Tasty Release Blast & Giveaway ~ GOING ROGUE by Jessica Jefferson

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Going Rogue
Ribbons and Rogues # 1

By: Jessica Jefferson

Releasing May 6, 2015

Soul Mate Publishing

The ribbon means you have it all – beauty, wealth, power ... everything but love.

Miss Meredith Castle leaves behind everything she knows to join her great aunt in London and become leader of the infamous girls’ club, The Ribbons. She’s willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to redeem her ailing mother, even if that means leaving her childhood love behind to scale London’s social ladder.

 When Derek Weston’s best friend receives the offer of a lifetime, he encourages her to take it. Unwilling to let her go completely, he chases after her, only to find the sweet girl he loved replaced by a spoiled debutante. A broken man, he leaves London to start a new life at sea.

 Five years later, Meredith realizes her reign as Queen of the Ball is about to come to an end, if she doesn’t do something to fix her tarnished reputation. Pairing up with the Season’s newest wallflower seems like the perfect plan, until she finds out her demure friend is being pursued by the very man she thought she’d never see again. Only, Derek Weston isn’t who he used to be. He’s inherited a Scottish title and grown into an arrogant man she barely recognizes; yet in her heart, she knows she still loves him. Torn between her past and an uncertain future, can she find a way back to the life she used to have and the boy who once adored her?

 “You couldn’t love me.” Meredith’s shoulders fell. “You haven’t seen me for over a year—too much has changed. It’s too late.”

“A year means nothing when I’ve known you for a lifetime,” he argued.

“A year is a lifetime.” She shook her head. “I’m not the person I used to be.”

“Of course you are. After you come home—”

“Middlebury is no longer my home and I can’t go back. There’s nothing for me there.”

“Except me?” He’d meant it as a bold declaration of his intentions. But his confidence was wavering and he knew the words were as much a question as they were anything else.

“Don’t you see—I can’t marry you.” Her words cut like a knife. “I’ve a real chance here. Aunt Cynthia thinks I can be a duchess. An actual duchess! Can you imagine? Think of all I can do for my mother.”

“I had no idea you held such lofty aspirations,” he said quietly, the ring tucked tightly within his fist.

She looked down. “You said it yourself once—I deserve more than what life in the village has to offer me. How can I settle for being the wife of an officer when I have a real chance at a title?”

He dropped the ring on the floor, the weight of it finally too much to bear. “Somewhere along the way you seem to have forgotten what’s truly important, Mere.”

“And what’s that?”

“Love, friendship, loyalty…”

She shook her head. “My mother followed love and look where that got her. She has nothing now but a crumbling house and stacks of bills. It takes far more than love to make a life—it takes a fortune.”

And then he knew. This shell of a woman was certainly not his Meredith. His Meredith would never be so callous—so ruthless. It was her eyes, hair, and smile—but not her spirit.

The girl he loved was nowhere to be found in the woman in front of him.

Derek cleared his throat. “You’ve changed.”

She looked at him. “We’re just too different now. I had hoped that it would be easy, that you’d just forget about me over time. Why do you think I stopped writing all those months ago?”

It was the final blow to their friendship. Meredith hadn’t been as busy with her lessons as he’d thought. He knew the truth now—perhaps he’d known it all along. She hadn’t been too busy to write, she’d been too busy for him. She’d been trying to end their friendship amicably by simply ignoring the fact it had ever existed.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly.

“Probably not.” She wrapped her arms around her middle, just as she had when she was younger. His heart ached for the memory.

He needed to leave, to be as far from this place as he could get. But there was one thing he couldn’t leave without.

Taking her by the arms, he pulled her close, and kissed her fiercely.

She didn’t resist.

She returned his kiss with just as much emotion, her arms snaking their way up his chest. Before she’d left, he’d stolen a brief kiss. The chaste exchange hadn’t lasted but a second, both of them so inexperienced. But he’d spent nights dreaming about it, imagining all he’d do differently given the opportunity again.

Now, she kissed him with a skill that he didn’t bother to question. He knew someone else had taught her, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to remember him, remember this moment. He kissed her with every intention of scarring a memory into her consciousness so that after this, every kiss she’d ever receive would pale in comparison to his. He poured every ounce of himself into it—every feeling he’d ever hidden, all the love he’d ever felt for her. His tongue plunged deeper, exploring the secret places inside her mouth.

This kiss was the requiem for what was to become his past.

When he felt her knees start to buckle, he knew it was time. Derek pulled away. His gaze locked briefly with hers. Her eyes were heavy with desire and her lips were red and swollen from the pleasurable assault.

He said nothing. Instead, he walked straight for the door— ready to leave the place where his vision for the future had been shattered into thousands of irreparable shards.

And he’d be damned before he tried to pick them up.

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Jessica Jefferson makes her home in Almost-Chicago with her husband, nine and three year old girls, guinea pigs, and English bulldog Pete.  When she's not busy trying to find middle-ground between being a modern career woman and Suzy-Homemaker, she loves to watch "Real Housewives of [insert city here]" and performing unnecessary improvements to her home and property.

Jessica writes Regency-era historical romance with a modern twist, infused with humor. She always tries to create endearingly flawed heroes and one of a kind heroines that you'll want to continue knowing long after you read the last page.

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Release Day Launch & Giveaway ~ THE WITCH OF PAINTED SORROWS by M.J. Rose

THE WITCH OF PAINTED SORROWS

by M.J. Rose

                                         

Possession. Power. Passion. New York Times bestselling novelist M. J. Rose creates her most provocative and magical spellbinder yet in this gothic novel set against the lavish spectacle of 1890s Belle Époque Paris.

Sandrine Salome flees New York for her grandmother's Paris mansion to escape her dangerous husband, but what she finds there is even more menacing. The house, famous for its lavish art collection and elegant salons, is mysteriously closed up. Although her grandmother insists it's dangerous for Sandrine to visit, she defies her and meets Julien Duplessi, a mesmerizing young architect. Together they explore the hidden night world of Paris, the forbidden occult underground and Sandrine's deepest desires.

Among the bohemians and the demi-monde, Sandrine discovers her erotic nature as a lover and painter. Then darker influences threaten--her cold and cruel husband is tracking her down and something sinister is taking hold, changing Sandrine, altering her. She's become possessed byLa Lune: A witch, a legend, and a sixteenth-century courtesan, who opens up her life to a darkness that may become a gift or a curse.

This is Sandrine's "wild night of the soul," her odyssey in the magnificent city of Paris, of art, love, and witchery.

Amazon ** Barnes and Noble ** iBooks ** IndieBound

"Haunting tale of possession." —Publishers Weekly

"Rose's new series offers her specialty, a unique and captivating supernatural angle, set in an intriguing belle epoque Paris — lush descriptions, intricate plot and mesmerizing storytelling. Sensual, evocative, mysterious and haunting." —Kirkus

"Mixes reality and illusion, darkness and light, mystery and romance into an adult fairy tale. [Rose] stirs her readers curiosities and imaginations, opening their eyes to the cultural, intellectual and artistic excitement that marked the Belle Epoque period. Unforgettable, full-bodied characters and richly detailed narrative result in an entrancing read that will be long savored."—Library Journal (Starred Review)

Four months ago I snuck into Paris on a wet, chilly January night like a criminal, hiding my face in my shawl, taking extra care to be sure I wasn’t followed.

I stood on the stoop of my grandmother’s house and lifted the hand-shaped bronze door knocker and let it drop. The sound of the metal echoed inside. Her home was on a lane blocked off from rue des Saints-Pères by wide wooden double doors. Maison de la Lune, as it was called, was one of a half dozen four-story mid-eighteenth- century stone houses that shared a courtyard that backed up onto rue du Dragon.

I let the door knocker fall again. Light from a street lamp glinted off the golden metal. It was a strange object. Usually on these things the bronze hand’s palm faced the door. But this one was palm out, almost warning the visitor to reconsider requesting entrance.

The knocker had obsessed me ten years before when I’d visited as a fifteen-year-old. The engravings on the finely modeled female palm included etched stars, phases of the moon, planets, and other archaic symbols. When I’d asked about it once, my grandmother had said it was older than the house, but she didn’t know how old exactly or what the ciphers meant. Where was the maid? Grand-mère, one of Paris’s celebrated courtesans, hosted lavish salons on Tuesday, Thursday, and many Saturday evenings, and at this time of day was usually upstairs, preparing her toilette: dusting poudre de riz on her face and décolletage, screwing in her opale de feu earrings, and wrapping her signature rope of the same blazing orange stones around her neck. The strand of opal beads was famous. It had belonged to a Russian empress and was known as Les Incendies. The stones were the same color as my grandmother’s hair and the high- lights in her topaz eyes. She was known by that name—L’Incendie, they called her, The Fire.

We had the same color eyes, but mine almost never flashed like hers. When I was growing up, I kept checking in the mirror, hoping the opal sparks that I only saw occasionally would intensify. I wanted to be just like her, but my father said it was just as well my eyes weren’t on fire because it wasn’t only her coloring that had inspired her name but also her temper, and that wasn’t a thing to covet.

It wasn’t until I was fifteen years old and witnessed it myself that I understood what he’d meant.

I let the hand of fate fall again. Even if Grand-mère was upstairs and couldn’t hear the knocking, the maid would be downstairs, organizing the refreshments for the evening. I’d seen her so many nights, polishing away last smudges on the silver, holding the Baccarat glasses over a pot of steaming water and then wiping them clean to make sure they gleamed.

Dusk had descended. The air had grown cold, and now it was beginning to rain. Fat, heavy drops dripped onto my hat and into my eyes. And I had no umbrella. That’s when I did what I should have done from the start—I stepped back and looked up at the house.

The darkened windows set into the limestone facade indicated there were no fires burning and no lamps lit inside. My grandmother was not in residence. And neither, it appeared, was her staff. I almost wished the concierge had needed to open the porte cochère for me; he might have been able to tell me where my grandmother was.

For days now I had managed to keep my sanity only by thinking of this moment. All I had to do, I kept telling myself, was find my way here, and then together, my grandmother and I could mourn my father and her son, and she would help me figure out what I should do now that I had run away from New York City.

If she wasn’t here, where was I to go? I had other family in Paris, but I had no idea where they lived. I’d only met them here, at my grandmother’s house, when I’d visited ten years previously. I had no friends in the city.

The rain was soaking through my clothes. I needed to find shelter.

But where? A restaurant or café? Was there one nearby? Or should I try and find a hotel? Which way should I go to get a carriage? Was it even safe to walk alone here at night?

What choice did I have?

Picking up my suitcase, I turned, but before I could even step into the courtyard, I saw an advancing figure. A bedraggled-looking man, wearing torn and filthy brown pants and an overcoat that had huge, bulging pockets, staggered toward me. Every step he took rang out on the stones.

He’s just a beggar who intends no harm, I told myself. He’s just look- ing for scraps of food, for a treasure in the garbage he’d be able to sell.

But what if I was wrong? Alone with him in the darkening court- yard, where could I go? In my skirt and heeled boots, could I even outrun him?

New York Times Bestseller, M.J. Rose grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park and reading her mother's favorite books before she was allowed. She believes mystery and magic are all around us but we are too often too busy to notice... books that exaggerate mystery and magic draw attention to it and remind us to look for it and revel in it.

Rose's work has appeared in many magazines including Oprah Magazine and she has been featured in the New York Times, Newsweek, WSJ, Time, USA Today and on the Today Show, and NPR radio. Rose graduated from Syracuse University, spent the '80s in advertising, has a commercial in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC and since 2005 has run the first marketing company for authors - Authorbuzz.com

The television series PAST LIFE, was based on Rose's novels in the Reincarnationist series. She is one of the founding board members of International Thriller Writers and currently serves, with Lee Child, as the organization's co-president.

Rose lives in CT with her husband the musician and composer, Doug Scofield, and their very spoiled and often photographed dog, Winka.

Website | Twitter| Facebook | Author Goodreads | Novel Goodreads | Newsletter | Pinterest

Giveaway Link: http://mjrose.com/giveaway/

Book Blast & Giveaway ~ A Matter of Grave Concern by Brenda Novak

A Matter of Grave Concern

by Brenda Novak

Blurb

When Maximillian Wilder joins the notorious body snatchers known as the London Supply Company, the last thing on his mind is love. He’s worried about Madeline, his vanished half sister, who was last seen in the company of Jack Hurtsill, the gang’s conscienceless leader. Raiding graveyards, stealing corpses, and selling them to medical colleges as dissection material is dirty work, but he has to gain Jack’s trust. He’s determined to find out what happened to Madeline—and to bring Jack to justice if she was murdered for the coin her body could bring.

Beautiful, spirited Abigail Hale, daughter of the surgeon at Aldersgate School of Medicine, detests the challenging, hard-bargaining Max. But she must procure the necessary specimens if she is to save the college and her father’s career. She believes she is going to be successful—until Jack double-crosses her. Then she’s swept into a plot of danger and intrigue, one where Max must intervene and protect her, no matter the risk to his plan . . . or his heart.

Excerpt

It was a perfect specimen. Almost.

Abigail Hale took a steadying breath and stooped into the cool, dark alley to examine the bloodless gash on the cadaver’s high forehead. The injury was a minor flaw, really. Nothing to worry about, although she intended to use that imperfection to best advantage when haggling over price.

Straightening, she opened the door wide and motioned the five figures surrounding the body inside. “Quickly!”

Three men followed as two, their features distorted by the flickering light of her lamp, hefted the sack containing the corpse into her father’s office and dropped it with a thud as solid as though it contained nothing more than so many rocks.

Abigail squared her shoulders and crossed to the desk adjacent to her father’s. Although she had dealt with resurrection men during the last school year, thrice, she had never done business with this particular gang. The sheer number of them took her off guard. Usually a couple of gravediggers or sextons showed up, regular men who didn’t look nearly so unsavory.

Hoping to keep the “sack ’em up” men from seeing how badly her hands were shaking, she clasped them behind her back.

A behemoth of a man, marked with the smallpox and dressed all in black, stepped forward. “When I saw the name on your letter, I assumed we were dealin’ with the good surgeon himself,” he said with a thick Cockney accent. “So who the bloody hell are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter so long as you get paid. Am I correct, Mr.…Hurtsill?” She was guessing at his name. This was the first time she had ever met him, but he seemed in charge and had referenced her letter.

“This is some risky business we’ve got going here, little lady. I have to trust you and you have to trust me. And that means who you are matters more than you might think.”

Since he didn’t correct her, she assumed she had accurately identified him. “Fine. I am steward of the household accounts here, if you must know.”

He picked a piece of food out of his teeth. “The surgeon’s daughter, eh?”

Apparently, he knew more about the school than she had expected.

“Does your father know you’re doin’ this?” he asked.

If they didn’t get on with it, he would find out. And she couldn’t have that. “Time is money, Mr. Hurtsill. How—”

“Big Jack,” he interrupted.

“I’m sorry?

“Call me Big Jack.”

“Fine. Mr…er…Jack, then. How much do you want for…um…” Abigail nodded toward the sack.

Purchase Link

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About the Author

 New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author Brenda Novak is the author of more than fifty books. A four-time Rita nominee, she has won many awards, including the National Reader’s Choice, the Bookseller’s Best, the Book Buyer’s Best, the Daphne, and the Holt Medallion. She also runs an annual on-line auction for diabetes research every May at www.brendanovak.com (her youngest son has this disease). To date, she’s raised over $2 million. For more about Brenda, please visit www.brendanovak.com.

Author Links 

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Giveaway

Brenda will be awarding a $100 Amazon gift card to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

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★★BOOK BLITZ & GIVEAWAY★★ Men of the North - The Complete Series by Bonnie Bliss

Men of the North - The Complete Series

 by Bonnie Bliss

Genre: Historical Fiction

Release Date: August 2014

Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions (http://bookenthusiastpromotions.com)

One warrior woman. Two Alpha Northmen.A love that transcends death.Welcome to The Men of the North.Featuring all four installments of the bestselling Men of the North Series.*This book contains content that may be offensive to some readers.*

These titles can also be purchased individually.

Reading Order:

The Viking’s Prize

The Vikings’ Conquest

The Vikings’ Claim

The Stolen Warrior

 

Varona’s gaze watched his every movement. Her aim on his head didn’t waver either. With her shoulders aching, and her knees starting to burn in the position she was in, she was quite tempted to shimmy down the tree.

After she surveyed that her escape route was non-existent, each man positioned at a direct point of flight, she dropped the bow and sunk down on her butt. Her eyes fixed on the man that was dead set on taking her as one of their slaves.

Every so often, his eyes would lock with hers. The humorous glint that reflected back at her belied his harsh words.

Didn’t they?

Or perhaps his harsh fucking around was playful to him.

The thick base of the tree vibrated with each thrust at the bark. She knew deep down that the tree wouldn’t last. If she got hurt,she wouldn’t be able to get away. Thorfinn would be able to ravish her, and she would have no fight left in her.

Would he be so bold as to take advantage of her?

Her gaze swept down towards him. His lips wrapped around a bone joint, and he sucked slowly. Varona realized his eyes had never left her—he watched with an ownership that scared the shit out of her and yet had moisture pooling between her legs.

Yes, he would be so bold.

Taking a deep breath and shifting her position, she slung the bow across her chest, over her shoulder, and started down the tree.

Defeat was a powerful thing.

It sunk into the core of her very being, and the urge to weep invaded all parts of her. Tears burned the back of her throat as she slowly made her way down to her doom. Taking in a deep breath before she turned around she caught the scent of fresh meat, mead, and man. Before she could stop her rotation, she was slammed against the tree. A hard body pressed against hers, pinning her in place. Sucking in a shocked breath, she looked up into the glowing hues of Thorfinn. Her body responded instantly, her lips went dry, nipples grew hard, and the ache between her legs drew a whimper from her.

The smile grew on Thorfinn’s lips. Quickly, he disarmed her before one hand locked both her arms behind her back. The arch pushed her breasts forward, making her nipples visible through the fabric of the men’s shirt, a growl rumbled from him. It vibrated against and heated her body.

She felt the flush take her over and she looked away.

“Oh, no you don’t, my sweet Varona,” He rumbled.

His other hand had managed to yank at the leather pulls that kept her trousers up. With a sudden whoosh of chilled air, they puddled at her feet.

“You will look at me while I claim you. You are mine now. You will obey, and you will understand and submit to me. Is that clear, Varona?”

She looked at him, his words dousing chilled water over her arousal.

“Feck you, Thor!”

He grinned before she felt his thick fingers play against her thighs.

Varona whimpered before she clamped her thighs shut against his hand.

Thorfinn pressed harder against her. The bark bit into her flesh, and she cried out. As her lips parted, his mouth crashed against hers, and all thought left her brain. Rationally, she knew it shouldn’t be this easy to lose her senses. The man was taking her most precious thing from her—in front of his men, and her father, no less!

His tongue dominated her mouth, and she tasted the meat and man that assaulted her. Her body flared up like a fire storm, and she pressed back against him. Her own inexperienced tongue toyed with his as he chuckled against her kiss-swollen lips.

“That’s it, good girl,” he rumbled. His fingers now slid through the wet slit of her cunt.

The fight and flight instinct roared back, and she bucked against him just as his thumb circled a tight little bundle of nerves, bringing forth a harsh gust of air from her lungs.

“Oh, for the gods!”

She fell back against the tree, her eyes fluttering shut. His fingers stopped moving forcing her to open them as the ache burned between her thighs.

“You will look in my eyes the whole time I claim you. You will know who owns this tight quim. You will bow, and you will beg! Is that clear?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but his lips took hers again in a bruising kiss. His fingers shoved into her entrance, and she cried out into his mouth. She made weak attempts to overpower him, but he was a skilled lover-the kind women in their village talked and bragged about. She had nothing to offer him. The idea of boring him did something to her chest, and she found she was thrusting against his hand.

His eyes smiled down at her. That glow was possessive.

“That’s it. Take it, own it.”

She couldn’t stop as his fingers went deeper with each thrust, faster. The sound of wet flesh sucking brought the arousal higher. His fingers curved and teased inside her. Her body grew hot, and sweat beaded on her forehead. All the time watching him, her eyes never left his until he would nip at her earlobe or run a wet trail down her neck with his tongue.

“You’re so fucking tight, Varona. Gods, I want you around my cock. I want to pound into you until you are screaming my name and only my name!”

His erotic words were sending her over the edge. Just as his fingers pushed deeper, a pain sliced through her, and she clenched around him. He shifted, looking down at her with wide eyes before satisfaction took over that gaze, and he pulled his fingers out. Her hips followed his retreat, and she cried out.

He laughed. “So wanton now, my Varona. Would you like to come?” He nipped at her bottom lip, and his thumb started to circle that sensitive little numb. Her hips jerked-her body on fire.

She started to tense. His eyes bore into her as she got closer to some sort of event that took over her mind and body. She made mewling sounds like an animal in heat, which filled the quiet woods—and realized it was her.

She begged for more.

Lowering his head, his hot breath kissing her ear before his words filled her entire being.

“Spill that juice all over my hand and come for your Northman!” he growled.

She screamed his name, the sound echoing as she bucked and tried to get more of him. Her eyes closed then, and she collapsed against the tree as waves of hot, agonizing bliss filled her to near exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.

Kisses peppered her cheeks and wet flesh as she started to calm and come down from her high.

“MINE!” he growled against her neck.

 

 Bonnie Bliss is the brain child of two authors. Bonnie is husband and wife duo that has come together to weave stories of passion, action, betrayal, and ultimate surrender. They have discovered that mixing genres in their thing. Their tastes go dark, and they love to twisted up sweet stories and make them a bit more tense and sexy. Bonnie writes in multiple genres with plans to dabble into more areas of fiction.

One is a Southern California native, the other was born and raised in Yorkshire, England. The husband spends his time giving the wife alpha males with bite. He is a man that needs to see his world in print. He has a panty melting accent, loves listening to music, watching Game of Thrones, and obsessing over Heisenberg. The wife spends her time writing strong women that evolve into their power, they don’t just come out guns blazing. She claims the song California Girls, by Katy Perry is totally accurate. She’s done everything from waitressing, customer service phone rep., Corporate Real Estate, and spent a pretty impression part of her life working for the Disney Corporation—before finding her way into the publishing world with her husband.

 

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