Friday, February 28, 2014

Her Favorite Vice: A Visit with Holden Granger

Kelly Thomas has worked hard to make detective and be taken seriously as a cop. Now she’s been given her first major case, and it’s the kind that can make a career.  Going undercover to pose as a high-end escort is going to push her to the limits of what she’ll do to make the case. The fact that her new partner, veteran detective Ryan Mackie tempts her in very unprofessional ways doesn’t make things any easier…

Her Favorite Vice – Excerpt
By Holden Granger

Ryan reached out and pulled her in slowly. Kelly looked down in a flirty display of mock shyness. Ryan gripped her chin and tilted her face upwards toward his. She was momentarily distracted by the how the gentleness of his grip contrasted with the hands that looked so hard and rough. All other thought vanished as he leaned down. Kelly's mind had time register that they were about to kiss when his lips touched hers.
It was for the benefit of the camera. This was her police partner, but the kiss chased the reservations away. His lips were soft but demanding, and his hands drifted to her hips, pulling her against him.  She felt his mouth open and hers followed.  She wondered for a moment what tongues were supposed to do in a fake kiss. He answered the question as he tasted her. This wasn't a fake kiss. His tongue teased her and she melted into him.
He pulled away. She moaned a little in disappointment and was shocked to realize it wasn't all an act.
"I've waited a long time for this. I've got to have you," Ryan said, reaching for the bottom of her dress. Kelly went stiff, but Ryan felt her tension and gave her a wink.
Kelly relaxed and grinned back. This was a show, but they could have fun with it.
"Aren't you impatient," Kelly said with a scolding laugh "Is this how you treat a lady?"  She made sure her back was to the camera as she moved closer to the side of the bed.
"I'm not waiting another minute," Ryan said and reached again for the hem of her dress.
This time she let him have it and obediently raised her arms. Ryan lifted the dress over her head.  He paused, studying her a little too long for her comfort. In a silk lace bra that in stronger light would be nearly transparent and a tiny thong that barely covered her sex, Kelly struggled not to be self-conscious. She'd never expected to have to reveal this much in a sting operation.

1. How did you start writing erotic romance?   I began writing erotic romance as an exercise to push my limits and become a better writer. I quickly discovered how much fun it is, and I’ve been writing in this genre ever since!

2. Plotter or pantster?  Great question! For the most part, the story comes to me first as a plot idea. Once I start, I am very often surprised about the directions and twists that happen along the way.

3. What are three things you have on your writing desk? My writing desk is a mess, cluttered with photos of family and friends, pens, and notebooks. But more interesting to your readers might be the bottle of rum (unopened), my private investigator’s badge (previous job), and a statue of the Buddha I picked up in India.

4. Favorite food? Fried catfish. I acquired that taste while I was living in the south. It’s hard to find fried catfish that is done the right way.

5. Tell us a little about your new release. What character in the book really spoke to you? I love all of my characters, but I really enjoyed writing the heroine in this one.  Detective Kelly Thomas is a great mix of eager young cop, and slightly insecure woman.

6. I write because ____... I have to. Any writer knows the odd compulsion to tell the stories that pop into our heads. If I had lived thousands of years ago, I would have told them around the campfire at night.

7. What is your favorite type of character to write about? I love strong women. There is nothing sexier to me than a woman who overcomes the obstacles placed in her path, both by others, and herself.

8. What is the sexiest scene you ever wrote? Writing erotic romance creates a real challenge. We write many steamy sex scenes and it is tough to keep it fresh, and not make it pornographic. These scenes have to be about revelation and character growth, as well as the emotional payoff of the story. I don’t want to give away too much about this story, so I will refer to an earlier one in Amateur Night, there had been so much flirting and building tension that when I wrote that scene, I surprised myself with how wild it got!

9. What advice would you give new authors in the erotica/romance field? As I mentioned, it is easy to slip into parody or pornography writing these sex scenes. If porn is what you’re after, great. What I love about erotic romance is the character development. In the end, that has to be the focus.

10. What is next on your writerly horizon? I am polishing up a novel of paranormal romance. I wanted to see what I could do in that genre and expand my horizons. It’s been a fun challenge!

Author Bio

Holden Granger brings a wide variety of life experiences to his writing.  He has worked as a political campaign manager, private investigator and financial industry entrepreneur.  Holden has also traveled extensively in the United States, Europe and Asia in search of cultural perspectives on love, sex and relationships.  He has published other works with Breathless Press including Amateur Night and The Strength to Submit. Fans can contact him at

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Vanilla Twist Blog Tour and Giveaway

The continuation of the USA Today and New York Times bestselling book, Vanilla on Top!

**On sale for $2.99 for a limited time. Will go to regular pricing of $3.99 in two weeks.
Heather thinks she has it all—an interesting lover, a dream job, and a new wardrobe to match her take-charge attitude. But everyone has a past, and when Heather confronts hers at work she’ll be hard-pressed to hold onto her newfound confidence and resolve. Does she trust Tony enough to let him help her or will she tackle the issue on her own?
Still intrigued by the young woman and the multiple layers she presents to the world, Tony begins to change his life, too—for what he hopes is the better. He quit his high-powered career to find peace in a less stressful day-to-day existence. Desire for Heather still invades his every waking moment, and when trouble threatens their sexual explorations he makes the hardest choice of his life. One he may soon regret.


This is a great continuation of the relationships that began in the first book in the series. In fact, I think it even got hotter. C.J. Ellisson knows how to tell a tale, evolving the characters as she writes. Tony and Heather are flawed and they don't always handle the growth well. Instead of the first bloom of love, you see two people trying to adapt to each other and all of the things that make up a more mature relationship--family, work and real life beyond the sex. More depth was revealed in this book and as a result, I enjoyed it even more than the first one. Super sexy, deep character growth and a love that only gets better with time...what more can you ask for in an erotic novel? If you haven't picked it up yet-do. Start with the first one for the toe curling beginning and make sure you mark your calendar for Vanilla Spice, coming later this year. Woot!!!


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Friday, February 21, 2014

Life Flight Virtual Book Tour


Malachi Blackfeather has spent twenty years in the Army. Two of those years as a Vietnam POW. Now that he's out, all he wants is some peace and quiet to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. Between the flashbacks, and an over interest in sex that is now being called sex addiction, finding his path isn't easy.

Kat is trying to escape an abusive marriage. Her soon to be ex is a master at manipulating the system, and her family thinks she should stay with him, "because no other man will want her". She's looking for escape in any form she can get it.

When they meet, sparks fly. Trapped by a blizzard, can two damaged people, who think there is no chance of love in the world for them, find each other, and survive an unforeseen circumstance that puts both of them in danger?

Mystery, romance, and danger, fill this novel, with a story that will draw you in and not let go.


Excerpt Four

I picked up the half brick holding the door open, and the TV set exploded in a shower of glass.  For a moment Frank stood staring at the TV as if he thought it shattered on its own.  He spun to face me.

I continued to stand with my arms folded over my chest and my shoulder against the door frame.  He looked around as if the spiders in the place would come to his rescue.  I tugged on the cuffs of the leather gloves I wore.  Flexed my fingers.  When his hand tightened on the pool stick he held, I wanted to tell him that a wooden stick wasn’t much use in a gun fight.  But unless he went for a gun, I wasn’t going to shoot him, not yet anyway.

“Get the fuck off my property,” he said.

A block of wood nailed into the door served as a supplement lock.  I reached up and spun it closed, and while keeping him in my field of vision, I hooked the eye bolt as well.  I hadn’t seen a phone in the shed, not last time I was here, nor this time.  But that didn’t mean some pal of his wouldn’t show up--and anyone pals with this guy would have to be a cast member of the same loony-toon’s show.

“Where is Kat?” I asked him.

“You stooo-pied?” he said back, drawing out the word stupid in a juvenile manner.  “I already told you, she’s my wife, and that if you kept trying to bother her, I’ll have you arrested.”

“You see any cops?  I don’t.”  I moved over the concrete floor and stood near the bar.

He found some brain cells and kept the pool table between us.  Held the pool stick in both hands.  Glanced at the door.

“I have security cameras.  The company already called the cops.”

“Well then, you don’t have anything to worry about,” I said back.  I’d come across a few pathological liars in my lifetime, but never someone who thought the rest of the world had an IQ of less than 80 and would believe whatever came out of their mouth.  “How should we entertain the people watching us until they get here?”

Confusion ran over his face.  His lies didn’t make me edgy, his particular flavor of insanity mimicked a bully.  Lots of words of bravado that he expected others to be frightened of--no matter how absurd.  He was strong, of that I had no doubt, he worked at a labor intensive job, but he was filled with so much fear it surrounded him in a shimmering cloak.  Just like the sweat on his forehead.

I walked along the edge of the pool table.  Picked up the ten ball with it’s marred blue stripe.  Rolled it across the table and bounced it off the rail on the other side of the table--caught it when it came spinning back.

“Where’s Kat?”  I tossed the ball from hand to hand.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said. 

I let the ball fly.  It hit him in the right shin.  He bent over with a yelp.  He edged towards the door, dragging his right foot.  I spun the eight ball across the table, caught it, tossed it from hand to hand.

“Go for that door and the next one hits your head.” 

He stopped and pulled himself up straight.  Dug in his pocket and got out a pathetically small knife.  He opened the blade and held it out in front of him.  Laughable.  Unless he stuck it in my neck, he couldn’t even hit an artery with it.



This book was one of those that completely takes you unawares and has you reading late into the night. I wasn't sure about the first part of the book but as it opened up and I got to know the characters I began to root for them both. Kat is involved in a bitter divorce, stuck between her family who want her to stay with her abuser and a dream to finally be able to be herself. Mal is dealing with a sexual addiction and is struggling with the aftereffects of his life in the military. When the two forces collide, sparks fly and the blazing heat is hot enough to singe my knickers. Whew!

There are many kinds of battle. Those fought externally and those fought inside your own mind. Both of these characters have scars, inside and out and watching them interact was truly intense.

Great read. I almost didn't get any sleep last night. These two damaged characters will quickly find their way into your heart.


AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Facebook Author’s Page:  

Blog: Critters at the Keyboard

Author Web page:

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Timeless Night: A Visit with Torie James

If you could live forever, what would you choose to live for? I chose love...

A silent guardian, Alexander has walked the corridors of time in pursuit of an end to a haunting prophecy. Sabrina has lived a life surrounded by modern magic, unaware that the greatest and deadliest of powers reside within her own soul. If it only takes the light of love to ignite the stars, what of the decadent seduction of darkness? All roads don’t lead home and some myths only grow into legend.


"Did you do that?"
"Do what? Screw up a perfectly good cake? Yes, yes I did."
He moved to her side. "No. I mean, did you make the fire go out?"
"What? I don’t know. No. Yes. Maybe. Why?" She slid her eyes up to his and he was taken aback by the venom in that gaze.
"What’s wrong with you?"
"You want the whole list or just the Cliff Notes?" She frowned back down at the pan and snorted in disgust at the blackened lump and shook her head. "Sorry about your oven. And pan. Cooking was never a strong point." She evaded answering his question.
"Then why did you start it?" He watched her agitated actions as she tried to dump out the "cake", shoving it down the garbage disposal with a wooden spoon. She was upset about something but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what.
"My Huntress, what’s wrong?"
"Stop that! Just stop that!" She threw the switch on the disposal, keeping her face from him.
"Stop what?" He was genuinely confused.
"That whole "my huntress" bit. I’m not yours." Killing the switch, she mindlessly cleaned up her mess, stepping around him, still not making eye contact then she switched topics. "What are you doing home already anyway? Thought you’d be out for hours or whatever. You know, hunting." The way she curled her lip on the last word wasn’t lost on him.
"Sabrina, it’s necessary I make sure there are no more loose rogues running through the city, I told you that. The last thing we need is an army sneaking up on us. We need to fo—"
"Focus. Yep. I know." She made to go around him again as she grabbed at some dusty measuring cups, but he snaked out a hand and pulled her closer.
"What is wrong with you? And don’t bother ly—"
She cut him off curtly. "Lying? Because you’ll know? Does that line work on all women or do you just save it for me?" Her angry, bright eyes met his again, her tone derisive as she forged on, not letting him answer. "Fine, want to know what’s wrong? You. You’re what’s wrong. You come blowing into my life looking like yummy wrapped up in delish, turn me into a vampire...excuse me...a bad. Then you make me live in this freaking palace with you. One minute you’re either chastising me or you’re turning me on, and then pushing me away. And all the while, feeding me some mythical crap story about how I’m your dead wife and then leave me here, alone, while you go off and fang fuck God knows how many women and I have to..."
Alex was close to losing it, half torn between laughing at her obvious jealousy and growling with displeasure at how she wasn’t seeing the larger picture at all. He yanked her even closer.
Again, bad idea.
Her unfettered, sweetly rounded breasts crushed against his hard chest, causing her to squeak and him to moan, whispering low. "Are you truly being obtuse or do you just enjoy torturing me?"
"Torture you? Torture You? What about me? I go my whole damn life wondering when or if, I’ll ever know what it feels like to desire anything other than work and there you are. But you can’t stand touching me. I’m repulsive."
He wanted to shake her, throttle some sense into the stubborn package that was Sabrina. "So, the concerns of a thousand years mean nothing to you? Or the fact that I’m trying desperately to figure out how we keep the past from repeating itself and all you’re concerned with is having sex?"
"Oh, way to trivialize my feelings. Thanks."
"They are trivial compared to everything else, yes. You think I’m not touching you because I find you revolting?" He pushed her back against the counter, a devil on his shoulder as he slowly ground his hips into her, letting her feel the steely bulge of his erection. "Does that feel like I’m disgusted by you?"
"Then why? Why won’t you...?" She bit off her own low growl, shoulders slumping in defeat even as her arms slid around his waist unconsciously, keeping them together. "Why won’t you make love to me?"
"Did you ever think for a moment in your lovely, outraged sense of dramatics that perhaps I don’t want to do anything that will harm you more than help?" He couldn’t be this close to her without his heart hitching painfully, his instincts keening as the sleeping beast struggled to take over. The fact remained it was becoming harder and harder to resist her, to resist the passion that was clearly there between them. It was much stronger this time around. Much.
"Alex." Her voice was husky, sincere. "I read your other journal. I know you think that making love will somehow make me more vulnerable. That you felt you had diminished Vivianne’s power somehow. But, I don’t think that’s it at all."
"You read that?" A low growl rumbled deep in his chest. "Break into my things, did you?"
"Recon work. That’s my story." She snaked a hand up his back to curl around his neck. "Alex. You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did Vivianne. Why do you think it made her vulnerable?"
He set his face mulishly. "Merlyn once said that her power lay in her purity. She died the day after I made her mine." His haunted tone was thick. "Merlyn also said he thought she was invulnerable to mortal weapons and yet Mordred ran her through and pierced her heart. Tell me how that was not my fault? I’m not willing to risk you like that. Do you understand me? I won’t sit by and watch you die. Not again."
He lowered his head even as he spoke, unable to stop the scorching, needy kiss that had her clutching at his back and him lifting her slightly onto the counter. She wrapped her legs around him tightly, body arching under the contact. He was going up in flames, and knew she was melting into a puddle of need and arousal, he felt it for one hot moment.

1. How did you start writing erotic romance? I’d tried several genres before I returned to what I loved most which is erotic romance. Nothing immerses me more in fantasy or makes me feel more magical than the world of romance. That’s not to say I won’t attempt to tackle other genres at some point, but for now, if it ain’t broke, no need to fix it.

2. Plotter or pantster? Both! It’s a sickness from which I’m afraid there is no cure. I have the best of intentions at the beginning of each book but usually two to four pages in, all my meticulous planning sails right out the window and I’m pantsering it big time!

3. What are three things you have on your writing desk? My Harry Potter Wand, the framed copyright to Timeless Night and my big ol’ Owl decorated sippy cup.

4. Favorite food? Taco pie! My mum makes the best!

5. Tell us a little about your new release. What character in the book really spoke to you? Timeless Night is the first book in my New Camelot series. I took all the worn out, done to death, tales of Camelot, Merlin, Arthur and Excalibur and refashioned them, retooled them. What if Excalibur hadn’t been a mystical, mythical sword? What if it was more? What if all that legendary power was actually embodied in a person? And what if decisions made a thousand years ago were still being played out today? Of all my characters in this book, I’d have to say the character who haunted me most was Alexander, the Knight formerly known as Lancelot. To love like that? To have that kind devotion and soul? To carry the burden he has since one rainy day in Wales...well, he and I had many heart to heart chats. I like to think I helped to heal him as much as Sabrina, my heroine, did.

6. I write because ____...its unbearable to NOT write.

7. What is your favorite type of character to write about? Women with massive flaws. Imperfect and a bit loony in their ways, yet strong and independent.

8. What is the sexiest scene you ever wrote? Mmm! The first sex scene with Alex and Sabrina in Timeless Night. Dark, heated, a bit of the kink thrown in for their public display of affection. *winks*

9. What advice would you give new authors in the erotica/romance field? Don’t give up. Ever. It will be hard, you will want to quit and you will find yourself wondering if it’s ever going to be worth it. It is. Trust me.

10. What is next on your writerly horizon? Book 2 of New Camelot, Timeless Desire, will be available on March 21st, through the fab peeps at Breathless Press. I’m so excited! And I’ve submitted the beginning of what I hope turns out to be a new series called The Cloie Chronicles. That’s about the Greek Goddess of Fate, Clotho. Torn between two men who want her and the secret they all share. And...I’ve already begun working on Book 3 of New Camelot, Timeless Seduction. 

About the author:

Torie James lives in Southern California physically but spends more time inside her head where the voices are real, the dreams are bright and the stories keep unfolding. Co-Author of “Whispers in the Dark”, an epic poetry book along Stacy Moran and Ashley Nemer, Ms. James’ debut novel, “Timeless Night” hits the public in September 2013. If you want to follow along on the bumpy Whirl-a-gig that is her life, you can follow along at

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Essence Virtual Book Tour

by Mackenzie Lucas



All Haven Jameson ever wanted was to own a little piece of paradise. Now, she does, having established a successful luxury spa in St. Augustine, Florida. But when the property next door is sold to a mega developer and his pro-golf celebrity brother who design trendy, bustling playgrounds for the rich and famous, she fears her dream could slip away. Confronted by her late husband’s infidelity, Haven learns everything she believed about her marriage was a lie; so she finally sets aside her grief and opens her heart to loving the widowed pro-golfer who is her biggest professional competition. In the end, Haven discovers that living a safe, loveless life is far worse than embracing passion and taking a chance on a man who’s vowed never to love again. And that, sometimes, no matter how high the risk, the best paradise of all can be found inside our own hearts.


Excerpt Three:

Pace Daniels lay on his belly on a massage table, naked except for a thin sheet covering his backside. He rested his cheek on his hands and closed his eyes, and breathed in the calming scent of the room.

Light music played from the overhead speakers, not too loud, but nice. It sounded like a mix of music from India and the Southwest—Burma to Santa Fe. Pan flutes and bowl singing. Interesting.

He breathed deep again, taking air deep into his lungs, and pushed through the pain in his shoulder, the achiness that seemed to stick with him no matter what he did.

It was time to retire. Leave the circuit.

He'd known for a while now. Hell, he was a fairly young man for his profession. But one mistake. One stupid mistake had cost him everything. And now at the age of almost forty, he was facing a blank future. Filled with a lot of nothing if he didn't make some changes soon.

He had no idea what to expect when he'd come to Essence. A pretty brunette had given him instructions today for the massage, showed him the transition room—a fancy name for a locker room—and where to store his clothes and belongings. Of course, he'd had massages before. Mostly by sports medicine doctors.

Essence surprised him. Pleasantly. The atmosphere was different than he’d imagined. He'd expected fru fru and had been bowled over at every turn. The place wasn't just a female Mecca, as he’d feared. He'd anticipated salon chairs and manicurists around every corner.

Instead, the spa resort was a posh hotel.

A serene place. A spot he could see himself settling into to find some measure of peace in his own life.

He let out a deep sigh.

But, no. He wouldn't. He'd move on like he always did.

A knock sounded at the door and a moment later, the door opened on silent hinges. He opened his eyes to see the massage therapist.

The woman who entered wasn't the petite, curvy brunette who'd checked him in, but a tall, leggy blonde.

He stilled as he watched her.

Yes, she was beautiful. High cheekbones, wide, exotic pale green eyes, lush body. But there was something else. Something indefinable. Something more, he couldn’t explain. Maybe a sadness that clung to her that he recognized because the same sloe-eyed desolation dogged him, day after day for the past ten years.

He couldn’t be one-hundred percent certain to what extent, but on some level, he identified with her.

Then she spoke, and every cell in his body awoke at the husky tone of her voice. Sex liquefied. He'd die and go to Heaven if he could just have her talk to him for the next hour in that sweet, sexy, soft voice.

“I'm sorry. I must be in the wrong room.” She turned to go.

He pushed up from the table. “No. Wait.”


AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Mackenzie Lucas is a lover of story in any form. She’s an avid reader of genre fiction, she writes contemporary and paranormal romance, and she listens to an eclectic mix of music that spans from pop/rock to country to gospel. She loves a good story whether it’s an erotic short, a full-length romance novel, or the narrative slice-of-life found in country music. In any story, emotional integrity and authenticity are most important to her as well as a big dose of romping hot sexual tension. She enjoys smart-mouthed, sexy heroines, hunky alpha heroes who know how to take care of their women, and plot twists that surprise her, but most of all, she just wants to experience a satisfying emotional arc of a character falling in love and finding what he or she needs most in life.

Mac is a small-town country girl with a world-traveler’s soul. She grew up in the Allegheny Mountains of Pennsylvania and she’s lived in Dublin, Ireland, within spitting distance of New York City in Long Island, and now in the Washington, D.C. area. She obtained her undergraduate degree in English Literature from Dickinson College and received her M.F.A. in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. She’s currently an author, writing coach, a mother, and a wife.

With Mackenzie Lucas--whether you’re reading her light paranormal romance, her small-town-based contemporary romance, or her steamin’ hawt erotica--you’ll always get a story about connectedness, community, and emotional authenticity, and, at its core, love. No, and it doesn’t hurt that all her heroes are panty-melting gorgeous alphas and all their sexy, sensually aware heroines know how to stand up to them, give no quarter, and love them just as they are.






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Wednesday, February 19, 2014

A Taste for Killing; A Visit with H. K. Sterling

1. How did you start writing erotic romance?
I wouldn't really say that I write erotic romance. I write all kinds of genres and they generally have romance in them, at least as a subplot but I am mainly concerned with writing a good book in the overall genre, whether it be Young Adult/New Adult, Mystery/Suspense, Short stories in anthologies or Science Fiction.
2. Plotter or pantster?
Ha! Both!  I plot at the beginning in my head. Especially with series. I have to plot all the way through with series in order to maintain logical consistency. However, once I've plotted I give myself free reign when I'm writing so I am definitely a pantster then. Often it still stays within the plotting but occasionally the creativity takes you way off the main line and you have some dancing to do with your writing to stay coherent.

3. What are three things you have on your writing desk?
LOL I love this question.  I have a Doctor Who miniature Tardis that makes eight different noises when you fly it; I have a signed collector picture with words by Neil Gaiman, picture by David Mark that in general says that you will write in words of fire ( I loved that) and I have, among other things, THE book. THE book is a 2 foot long gigantic book of about 500 very thick (almost cardboard like) pages where I keep notes on all my books that I am writing. This book has everything in it that is key to remember that I would never remember on my own because it's just too much. It has things that are needed like birthdates and ages and when the character was married and when so and so was born ,and timelines of events, full names of minor characters etc.  I have to have this or I would never remember everything I need to, especially since I write multiple books under two pen names in multiple genres. It wouldn't do to have a character marry someone that was 15 because you forgot their birthdate.  It is also the place where I write my notes for plotlines and scenes that are definitely going in one of my books. Because believe me, if you don't write them down, they disappear in the forgetful writer's room in the sky and you never see them again. Then you are left crying over unspilt ink.  These are only the fully fledged ideas though. I have about 10 blank books around the house that I also write ideas and scraps of things in. I come back to those quite often also.

4. Favorite food? Any writer who doesn't say chocolate is lying. (so true!!!)

5. Tell us a little about your new release. What character in the book really spoke to you?
In "A Taste For Killing" the main character is Carolyn Woods a detective who works on her own. She also has to deal with men both in her job and in her love life. I liked her character who on one hand is trusty with a gun and fearless when it comes to tracking cases, and on the other hand is full of insecurities about herself and her own life. I think that sums up many of us who look all put together on the outside but are a simpering mess of insecurity if someone were to get inside our heads (which I do with Carolyn).

6. I write because ____... I love it; I have to; I am a creative fountain. Also because I was inspired by so many writers in my younger days that I wanted to be able to do that- to spark someone creatively.

7. What is your favorite type of character to write about? My favorite characters are anti-heroes. They may have many flaws and may not be the best person to date but they genuinely have good hearts and motives and those always come through in the end. The bad boy with a good heart.

8. What is the sexiest scene you ever wrote? There's a pretty sexy scene in this book but I can't tell you about it because giving the people away would be a spoiler!

9. What advice would you give new authors in the erotica/romance field? Create a wide foundation of social networking and if you can, find a publisher. There are many small presses where you are more likely to be able to find a home than always trying to publish in the big houses.

10. What is next on your writerly horizon? Well, my sequel to A Taste For Killing was just accepted by my publisher! So I am ecstatic about that! The sequel focuses on one of the characters from A Taste For Killing, but not the same character. The sequel is called A Taste For Danger and I am thrilled it will be published. I really had a good time writing that one.

Mystery and Romance blend together when competing detectives Carolyn Woods and Jack Heart are both hired to solve the murder of Pete Wallace, only to realize they are working the same case. To complicate things, Carolyn and Jack have an on again-off again relationship. Then there is Evan Jones, a handsome architect— but he's also a suspect. Can Carolyn manage to solve the case as more and more murders pile up? Will her relationship with Jack hinder their investigations? And what about Evan Jones? He seems like the perfect man, but could he actually be the murderer? One thing is for sure: someone close to both Carolyn and Jack has A Taste For Killing.


H.K. Sterling
He had six-pack abs, and I wanted to feel the carbonation. This one dressed like the stereotype of a construction worker, down to the handkerchief he used to wipe sweat off his forehead. I don't know if he or the hot day brought it out, but sweat poured off of me too. He had no interest in me as a person, though. I was invading his territory. Still, I enjoyed the view. For my part, I knew my clothes looked crappy. I didn’t have to wear uniforms anymore, but my street clothes, well they were very—street. So there I stood, a turd in the sun in front of this Adonis. Oh well.
He pointed to a small trailer up a muddy hill. The supervisor I asked to see apparently stayed in there. Stayed, as in never left. Great. Mud. Now I'd be a dried turd in the sun. Adonis went back to digging and I started the trek up the hill. At least I came with boots. Steel toed.
Once I made it to the trailer, I heard an argument going on inside.
"Look, I don't care who you are. The plans are publically filed. Go get them yourself!" yelled someone.
Then I heard a voice I knew. Calm, cool, subversive. "Is there any reason you're being so difficult? A man did die on your watch."
An encounter I hadn’t planned on. Well, at least not until later tonight. I knocked loudly on the door and with my sweetest voice said, "Hello, boys. Am I interrupting something?"
"Great," groused the supervisor. "A party." He appeared to me like another stereotype, puffing on a cigar over a fat jowl line and rotund stomach that threatened to overturn the small desk he was behind. I guess there's a reason for stereotypes. He looked about four hamburgers away from a heart attack.
On a wooden chair in front of the supervisor sat Jack. A fellow independent detective, an ally at times, a competitor...and my on and off lover.
"Well, well, well," he said smiling, but I could tell he wasn’t happy to see me. Not here. It meant we were both working the same case. "Hello, Carolyn. Who hired you?"
"Girlfriend," he answered back.
We stared at each other. Complications.
The supervisor didn’t give a damn and said to me, "Well, missy, I'll tell you the same thing I told this guy." He jerked his thumb around to Jack. "The plans are publically filed and that’s all I have to say about it."
I tried a different tactic. "That’s fine with me. I have no problem going downtown for a copy." I wore my practiced, saccharine smile. "But I wonder, could you tell me the name of the architect? Please?" I smiled again. God, this job sucks at times.
The supervisor sighed. "Jones, Evan Jones."
"Thank you so much," I said, smiling my best smile again. "I'll get out of the way and leave you two boys to...whatever you were doing."
I opened the door to go and started to shut it only to find Jack following me out.
"Sure, flash your tits and get what you want." Boy was he in a bad mood.
"There was no tit flashing in there. Face it, testosterone was not a good choice in that situation."
Jack's response: a grunt.
"Besides," I tried to placate him, "I didn’t get the plans either."
"No, you did one better."
"That's assuming the architect will have anything to do with me and cooperate." A thought occurred to me. "So are you going there too?"
"No, I might as well wait and see what you turn up. Besides, I have my own leads."
"Are you planning to share?" Just call me hopeful. As in full of shit, because that’s where hope always seemed to lead.
"No," he said, still grumpy.
"I see. So it's gonna be like that."
"I guess so."
 I felt like such a female. Damn. But I had to ask.
"Are we still on for tonight?"
I wasn’t convinced but didn’t push it. God, sometimes I hated myself. But we were good together—when it was good—when his competitive edge didn’t get the better of him. Though I was one to talk. I did the same thing at times. Hence our on and off status. But currently we were supposed to be on. So, I kept it light in the spirit of things to come.
"Okay, master detective, I'll leave you to your leads. See ya."
"See ya," he replied, already preoccupied, pondering a piece of paper he'd taken from his pocket.
I made my way down the hill in my muddy boots.

H.K. Sterling

H.K. Sterling is an author with Breathless Press known for stories with a kick and twist endings. H.K. likes to focus her writing on suspense, science-fiction, shorts, and anything that is spicy and unexpected. H.K. lives in Virginia with her husband who graciously puts up with her passion for writing. H.K. currently has a Mystery/Thriller out: A Taste For Killing; and two short stories in the Breathless Press Anthology: My Bloody Valentine. Her new book A Taste For Danger has just been accepted for publication. H.K is currently also working on a a Science Fiction book of short twists. You can contact H.K. on the following social media:

Catch up with H.K. Sterling on the following media:
Twitter: @HKSterling
HK Sterling "Undercover Blog":

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Uncovering You Cover Reveal and Giveaway

Title - Uncovering You
Author: Scarlett Edwards
Genre - Dark Romance
Release Date - March 27th, 2014
Cover Reveal - February 18th, 2014
Series - first book in series.  Second will be out April 20th, 2014.

When I wake up in a dark, unfamiliar room, I have no idea what's waiting for me in the shadows. My imagination conjures up demons of the worst kind.

Reality is much worse:

A collar with no leash. A prison with no walls. And a life stripped of meaning.

I am presented with a vile contract and asked to sign. It outlines the terms of my servitude. The only information I have about my captor are the two small letters inked at the bottom:


Armed with only my memories, I must do everything I can to avoid becoming ensnared in his twisted mind games. But in the end, it all comes down to one choice:

Resist and die.

Or submit, and sign my life away

GoodReads Link:

Oh God. It’s him. There’s no mistaking that rich, masculine treble.
What’s he doing down here?
“M-Mr. Stonehart,” I stutter, turning. I curse my inability to hide my surprise. He totally caught me off-guard. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Then up some more.
The face that I find is so striking it should belong to a Greek god.
He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, maybe early forties.
That means he started his company when he was younger than me!
Dark scruff lines his angular cheeks. His jet-black hair is styled in long, natural waves. My fingers itch to run through it.
Totally inappropriate.
He has a prominent nose that might be too big on a less imposing man, but on him, it’s perfect.
In short, he’s a package of the purest masculinity I’ve ever seen.
And then there are his eyes. Oh my God. His eyes. They pierce into me like honing missiles. They are the deepest black I have ever seen. They would be frightening if they weren’t so beautiful. When the light reflects a certain way, you catch a glimpse of the purple underneath.
They are like midnight sapphires. His eyes reveal a cunning intellect. Those eyes do not miss a thing.
Add all that to his towering height, his wide shoulders, his confident-yet-at-ease posture… and Stonehart cuts an intimidating figure.
My gaze darts to his left hand before I can stop it. No ring. He’s unmarried.
He looks down at me, expectantly. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and I feel like I’m being dissected, measured up, and tucked away in some small corner of his brain. I imagine this is what a gemstone feels like under the magnifying class of the most critical appraiser.
Stonehart clears his throat. I come to with a start, realizing I haven’t said anything in ages. I open my mouth, but the capacity for speech seems like a foreign concept to my brain. “I—”
Somebody bumps into me from behind. I stagger forward. I’m not used to these shoes, so my heel steps the wrong way. My ankle twists under me, and I start to fall.
I don’t fall far. The hand still on my elbow tightens, and Stonehart pulls me into him.
I plaster myself onto the solid steel wall the man has for a body. I catch a scent of his cologne. It’s a deep, musky smell with a hint of charred spruce that is all male. It scrambles my thoughts even more.
“Sorry!” a rushed voice calls out. From the corner of my eye, I see the postman giving a hurried, apologetic wave.
Although the sequence lasts less than a second, it feels like an eternity. Pressed up against him like that, I don’t want to move. I know that I couldn’t have made a worse first impression.
Stonehart eases me off him with a firm yet gentle grip. Our eyes meet. I flush the most vibrant red. His fingers graze my forehead as he brushes a lock of hair out of my face.
Any tenderness I may have imagined vanishes when Stonehart takes out his cell. He long dials a key and growls an order. “Steven. See the delivery boy leaving right now? Have his building pass revoked.”
I gape. Stonehart keeps speaking. “Wait. I thought of one better. Bar his company from accessing the building.” There’s a pause. “For how long? Indefinitely. FedEx can talk to me when they have an improved employee selection program in place.”
The phone call gives me just enough time to compose myself. My heart’s still beating out of my chest. But nobody has to know that.
I speak without thinking. “You’re going to restrict the entire company from serving this building because of that?”
Stonehart humors me with an answer. “A company’s employees are its most important asset. Their behavior reflects the organization as a whole. If FedEx decided that clown is good enough for them, it tells me they’re sloppy. I do not do business with sloppy organizations.”
“What about the other tenants in the building?” I ask. “Won’t that piss them off?”
When I hear myself and realize how improper my question is, my cheeks flame red again.
Stonehart’s eyes darken, as if he cannot believe I asked that question. I open my mouth to apologize for my imprudence, hating the way my professional skills have evaporated into thin air. I’m cut off by a short, barked laugh.
“Miss Ryder.” He sounds amused. “I believe that is the most direct and honest question anybody has dared ask me in weeks.” He takes my elbow again and leads me to the elevators. I have to take two quick steps to match one of his long strides.
“Yes,” he continues. “They will be ‘pissed off.’ But the perk of owning a building—” he hits the elevator call button, “—is that you get to make executive decisions.” He gives me an unreadable glance as the doors open. “That is, at the risk of being questioned by inexperienced interns.”
If that isn’t a loaded remark, I don’t know what is. I flush scarlet red for the third time since I’ve met him. I’ve never had a man throw me so off balance.
The elevator is packed, for which I’m infinitely thankful. The trip up will give me some time to properlycompose myself.
Gratitude turns to panic when the crowd files out, meek as mice, when Stonehart steps in. None of the people waiting in the lobby follow us.
The doors close. I’m alone in here with him. My heart’s beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
He catches me staring. “Impressed?” he asks.
“They know you,” I manage.
His dark eyes flash with amusement. “Astute.”

Chapter One

October 2013. Date unknown.
(Present day)

A faint hiss, like the sound of an angry cat, jars me from my sleep.
I open my eyes to pure blackness. I blink, trying to get my bearings. A vague memory forms in the back of my mind, too far away to reach.
Why can’t I see anything?
My breath hitches. Panic rips through my body as the horrifying answer comes to me:
I’m blind!
I scramble onto hands and knees and desperately claw at the dark, searching for something, anything, for my senses to latch onto.
A dim overhead light comes on.
Relief swells inside.
I plop back on my butt and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to dispel the rush of adrenaline released by my body. When my heart’s not beating quite so fast, I open my eyes again.
The light’s gotten brighter. I look up at the source. It’s far above me, like a dull, miniature sun. It spreads a little sphere around me, maybe ten feet in diameter. Past that, everything is swallowed by darkness.
An irksome memory keeps gnawing at me. But my head is too heavy to remember. I feel… strange. Kind of like I’m hung over, but without the telltale pounding between my ears.
Cautiously, I try to stand. My limbs are slow to react. They feel heavy, too, like they’ve been dipped in wet clay. I steady myself. Only when I’m satisfied that my knees won’t give out, do I strain my ears for that hissing sound again.
It’s coming from somewhere behind me. I turn back—and nearly smash my head on a gleaming white pillar.
What the hell?
The sound is forgotten as I reach out and brush tentative fingers against the pillar’s surface. It’s cool to the touch. Smooth, too. I put my other hand on it. If I had to guess, I’d say it was made of marble. But what is a lone, white marble pillar doing in the middle of this room?
The memory is like a gong going off inside my head. But trying to reach it is like grasping at a smooth, slippery stone at the bottom of an aquarium. Just when I think I have it, it slips through my fingers and falls even farther out of reach.
I walk a slow, measured circle around the pillar. If I tried wrapping my arms around it, I doubt if I could even span half the circumference. Something far in the back of my mind tells me I should be alarmed. I look behind me and frown. By what? A dark room?
No, you idiot. By the reason you’re here!
My eyes widen. The reason I’m here? I don’t… I don’t remember.
I wince and bring one hand to my temple. Why am I having so much trouble remembering?
I gasp as a second gruesome thought hits me. Did I lose my memory? Do I have… amnesia?
I sink down with my back to the pillar. Desperation starts to take over. I hold my head between my knees and close my eyes to focus.
My name is Lilly Ryder. I was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on May 17th, 1990.
My eyes pop open. Joyous tears form in the corners. I do remember! I take a deep breath and try to keep going.
I was raised by my mom. I do not know my dad…
Suddenly, all my childhood memories come streaming back. Moving around as a kid. Never staying in one place longer than six months. All the cities I’ve lived in. All the apartments my mom and I called home. Even the revolving door of her boyfriends. There was Dave, and Matthew. Tom, and Steve. There was…
I shake my head to stop myself. I don’t doubt my memory anymore. But that still does not explain why I have absolutely no recollection of this place, or how I got here.
I push myself back up. The spotlight above me has gotten progressively brighter. The little enclosure of light doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore. I trail my eyes up the length of the pillar. I can’t see where it ends because of the light. But I can tell it’s tall, at least twenty, maybe twenty-five feet…
There’s also something about its surface that calls out to me. My hands itch to run over the smooth stone. A giggle bubbles up as I picture myself stroking it. The column is quite phallic.
I waver at the unfamiliar thought and have to catch my balance against the beam.
Focus, Lilly! I chide myself.
I have no idea where that thought came from. I have never been overtly sexual.
Nothing feels right. The fog that’s heavy on my mind is starting to lift, but not yet enough for me to understand—or remember—where the hell I am. This place is unfamiliar. I know that much. But right now, I feel almost like a surgery patient whose anesthetic kinked out: fully awake mentally, but completely impaired physically.
I go back to my memories. I can remember high school. I remember college. That’s where I spent the last three years of my life, isn’t it? Yes. Yes, it is.
“Hello?” I call out. My voice echoes into the surrounding gloom. “Is anybody there?”
I wait for an answer. All I get is the hollow repetition of my own voice.
anybody there, there, there…
I spent the last three years in college… but that’s not where I think I am right now. No. I shake my head. I knowthat’s not where I am. My memories are fuzzier the closer I bring them to today. Time feels… skewed. Freshman year’s easy to remember. So is sophomore, and most of junior… but things get weird toward the end.
I… finished junior year, didn’t I? Yes. Yes, I did. And then…
And then I took an internship in distant California for the summer, I remember with another gasp.
Suddenly, my mind is crystal clear. That pressing memory hurtles into view. It’s from yesterday. The last thing I recall, I was alone in a booth at an upscale restaurant. The waiter brought me a glass of wine. I took a few sips, contemplating my future….
Oh, God! Fear wraps a stranglehold around my neck.
The restaurantThe wine.
I’ve been drugged!
I can’t breathe. A suppressing tightness constricts my throat. I feel dizzy, and terrified, and most of all… ashamed.
Holy shit, Lilly, way to look out for yourself! My semi-mad inner dialogue pans with a generous dollop of sarcasm.
I’ve always known about the dangers of sick men preying on unsuspecting girls. I just never thought I’d fall victim to it.
I’ve been on my own since I turned eighteen, after the final falling out with my mother. I’ve always been proud of how well I managed. Even the shabby holes I’ve lived in while saving up college tuition were an improvement over living with her and all her low-life boyfriends. At least there, I had autonomy.
I’ve dealt with landlords selling crack on the side and the junkies they attract. Always, I’ve been known as independent, and strong—maybe offputtingly so. But, those were the character traits I had to develop to have any chance of getting ahead.
And all that lead to what? To this? To letting my guard down for one night and ending up… here?
Wherever “here” is, I think to myself.
The shock of the revelation has subsided a bit. I push off from the pillar. I can figure this out. I take a deep breath and look at my hands and feet. I am not bound. I pick at my clothes. They are the same ones I wore last night.
Do you know what might be lurking in the darkness?
I shove the meddlesome voice down. I don’t need more worries. Not now.
Carefully, I place one foot in front of the other and edge to the outer reaches of the light. The strange hissing noise has gone away. I don’t know when that happened. Maybe it was in my head the entire time.
I strain my eyes, trying to pierce the surrounding darkness. It’s impossible. I reach out with one hand and find nothing but air. This far from the pillar, I can barely see my outstretched hand.
“Hello?” I try again. “Who’s there?”
There’s no answer.
What kind of madman would do something like this? I wonder. What is hidden in the shadows?
Without warning, my imagination starts to run wild. Torture devices? Bondage equipment? Something… worse?
Snap out of it! I tell myself firmly.
I refuse to give in to despair, even if my entire self-preservation mechanism is on high alert. Despair is what whoever brought me here wants me to feel.
I will not succumb to that.
I look down at the floor. It is made of some expensive stone. I kneel down and brush my hand over the large, square tiles. They feel solid. Sturdy. They don’t belong in a dingy basement or a dirty warehouse.
Somehow, that thought strengthens me. Things aren’t quite as bad as they could be.
I stand up and peer into the black. I glance back at the safety of my pillar. If I venture past the light, I can always find my way back.
Go slow, I warn myself. Who knows what might be waiting for me out there?
I’ve seen the horror movies. Just because I don’t get the dungeon vibes here does not mean I’m not in one.
Haltingly, my foot reaches past the edge.
A thousand bright lights flood the room. I gasp and shy back, shielding my eyes on instinct.
After a few seconds, I lower my arm, blinking through the sharp pain that shoots through my head. I can almost groan. Light sensitivity, too?
Then I see the room.
Holy shit.
It’s huge. Massive. It must be at least five thousand square feet of pristine, flat space. I’m smack dab in the middle of it all.
The lights come from embedded ceiling lamps high overhead. Three of the walls, far away from me, are decorated with black and white abstract paintings created in bold brush strokes. The fourth wall is shielded by a heavy red curtain. The entire floor is made of rich, creamy white tiles reminiscent of steamed milk.
The ceiling is so high above me I almost feel like I’m in a cathedral. It’s made of exquisite dark oak beams.
But this is no church.
I do a slow turn. Something about this is all wrong.
So wrong.
Why am I here? What is behind the curtain? Other than the massive pillar and the paintings, there is nothing in the room.
If I’m being kept prisoner, why am I unbound? Why waste so much space on me?
I cup my hands around my mouth and yell.
“HEY! Anybody? Where am I?”
As before, I’m greeted with silence.
I take one more careful look around. If I got in, there must be a way out.
My eyes dart to the curtain.
Behind there.
I start toward it, my bare feet making determined slaps against the cold floor. I’ve not even gone ten paces toward it when I feel a small tug on my ankle.
I stop and look down. I discover a thread, so thin it’s almost translucent, tied loosely around my foot. The other end is attached to the base of the pillar.
I bend down and finger it.
What on earth is this?
The thread looks like it should snap with the smallest amount of force. I wrap my hands around it and tug.
It doesn’t give.
I frown, and apply a little more effort.
This time, it breaks in a clean cut.
I shake my head as I straighten.
I half-expected something to happen when I did that. Alarms to blare, the lights to go off, something.
That’s when I notice a small white envelope leaning against the pillar. It’s right where the thread connects. In fact, it blends so well with the marble that I’m sure I would have missed it were it not for the string.
Exploration forgotten for now, I pick up the envelope. Maybe it will give some clue about what the fuck is going on.
It’s made of heavy paper. A wax stamp seals it, imprinted with a two-faced drama mask that I would find unnerving no matter where I saw it.
The only time I saw a wax-sealed envelope was when my ex got tapped by the Spade and Grave at Yale. I can understand the need for antiquity in New Haven. It makes no sense here.
My finger slips under the flap. I carefully ease it open. A foreboding sense of doom swirls around me as I pull the folded letter out.
I stare at it for a long minute. This is all so surreal. It feels like being caught in a bad dream. Once, I play myself right into my captor’s hands.
My natural inclination to resist, to fight back, tells me to tear the paper up without another glance. But that would be madness. The only clue I have to my whereabouts might be contained inside.
My thirst for information gets the better of me. I sit on the floor, cross my legs, and slowly unfold the paper.
It’s handwritten in swift, flowing blue ink. The rows of words make perfect strides across the page. Precision is the first word that comes to mind to describe the owner of the handwriting.
I set the sheet on the floor in front of me, lean forward and begin to read:

Two items require your immediate attention.
 1.   You may spuriously assume you are being held here against your will. Nothing could be farther from the truth. You are a guest. As a guest, you retain full ability to leave my home at any time. The door behind the drapes shall remain open for the duration of your stay. There are no physical barriers to speak of—though I would advise you to read to the end of this letter before making decisions based on a flawed understanding of your situation.
 2.   You may have already noted the new adornment around your neck. If so, well done! I applaud—

Adornment? I stop reading. What adornment?
I bring my hands to my neck. I feel the unfamiliar shape against my skin. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?
I scamper closer to the marble pillar to try to make out my reflection. I can’t see much, but I can make out the “adornment”. There’s a black collar around my throat. I touch it with one hand.
It’s smooth and flat. It’s made of some kind of matted plastic, like the edges of a computer screen. It’s not tight or uncomfortable.
It frightens me. If it warranted a place in the letter, there must be something to it. I need to get it off.
My fingers dart around the edges, seeking the clasp that opens it.
I don’t find one.
The collar is smooth inside and out. It feels like a single piece of plastic. I trail one finger around the rim on the inside, and, finding no discrepancies, do the same on the outside. Again, I feel nothing.
There’s no crack, no edge, nothing to indicate how it was put around my neck.
I jam all my fingers between my skin and the plastic and pull with all my might. The collar flexes ever-so-slightly but doesn’t give.
Dammit! I cry out and try again.
I pull with all the strength God gave me. It’s not enough. I try again, and again, and again.
I realize I’m panting at this point. The exertion has me almost hyperventilating.
I drop my hands. It’s just a stupid, harmless little piece of plastic. Why do I want it off so much?
Because the idea of having anything foreign touch your skin is repulsive.
The voice is right, as always. But what can I do? The collar is bound to be part of the mind game in which I’m an unwitting participant. Reacting the way I just did is probably exactly what my captor wants. He—and I am certain it’s a “he” now, from the wording of the letter—wants me to feel terrified.
I will not give him the pleasure. I return to the letter and continue to read:
…applaud your perspicacity! You should know, however, that it is not an ordinary collar. Contained inside is a small positioning chip and two electrodes. They become activated the moment you stray outside your designated safe zone.
The string around your foot offers a conservative estimation of the distance you may roam past the marble column. Stay close, and you will remain untroubled. I am told that the electric shock the collar provides, while not lethal, can be quite unpleasant.

Holy fuck!
My spine goes absolutely straight and I forget to breathe. Now the collar has meaning. It feels like a live serpent wrapped around my neck.
My eyes are wide as I look down to my foot. The piece of string is still there, but it’s not connected to the one linked to the pillar.
I’d ripped it like a moron.
How far do I dare go? I’ll have to retie the string—unless I find a way to get the collar off my neck, first.
Another thought occurs to me:
Maybe this is a bluff? Does the collar really have an electrode in it? It’s so thin. Where would it draw power from?
I stand up. Assuming the collar is rigged, and the pillar is the center point… but that’s just what he wants me to believe, isn’t it? The letter claims there’s a door behind the drapes. It could be my path to freedom. I would have to be an idiot to stay here without testing the boundary myself.
I can’t trust anything the letter says. But, I can’t give in to despair, either. My only choice is to contest everything that’s thrown at me. If this is supposed to be a battle of the wills, the guy chose the wrong girl to mess with.
I pick up the remainder of the string and hold it in my fist. I square my shoulders to the long, drawn curtain. I hold my head high. My free hand itches to tug at the collar, but I keep it still. If my captor is watching me—which I’m sure he is, because I’m positive there are cameras hidden all around me—I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.
I take a deep breath and start toward the curtained wall. My strides are strong and purposeful. I will not waver. I will not turn back. Fear of a little shock will not keep me from testing the true limits of this prison.
The string goes taut, and I stop.
So far, so good.
It’s the next few steps that will determine everything.
I glance at the floor to mark my position. So, he expects to keep me in an invisible cage, does he? A cage of my own imagination?
Yeah, tough luck.
I drop the string and take one solid step forward.
Nothing happens.
I risk one more.
Nothing happens.
The corner of my lip twitches up in a hint of a smile. I called his bluff. But, I’m not home free yet. The veiled wall is another thirty-odd paces away from me.
I take two more steps forward, and, when nothing happens, start to walk more briskly.
My stroll is cut short by a sharp little zap beneath my left ear.
I tense and wait for more.
Well, color me surprised.
It looks like the collar does have bite, after all. When a second jolt doesn’t come, I can’t stop my smile from becoming a satisfied smirk. I knew the collar couldn’t possible have enough juice to hurt me. Where would the battery go?
Extremely pleased with myself, I venture onward, toward the curtain and its promise of freedom.
The violent torrent of electricity blindsides me. One second I’m on my feet, the next I’m writhing on the floor.
The current pours into me. I thrash about like a grounded fish. Fierce convulsions rock my body. And all I know is pain, pain, pain.
I can feel the source of it, snug around my neck. I’m helpless to fight the onslaught. My head flails about on the ground, throwing hair into my face. A high-pitched squeal sounds in my ears and I desperately hope that pathetic sound is not me.
My eyes roll up and all goes black.
About the Author
I’m Scarlett Edwards. I wrote my first book as a college sophomore. After six months of edits, it made its debut as Yours to Savor.
That was at the start of 2013. I’ve written more books since then. You can find them all here.
It’s funny how quickly life changes. I used to think I’d need a degree to get a “Real Job.” Then I wrote a few books, they got somewhat popular, and now I’m living the life as a full-time romance author.
Thanks to all my readers for making my dreams come true!
Stalker Links
Giveaway Details
10 Uncovering You audiobooks
20 Signed paperbacks of Uncovering you
50 ebook copies of Scarlett's books
Cover Reveal organized by: