Title: Reckless Surrender
Series: Made For Love #2
Author: R.C. Martin
Genre: New Adult Romance
Cover Design: Louisa at LM Creations
Release Date: August 4, 2015
[Reckless Surrender is book two in the Made for Love series but can be read as a STAND ALONE novel. Written for audiences 18+ years of age.]
Three and a half years ago, Daphne walked into my shop, kicked open the door to my soul, invited herself inside, and got comfortable. By the time I realized she’d made herself at home, it was too late to kick her out. Now, I’m in love with her. But I’m not her boyfriend. She’s not my lover. We’re just friends…
Trevor’s it for me. I love him so much it drives me crazy. But we’re broken—two battered people whose souls have been ravaged by the world. We decided a long time ago that we wanted to love each other but not attempt to fix one another. Instead, we give each other as much as we can. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s ever going to be enough…
I don’t want to be her bandaid.
I don’t want to be his addiction.
But if we never cross that line, will I lose her?
If I don’t tell him what I want, will I lose myself?
I twist my bangs back away from my face and pin them in place before washing off today’s makeup. I feel completely plain without it, but it’s also refreshing to be rinsed clean and I know present company doesn’t mind. Speaking of which, I’m glad I get to keep him for the night. I love it when that happens. We don’t exactly make a habit of it, but I always sleep better cocooned in his arms. It makes me feel like I’m his. I guess in some ways I am, even though I’m not. I certainly don’t belong to anyone else. I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else—even if being with Trevor without actually being with Trevor one day breaks my heart.
I shake the thought away, aware that I’m starting to think too much. He’s here, now, and that’s what he can give me. Besides that, it’s more than anyone else gets. This is how it is between us. It works.
I stop just inside the doorway of my bedroom, caught off guard by what awaits. Or should I say, who? I have to stifle a small gasp at the sight of him—not because I’m startled by his change in appearance, but because he leaves me breathless. He’s so damn mesmerizing I can’t help but stare. Every. Time.
At this point, I think it’s safe to assume I’ll never get used to the masterpiece that he is, and that’s more than fine.
It’s quite apparent that he has endured the confines of his dress attire for as long as he can stand it. I can’t mourn the lost image of him all spruced up, not when I have the image of him all stripped down to admire. All he has on is a pair of gym shorts. He keeps a pair stowed away in my dresser for nights like these. He’s sitting at the window, which he has opened, with one leg straddling the bench and the other bent in front of him so that he might rest his beer atop his knee.
Trevor isn’t built like an athlete. He isn’t bulky with muscle. He isn’t lanky, like me, either. He’s made up of lean, toned lines that whisper of the physical power that makes him all man. But his inner strength? All the vulnerable and fragile pieces of him that make him so strong, the pieces of him that I love so much, that’s what catches my eye.
He wears his heart on his sleeve. Literally. The world might not know it, but I do. I know that every inch of ink that covers his beautiful skin tells his story. The tattoo on his left arm stretches from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder and spills over his heart. I can’t see it now, because of the way he’s sitting, but I know he’s got script tattooed down his left side across his ribs. Finally, his right arm is adorned in a half sleeve. I say finally not as a way to express finality, but simply the end of his list for now. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that he’s dreaming of more.
“Daph! Your beer’s getting warm!” he yells, his gaze still directed out the window.
I grin, partly because I love how he knows I hate it when my beer gets even the slightest bit warm; partly because he hasn’t noticed me standing here staring at him. “I’m right here,” I say as I continue to make my way into the room. I speak softly, but I startle him just the same.
“Shit, Wings—” he mutters, spitting out his nickname for me as he jumps. He has to snatch up his beer as his leg shoots out in front of him. I laugh and grab my half empty bottle from off of the edge of the bookshelf where he’s lined up our reserve. “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long,” I lie. I sit opposite of him, bending my knees and propping my feet up.
“Sure,” he murmurs, shaking his head at me in disbelief. I smirk in response.
Now this is one of those moments where, if we were in a movie or a romance novel, he’d crawl across the bench and kiss me. But this isn’t a fairy tale and he won’t kiss me because I won’t let him. We can’t go there. What he and I share, it works because we don’t go there. As crazy as it might sound, our restraint excites me. Simply knowing that he feels it, too, makes this moment more intimate than not.
He brings his beer up to his lips and tilts his head back as he empties the remaining contents into his mouth. As he sucks out every last drop, he watches me watch him and I get lost in his oval eyes. His irises are in a glorious state of confusion, unsure of whether or not they are blue or green. His hair struggles with the same color dilemma, his dark blonde locks sometimes appearing light brown, depending on how the light hits them.
For just a second, I imagine running my fingers through his soft, loose, curls. Or, at least, I consider them curls; or they would be—big, beautiful, silky curls—if he grew his hair out longer. I know he won’t. He likes to keep his slightly shaggy, fuck-me-now mane just long enough to entice you to do just that. Except, we won’t be doing that, either.
His gaze is still locked with mine. He’s teasing me. I know it. He knows it—but this is our game. I can’t look away first. If I do, he’s won. So instead, I bring my beer to my lips, tilt my head back, and drink, all the while watching him watch me.
When we’re both finished, he stands and takes my empty bottle before leaning down to kiss my neck, just below my ear. “You win, Wings,” he murmurs. I grin, feeling victorious. “But you left the bottle opener in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” He kisses me once more as a reward and then turns to leave.
I'm a born and bred Coloradan. I will always claim that square state as my home! While I now reside in Virginia, the land of the Rocky Mountains is where I've left a piece of my heart and where my characters come to life. I'm a woman in love with love and filled to the brim with compassion for women like me, on a journey to find themselves in today's society. I aspire to inspire my readers to do more than settle. I hope that my writing will remind everyone that she (or he!) is valuable and worthy of the best kind of love--the kind that is gentle, patient, faithful, passionate, all consuming, never ending, and leaves you breathless.
When I'm not writing I'm reading; when I'm not reading I'm writing...you know how it goes! I also enjoy cooking, baking, crocheting, and jigsaw puzzles. Basically, I'm an old soul with a young heart, nonchalantly waiting for my prince to come.
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Michele Shriver writes women’s fiction and contemporary romance. Her books feature flawed-but-likeable characters in real-life settings. She’s not afraid to break the rules, but never stops believing in happily ever after. Michele counts among her favorite things a good glass of wine, a hockey game, and a sweet and sexy book boyfriend, not necessarily in that order.
Cover designer: Michele Shriver
Official genre of book: Contemporary romance (sports)
Title: LUKE (West Bend Saints, #3)
Author: Sabrina Paige
Genre: New Adult Release: August 2015
Luke Saint F**k being good. I won’t be tamed. There are three things in life I’m damn good at: f**king, jumping out of planes, and chasing forest fires. And definitely not with someone like Autumn Mayburn. She's uptight, smart-mouthed, and hell, she has a kid. Did I mention she’s ten years older than me? There are a million reasons I shouldn't touch her. F**k all of those reasons. The single mom with the smokin’ hot body and the sass to match is going to be mine. Autumn Mayburn There’s nothing on this earth I despise more than a bad boy. Especially an infuriatingly cocky, womanizing, oozes-sex-from-every-pore bad boy. I’m a mom. A businesswoman. I have responsibilities. The last thing I need is to get laid and played by Luke Saint. He thinks that just because he saved my orchard from a fire, he can tell me how to run it. He thinks he knows what I need, what I crave. The problem is, I think he might be right.
Luke looks down at me, his blue eyes flashing. "You're damn uppity for someone who needs something from me." Someone who needs something from me. My mind flashes immediately to sex and I hate myself for it. "Uppity? I didn't ask you to come in here and cook. Or poke around my orchard." He leans in close to me. Too close. I can smell him, soap and aftershave, clean and masculine. "I wasn't poking around," he says, his voice low. "And if I did, you wouldn't be complaining." Heat rushes through me at the thought of Luke poking around anywhere, and I force the thought out of my head. "I don't need you. For the record." The way he looks at me makes me blush even harder. "We both know that's not true, Red," he says. "I don't," I say, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. "And this little charming flirting act of yours might work on girls your own age, but it doesn’t work on me." Luke grins. "So you admit it's charming, then?" "I said it was an act." "You said charming," he says, pulling coffee from his bag. "Now, can you make coffee, or is your coffee just as crap as your food?" I take the bag from his hand, groaning in frustration. "You don't have many friends, do you?" "I could ask the same thing of you, sweetheart," he says. "Why don't you make the coffee and then get out of my kitchen?" "It's my kitchen," I say as I fill the pot with water. "And you're working for me. Apparently. Which we haven't even discussed. Aren't you concerned it's slightly inappropriate, cooking your employer breakfast?" Luke walks up behind me, his hand on the side of the sink. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, and I swear that as soon as it hits my skin, I stop breathing. My heart thumps loudly in my chest, and the water overflows from the coffee pot, running down the sides of the glass and over my hands, but I don't move. Luke reaches around me with his other hand, shutting off the water. His arm grazes my shoulder and sends a jolt of electricity runs through my body. "This is nowhere near inappropriate, Red," he whispers, his voice barely audible against my ear. "Inappropriate would be if I cooked you breakfast in the morning, after you came on my tongue the night before." I swallow hard, my heart beating so fast I swear it's going to beat right out of my chest. Then he walks back to the counter, nonchalant like he didn't just talk about me coming on his tongue, and busies himself with preparing breakfast. I stand at the sink for a moment, my hand gripping the edge tightly, and when I glance over at him, he looks at me and winks. Damn it, I think. Hiring him is a very bad idea.
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