#BlogTour Wicked Player by Stacey Lynn

Wicked Player, an all-new forbidden sports romance by Stacey Lynn is now live.

Gage Bryant has the best hands and the quickest feet of any wide receiver in football.

He also has a secret—one he’ll do anything to protect.

He’s a member of The Velvet Club. With airtight non disclosure agreements, playing at Velvet gives him the freedom to assert his dominance and control in a way that not only serves him on the football field, but the way he craves in the bedroom.

What he doesn’t expect is for his most recent partner to be one of the reporters assigned to follow him around in the weeks before he opens a new wing at the local children’s hospital.

When it’s clear Elizabeth Hayes has no idea he’s the man who had her blindfolded and bound beneath him, Gage realizes things just got a lot more interesting.

He can have her body at night, giving her all the pleasure she begs for in a way he needs. And he can keep his heart, as well as his identity, out of their encounters.

After all, the absolute worst thing that could happen would be to have this sexy little reporter reveal how wicked he truly is.

Download your copy today!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QPytDT
Amazon Universal: http://mybook.to/WickedPlayer
Apple Books: https://apple.co/2SJWObM
B&N: http://bit.ly/2SDbSHU
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2C74P4Z
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2PwC456

Excerpt:

I memorized his stats. Six-four, two hundred fifty pounds. Born in 1986. And then I stumbled on a photo spread he’d done for Men’s Health and my jaw dropped.

Butt freaking naked. A football helmet held in front of him was the only thing covering him. And hot damn. This guy. Chiseled, strong jaw. Straight Roman nose. Piercing eyes.

He was freaking gorgeous. My heart rate kicked into fast gear. My fingertips sizzled. I had to spend weeks following this guy around? The very idea sent a pulse of excitement to the tops of my thighs I tried to shake away.

I couldn’t get a crush on this guy. He was a source. A story. But good grief to the high heavens, he was the most beautiful if stern looking man I’d ever seen in my life.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, forgetting we worked in an open office and even though I was quiet, people could hear me.

“What is it, Elizabeth?” That came from Amanda. “Oh dear. You got the Gage story?”

She was already at my back, peering over my shoulder. “Man as sexy as that shouldn’t be allowed to walk free,” I said.

“I know.” She laughed and bumped my shoulder. “He’s God’s gift to women that’s for sure. And yet from what I’ve heard, he’s never had a girlfriend, at least not one he’s gone public with.”

“Really?” I twisted in my chair and faced her. “Never?”

She shrugged. “Not in the four years he’s been here. And I’d know. Rough Riders are my team. I follow all of ‘em on Twitter and Instagram. He posts a pic and gets over four thousand comments, mostly from women, but to the best of my knowledge, he’s never been seen in public with a woman except his mom.”

Wow. That was…that was crazy. Everything leaked.

“Hmm,” I said, tapping my finger to my lips. “So I would imagine the public would want to know if he was involved, right?”

She laughed lightly. “Yeah, but watch yourself. This is a hospital piece, not a gossip column. You go digging too far and you’ll blow your chance.”

About the Author:

When Stacey Lynn isn’t conquering mountains of laundry and fighting a war against dust bunnies and cracker crumbs, you can find her playing with her children, curled up on the couch with a good book, or behind closed doors, imagining the next adventures she’ll soon write.

She lives off her daily pot of coffee, can only write with a bowlful of Skittles nearby, and has been in love with romance novels since before she could drive herself to the library.

Stacey Lynn lives with her husband and children in North Carolina.

If you would like to know more about Stacey Lynn, follow her here:

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Website: http://www.staceylynnbooks.com
Stay up to date on Stacey’s latest news! Subscribe to her Newsletter today! http://www.staceylynnbooks.com/contact

#ReleaseBlitz Second Chance by L. B. Dunbar

Second Chance, an all-new sexy, silver fox standalone from L.B. Dunbar is available now!

Her.

A widow at forty-four, her husband left her a letter.

Contact Denton.

Once upon a time, the three of them had been best friends.

Mati Rath isn’t sure she should look back.

Her heart isn’t ready, or so she thinks.

Him.

A pleading phone call forces him to make a decision.

I’ll be there.

Yet, he hasn’t been home in twenty-seven years.

Denton Chance isn’t sure he should return.

The past still haunts his heart.

A desire that never left them, along with circumstances beyond their control, brings the past to the present.

Can one sexy silver fox face the woman he once left behind but never let go?

Sometimes love deserves a second chance.

Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2RTydoE

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/SecondChanceLBD

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2zPTqEX

About L.B. Dunbar

I’ve been accused of having an over-active imagination. To my benefit, this imagination has created over twenty novels, including the creation of a small-town world (Sensations Collection), rock star mayhem (Legendary Rock Star series), MMA chaos (Paradise Stories), rom-com for the over forty (The Sex Education of M.E.), and a suspenseful island for redemption (The Island Duet). My alter ego, elda lore, creates magical romance through mythological retellings (Modern Descendants). My life revolves around a deep love of reading about fairy tales, medieval knights, regency debauchery, and strong alpha males. I love a deep belly laugh, a strong hug, and an occasional margarita. My other loves include being mother to four grown children and wife to the one and only.

Connected with L.B. Dunbar

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Website: https://www.lbdunbar.com

#BookPromo #BlogTour Catastrophe Queen by Emma Hart

One hot mess. One hot boss. One too many hot encounters…

Catastrophe Queen, an all-new hilarious office romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Emma Hart is available now!

It’s not you. It’s me.

No, seriously. It is me. Not only does my name literally mean “unfortunate,” but that’s the story of my life.

Everything I touch turns to cr*p. An apartment fire—that I swear I was not responsible for—means I’m living back at home with my s*x-mad parents. Yay, me!

Which is why I need my new job as personal assistant to Cameron Reid to get back on my feet. Three months in this job and I can move back out and, hopefully, remember to turn off my flat iron once in a while.

Ahem.

On paper, my job is easy. Make coffee. Book appointments. Keep everything in order.

Until I walk in on my boss, half-naked, wearing nothing but the kind of tiny white towel that dreams are made of.

Now, nothing is easy—except our mutual attraction. But he’s my boss, and you know what they say about mixing work and pleasure: unless you do p*rn, it’s just not worth it.

Or is it?

Download your copy today!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/2SzEyCn

AppleBooks: https://apple.co/2Jtpp1m

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/CatastropheQueen

Nook: http://bit.ly/2OmHHT2

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2RrrzkN

Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/2CRIskS

Excerpt:

I took my coffee from the counter and scanned the room for an empty table. There wasn’t one, which killed my chances of wasting more time before I went home.

With a sigh, I checked my phone for the time and headed for the door. I was going to end up at home earlier than I’d planned, and I needed to check with my mom to make sure there wasn’t anything kinky happening somewhere in the house.

I’d considered bleaching my eyes enough in the last few weeks, thank you.

I was fairly sure I was safe because my grandfather and great aunt were coming to stay to celebrate Grandpa’s eightieth birthday. It was still a miracle my exhibitionist mother shared DNA with either of them. Unlike her, they were reserved, polite, and didn’t flash their flesh in the hopes of getting out of a speeding ticket.

Really, it was no wonder I was a walking disaster.

I pulled up my messages and clicked on my mom’s name. My thumb was poised to type the burning question of whether or not it was safe to come home when I glanced up.

And saw the car screeching to a stop, mere inches from me.

I screamed and stepped back. My heel caught on the curb, sending me toppling backward, and both my coffee and phone went flying. My cup slammed against the sidewalk, splattering hot liquid everywhere right as I managed to save my phone from certain death by concrete.

My heart was beating so fast it should have exploded, and adrenaline raced through my veins. I gripped my phone against me so tightly that the edges pressed painfully into my skin.

Oh my God.

I’d just almost died.

Maybe slightly dramatic, but I probably wasn’t far wrong. I didn’t even know I’d stepped into the road. When had that happened? Had I really been in that deep into my own little world that I hadn’t even checked for traffic?

Dear God.

How was I still alive?

The back door to the sleek, black car that somehow hadn’t run me over swung open. From my vantage position on the sidewalk, the first thing I saw was a pair of shiny, black shoes attached to legs wearing perfectly-pressed, light gray dress pants.

I dragged my gaze up from the feet, over the door of the perfectly clean car, and stared at the most beautiful man known to humankind.

Thick, dark, wavy hair covered his head, curling over his ears. Lashes the same dark shade of brown framed impossibly bright-blue eyes that regarded me with a mixture of shock and concern, and my ovaries about exploded when he rubbed a large hand over full pink lips and a stubbled, strong jaw.

“Miss—I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Scrambling to my feet as he approached me, I tugged down the leg of my pants and grabbed my pursed. “Yes. I mean—it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

He let go of the car door, showing broad shoulders and just how well that gray suit was tailored to him, and picked up my coffee cup. “All the same, I think we can share blame. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

Just my dignity, and by this point, I was running low on it anyway.

I shifted, taking a step back. “I’m fine, really. Thank you.”

“Can I replace your coffee? Give you a ride anyway to apologize?” His expression was so earnest, his concern so genuine that I almost gave in.

Almost.

I had almost walked into the front of his car, then proceeded to embarrass myself in front of everyone on the street.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not far from home.” I clutched my phone and purse straps a little harder. “Again, thank you, but I should be going.”

He nodded as if he understood. “Uh, miss? Did you drop something there?”

My eyes followed the direction Mr. Dreamboat was pointing. On the side of the road, tucked against the curb, was a pair of white, cotton panties with flamingos on them.

My white, cotton panties with flamingos on them.

Swallowing, I met his bright eyes and shook my head. Dear God, please don’t let me blush. “No. I’ve never seen them before.” I backed up a little more. “Thank you for not running me over.”

Mr. Dreamboat grinned, his eyes brightening with his smile. “I’d never be able to forgive myself if I’d been responsible for running over someone as beautiful as you.” He glanced toward my panties, then winked at me.

There was no doubting that I was blushing this time around.

You could fry eggs on my cheeks.

So I did the only thing any self-respecting, twenty-five-year-old woman who’d just almost been run over, tripped, and dropped her dirty panties could do.

I ran.

But only like two blocks, because I was in heels, and I had the fitness levels of a hippo.

Then I grabbed a cab.

About Emma Hart

Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.

 

She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.

 

Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.

 

Yes, really. She’s that sarcastic.

Connect with Emma

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EmmaHartBooks/

BookBub: http://bit.ly/2Dr0atq

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2Dq42ez

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2EBbZNe

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Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/emmahartauthor/

Stay up to date with Emma by joining her mailing list: https://www.emmahart.org/newsletter

Website: https://www.emmahart.org/home

#BookTour Hollywood via Orchard Street by Wayne Clark

Hollywood via Orchard Street

by Wayne Clark

Genre: Historical Fiction

Deciding that the hopelessness he sees around him on New York’s squalid
Lower East Side during the Great Depression isn’t for him, a young
man invents an alter ego with the chutzpah he hopes will make a name
for himself. In the process he accidentally ignites a war between the
Irish mob and a Chinese tong, learns to drink and finds love for the
first time. Will he and his alter ego ever reunite? They will have to
if he doesn’t want to lose the love of a beautiful Broadway actress.

**Only 99 cents!!**

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“THE goal,” young Charles Czerny scribbled in pencil, “was to become someone else. I am nothing,” he wrote. “i must contort myself.” He had once seen the word “contortionist” on a circus poster and looked it up. As euphoria invaded, he changed the “i” to a capital “I”.
“Nobody I know is anybody. And I mean anybody, up and down Orchard Street, and everywhere else.” Wielding with his new verb, he continued:
“They need to learn about contorting themselves, or they’ll always be kind of sad in life. They would probably like to tell someone that they’re always kind of sad, but they don’t have the words to say it, so to speak. But I do. For example, ergo… I learned that word in school. What I want to say is, ‘Ergo, you must contort your life if you want to die reasonably satisfied.’ You can’t ask for it all, can you. You have to send your mind up in a balloon and take a look around at the possibilities. When you see one that twinkles like a penny firecracker, adopt it. Say, ‘That’s me 10 years from now or whatever.’ Rewrite your life. I mean your future. You are what you are right now, you are what your whiney aunt says you are, but tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come, well, that’s up to you. Make up a story, then live it.
He was pleased with his thoughts. There were a lot of them there. Those were the kind of thoughts he was sure writers have.
The next day he did not pick up his pencil. The new centerpiece of the salon that had always doubled as his bedroom on Orchard Street was, as of that morning, the most magical thing he’d ever possessed, an Underwood typewriter, an Underwood Model 2, which he had found hours before in the rubble of a fire on Mangin Street, above Delancey, near the river. The tiny street, Mangin, already had meaning for him because he vaguely remembered that his parents, or maybe just his father, had once lived there. His mind harbored echoes of someone saying “In the Mangin days.” He decided to contort that memory by telling himself it was fact that they both, mother and father, actually had lived in the place whose charred ruins he’d just scavenged. It didn’t matter that he could not remember his father. He must have lived with his mother at some point near the time of his birth. His mother never spoke of him.
When he got home to Orchard Street that afternoon with the typewriter, he fetched a cloth from his room and returned to the stoop to rub away the soot. It took a long time, and many neighbors stopped to observe him. Some would wish him good afternoon but mostly they remained silent. No one seemed familiar enough with the machine to admire it or ask how it worked or why he wanted it.
A sudden summer shower chased Charles back up the four flights of stairs to his room. When he was sure the Underwood Model 2 was dry—he always added “Model 2” in his mind because it made it sound like he had the latest, best writing machine in the country, guaranteed to bring results—he sat down at the table before it. Though he had nothing much he felt ready to state in black in white, he liked the fact that the typewriter was open-framed so he could see its inner workings. He saw an analogy with the inner workings of his own heart and mind, which, as a writer, he knew he would be required to explore. Yes, a good parallel, he thought, reaching for the dictionary, a relic from his school days. He made a mental note that “analogy” was spelled with only two a’s, not three.
Charles left school, PS 62 on Grand Street, in the middle of the seventh grade. There, as far as he remembered, he was good at poetry, mainly the required memorizing of stanzas but also at writing. Though the school-days memory was a candidate for future contortion, he believed deeply that he was good at it, the writing part. What he wrote was profoundly emulative of the works he doggedly memorized, all by 19-century guys from England. He knew that they were important works because no one he had ever met in his neighborhood, even all of New York, spoke like the poets did, words that were big and deserving of five or six definitions in his dictionary, or small but so obscure they were not even represented in the word bible. Perhaps the poets made them up. Yes, contortion, thought Charles. There was no shame in it. It wasn’t lying.
Certain that the writing machine would make him a writer, Charles decided to regard his current job as a temporary circumstance. Most people, especially since the Depression descended, were happy to have a job no matter how hard it was, and their greatest hope was that they would always have that job. Not Charles.
Nobody had ever asked Charles what his plans were. People in his neighborhood were too poor to have plans. Scraping by ate up the clock. Besides, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t say he was a writer until he’d written something and someone had put it in the paper.
Charles knew about papers. Delivering them to newsboys paid his rent of $14 a month. The smell of newsprint intoxicated Charles, who, at 24 years of age, had neither tasted alcohol nor a woman. As he wrote in his notebook more than once, this meant he had lots to do in addition to becoming a writer.

Award-winning author Wayne Clark was born in 1946 in Ottawa, Ont., but has

called Montreal home since 1968. Woven through that time frame in no
particular order have been interludes in Halifax, Toronto, Vancouver,
Germany, Holland and Mexico.

By far the biggest slice in a pie chart of his career would be labelled
journalism, including newspapers and magazines, as a reporter, editor
and freelance writer. The other, smaller slices of the pie would also
represent words in one form or another, in advertising as a
copywriter and as a freelance translator. However, unquantifiable in
a pie chart would be the slivers and shreds of time stolen over the
years to write fiction.

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