made him him. So what if he was . . .  obscenely gorgeous, with sun-licked bronze skin, silken black locks, and eyes an ever-glimmering, gold-flecked green. He had a quiet sort of beauty, made for old Greek sculptures and timeless works of art. Not that he was quiet. He was explosive, with good looks and athleticism. But beyond that were pleasures and disappointments, what he loved and could not bear. Imprinted on Edy’s mind were the crinkles at the corner of Hassan’s eyes when he smiled, the clench of his jaw when irritation set in, the rich and sonorous laugh that had slipped octaves lower in recent years. A girl like that blonde could be nothing to him—could know nothing of him. She knew a moment and a touchdown. That was it.
Edy’s hands made fists.
The blonde moved in to kiss his cheek again, just as a teammate shouted his name. Hassan jerked back, only to be caught at the corner of his mouth by her lips.
A whoop rang out from the guys.
Heat flushed Edy’s veins and her fingernails dug, digging, digging, until tears blurred her vision.
He was her best friend, family really, if you considered the way they were brought up. So, she really had no reason to—
The blonde threw her arms around Hassan. The team swarmed and the two disappeared from sight.
They were kissing, weren’t they?
Edy closed her eyes, forcing back the hottest tears and the bitterest taste of sudden envy.
She loved him. Dear God, she loved her best friend.
It fell down on her at once, uncompromising truth and the weight of reality like a cloak too heavy to bear.
The boy that had grown by her side, promised to another in a tradition as old as marriage itself, another girl of his ethnicity, religion, beliefs: that’s the boy she loved. A single line existed between Edy’s family and his, between the Pradhans and Phelps, who otherwise acted as one.
But Edy loved him.
And, of course, there was no recourse for that.

Enter to win (3) signed copies of Love Edy + a poster and two bookmarks (US/CAN)

Shewanda Pugh is a tomboy who credits Stephen King with being the reason she writes romance. In 2012 she debuted with the first novel in a three part contemporary adult romance series, Crimson Footprints. Since then, she's been shortlisted for the AAMBC Reader's Choice Award, the National Black Book Festival's Best New Author Award, and the Rone Award for Contemporary Fiction in 2012 and 2013. She has an MA in Writing from Nova Southeastern University and a BA in Political Science from Alabama A&M University. Though a native of Boston, MA, she now lives in Miami, FL, where she can soak up sun rays without fear of shivering. Her first young adult romance, Love Edy, is scheduled for release on June 24th, 2014.

This Book Blitz is brought to you by Xpresso Book Tours