Wish by Grier Cooper Expected Publication Date: December 2, 2014 Publisher: Dancing Poodle Press Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations Synopsis For Indigo Stevens, ballet classes at Miss Robertaâs ballet studio offer the stability and structure that are missing from her crazy home life. At almost 16, she hopes this is the year she will be accepted into the New York School of Ballet. First she must prove sheâs ready, and that means ignoring Jesse Sanders â the cute boy with dimples who is definitely at the top of Miss Robertaâs List of Forbidden Things for Dancers. But Jesse is the least of Indigoâs concerns. When she discovers her mom is an alcoholic, it simultaneously explains everything and heaps more worry on Indigoâs shoulders. As her momâs behavior becomes increasingly erratic, Indigo fights to maintain balance, protect her younger brothers from abuse, and keep her mother from going over the edge. When the violence at home escalates, Indigo realizes she can no longer dance around the issue. At the risk of losing everything, she must take matters into her own hands before itâs too late. Excerpt When I hear the voice I have come to hate, I stop what Iâm doing. It doesnât matter that Iâm right in the middle of abdominal crunch number 38. This gets preference. I roll on my side and press my ear to the floor. Itâs hard to hear things through the carpetâmore difficult to distinguish the subtle nuances Iâve learned to listen forâbut I donât have a choice. My body tenses as I strain to hear, listening to catch important clues. Is the voice sharp, scratchy and impatient? Bitter and dark? Or round and cloyingly sweet? These things matter. Each one dictates a different course of action. Another voice responds. But which one? I canât tell. The voice gets louder and I sit up, prepared to move quickly. The volume reaches a crescendo, and I jump into place by the doorway. Just in case. Loud words ring up through the floor below my feet. I stop breathing. Something clatters to the floor with a loud, metallic clank. I hear a scratching sound. I realize with a start that itâs my nails digging into the wooden grooves of the doorframe. I hold my breath until things go quiet again. After I wait one full minute (again, just in case) I lie down on the floor again. I know I should finish exercising but it feels good to lie still for a moment. Truth be told, I hate abdominal crunches. I close my eyes and a fragment of memory surfaces: a favorite moment from a long time ago, back before my brothers were born, when I flew. Iâm not kidding. I remember my body floating weightless, toes hovering several inches above the intricate paisley patterns in our front hall carpet; dust motes twinkled in the sunlight like tiny golden fairies swirling all around me. It was over too soon. The good stuff always is. But in those few sparkly moments I was free in a way I have never felt since. When the memory fades, I force myself to do my last round of crunches. The overly bright pink carpet beneath me scratches the bare skin at the nape of my neck but I grit my teeth and continue. My abdominal muscles are on fire and I latch on to that fact. Itâs proof that something Iâm doing is having an effect somewhere. Sometimes when things get bad, I close my eyes and imagine that blissful flying feeling in my body again. My cells remember. Thatâs how I know it must have happened. The closest Iâve gotten to that feeling again is during the final moments of ballet class when I leap across the floor. Those few milliseconds of freedom where I defy gravity â the chance to fly â thatâs what keeps me coming back to the ballet studio. Lately, I donât ever want to leave. I hope this is the year Miss Roberta takes me to audition for the New York School of Ballet so I can finally start my real life. But the second I think this, the doubts slither in. Am I ready? What about my brothers? Right now there are no answers, only questions and conflicting feelings. A droplet of sweat rolls down my right temple and trickles into my ear. I shake it off and finish my last crunch, then flop back on the floor. I imagine what I look like from above: a cast-off rag doll, forgotten and tossed aside. I stand and take one last look in the mirror. As usual there are a few stray flyaway hairs. I scowl at them and glue them into place with a final spritz of hairspray. Thatâs as close to perfect as my bun is going to get today. The voice is back, muddled with irritation. This time Iâm in the crosshairs. Mom yells again, just in case I didnât hear her the first time. Itâs impossible not to, even though she doesnât believe in occupying the same room as the person sheâs talking to. I grab my ballet bag and fly down the stairs. I know better than to keep her waiting. Seven blocks before we reach the ballet studio she is screaming so loudly that I see her larynx. Wait. Thatâs not the right word. What is the wordâ¦you know, for that dangly thing you always see vibrating in cartoon charactersâ throats when they yell? The uvula. Thatâs the word. Only this is no cartoon â itâs my life. I see all the signs that a blowup is coming: tight jaw, white knuckles on the steering wheel, growling about every little thing thatâs bothering her. Usually I jump in and smooth things over, but not this time. âIâm sick to death of picking up after a houseful of pigs! Iâm so goddamned tired all the time because of you!â Mom yells. Her hands pound the steering wheel and my stomach twists with a sick, fluttery feeling. It's like the world has suddenly spun out of control and thereâs no solid ground under my feet. I should be used to this by now â Iâve had almost sixteen years of practice. My head droops like a wilted flower and I stare at my lap. I shut my eyes. Itâs so hot in the car that my thighs are sticking to the blue leather seats. I hate that. I have to escape. My mother is driving me crazy. I ask myself why this keeps happening. I know she hates driving. Plus today, her lead-footed determination fell short by a few seconds and she missed the light at that one intersection on Post Road where you have to wait an eternity before the light turns green again. Charlie left his towel on the bathroom floor this morning; that kind of stuff always pisses her off. Maybe sheâs just having a bad hair day. Itâs Saturday and sheâs not due back at the hairdresserâs until Wednesday morning. All of these things add up, heat her inner coil until it boils over and spills out ugly words. On the outside my mother looks like an old-school movie star â polished blonde perfection, hair always in a flawless twist â but lately sheâs wound up like a tightly coiled snake on the inside, ready to strike at any moment. When I think of her, competing emotions swirl around in my ribcage: disappointment, anger, fear and something else â longing. For the person she used to be, a person who now makes occasional cameo appearances. Sometimes I feel sorry for her, but watching her now, her contorted screaming face, (uvula shimmying back and forth like a bobble-headed hula dancer on crack) all sympathy evaporates. I need to get out of this car to focus on my body, to feel the cool metal ballet barre in my hand. If Mom doesnât stop yelling soon Iâll be late for class and Miss Roberta will have my head. Iâm tuning it out for now, like watching a movie without sound. Watching without listening almost makes it comical. Like noticing the uvula thing. She jabs a well-manicured, red-lacquered finger in the air (religiously re-manicured every Tuesday morning) and Charlie cries louder. Poor kid gets blamed for just about everything since he was the mistake, the unplanned child. Heâs too small to stick up for himself so I try to protect him as often as I can. I squeeze his little hand three times, our secret sign. I love you and itâll be okay. He scoots in closer to my side. Brad rolls his eyes at me from the front seat and smirks. I ignore him and stare at my reflection in the window, hating my strawberry blonde hair and pale skin, all the parts of me that look like her. Hereâs another tactic: only listen to every third word she says. Using this filter, the dialogue goes something like, âChrist⦠goddamn⦠ever-loving⦠useless⦠godforsaken⦠dirty⦠you⦠tired⦠enough.â Iâve edited out most of the obscenities. Seriously, half of what my mother says would be censored by the FCC. Pretty ironic, since she went to Catholic school from kindergarten through senior year. The woman was practically raised by nuns. Sheâll eventually exhaust herself and tell my dad what crappy kids we are the second she gets home. Dad will do what he usually does, which is nothing. Or heâll go work in the yard so he doesnât have to deal with it. Until next time. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Charlieâs scream pulls me from my thoughts. My eyes snap open. My mother grips him by the arm as she shakes him, hard. âAnother goddamn mess to clean up. Like I donât have enough already.â Charlieâs cries turn to sobs. I notice scuff marks from his shoes on the back of Momâs seat. âGreat, just great,â she growls. Not right, not right, not right, says a little voice inside me as my heart races frantically. I canât let her hurt him. âMom, you canâtââ âShut. Up.â She whips her head towards me, eyes blazing. âDo not start with me or I swear to God I will make you regret it. Just try me and you will find yourself out of ballet classes so fast your head will spin.â The words hover in the air, followed by a sudden blistering silence. A door slams shut in the center of my chest. I fight back the leaden weight of anger and panic with slow, steady breaths. I wish I could make her stop freaking out all the time. But how? I clench my fists, digging the nails into my palms to stifle any urge to respond. At last she guns the accelerator and drives the final few blocks to the ballet studio. The car rolls to a stop and she eyes each of us in turn. Slowly she turns back toward me. âAll right,â she says. âGet out.â I feel all weird and shaky as I climb out of the car. I close the door and lean against it with my head bowed. I take a deep breath. I have to pull it together before I go to class. Not easy to do when you have liquid hate pulsing through your veins. âIndigo, is that you?â a voice says out of nowhere. Crap. Itâs Mrs. Davis. Her blonde wavy hair is shellacked into place, her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched in excitement. My heart sinks even further. I swear she and Mom have a secret arranged marriage thing planned for me and Ryan Davis, the maniac perverted son I was forced to play with all through grade school. He spent every one of our play dates either beating me up or trying to look under my dress. She eyes me up and down like Iâm the main course for supper. âIâm so happy to run into you. I have a favor to ask.â Dread keeps me rooted in place, paralyzed. Must escape before itâs too late. Behind me I hear the car window glide down. I turn to see Mom leaning across the front seat to angle herself into the discussion. âWhy, Pam, how nice to see you.â My motherâs voice oozes with syrupy sweetness. Sheâs talking in that nice phony voice she only uses when weâre out in public. We call it her Christmas voice. Itâs as fake as the rat poison disguised as sweetener that all the skinny moms in town stir into their morning lattés. No one would ever guess that only moments ago she was screaming her head off at us in the car. âLikewise, Elizabeth. How are your boys doing?â âBusy with hockey, as always. And yours?â Momâs voice now has a slight Southern twang to it, as it does when sheâs laying it on extra thick. âSame. But you know, I was just about to talk to Indigo about tutoring my Lila; sheâs behind in reading. I think learning from an older girl she looks up to would do her a world of good.â Before I can stop her, Mom says, âWell, of course, sheâd love to help out. Wouldnât you, Indigo?â No reason to ask me what I think. They both look at me expectantly. Momâs lips are pressed together in a tight line, a sure sign that she expects no argument from me. âUh, sure, Mrs. Davis,â I say. âOh, fantastic, honey. Thank you so much. How about first thing next Saturday morning, at your place? Iâll pay you ten dollars an hour. Oh, Lila will be thrilled!â I canât believe how easily I just got roped into tutoring Lila. Thatâs the thing about this town: itâs impossible to go anywhere without running into someone you know, and usually itâs the person you were hoping to avoid. The Christmas voice echoes in my head as I climb the stairs to Miss Robertaâs ballet studio. Itâs only when I reach the top of the stairs that I realize my hands are gripped into tight fists and my jaw is sore from gnashing my teeth together. I unclench my fingers and shake out my hands, imagining Iâm flinging off the bad juju. The smooth leather texture of my ballet slippers is comforting as I slip my feet into them. I throw on leg warmers and look for a spot at the barre. Thereâs one last spot, right next to Marlene James, ex-fourth grade best friend, now turned horrible person. Lovely. Monique gives me a questioning look from her spot three places down at the barre, but I shake my head and look away. While I mechanically prepare for class, I donât talk to anyone. Iâm still too upset. I throw my right leg up on the barre and fold my body over it, then switch to the left. A thorough full-body stretch is a must before every class, but thanks to my mother thatâs all I have time for today. âAll right, girls, letâs get started,â Miss Roberta says, clapping her hands loudly. I hold the barre lightly with my left hand and begin moving when the music starts. Itâs the same music Iâve heard in every ballet class Iâve taken for the past ten years. We always start with pliés. My knees bend in time to the music: demi plié, demi plié, grand plié. My body moves through the positions while my mind replays the scene in the car. The image of my motherâs uvula is stuck in my brain. âIndigo, where is your focus this morning?â Miss Robertaâs voice pulls me back into the present moment. I glance in front of me at Marleneâs feet and realize Iâm in the wrong position. I shake my head to clear it. Go away, Mom. This is the one place where I get away from you â even if itâs only for an hour and a half. Compared to the rest of my life, ballet classes are refreshingly orderly and predictable. Barre exercises always follow the same routine. Do everything that works the right leg, then turn and repeat everything with the left. We move through the barre exercises. Every beat of the music dictates what comes next. The rhythm makes demands and the body answers with precision. Already my muscles are beginning to feel warm and stretchy. âMonique, your leg does not end at your ankle. Point those toes! Jeanine, youâre sagging. Stand up straight!â Miss Robertaâs voice carries through the room. Today sheâs all in pinks with a floral chiffon headscarf. Sheâs the classic tiny dancer: dark-haired with pert features. Her eyes flicker across the class, constantly appraising technique and posture. Even though sheâs tiny, she commands the room. If she sees imperfections or lack of good effort, she will call you out. Moments later we are doing grand battements. Droplets of sweat roll down my back and the sides of my face. My extensions suck today; my leg just wonât go as high as usual. Iâm straining to get it up near my shoulder when itâs usually as high as my head. Everything feels heavy. âWhat is going on with your extensions today, Indigo?â Miss Roberta looks disturbed. She addresses the room. âAll of you are operating at half speed. Can anyone tell me why?â âMust be how hard theyâre working us in PE at school,â Monique pipes in. âGreat, just great. Those people have no idea what havoc they are wreaking on my dancers. Do you girls have to kill yourselves in gym class?â Her lips curl like she sucked on a lemon. Miss Roberta is extremely cautious about this stuff. In her world, dancers shouldnât do half the stuff that other normal people enjoy. Skiing, for instance. She has forbidden me to ski because I could break a leg. The list of things Iâm not allowed to do gets longer all the time. âThe human body is naturally lazy, girls. You have to make it work for you,â Miss Roberta reminds us. This is the first of the âRules of Ballet According to Miss Roberta.â The complete manifesto goes something like this: Humans are naturally lazy and dancers have to work hard to overcome this tendency. There is always room for improvement. If you think you are a good enough dancer, youâre wrong! There will always be someone who is a better dancer than you. It takes hard work and discipline to get ahead. If you canât take constructive criticism, you are in the wrong place. If you are too tall, too fat or too lazy, pick a different career. The love of dance brought you here and it will carry you through your career. Ballet is equal parts dedication, inspiration, and perspiration. The human body is a dancerâs most important tool and our biggest challenge (see Rule #1). Ballet involves sacrifice (of certain dangerous activitiesâ¦including and most especially boys). âGirls, get the lead out. Letâs see some energy in those leg extensions. Make your bodies obey!â Miss Roberta is not known for her subtlety. Also, she is perfectly comfortable discussing touchy subjects, such as personal hygiene. Three years ago she alerted us about the need for deodorant by making a loud public statement in the middle of class that went something like, âMany of you girls are old enough now that you need to wear deodorant. Some of you are beginning to smell.â We put on pointe shoes and practice more relevés and turns at the barre. Turns are all about balance and spotting. I spot the back of Marleneâs head in front of me each time I turn. Itâs a dance secret; the key to spinning around without getting dizzy. Keep your eyes on a single spot as you start to spin, then whip your head around quickly and find the same spot again. Marlene is an amazing turner. Today I want to hate her, but it doesnât matter anyway, since she probably wonât get much further in ballet with those D-cups of hers. I yank my attention back to turns. Itâs nerve-wracking, spinning around multiple times on the tip of a pointe shoe. Youâre balancing on maybe three square inches of surface space, so you have to focus. It doesnât help that Iâm tall; thereâs more of me to control. Finally itâs time to move to the center of the room. Iâm always glad to be done with the barre even though itâs where the foundation is built. The steps we repeat over and over again are like words in our dance vocabulary, and once we are in the center we flow into fluid dialogue. We do more tendus and then an adagio. My body blooms and stretches as I raise one leg to the ceiling. Everything remains still as my bottom foot rotates and I revolve like a living jewelry-box ballerina. The music is painfully slow today. We have to make it look easy, but it isnât. Miss Roberta demonstrates some quick footwork with the lightness of a flitting sparrow. I watch her and wonder what her career was like. I know she was with the American Ballet Theater in New York City â there are photos and newspaper clippings posted around the studio. Out of the corner of my eye I see Miss Roberta patrolling the edges of the room, watching while we work. Sometimes I swear I feel her eyes burning into the back of my skull. âFeet together in the soussous, Indigo! Imagine you are being sucked up into a straw.â As I dance, I watch my feet in the mirrors that line the front of the room. Sheâs right. They should be tighter. I catch Marlene flashing me a haughty look in the mirror. I watch my feet closely, placing them with care. âBetter. Now apply that same diligence to every step you take.â Thatâs a tall order for me today, but I know sheâs right. I have to maintain that same level of care if Iâm going to make it as a dancer. Each time Iâm here, my job is to move one more step closer to perfection. And if I get my wish, I wonât always have her around to remind me. For now, Miss Roberta is part mentor, part mother and part tormentor. She embodies the strength and willpower Iâll need to get ahead, and she reminds me relentlessly. While the second group does the exercise, I go to the side of the room and take off my pointe shoes â just for a moment. Iâm starting to get bunions on the outer joints of my big toes. Some days my feet ache so badly I want to cry, but I have to work through the pain. Pointe shoes look beautiful on the outside, all pink and satin. But they are instruments of torture. Cement ball gowns. The music ends so I quickly stuff my feet back inside my shoes and tie the ribbons. Just in time for turns. âLong spine, Indigo!â Miss Robertaâs eyes find mine in the mirror. âShoulders down, Elizabeth! Chin up!â Another turn. I spot my eyes in the mirror, turn twice and land. I hate this floor; the linoleum is slippery and I worry about falling. Only think about turns. No fear. I imagine an iron spike going down through my supporting shoulder and into the ground. It works. I nail the landing perfectly. âGood, Indigo. Try for three next time.â We move to the far corner of the room for jumps on the diagonal, the giant leaps that are my favorite. Doing them in pointe shoes is challenging because weâre supposed to jump soundlessly. Not easy when youâve got cement blocks on your feet. We end class with a reverence, the same way dancers bow on stage at the end of a show. In class itâs a show of respect for our teacher. âThank you for your hard work,â Miss Roberta says. I take a deep breath and begin to relax, at last. The feeling I get at the end of class is always warm and yummy. I take a gulp from my water bottle to replace the fluids I lost from all the sweating. âIndigo, I need to see you a moment,â Miss Roberta says quietly. The other dancers filter out into the dressing area and I step into her âoffice,â the corner where the music player lives. She shuts the divider, closing the studio off from the dressing room. Not a good sign. Miss Roberta clears her throat. âI know youâre working hard.â I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue. âBut your footwork is still sloppy. Your jumps have improved, but could be stronger and youâre still a little loose through your core. You really need to step it up if you intend to audition this year.â Itâs like a punch to the gut. I stare at the floor in quiet desperation as I hold back tears, nodding at her directives. Her face softens. âLook, you have all the tools you need at your disposal. But what you do with them and how far you go â thatâs up to you.â About the AuthorSince she was forced into ballet lessons at age five, Grier has performed on three out of seven continents. Her first crush was in fifth grade but Tchaikovsky was her first real love. She left home at fourteen to study at the School of American Ballet but after living in New York City, San Francisco and Miami she's decided she prefers to live outside of cities. Today she lives in a somewhat secret seaside hamlet with her husband, daughter and Coco Chanel (a black standard poodle). She is a dance activist and recovered sugar addict.Media Links Goodreads Author Page Link: http://www.goodreads.com/griercooper Website: http://www.griercooper.com Facebook Page:http://www.facebook.com/griercooper Twitter:@GrierCooper Giveawaya Rafflecopter giveawayBlogs Participating http://mscab.blogspot.com
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The Mine (Northwest Passage #1) by John A. Heldt In May 2000, Joel Smith is a cocky, adventurous young man who sees the world as his playground. But when the college senior, days from graduation, enters an abandoned Montana mine, he discovers the price of reckless curiosity. He emerges in May 1941 with a cell phone he can't use, money he can't spend, and little but his wits to guide his way. Stuck in the age of swing dancing and a peacetime draft, Joel begins a new life as the nation drifts toward war. With the help of his 21-year-old trailblazing grandmother and her friends, he finds his place in a world he knew only from movies and books. But when an opportunity comes to return to the present, Joel must decide whether to leave his new love in the past or choose a course that will alter their lives forever. THE MINE follows a humbled man through a critical time in history as he adjusts to new surroundings and wrestles with the knowledge of things to come. My Review of The Mine The Mine by John A. Heldt My rating: 5 of 5 stars Time travel has always intrigued me. This story grabbed from the first chapter. The characters are witty, courageous and lovable. The plot is written very cleverly and flows beautifully. Mr Heldt definitely did his history homework as there are plenty of mini and major milestones within the story which adds an even more believable element to the it. The Mine is a novel that is well worth the read. It is a book that will stay with you well after the last page is read. What excites me most as Mr Heldt has written 4 other books in this series, reviving some of the characters from this beautiful story...I am a definite Fan Mr Heldt and I look forward to reading the rest of your series! Other Book in the Northwest Passage Series: The Journey (Northwest Passage #2) Seattle, 2010. When her entrepreneur husband dies in an accident, Michelle Preston Richardson, 48, finds herself childless and directionless. She yearns for the simpler days of her youth, before she followed her high school sweetheart down a road that led to limitless riches but little fulfillment, and jumps at a chance to reconnect with her past at a class reunion. But when Michelle returns to Unionville, Oregon, and joins three classmates on a spur-of-the-moment tour of an abandoned mansion, she gets more than she asked for. She enters a mysterious room and is thrown back to 1979. Distraught and destitute, Michelle finds a job as a secretary at Unionville High, where she guides her spirited younger self, Shelly Preston, and childhood friends through their tumultuous senior year. Along the way, she meets widowed teacher Robert Land and finds the love and happiness she had always sought. But that happiness is threatened when history intervenes and Michelle must act quickly to save those she loves from deadly fates. Filled with humor and heartbreak, THE JOURNEY gives new meaning to friendship, courage, and commitment as it follows an unfulfilled soul through her second shot at life. Amazon Buy Link: http://amzn.com/B00A1ID5X0
Meet The Author: John A. Heldt is a reference librarian and the author of the critically acclaimed Northwest Passage time-travel series. The former award-winning sportswriter and newspaper editor has loved getting subjects and verbs to agree since writing book reports on baseball heroes in grade school. A graduate of the University of Oregon and the University of Iowa, he is an avid fisherman, sports fan, home brewer, and reader of thrillers and historical fiction. When not sending contemporary characters to the not-so-distant past, he weighs in on literature and life at johnheldt.blogspot.com. Social Links:
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5754231.John_A_Heldt Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/johnaheldt Webpage: http://johnheldt.blogspot.com.au/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/johnheldt Book Details: Hansel by Ella James (Hansel #1) Publication date: October 22nd 2014 Genres: Adult, Erotica, Romance Synopsis: My name is Gretel. I’m the dish-washer. The kitchen girl. I’m not one of Mother’s pets. I’m just a storybook girl no one sees. Until that night. When I find him again, and all my dreams come to life. He’s mine—the one called Hansel. I’ve come here to claim him. ☆ I’m Hansel, a crazy woman’s toy. It’s taken years, but I’ve finally forgotten everything outside my life here in The House. I live for sex and nothing more. Until I see her. Gretel. I remember her. I need her. She is mine. ☆ AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story is not panty-melting. Your panties won’t have time to melt, because they will fuc*ing evaporate. Poof! But let me level with you: It is crazy. It is dark. You have to trust me. You will find both Gretel and Hansel to be completely fuc- lovable. You have my word. P.S. It’s not fantasy. It’s contemporary erotica. P.S.S. No one in this fairy tale is related. Excerpt:
I should have called this shit off a long damn time ago. When I arrived in Vegas seven years ago, I didn’t know any better than what I was. Than what I did. I needed things I haven’t needed in a fucking long time now. Dominating women…it was the air in my lungs. Now it’s goddamned boring. I’ve cut back—way back; maybe two or three times a year, like tonight, when we have investors in the house, and my submissives are Luna Trois and French Kitten, a famous porn star and a celebutant bitch who, combined with me, draw a pretty decent crowd. But this shit is all for show. We don’t do real-time domination at The Forest. Not when my submissives are so notable, and there’s a crowd ten bodies thick behind the Plexiglas wall. Luna and Frenchy had to sign off on the cat I’m palming. On the thick plugs in their puckered holes. On the tight cuffs around their wrists, and the spreaders I’ll use when both their asses are good and welted. They were happy to agree to the nipple clamps I like to use: the metal ones that can do real damage if left on too long—though, of course, they won’t be. Neither woman objected to the dual blow job they’ll give me after I spread them wide and use my fist on them, where Luna will deep-throat me and Frenchy will tea-bag my balls. Luna is thrilled that, after she stuffs her throat full of my cock, she’ll spread her legs for Luna’s tongue while Luna lets me fuck her from behind. I’ve got a nine-inch cock, and she told me before the show, she’s shallow, but Luna likes the pain. They all do. I can’t lie: I like to give it. I made my name dominating sick showgirls. A lot of it is my body and my face, my pretty cock and the absurd length of time that I can wield it. But it’s the showmanship, too. The rough, whispered words the mics can always pick up on. The heavy-handed spanking—also okay’d by them, although it looks and sounds spontaneous. The way I give it to them, invading mouth, pussy, and ass, often in quick succession. People like to think of me as some sort of grand fucking conquestor. Unbreakable. Unyielding. In the six months after I left Colorado and hitchhiked my way to Vegas, where my miserable life began, I made such a name for myself as “Edgar,” my shows at Vixxx would sometimes draw a bigger crowd than the Saturday night fights at the Mirage. With a pedigree like mine, it wasn’t difficult to sweet-talk investors into fronting a club. I’m good with money—good at betting, I guess—so they were happy to invest again and again, each time lowering my interest rates and increasing the amount of dollars. Now that The Forest is what it is, even the most prudish among them are pleased to have their names up on the donors’ wall inside my primary location on The Strip. In the last five years, I’ve opened four locations. Financed one sixth of a casino. Built five apartment buildings, invested in one planned gated community, and bought out three luxury car lots. I’m interviewed regularly by the Nevada Business Times, consulted occasionally by Hollywood, still sporadically beset by huge financial offers from porn studios, discreetly phoned by Wall Street deviants interested in “the lifestyle.” They all know me as Edgar. Not my birth name, Lucas Lenore, nor any other name I’ve had. I’ve made a new life. Become almost famous for my stamina and temper, for my keen eye for submissives and my talent with a crop. I stay hard all the way through every show, no matter how long. It’s not Viagra. Just my lust. And no one ever guesses my secret. At what my private submissives’ gag orders keep hidden. That after every show, there must be blood. Mine. Because I’m not a sadist—not just. I’m still Hansel. And Hansel is a masochist. Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23208364-hansel-part-i?from_search=true Purchase: Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=hansel%20by%20ella%20james AUTHOR BIO: Ella James is a Colorado author who writes teen and adult romance. She is happily married to a man who knows how to wield a red pen, and together they are raising a feisty two-year-old who will probably grow up believing everyone's parents go to war over the placement of a comma. Ella's books have been listed on numerous Amazon bestseller lists, including the Movers & Shakers list and the Amazon Top 100; two were listed among Amazon's Top 100 Young Adult Ebooks of 2012. Author links: https://www.facebook.com/ellajamesbooks https://twitter.com/author_ellaj https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1530940.Ella_James http://www.ellajamesbooks.com/ Blue Dahlia Vivian Winslow Genre: Erotic Romance Release Date: October 16, 2014 Purchase: Amazon US Blue Dahlia is the first book in the second trilogy of Vivian Winslow's Gilded Flower series, featuring Lily Baron's free-spirited twin sister, Dahlia. New York socialite Dahlia Baron is falling for her Latin lover, Rodrigo Cruz, the scion of the Mama Linda Latin foods empire, and hopes to take the relationship to the next level. But there's is a dark secret that she must deal with first in order to truly give her heart to him. When Dahlia visits the man from her past, will the undercurrents of her emotions let her go to Rodrigo or will they pull her back to the one person who stands between them? Mature readers only. 18+ Dahlia leads Rodrigo up a wide flight of stairs and through a small photography exhibition with a sleepy guard standing by the entryway. They cross the empty room to an unmarked door. She produces a key card and swipes it. Vivian Winslow was born and raised in Southern California. Before becoming a writer, she made a career out of moving around the world every couple of years thanks to her husband’s job. She currently lives in New York City with her husband and two elementary school age children, and is grateful to finally have a place to call home for more than two years. New York is the perfect city to indulge her love of shopping, the arts and especially food. If she’s not at home writing or running around the city with her kids, you’ll most likely find her indulging in pizza on the Lower East Side or having a cocktail at her favorite bar in Alphabet City. That said, she’s still a California girl at heart and would gladly trade in her heels for a pair of flip-flops to catch a sunset on the beach. . Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads a Rafflecopter giveaway Purchase on Amazon: http://amzn.to/1yKRB6k HEAT 2 is for age 18 and up due to sexual and adult themes Haven't started the Heat series yet? Purchase on Amazon: http://bit.ly/HeatAmazon Purchase on Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/heat-1-master-chefs-heat-series Bobby Cummings went to Paris to study at the same international culinary institute as his sister Taryn Cummings. Instead of taking it seriously as she did, he wanted to sample all the goods in Paris, especially the pretty girls there. Why not? He was 19 and the world was his oyster. He wanted to be just like Errol King, a Master Chef, who taught at the Institute and was a notorious bad boy chef. The only thing was someone was going to walk into his life and put a wrench into his plans...someone with eyes like violets and hair like chocolate silk, and a smoldering passion that consumes him whenever they're together. He didn't think she would be his type at all. He didn't think he would be hot for Lily, his teacher at the Culinary Institute. Now what would Taryn think? What would Errol think? Whatever they thought...there's one thing he knew for certain, things with Lily and at the Institute had just gotten heated. This is a 4 book serial. Kailin Gow's life is sometimes more fascinating and stranger than fiction, which is being chronicled in a feature film based on a treatment optioned and in development for a release date of 2018. (IMDB.com - The Colorful Worlds of Kailin Gow 2018). Her true life experiences as a world traveler where she has traveled to over 25 countries, logging hundreds of thousands of miles, absorbing the cultures and collecting stories relating to places and the romance of the land, and incidents in her personal life, has inspired her to write and publish over 170 books with over 30 series. She is noted as an indie pioneer, as one of the first to publish in 2001. Breaking stereotypes, her books has crossed traditional and indie lines, gaining recognition in schools and libraries, as well as the indie community. Her action adventure young adult fantasy series, The Frost Series, an ALA YALSA Reader's Choice Nominated book series - had been optioned by an international film company and is currently in development as a game and a film at http://www.facebook.com/thefrostseries. Five of her fantasy/action adventure series have been optioned to be made into worldwide games. Kailin Gow has been known in The World Journal, an international newspaper, to be a phenomenon. She was profiled on the homepage of Amazon.com as an Author Success Story who overcame personal obstacles to become a bestselling author, appeared as one of Amazon's top authors for the Kindle Fire launch release, and is one of the earliest indie authors who have sold over a million books. She writes for Fast Company as a publishing expert, had appeared on a major network Television News as a bestselling author who writes fiction and non-fiction with a social conscious, and has made speeches and appearances across the U.S. and on top 15 national radio regarding self-esteem and issues relating to women. Kailin Gow was an invited speaker and signing author at Book Expo America (BEA)2014. Having experienced bullying firsthand and slander as a woman, Kailin Gow is an active advocate against bullying in the workplace and in schools. She has written Shy Girls Social Club Handbook Against Bullying and has helped launch Stories for Amanda where all proceeds go towards the Amanda Todd Foundation against bullying. She has written several books with the theme of abuse towards women and children, especially the steamy international bestselling The Protégé Series, which launched a book club initiative in battered women's shelters and won The Indie Excellence Awards at NIEA for Erotica in 2014. She holds a Masters Degree in Communications Management from The University of Southern California, and degrees in Drama and Social Ecology. She resides in the American West with her husband and daughter, but had lived for a decade in Texas, and briefly in England. Besides being a full-time author, she volunteers for many organizations, is active in church helping build homes for the homeless and visit orphanages. A voracious reader, when she is not writing, she loves reading an entire series in one sitting! She spends way too much time on Facebook than she is supposed to at http://www.facebook.com/kailingowbooks, but loves meeting new people from all walks of life. She has over 30 Series, written under Kailin Gow, and more under her middle grade, women's fiction, and mystery pen names: ***For 16 and up*** The Frost Series - COMPLETED. Bitter Frost Series Consists of 8 full-length novels. The Wolf Fey Series - COMPLETED. Consists of 2 full-length novels and one novella. Fairy Rose Chronicles - age 13 and up. The PULSE Series - Next Book - Blood Ring (PULSE #9), releasing due to readers' demand to continue the series. Consists of 9 full-length novels and one novella. FADE Series - COMPLETED. ALL Full-length novels. DESIRE Series - All Full-length novels. Last Book, FRENZY - 2015. Fire Wars Series - All Full-length novels. Alchemists Academy - All Full-length novels. Wordwick Games - All Full-length novels. Wicked Woods Series - COMPLETED. Consists of 5 full-length novels. Steampunk Scarlett - All Full-length novels. The Phantom Diaries - All Full-length novels. Last Book, DARK VICTORY - 2015. Stoker Sisters - All Full-length novels. Last Book, SISTER OF THE STRIGOIS - 2015. Beyond Crystal River - 2015 NEW SERIES. SHADES - 2015 NEW SERIES. This is a high concept psychological thriller. ***For 18 and up (New Adult/Coming of Age)*** Loving Summer - All full-length novels. The Donovan Brothers - All full-length novels. Saving You Saving Me (You & Me Trilogy)- COMPLETED. Consists of 3 Full-length novels. Never Knights - COMPLETED. Consists of 3 Full-length novels. Rock Hard Love Hard - 1st book, Rock Hard Love Hard is now Available. Sawyer House Chronicles (Spin-off of You & Me Trilogy) - Coming in 2015 Canvas - Coming in 2015 ***For 18 and up (Adult/Steamy Romance)*** The Protege - COMPLETED. 3 Full-length novels. Master Chefs - COMPLETED. Consists of 3 Full-length novels. The Blue Room (Spin-off of Never Knights Trilogy) - Romantic Suspense. Barely Legal (Spin-off of The Protégé) - Romantic Suspense. The Oyster House - Artistic Romantic Thriller set in Hong Kong and England. - Coming in 2015. For information on the series, new series and new book releases, contests, appearances, KG-Convergences, and more, sign up at http://www.KailinGowBooks.com. |
Archives
November 2017
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