4,5 stars for Cold Fury Hockey – 07 – Roman by Sawyer Bennett

*** ARC kindly provided by the publisher Random House Publishing Group – Loveswept, via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. ***

Sawyer Bennett never disappoints! This was another amazing book in the Cold Fury series. The next one ‘Lucas’ is already waiting on my Kindle.

This was a fun and hot mixture of sports, romance and family drama.

 

Chicago Syndicate – 06 – Black Hat Hacker

*** ARC kindly provided by the author, in exchange for an honest review. ***

Same as with the previous 5 books in this series I loved it!!  However this book can be read as a stand alone but believe me you’ll love the other books too if you haven’t read them yet…

This was a steamy, hot read with a sexy alpha hacker and a sassy heroine.  You just have to love both main characters.

I was glad I could finally read Henry’s story and I can’t wait for the next book in this series…

 

 

Title: Black Hat Hacker

Series: Chicago Syndicate #6

Author: Soraya Naomi

Genre: New Adult Mafia Romance

Release Date: March 28, 2017

Blurb

You don’t know me.

But that’s only because I don’t want you to.I have the most lucrative job in the country as a hacker in the notorious underworld. I’ve built entire systems and destroyed evidence for career advancement while stealing and exploiting data for personal gain.

I’m the black hat hacker for the Chicago Syndicate and hold all the dirty secrets of the most powerful men in the U.S. in the palm of my hands, just a keystroke away from mass ruination.However, no one knows my dirty secret, a decision from my past that’s just aching to blow up in my face and shatter my future. Especially when a certain wavy haired brunette begins to demand my attention with her odd ways and her carefree attitude.

She’s a woman who makes me go against everything I’ve ever believed.

A woman whom I’m forbidden from having my usual one-night stand with, even if she was available.

A woman whom I have to keep from getting herself killed, whether she likes it or not.You don’t know me, but neither does she…yet.

A standalone novel from the Chicago Syndicate world.

From Soraya Naomi, International Bestselling Author of For Fallon and For Luca. Novel Grounds Semi Annual Literary Awards 2014 winner of Best Breakout Novel For Fallon (Chicago Syndicate, #1).

ADD TO GOODREADS

Author Bio

 

I read many genres but favor intense, seductive, and provocative novels where the male character loves fiercely, without remorse or boundaries. I also adore forbidden love tales and have an odd fascination with kidnapping romances. No, I don’t secretly want to be kidnapped, though!

I have a passionate obsession with the written word and indulge in chocolate pastries much too often.

My debut novel For Fallon (Chicago Syndicate, #1) was released on July 26, 2014. I’m honored that For Fallon won “Best Breakout Novel 2014” in the Novel Grounds Semi Annual Literary Awards.

Sign up to Soraya’s newsletter to keep up to date with release dates: http://eepurl.com/b0MS85

Author Links

WEBSITE

FACEBOOK

FACEBOOK PROFILE

 FACEBOOK GROUP

TWITTER

INSTAGRAM

AMAZON

 

Chapter Reveal for Keri Lake’s Ripple Effect

 

 

Coming February 24th

 

Ripley

They call me RIP.
I’m a killer. A murderer. A psychopath.
In the eyes of the righteous, I’m a monster, born of sin and depravity.
I want to protect her, but I’m not a good man.
I want to love her, but I no longer feel.
She gets under my skin, though, and has awakened something inside of me.
Something I’d kill for.
I’m not her savior—not even close. In fact, I’m worse than the hell she’s already suffered.
I’m her vengeance. Tit for tat, as they say.
And if she’s not careful, I’ll be her ruin.

Dylan

For months, I’ve watched him.
I’ve fantasized him as my savior, my lover. My ticket out of the hell I’ve lived in for the last six years.
I never dreamed he’d be my nightmare.
Had I known what he really is, I’d have never gotten in the car that night, but life is full of cause and effect.
And sometimes the choice on offer isn’t a choice at all.
It’s the result of something already in motion, and we’re merely left to survive the ripple effect.

*This is an erotic suspense/erotic romance not recommended for readers under the age of 18 due to graphic violence and sex.

 

 

Shells are made to be cracked.
I stare down at the tiny white egg, wedged between the ashtray filled with cigarette butts and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the balcony.  Hardly broken in two halves, the busted center reveals an underdeveloped bird inside, nearly devoured by the bugs that crawl in and out of the shell.  I can just make out one bulbous eyeball, surprisingly intact, staring back at me.  Mourning Dove, I’d bet.  They seem to flock to this shithole every year, for whatever reason.
The nest teeters on the edge of the eave somewhere above me, as if the mother intentionally chose this most dangerous spot to lay her egg then up and abandoned it.  Left to the careful watch of carnivores.
Poor little bird.
A tickle hits my arm and I slap a hand to my skin, before scratching at the spot just below a black monarch butterfly tattoo, digging my nails into the place where I’m certain I felt something crawling over me.  I hate when my long wisps of hair skim across the surface like a translucent web dancing over my skin.  Insects give me the willies.  Well, except for butterflies, I don’t mind them so much.  My therapist put a name on it once, said I had ento-something-phobia—a fear of bugs.  It’s not really the bugs themselves I fear, though.  It’s the idea that something could breach the barriers of my skin, and infest, just like the shell that housed that bird.  Sometimes I have dreams about them, crawling over me, nesting inside of me.  
The very thought casts a shiver down my spine, and I’m grateful for the pane of glass that separates me from the macabre outside my window.  
Wind rattles the glass in its frame, the tendrils of late winter snaking their way beneath the thin afghan wrapped around my shoulders.  It’s been mild, unseasonably warm enough for bugs and early blooms, but that Chicago wind carries the vestiges of a brutal winter.
The fog of my pills is lifting, making me more aware of the cold, but I’m holding off for something stronger.  I’ll need it tonight.
From below, the mumbled shouts of Lady Ortiz, as I call her, push their way through the rotted wood planks that separate our balcony from hers.  She and Mr. Ortiz are fighting again, their voices escalating into the crash of broken glass.   The Yorkie, three floors below, barks an incessant plea to take a piss outside, and I wonder if his owner, Mrs. Silvia, has finally kicked the bucket.  The lady’s pushing ninety, and the pungent reek of ammonia that fills her apartment seeps through the heating ducts of this place sometimes.
Oddly enough, in spite of the noise, the smells, and the crawling bugs, this is my moment of peace. Escape.  Freedom.  
I must be the only teenage girl on the planet who longs for quiet moments without the gossip, the socializing, and all the damn noise.  In a generation of selfies and the desperate need for validation, sometimes I like to slip onto the other side of the mirror and simply watch.
Fringed by the glow of my bedroom light, I study the broken shell, eyeing an ant that marches away with a chunk of something far too big for its size, and I’m reminded that the world takes what it wants even after death.
That’s how I got here, this shithole apartment smack in the middle of Chicago.  Just like insects, after my father’s death, the bank took our house, the creditors took our cars, and shame stole our pride as we bounced from shelter to shelter, my mom and me.  I was nine years old when he died, and as innocent and vulnerable as a baby bird trapped inside a fragile shell.
Because he committed suicide, my dad’s insurance policy was considered null, and we were left without a pot to piss in.  For a while, though, we got by.  My mom landed a job dancing, and as a veteran’s widow, qualified for something like Section Eight housing.  I was left home alone most nights, but it worked.  We survived. Things were okay for a while.
I can’t even remember the moment life changed for us.  
Feels like it happened in the span of a year, but I know it only took one fleeting second in time, when she didn’t have to worry about me, when the weight bearing down on her lifted and she felt high as the clouds.
An odd dichotomy, heroin—the way it rolls off the tongue as two completely opposite things—a selfless and courageous woman, and a selfish agent of destruction.  
My mom gave up one for the other and that began our descent into some of the darkest days of my life.
My stomach twists, and I curl into myself, bringing my knees tighter to my body.  
Almost time.
Two silhouettes hit my periphery, and I turn toward the mouth of the alley, where they move abruptly, limbs flailing, as if they’re in the thick of a fight.  I focus on them for a moment, spotting the sag of his slacks just below his un-tucked shirt, and realize they’re not fighting at all. They’re fucking.  A prostitute and her John pressed against the dirty bricks of the building, beside the overflowing dumpster. Her dark skin is hard to make out, but his crisp white shirt stands out like a beacon of debauchery.
This alley is a constant stream of slum life stories.
Staring at them drudges a memory of sitting tucked beside a line of garbage cans in the back alley of a bar, watching a rat pick at a maggot-infested chicken leg lying in a toxic pool of wastewater, while the sounds of my mother’s animalistic grunts and moans drifted from the other side.  Nothing but meat and the stench of rot taunting my gag reflex.  Through a small gap between the wall and garbage, I could just make out a man’s naked ass slamming into her, his dirty fingers curled around her bony thigh.  Even then, no more than eleven years old, I knew what she’d become before the word was brutally carved into her skin. Whore.  Junkie.  A prostitute, always searching for the next high.
The two in the alley stop moving.  Only that they’ve begun to pull their clothes back on tells me one of them must’ve climaxed.  There is no big finale, or magical moment of ecstasy in the underbelly.  It’s all quick and quiet fucks, while breathing in the fog and reek of stale sex and damp garbage.  He tugs his slacks over his hips and holds up an object, which I’m guessing is a thin wad of cash.  She reaches for it and the guy strikes her with the back of his hand, the echoing smack that kicks her head to the side is the first sound I’ve heard between them.  
He’s probably her pimp.  If she fights him, she’ll have to drag her ass across the city looking for an unclaimed street corner, and pray some crazy lunatic doesn’t pick her up and turn her into a human skin rug with her head mounted on his wall.
At seventeen, I know more about organizational hierarchy and job security than the average middle-aged CEO, and just like the corporate world, success depends on how many people get fucked.  
Wolves and sheep.
For those of us in the flock, survival comes down to how well we manipulate, because a predator’s eyes are naturally drawn to the most innocent.  So when my mom’s John started giving me that carnal look, I began carrying a pocketknife, and at thirteen, I once held it to the junkie’s throat, threatening to slice out his voice box if he ever touched me again.
Sometimes the sheep can be cunning, though.
My mom once tried to make me pickpocket—a lesson that landed us in the back of a cop car.  Took ten minutes with the cop before we were released with a warning, and it was then I learned a valuable lesson in life:  even at a woman’s weakest, sex could be her most powerful weapon.
I glance back at Charlie, my stark white Dogo Argentino, stolen from one of my mother’s back alley conquests.  If not for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here, letting the blood-sucking insects feed off of me, after my mother spiraled straight to her grave.  
Charlie gives me purpose.  If there is a God, I truly believe he put her in my life to keep me from doing stupid shit.  That, or to give me a weakness, because Lord knows I’d probably go psycho bitch crazy and end up in a padded cell if anything ever happened to my beloved dog.
Because of her, my heart is a tenderer piece of meat for the insects to tear apart.
At the opposite side of the room is another bed that belongs to my eight-year-old foster sister, Layla.  Well, for now anyway.  She won’t be here long.  This place is a revolving door for foster girls, most only staying a couple months max.  I don’t know where they go, and honestly, I don’t care.  There’s no point getting to know them.  In the time I’ve lived with the Westpricks, at least two-dozen girls have been in and out of here.  In some ways, I resent them, getting out and moving on to something else.  Maybe somewhere better.
I’m the only one who ever stays.  The constant in this hellhole.
Since I was nine years old, I’ve been bounced around from house to house, wishing and hoping for things that just don’t happen to kids where I come from.  For six of those years I’ve been lost.  The forgotten.  The unwanted.  I’ve been hurt in ways that have forever changed my landscape and numbed me to future pain.  
But now I have Charlie, who’s a reminder that good things can come from bad situations, and that even a beast can penetrate the hardest of hearts.  
Charlie makes me think of my mother more than I care to.  Perhaps because it was my mother who stole her for me, unwittingly gifting me my own personal guardian angel.  
I miss her sometimes, though.
The memories of her are like bent photographs that I pull from my back pocket from time to time, wishing I could set them out on a shelf someday.  But life’s too short, particularly in this part of the city, to dwell on what will never be again.
My mom wasted away before I even hit middle school. Police told me it was an overdose, but I think she got a hold of a tainted batch of heroin.  
And I’ve been caught up in the system ever since.
A few places worked out okay.  They let me keep my dog, which was cool, but people tend to give up on kids who don’t love as easily as others.  I acted out.  Punched my first foster mother in the face and broke her nose.  Didn’t even have a good reason, really, except that she was the first person I had to deal with after my mom died.
Lucky for me, my caseworker managed to track down my mom’s sister, Chanel, and her long-time boyfriend, Randy.  I’d never met her before, never even knew my mom had a sister. Aside from the fact that Chanel treats Layla and me like her favorite Barbie dolls, the two of them can’t stand us most of the time.
Doesn’t matter, though.
Two more months and I’ll be out on my own.  
I close my eyes so tight they ache.  Two more months.  That’s when I graduate and can get the hell out of this shithole, and away from the shady foster system that threw me into the hands of Randy Westprick, as I like to call him, and my flighty aunt.  In a few weeks I turn eighteen and no one will own me anymore.  No one.
I could run away now, ditch school and hit the streets, but that would put me on the same path as my mother and I’d rather die in this hellish place than repeat her mistakes.
The neon sign across the alley blinks a mesmerizing repetition of lost hopes that reflects off the patches of water along the pavement.
A shadow slips along my periphery, and I lift my gaze as a dark figure stalks down the alley toward the old fashioned-looking diner that sits across the narrow cross section on the corner.  A place that reminds me of the Boulevard of Broken Dreams painting I once saw at the mall.
It’s him.
Head to toe in black, the stranger’s tall frame remains concealed in the leather coat he always wears.  I flip open the dull brass pocket watch, the only remnant left of my real dad, and check the time.  Ten o’clock, as usual.  Churning in my stomach has me hugging my mid-section.  
Almost time.
Every Friday I watch the stranger enter the diner, choosing the corner booth beside the window, where he orders a burger and drink.  It’s only Friday he orders a burger.  Some nights he’ll come in, grab carry-out, and leave. But not on Fridays.  On those nights, he stays and sits alone, never seems to make small talk with the waitress—the same lady who waits on him every time he ventures in.  Their interactions are brief and as cold as I’d imagine from a man like him.  In spite of that, the sight of him makes me dream things.  I don’t know who he is, but I fantasize that he’s a deft killer by the way he carries himself with such lethal grace.  If he is, then this is the side his victims never get to see—his vulnerability, choosing the same place, the same seat, the same time every Friday night.  It’s a sadness that speaks to me, because without fail, I find myself settling in by my window at the very same time.  
Occasionally, he goes at different times, on different days, some weeks not at all, which might seem erratic to some, but I’ve watched him long enough to know there’s a pattern.  One that I’ve picked up on, because that one week he’s not there, is repeated precisely four weeks later.  Perhaps it’s mindless on his part, maybe his visits correspond to events in his life that I’m not privy to, but I’m a creature of patterns, and I’ve memorized his.
From as high as my window, I can see he’s big.  A man, not a boy, at least ten years my senior.  His bulky frame fills the creases of the leather coat he wears, and he reminds me of something straight out of a comic book—not the hero, but the menacing antihero, the bad guy no one expects to be good.
No, in my fantasy, he’s bigger.  Meaner.  Stronger.  A man who kills on instinct.
Beneath the cover of my blanket, I sneak my hand down inside my shirt, closing my eyes the moment my fingertip makes contact with my hardened nipple.  I imagine his lips closing over it, the scratch of his day-old scruff against my skin and his strong hands holding me in place, the gruff in his voice as he says my name like a fervent prayer.  I imagine he smells good, not like stale beer and the putrid mix of body odor and bacon grease, but something deliciously masculine.
I shouldn’t want for a grown man this way, but I do, and I don’t even know him.  
For months, I’ve held this invisible rendezvous with him, staring down from my perch, imagining him stealing me from this cage.  Turning me into whatever he is.  Killer?  Criminal?  I don’t even care, so long as it’s tougher, more wicked than Randy Westprick.
I fault him for my lack of interest in the boys at school.  Not that I’m allowed to date them anyway, but I’m certainly not touching myself to any of the guys my age.
Sometimes he stares out the window and I swear his gaze scans up to my balcony. However, if he sees me, he never makes it known.  Perhaps to a man like that, I’m nothing but a young girl, hardly a threat for noticing him.
With my bottom lip caught between my teeth, I succumb to the visuals toying with my mind and the soft moan that escapes me has me stealing a furtive glance back at Layla to make sure she’s still asleep.
He takes his usual seat, filling the booth with his bulky frame.  Some nights I picture sliding into his lap, his body crushing me against that table, as I straddle his thighs.  I imagine his massive arms enveloping me.  His tongue across my skin and in my mouth.  Sweat dripping down my back, along my spine where the palm of his hand holds me in place.  How he’d feel without the pills denying me the sensation of his cock filling me.  The edge of the table beating into my back with every punishing drive of his hips, and the tight clench of his jaw in that reckless moment when he finishes inside of me.
My lips part at the vivid imagery, and my belly tightens while I circle my nipple with the pad of my finger.
If anyone were after him, he’d be hard to miss in those bright lights, the way he stands out like a splotch of black paint on a stark white canvas. He hasn’t looked this way once tonight, which allows me to study him intently, admiring his virile features.
He’s beautiful.  A sad, but beautiful man.
The click of the doorknob sends a knot straight to my throat and my stomach sinks like bricks in a murky river. The sound alerts my dog, who I can hear rustling in her bed, and a low growl rumbles in her chest.  
I slip my hand out of my shirt, straightening myself beneath the afghan.  
A beam of new light invades the soft glow of the Christmas lights I’ve strung around the room for Layla, and as my nightmare enters, Charlie’s growl dies to a whimper.
The thud of his boots across the floor sound like the hooves of the devil coming to claim my soul.  A scuffling tells me he’s stumbled, but not even that prompts me to turn around.  
Drunk again.
The moment I caught him hunkered down in front of the television with a six-pack, I knew he’d come for me.  I don’t want to look at him.  I hate him.  The smell of him makes me sick, like a walking deep fryer.  
If not for Charlie, I’d climb over the railing of the balcony, spread my arms, and fly.  The police would find a broken shell of me.  They’d study me, the same way I studied the baby bird, while the world dissects pieces of my story to suit their curiosities, leaving nothing but a picked over carcass.
All because my mother abandoned her nest.
They’ll never know it was he who gave the final push, and it won’t even matter.  Once he injects the drugs, I’ll fall into dissociative bliss, tucked away in the same fog that kept my mother oblivious of the world around her, on rose-colored clouds, and a never-ending dream.  
The darkness behind my eyelids is my only refuge from the hell around me, and I’ll willingly climb inside, burrowing myself in that place where no one can touch me.  While my body’s propped on the cold metal of the washing machine, I’ll be miles away, fallen deep into the rabbit hole.  No one can find me there.  Not Randy, nor the men who see the photographs of me that he takes in the dingy laundry room of this apartment complex.  
Although he never violates me himself, for whatever reason, he likes objects.  The more common they are, the more he gets off.  He once had me masturbate the end of a vibrating toothbrush and used it for months after—smiling at me every time he brushed his teeth.  
I’ve been defiled in every sense short of rape, stripped and purged of innocence, feeding his disgusting obsession with me.  
I often wonder what Chanel’s like when she’s not hopped up on pain pills.  If she’d be jealous and accuse me of fucking her man, or if she’d take pleasure in watching him do it.  I once tried to tell her about him taking me down there and snapping pictures of me.  She offered me one of her pills and asked if I liked the boots her friend had handed down to me.  
I can’t blame her too much, though.  Randy likes to use her as his personal punching bag, and most days, she’s sporting a bruise somewhere.  Even if it’s not always visible.  He’s hit me a few times, but unlike Chanel, I hit him back, even at the risk of more pain, because I believe once you show weakness, it’s easier to fall prey to it.
A tug at my elbow and I glance to the side, swatting at his arm.  “Don’t touch me.”
Sometimes Randy offers gifts—small tokens that come with his usual pep talk about how it’s not abuse because he never actually penetrates me and the photos don’t show my face.  That’s a lie.  I once swiped his phone when he passed out on the couch and deleted a good few dozen pictures of me—his little mementos.  I couldn’t stand to look at my own face—droopy eyes singed with the apathy toward whatever he forced me to do. I’d hoped to see shame in those photos, but it seemed buried too far beneath the effects of the drugs.
He’s threatened to circulate them throughout the school if I say a word about any of this.  Send them to all my classmates on Facebook, as if they’d come from me.  Like he’d ever let me have my own account.  As far as the world is concerned, I don’t exist.
“C’mon,” is all he says, before walking out of the bedroom.
I give one more glance toward the man in the diner, as he stares off, waiting for his food.  Maybe one day he’ll look up and see me.  
Maybe he’d want to kill Randy Westprick, if he knew that somewhere close by, a girl was forced to do bad things.  Very bad things.
For now, the drugs will put up a barrier, separating my mind from the horrors of my reality, much like the pane of glass that separates me from the insect-ravaged bird outside my window.
Maybe it won’t hurt as much this time, knowing that I do this to keep Randy from slaughtering my dog or taking away the pills that have become as necessary as the air I breathe.  A vicious cycle of escaping to survive and surviving to escape.
Because sex is power.
And even the hardest shells are made to be cracked.

 

Keri Lake is a married mother of two living in Michigan. By day, she tries to make use of the degrees she’s earned in science. By night, she writes dark contemporary, paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Though novels tend to be her focus, she also writes short stories and flash fiction on the many occasions distraction sucks her into the Land of Shiny Things.

For news, updates and sneak peeks at the sexy cover model candidates for her annual Cover Model Contest, subscribe to her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/HJPHH

 

Web  Twitter  Facebook  Instagram  Amazon  Goodreads  

 

Fake Fiancée by Ilsa Madden-Mills is AVAILABLE NOW and FREE on Kindle Unlimited!

✮ ✮ ✮NOW LIVE!✮ ✮ ✮

Fake Fiancée by Ilsa Madden-Mills is AVAILABLE NOW and FREE on Kindle Unlimited!

Grab this new release for just 99₵ for a limited time!

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2kKRC9y

Blurb:
From WSJ Bestselling Author Ilsa Madden-Mills comes a new stand-alone contemporary romance

Fake engaged to the hottest quarterback in the country? SCORE.

They say nothing compares to your first kiss,
But our first kiss was orchestrated for an audience.
Our second kiss . . . that one was REAL.
He cradled my face like he was terrified he’d f*ck it up.
He stared into my eyes until the air buzzed.
Soft and slow, full of sighs and little laughs,
He inhaled me like I was the finest Belgian chocolate,
And he’d never get another piece.
A nip of his teeth, his hand at my waist . . .
And I was lost.
I forgot he was paying me to be his fake fiancée.
I forgot we weren’t REAL.
Our kiss was pure magic, and before you laugh and say those kinds of kisses don’t exist,
Then you’ve never touched lips with Max Kent, the hottest quarterback in college history.

Three months. Two hearts. One fake engagement.

Release Day Blitz for Toni Aleo’s Face-Off at the Altar + Review

 

My Review:

*** ARC kindly provided by Ardent Prose in exchange for an honest review. ***

Markus had found the right girl … he loved her and they took it slow.  But then he wakes up with her sister in his bed.  Mekena has felt betrayed for so long by Markus and his sister.  She has mad sure not to meet them but time didn’t heal the whole in her heart.  Markus focuses on hockey. But when one of his friends will marry he”ll see Mekena again where she’ll be the photographer.  How will this  work out for them?  And their feelings?  Are they still there?  Will they get over the betrayal or is there more to it?  Will there be time for forgiveness?

This was the second book only which I read in the Assassins series and same as the previous book I loved it.  I do usually love some more drama and suspense in my books but I loved this one nevertheless.  I also really enjoyed that we got some more on Lucy, Angie and Benji.

This was another well written story with great characters …  at least most of them.  And I also really liked aunt Libby 😉

 

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon CA

Amazon AU

iBooks

Kobo

Nook

 

 

 

 

Markus Reeves is sucking. Big-time. Toiling away on a minor-league hockey team hundreds of miles away from home, he’s watching his dreams of an NHL career fade away. Add in the lingering guilt he has over the dramatic demise of his relationship with college girlfriend, Mekena, and he’s a mess on and off the ice.

 

But the family of his heart, the Sinclairs, won’t let Markus suffer any longer. When he arrives himself back in Nashville for a trial run on the Assassins, it feels like his life may be making a turn for the better. If only he could get Mekena to forgive him…

 

Mekena Preston has been hurting since fleeing Nashville following the horror of Markus’s betrayal with her sister. Now a professional photographer, Mekena finds herself in the same place at the same time with Markus to celebrate Lucy and Benji Paxton’s wedding. Neither of them has been able to move on—and they’re starting to wonder if they really want to.

 

They’re headed for a face-off at the altar unless they can confront their past and unearth the truth about what really happened on that fateful night.

 

Watching as Elli crossed the ice, saying hi to everyone she passed, Mekena knew she had to go. Standing, she wobbled a lot, but she still made it to the entry to the ice. She could do this. It wasn’t that hard. Just like walking—on water. No big deal.
Oh, God, she was going to die, and everyone was going to see it.
Swallowing hard, she stepped out on the ice and figured she could ride the side of the boards to him. Elli was already there, gushing over the kids and kissing all over the guy Mekena assumed was her nephew. And holy hot genes. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a jawbone that could slice the ice. He was beautiful, just like his uncle and his momma. Tall, too, and thick. Obviously a hockey player. That should have given her a little more confidence to skate over there, but instead, her fingers dug into the siding as she slowly made her way toward them.
When Elli looked up, Mekena let go of the sides and waved. “I’m a little slow. I’m coming!”
Elli said something to Ryan, whose eyes lit up when he looked over at her. As he detangled himself from the kids that were trying to climb him like a wall, she figured he was coming to help.
Oh, no, that was embarrassing.
No, she could skate. She had it!
Letting go of the siding, she went with ease. And at first, things were good. She was skating! But as well as it was going, it suddenly went very bad. She felt her knee bend funny and then her body start to fall. And as the ice came into view, she let out a cry, waiting for the ice to break not only her glasses but her nose too. Maybe her teeth.
But she didn’t fall.
No, instead, someone had her by her hips, pulling her up and to her feet.
“Whoa there, girlie. I thought you knew what you were doing?”
Markus.
Everything inside her went hot. Not from embarrassment but from pure, burning desire. Trying to catch her breath, she looked up at him, his eyes so dark, his mouth so close to her cheek as he smiled.
Crap. Crap on a cracker.
“Markus.”
“Yup, it’s me,” he said, grinning as he stood her on her feet. “Saving your life.”

 

 

My name is Toni Aleo and I’m a total dork.
I am a wife, mother of two and a bulldog, and also a hopeless romantic.
I am the biggest Shea Weber fan ever, and can be found during hockey season with my nose pressed against the Bridgestone Arena’s glass, watching my Nashville Predators play!
When my nose isn’t pressed against the glass, I enjoy going to my husband and son’s hockey games, my daughter’s dance competition, hanging with my best friends, taking pictures, scrapbooking, and reading the latest romance novel.
I have a slight Disney and Harry Potter obsession, I love things that sparkle, I love the color pink, I might have been a Disney Princess in a past life… probably Belle.
… and did I mention I love hockey?

Author Links

 

Twitter  Facebook  Web  Goodreads  Amazon Pinterest  

4 stars for “Cold Fury Hockey – 06 – Max” by Sawyer Bennett

*** ARC kindly provided by the publisher Random House Publishing Group – Loveswept, via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. ***

Sawyer Bennett is one of my favorite authors. There hasn’t been a book yet, I didn’t like. Loved them all. And just look at all those amazing, yummy covers 😉 It’s only the second book so far I read in this series but it’s another winner and I hope to read the others soon. The ARC for the next book in this series “Roman” is already waiting on my Kindle … yay!

Max is a professional hockey player. He’s hot and wanted by every woman. When he he saves convenience store cashier Jules from to jerks he’s delighted to find she doesn’t know who he is. Jules has been taking care of her sister’s 3 children when she passed. Jules is struggling but doing a good job! When Max meets her again and gets to know her more he’s amazed by her and starts to feel more. Jules however has been struggling so long and has too much self-doubt. Will she be able to let go of the negative stuff?

Max is another great character in SB’s books. He is caring, kind and understanding. Jules is a sweet, strong, devoted aunt trying to do everything herself but she needs to learn to let others help her.

The story was parallel to Hawke’s. I loved to read a little bit more on Hawke and Vale. It has been 10 months since I read their story so it was great to catch up a little bit.

I love suspense, drama or lots of hot stuff in my books and this one was more a great romance without all that but still I really really loved it. It is well written and has a great story line…

Read my Interview during the Blog Tour : Fort Worth Wranglers – 01 -Lyric and Lingerie by Tracy Wolff & Katie Graykowski

Check out my interview with the Tracy Wolff.

Release Date: September 27, 2016

Blurb

From New York Times Bestselling author Tracy Wolff and International Bestselling author Katie Graykowski comes a sexy tale of love, laughter and lingerie …

Lyric Wright is an off-beat astrophysicist whose life is falling apart around her. After losing her fiancé to a hula dancing astrologer and losing her dress to an ill-fated leap of faith, she’s sure there’s nowhere for her life to go but up. At least until she sits down on a trans-Pacific flight next to the one man she never wanted to see again—the boy she’d lost her heart and her virginity too back before she’d learned that friendship and football don’t equal true love.

Broken down quarterback Heath Montgomery is on a plane ride to nowhere. Dodging the phone call he’s certain will end his professional football career for good, he might be Texas bound, but he knows there’s nowhere for him to go but down. But that’s before his childhood best friend and confidante plops back into his life wearing nothing but duct tape and a bad attitude. Determined not to lose her again (especially since he isn’t sure why he lost her the first time) and desperate to outrun his own shadowy future, Heath sets out to take Lyric on the ride of her life. Too bad she only dates men who actually know what her butterfly nebula is … and can find it without the help of a star chart.

Add in one passive-aggressive flight attendant with delusions of couture, a cherry red car with a crush on Neil Diamond, an over-protective sister with a black belt in Krav Maga, two parents determined to marry their spinster daughter off to the hometown hero no matter the cost, and a whole lot of lingerie popping up in all the right places at all the wrong times and you’ve got an unforgettable love story that fans of Susan Elizabeth Phillips and Rachel Gibson won’t want to miss!

Links

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31921673-lyric-and-lingerie?ac=1&from_search=true

Amazon: http://amzn.to/2c5EEkY

Interview

I got the opportunity to ask Tracy Wolff some questions and I used the letters of the title as the first letters for my questions … Here they are:

L – Last book you had ugly tears? Hmm… can it be a movie? Playing by Heart made me cry like a baby a couple of days ago.

Y – Your favorite Cover?  Lovegame or Shattered

R – Romance or suspense?  Romance

I – I prefer to write with a glass of … ?  Cup of tea

C – Character in your books which you would love to have as a friend:  Theo from Doomed (YA under my Tracy Deebs pen name) or Ash from Shattered

A – A day in the life of … What does an average day look like?  I’ m a mom, so most of my average days revolve around work and kids. I get up at 4, write a couple of hours, then do the mom thing of getting the kids ready for school. After they’re at school, I come home and do an episode of Classical Stretch or Zumba or I go to the gym for an hour (which I HATE). Then I chat with my bff on the phone while I do a few chores, before settling down to work for a couple hours before running out the door to meet a friend (usually ten minutes late because I got caught up writing) for a late lunch.  Lunch usually goes a couple of hours, then I pick my youngest up, we do homework, then my middle one comes home and we chat as he does homework. Then I make dinner, do whatever else need to be done, watch an episode of whatever show we’re currently streaming with my kids, take a bath, put them to bed and then work until midnight or so.  Then I read for an hour before falling asleep for a couple of hours, then  wake up and repeat 🙂  Pretty boring, I guess, but it’s what gets the work done 🙂

N – Nighttime reading or during the day?  Bathtub/nighttime reading

D – Dominant male characters … Yummy or not?  Oh so yummy.  As long as they aren’t total asshats.

L – Last book you read:  Currently reading Summer of Supernovas by Darcy Woods (it’s adorable) and just finished Sadow Game by Christine Feehan

I – I would love a meet and great with …?  Matt Damon. The answer to any question about a famous person I want to meet is ALWAYS Matt Damon

N – Name of your favorite book boyfriend?  Zsadist from JR Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood

G – Greatest author?  Romance: Nalini Singh. Literary: Sandra Cisneros

E – Earliest reading memory?  Put Me in the Zoo

R – Reading or writing?  Both– can’t live without either

I – Inspiration for your latest book?  The one that just came out? Football.  The one I’m writing? Tinder

E – Ebook or paperback?  SO HARD. I’m a bathtub reader so I say paperback for that. Otherwise Ebook.

About the authors

Tracy Wolff

Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense.

And for all of those who want the unedited version:

Tracy Wolff lives with four men, teaches writing to local college students and spends as much time as she can manage immersed in worlds of her own creation. Married to the alpha hero of her dreams for twelve years, she is the mother of three young sons who spend most of their time trying to make her as crazy as possible.

You can find Tracy also on Twitter, www.tracywolff.blogspot.com and www.sizzlingpens.blogspot.com.

Tracy Wolff also writes as Tessa Adams

Katie Graykowski

I write romantic comedy with lots of heart. I like scuba diving, Mexican food, chocolate cream cheese frosting, movies where lots of stuff gets blown up, and sparkly things. I have a husband, a daughter, and three K-9 kids. I’d love to hear from you. Shoot me an email at katiegraykowski@me.com

 

http://www.katiegraykowski.com

 

 

 

Excerpt

The second they stepped into Austin Bergstrom Airport, Lyric took off in a knees-together, Gangnam-style trot. He didn’t know where in the hell she was going, but she sure was in a hurry.

“Lyric?” Heath ran after her, his bad knee turning his own run into a shuffling gallop.

“I gotta pee now …” she sing-songed and picked up the pace. “And I can’t put a hold on it.”

“But how are you going to—” He watched her disappear into the women’s bathroom. “—get out of that dress?”

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that she was going to be right back out. She might not have been thinking about the mechanics of stripping off that damn dress, but he’d spent entirely too much of his adult life getting women out of their clothes to know that it was going to be a problem. A serious problem.

He glanced around, saw a small station of plastic flatware a few feet away near the restaurants. He wasn’t sure what good a plastic knife was going to do against tightly wrapped duct tape, but he was willing to give it the old Wrangler try. But when he got up to the institutional silverware holder, the only things left were a bunch of sporks and one sorry looking plastic knife. He grabbed them all, along with a couple of straws and a handful of mayonnaise packets for lubrication. He decided to leave the mustard where it was.

He made it back to the bathroom just as Lyric limped out, a look of crestfallen agony on her beautiful face. With a smile, he held up his plundered booty. “I’ve got you covered.”

She stared at the mismatched selection he’d picked up, then rolled her eyes. “I’m not a cheeseburger, Heath.”

“Yeah, well, the selection was limited. I did the best I could.” He crouched down next her. “Let’s get you out of this dress.”

She glanced around wildly. “Not here.”

“Why not here? I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”

“I’m not wearing anything under this duct tape.”

He froze, even as his heartbeat went wild. “Nothing?” She’d said so earlier, but he’d thought she was kidding. He swallowed. All that lovely white skin, and the only thing between it and him was a thin veneer of tape. There wasn’t a man alive who hadn’t had that dream a time or two.

“My dress ripped, remember?” She shuffled from foot to foot. Lyric hummed the chorus of Beyonce’s “Put a Ring on It.” Huh?

“Yeah, but what about your underwear?” “The dress was too tight. I didn’t want a panty line.” She sucked in air like it was going out of style.

“Lyric Wright, are you telling me you weren’t lying when you told me you were traveling halfway across the Pacific in nothing but duct tape?” He might have a heart attack himself, especially now that he was picturing all the bare skin just beneath his hands.

“Well, it wasn’t by choice. Believe me.” Standing up, he propelled her back through the bathroom entrance. They were already attracting a fair amount of attention, and there was no way in hell he was stripping Lyric down in front of half the men in the Austin airport.

“Heath. This is the ladies’ room.” She sounded scandalized. “Would you rather go into the men’s room and do this?” Over his dead body, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Well, no. But you’ll get in trouble.” She looked around like she was waiting for some sort of bathroom bouncer to appear and toss him out.

“By who? The bathroom police?” He laughed. “Sweetheart, we’re in the Lone Star State now. Short of losing the Super Bowl or wearing 49ers colors, there’s not much I can do in this state that will get me into trouble.”

“Seriously?” She eyed him with disgust.

“This is the great state of Texas. When people talk about the Holy Trinity, they’re talking about Jesus, the NRA, and the Fort Worth Wranglers. So yeah, you and I could drop down right here on this surprisingly clean tile and go for it, and the only comments people would make would be to offer suggestions … to you. And they’d still want me to sign their tits.”

“You know this from experience?” She glanced at the floor, and he could just see that huge brain of hers filing away the facts.

Despite the potty dance she was doing, it was really an example of Lyric at her finest. Never judgmental, simply interested in gathering information. At least, until she said, “Well, just so you know. If it gets to that, I’m taking the top. And if you hurry and get this dress off, I just might be willing to give it a shot.”

It was the wrong thing for her to say. Now his mind was filled with all kinds of inappropriate images, namely of Lyric and her double Ds above him as she followed the advice of T-shirts everywhere: Save a horse. Ride a Cowboy.

But he could tell things were getting critical, and he really didn’t want her to have an accident, so he ushered her to the large handicap stall at the back of the restroom.

As he locked the door behind them, one of the women who’d been primping at the mirror called, “When’s my turn, Deuce?”

“One at a time, ma’am. The line forms to the right,” he called over the stall door. He turned to Lyric. “All right,” he said, laying out his improvised tools on the ledge created by the toilet paper holder like a nurse preparing a tray of sterile implements. “Let’s get to work.”

Examining the duct tape like it was a medium-rare New York strip, Heath grabbed the spork in his left hand and took the knife in his right. Then he stepped back and spent a moment taking stock. Did he start at the top and work down or at the bottom and work up? Both had appeal.

Lyric danced from side to side, humming Beyoncé louder. “Do. Something.”

He hadn’t remembered her ever humming before. He knelt in front of her—genuflecting to Mistress Duct Tape—and pain shot through his bad knee at the awkward position. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it and sawed lightly at the dress’s hem. The pathetic plastic knife bent and twisted under his hand with each slice, but he didn’t want to hurt her so he kept the pressure light.

“Hurry.” She clamped her thighs together. Christ, the way she said that word—like he was inside her and she couldn’t come fast enough—turned him on.

Great, now he had a bum knee and a hard-on from hell to deal with.

Instead of focusing on the pain, he concentrated on freeing her bare bottom. Her round, lush, sexy-as-hell bare bottom. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he shifted, determined to concentrate on the problem at hand. “Open your legs.” It came out a little short, but seriously, if he had a nickel for every time he’d said that, he’d have a shitload of nickels. “Sit on the toilet.” Now that was a new one.

Lyric looked at him in horror, then leaned over and pulled several handfuls of toilet paper from the holder before she began arranging them as a seat cushion. Heath scooted closer to her.

“Jesus, I thought you were in a hurry.”

“I am, but there are rules. A lady squats but never sits on a public toilet. Did you know the average public toilet has two million bacteria per square inch?”

She piled more toilet paper into what could only be called a wreath arrangement on the seat. Was it a centerpiece or a toilet? He was getting confused. Especially when his old pal Lyric referred to herself as a lady. He’d never thought of her like that before.

Then again, now that he’d been this close to her luscious thighs, he’d probably never be able to think of her as anything but. He rubbed his knee. “I’ll file that little tidbit under Lyric’s Fun Facts. Right up there with the one in twenty shot of a meteorite striking a plane.”

“Okay.” She half sat, half dropped onto the seat. “I’m ready.”

Heath didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of her fluffy seat cushion had landed on the floor.

“Here,” she inched her legs apart, “whatever you’ve got planned—GO FASTER.”

“Usually when I’m going at a woman from this angle I like to take my time. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

With all the force he could allow, he stabbed at the tape. The knife broke in half. “Damn.”

Lyric’s legs started to vibrate. “What’s taking so long? Prisoners with the intelligence of spider monkeys are able to dig out of Alcatraz with nothing but a spoon, but you can’t break me out of this dress?”

He shook his head. “There’s never a convict with a shiv around when you need one.” He had two Super Bowl rings, a Heisman Trophy, and more wins than he could count. There was no way in hell a few strips of duct tape were going to break his winning streak.

With all the murderous intent of Norman Bates’s mother with a butcher knife, Heath rammed the spork at the tape. The spork cracked down the middle and bit into his palm.

He stared at it for a second, then decided fuck it. It was past time to go old school. “Hold on honey, I’m going in.”

Licking his lips, he stuck his head between her thighs and clamped his teeth down on the tape. But the second his jaw scraped against her inner thighs, Lyric shrieked.

Her surprisingly strong thighs—who knew an astrophysicist could be so toned—clamped down on his ears and she giggled. “What are you doing? That tickles.” Lyric wiggled against him.

“My dad always taught me to use the tools at hand, and right now these are all I’ve got left.” Heath bit through the bottom edge of the dress, then spit out a chunk of tape and went for the next layer. It wasn’t the first dress he’d chewed through, but it was the first one that had stuck to his teeth.

 

 

Review

*** ARC kindly provided by the author in exchange for an honest review. ***

 

Well this was something else… I was really in the mood for a light and fun read and this was it.  With moments a little bit unrealistic but great!  This is the fun story of Heath and Lyric.  Best friends when they were children.  Heath was in love with his best friends twin sister Harmony.  Twelve years ago he lost his girlfriend and his best friend and he never new why.  Years later fate brings Heath and Lyric on seets in the same airplane.  Heath with his sports carreer shattered and Lyric litterally taped together on the way to her father who had heart problems.  Heath has missed Lyric all those years and doesn’t want to loose his Lyric again.  He even plans a fake engagement.  But how can he make Lyric see that this is real and NOT fake.  Can he get her to trust him? Can you build a relationship built on little white lies?

I’m giving this fun read 4 stars.  I would love it if the next book was Harmony’s story because she’s really a tough, wonderful woman…  What I missed is an Epilogue.  Maybe we’ll read more about them in the next book…

 

4 stars for “Assassins – 08 – Rushing the Goal by Toni Aleo”

*** ARC kindly provided by the publisher Season Publishing and the author, via NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review. ***

This is the story of Benji, Lucy and Angie. Lucy fell in love young, had a baby and a nasty marriage ending in an ugly divorce. She already has to deal with her horrible ex Rick when their sweet little girl Angie visits him and doesn’t want a new man in their life. Just like her uncles Angie wants to play Hockey. She soon has Hockey player Benji wrapped around her little finger. Benji has lost his wife and 2 year old daughter after a terrible accident and hasn’t had a real relationship since it happened 12 years ago. He has been lonely since and could see himself in a family with Angie and Lucy but first he has to win Lucy’s heart… That’s all I’m going to tell about this wonderful love story!

And that’s all it was.. a wonderful love story. For me personally it was a winner but I usually need some more drama, suspense, … in my books. This one gets 4 stars and I look forward to read more books from this author and especially this series!

I loved all 3 main charactes but also lots of side characters and the fun banter between them all. I also love the bond between Lucy, her brothers and their mom…

I’m usually not a big fan of insta-love but somehow for this book it worked!

This one hit close! I’m in a nasty divorce myself at the moment and reading this book gave me a little hope. Maybe someday I’ll find my own Benji…

4 stars for “Hawke by Sawyer Bennett”

*** ARC kindly provided by the publisher Random House Publishing Group – Loveswept , via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. ***

I have been reading some books from this author lately and again it’s a winner for me.  I really like the writing style of SB.  She also created some amazing characters.  I haven’t read the prior books in this series and hope to resolve that soon.  After this book we’ll get the story of Max … another one to look forward to 😉

As for this book.  This is the book of Vale and Hawke.  They were young, wild and in love until a tragic event separated them.  7 years later they start to work for the same Hockey team and soon find out that their feelings aren’t gone yet.  Will they be able to trust again?  Will it work this time?

I loved this great story and give it 4 stars.  I would have loved a little bit more groveling and a larger epilogue but other than that I really enjoyed this book!  I really liked Vale.  She’s a strong, forgiving, young woman!  And look at that cover … 😀

4 stars for “On the Ropes – 01 – Fighting Silence by Aly Martinez”

Recently I saw a lot of great reviews on “The Fall Up” which isn’t available to buy yet so I wanted to read another book from this author first. Thanks Christy for suggesting to start with this one, I loved it. I’m sure there are more than 1 Christy on GoodReads but I guess she’ll know it’s her… I was intrigued and who doesn’t like a hot, strong boxer?

One thing that I was a bit afraid of was the indication of College in the shelve list on Goodreads. I try to prevent books with characters still in school because it’s more difficult to relate with them. God now I feel really old 😉 But fortunately this was not an big issue with this book.

I really loved this well written, beautiful but sad story about Eliza and her soulmate Till. Their first encounter was at 13, they both had a hard life growing up and with some struggles on the way they grew up to 2 wonderful, strong, caring people! I won’t tell more about this story. You can read it in the description of the author or even better buy the book and read it …

There are 2 smalls things that bothered me a little about this book. The first is the time gaps in the story. It felt like pieces of the story were missing/rushed. And the second is that I like a little bit suspense in my books. It took until 89% before there was suspense. But still an enjoyable book!

I loved most of the side characters but especially Flint and Quarry and will definitely read their books, hopefully soon but first I need to get my TBR list reduced!