Friday, May 6, 2016

Someone Like You Excerpt & Giveaway with Jennifer Gracen

Someone Like You

The Harrisons #2

By: Jennifer Gracen
Releasing April 26, 2016  

Zebra Shout


Pierce Harrison—yes, that Pierce Harrison, black sheep of the wealthy Harrison clan—has come home to his family’s luxurious Long Island compound. The big question is why the dangerously sexy soccer star agreed to coach a kids’ soccer team. His co-coach Abby McCord should be grateful. Instead she’s fending off some seriously smoldering advances from the scandal-ridden athlete. Good thing bad boys are so not her type . . .

Abby is definitely not lacking in passion, but the sweet-faced beauty needs to learn a thing or two about taking a team to the championship—and a whole lot about how to let a man into her once-broken heart. Pierce definitely knows how to make the moves, but will Abby trust that the bachelor the world has condemned as a scoundrel can settle down with the one woman who has taken hold of his heart?

Buy Links:      Amazon | B & N | Google Play | iTunes | Kobo

Author Info

Jennifer Gracen hails from Long Island, New York, where she lives with her two young sons. After spending her youth writing in private and singing in public, she now only sings in her car and has fully embraced her lifelong passion for writing. She loves to write contemporary romance and romantic women’s fiction for readers who yearn for better days, authentic characters, and satisfying endings. When she isn’t taking care of her kids, doing freelance copy editing/proofreading, reading, or talking to friends on Twitter and Facebook, Jennifer writes. She’s shocked her family hasn’t yet staged an intervention for her addiction to social media. But the concerts she gives in her car and the dance parties she has in her kitchen are rumored to be fabulous.
Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodReads 

Rafflecopter Giveaway (Three print copies of SOMEONE LIKE YOU)

Long Island, New York—September

Abby McCord snuck a peek from behind the oak tree, leveled her weapon with stealth, aimed carefully, and fired.
“Aaaagh!” her nephew cried as her shot nailed him right on his head. “Noooo!”
She laughed victoriously and kept shooting her water pistol as she advanced. Soaking his neck, his belly, his shaggy blond hair, she yelled, “Ha HA! I gotcha, little man!”
Laughing too, Dylan squinted and turned, trying to shoot her back, but his aunt had him right where she wanted him. None of his shots even got close.
“Okay, okay, you win, Auntie Abs!” the eight-year-old shouted. He threw up his hands in surrender. “I give! I GIVE!”
“Ah, Dylan m’boy,” she said with mock disappointment. “Never give up. You’re a McCord. We don’t give up. Fight to the death next time!” She walked across the backyard toward him with a big smile.
“You’re right,” Dylan said, and in a blur of motion, he raised his water pistol and shot her right in the forehead. She sputtered, raised her arms to block her face as he kept shooting, and they both laughed and shot at each other until they were thoroughly soaked and their guns were out of ammunition.
“Come on, let’s go have a snack,” Abby said. She dried Dylan off with an old, faded towel on the back steps before letting him into the house. Keeping her nephew occupied for an entire Saturday was no easy task. It was the second week of September, but it was as hot outside as any midsummer day. And she’d be damned if she’d let him sit in front of the TV or computer all day. So while her sister did a double shift at the hospital, she took him out. They’d been to the park early, had lunch at McDonald’s, and back to the house to kick around a soccer ball in the backyard and have water gun fights. She had definitely gotten exercise that day. Being with Dylan was always fun and exhausting.
Abby pulled her bob-length blond hair into a ponytail while Dylan changed into dry clothes. Moving to the kitchen, she sliced up a Gala apple and made a quick bag of microwave popcorn. As soon as Dylan entered, he started begging to watch some television. She looked down into the dark blue eyes he’d inherited from the McCord side, the same as her own. “I’d really rather you didn’t,” she said.
“Aww, c’mon, Auntie Abs,” Dylan begged. “Pleeeeeease?”
A glance at the clock showed it was just past four. Since they’d been out for most of the day, and she needed a bit of a break herself, she relented. Dylan ran for the living room. Five minutes later, she joined him on the couch with the big bowl of popcorn and a glass of ice water.
“How’s it going?” Jesse McCord asked as he came down the stairs.
“Hey, Dad,” Abby smiled. “Taking some downtime after a shootout at the OK Corral out back.”
“I watched you two from upstairs for a bit,” Jesse said. “Heard you yelling and laughing. Looked like a good time.”
“You could’ve joined us,” she replied.
“Nah,” Jesse said dismissively. “Too hot out there for me today.”
“Fiona won’t be home until eight,” Abby said, “but Mom should be home from work by five-fifteen. So we’ll have dinner with her, okay?”
“Sure. What are we having?”
“I have no idea yet,” Abby shrugged.
“I’m watching Phineas and Ferb,” Dylan told Jesse as he crunched into an apple slice. “You like that show, right, Grandpa? Wanna watch with me?”
“It’s one of the only ones I’ll watch with you,” Jesse conceded. His gravelly voice often sounded like a growl, but everyone knew his only grandchild owned his heart. He sat on the sofa on Dylan’s other side and stole a handful of popcorn from the bowl. “As long as it’s not that SpongeBob crap. I hate that show.”
“It’s a good show!” Dylan disagreed as he chewed.
Seeing that they were situated comfortably, Abby decided to steal a few minutes for herself. She went upstairs and ducked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Having left her air conditioner on, the room was nice and cool. Breathing a sigh of relief for the quiet, she grabbed her laptop and sat on her bed.
She glanced around her room as the laptop booted up. Six months earlier, she’d made the decision to move back home. Her parents were getting a little older, Fiona worked a lot of double shifts, and Abby wanted to help them care for Dylan. Her motives hadn’t been one hundred percent selfless, though— she’d wanted to move out of her apartment. Everything there reminded her of Ewan, and she wanted to leave all that behind and start fresh. Dumping that place and moving back home for a year or two to save up money to buy a condo was a good idea. Everybody gained.
So she’d repainted her old bedroom, gotten a new comforter set, and made it a room suitable for a twenty-eight-year-old. The pale teal walls were soft, and her cream-colored comforter and assorted throw pillows were both stylish and inviting. The décor was so different from the hot pink paint she’d grown up with that sometimes it almost helped her not think about the fact that she was a grown woman who’d moved back home.
She logged into Facebook to update her status, writing a quick, funny note about her water pistol fight with Dylan, then started scrolling to check on her friends from near and far.
Stretching out on her bed, Abby glanced at the clock again, knowing she still had some work to do before the weekend was through. Her lesson plans for the week were almost finished, but not quite. Watching Dylan all day had thrown a wrench into her schedule. She loved everything about being a first-grade teacher, but she hadn’t been totally ready to go back this year. The summer hadn’t been completely relaxing. She adored her nephew, but his being an ADHD poster child didn’t lend itself to much peaceful downtime. He’d gone to day camp, but was home by four o’clock every day, and most days, she was the one home with him while Fiona and her mom worked. Her dad, though retired from the force, sometimes did shifts for a local limo company for pocket money. She would have loved to spend the last of her lazy summer days just reading at the beach or the park, instead of taking Dylan there to play and run around . . . but that was why Abby had moved back home in the first place, after all: to help Fiona and their parents with Dylan.
She’d gone back to school the week before, with its usual whirlwind of activity, and signed up to coach Dylan’s soccer team. Two afternoons a week and games every Saturday morning until mid-November. Handling fourteen active eight-year-old boys was sometimes like herding cats. What on earth had she been thinking? She now had very little time that was truly her own, so she stole moments whenever she found them.
She scrolled through the main feed on Facebook slowly, catching up on her friends’ and relatives’ lives for the day. Pictures of babies cropped up here and there, adorable in their diapers and floppy sun hats. Many of her friends from high school were married now, or engaged, and a few had already become parents. Yet here she sat, at twenty-eight, looking at other people’s milestones. Abby sighed.
“Auntie Abs?” Dylan’s voice sliced through the closed door, startling her. “Can we go back to the park? I wanna go in the sprinklers and get ices.”
Her head fell back onto her pillow and she swallowed a groan. She was still recouping from their water gun fight. He was ready for more? She was ready for a nap. “Sure,” she called back. “But how about in half an hour? I just need a little time to relax and cool off. Then I’ll take you, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Auntie Abs.”
Abby heard Dylan’s footsteps retreating. Turning back to the screen, she scrolled farther down. Her mouth fell open as she gasped at what she saw. Pictures of her close friend Allison with her boyfriend Jeff on their trip in California. In a hot air balloon, over wine country in Napa. Getting engaged.
“Ohhh,” Abby cooed, looking through the photos Allison had posted. It had happened only an hour before. God bless the Internet for being able to spread news in real time. Pictures of them gliding high in the sky, a close-up of her new sparkly diamond ring, the tremendous smiles on their faces, all pure joy. Now Abby’s eyes stung with tears. She was deeply happy for her friend . . . and yes, slightly wistful for herself.
WOW! she typed on Allison’s personal page. Congratulations, you two!!! Can’t wait to hear all the details. Call when you get home. Love you!
A loud crash came from beyond the door, downstairs, followed by her dad’s booming voice. “Dylan!” Jesse bellowed. “Why?!? Why did you have to build a tower with Grandma’s pots?” Abby couldn’t help but giggle.

On Sale: Forgotten Promises by Jessica Lemmon

Jessica Lemmon
Released January 19th, 2016

In an edgy, seductive novel hailed by Rachel Van Dyken as “unique and gripping,” Jessica Lemmon introduces the ultimate bad boy . . . and a love that crosses all boundaries.

Morgan Young had a perfect upbringing, and now she’s got a perfect boyfriend and a perfect future—until her twenty-first birthday changes everything. First Morgan finds out, in the most painful way possible, that her relationship is a sham. But that’s nothing compared to the nightmare about to unfold.

It’s too late for Tucker Noscalo. A brutal childhood left him with a bad reputation and a criminal record. Fresh out of jail, Tucker has a score to settle with Baybrook’s crooked chief of police—his own father. Nobody will believe Tucker’s explosive accusations without proof and a good lawyer, neither of which he has on his side. Until he sees someone he used to know, someone who just so happens to be the daughter of the best lawyer in the county.

He needs Morgan to convince her father of the ugly truth. But first he has to convince her, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get her to listen. Confronted by the story of Tucker’s dark past, Morgan feels utterly compelled to help him. And as their connection grows into a fierce bond fueled by raw passion, Morgan finds herself falling for the wrong guy—but never has the promise of love felt so right.

Buy Now for ONLY $0.99

Things aren’t exactly going my way. My breath burns heavy and hot in my lungs as I run. And run and run and run.
Not that I should have expected them to go smoothly. After years spent under my father’s command or seeking freedom from it, it’s eerily unsurprising to find I’ve landed myself in this much trouble just one day after getting released from prison.
Yeah. I said prison.
But I didn’t belong there.
I don’t intend on going back.
Working out in the yard at Baybrook Penitentiary, jogging the perimeter every chance I got, has paid off. Blood is drying on my shirt, the sting of broken flesh on my knuckles a physical reminder of what I am capable of. I dig deep and find the strength to run faster.
Now to find a car. I had a friend when I was on the outside. He owed me a favor. I cut across a yard and skirt a big wooden playground set with brightly colored plastic tubes and slides, wondering what it might have been like to grow up in a house like this. I wonder if the kids were protected. Safe. Loved.
But I don’t have time to do a postmortem on my childhood. Praying no one is looking out of a window, I leap a fence to an attached apartment complex and land on my feet on a crumbling pile of asphalt. The weeds are overgrown, the trees scraggly. There is junk in the yard and garbage in the lot proving that the people who live here don’t give a shit about appearances.
Or much of anything.
People like us have our reasons for feeling that way.
If Lady Luck is any friend at all, she’ll shine on me, and Mark’s Dodge Charger will be parked in exactly the same spot as when he and I used to break laws together. Minor laws. We didn’t kill anybody or anything.
I slink past a few other cars parked under a dilapidated awning, and spot Mark’s Dodge, Chelsea (named for an ex-girlfriend), parked outside of his garage. Similar to the real Chelsea, the car is dull and kind of dirty. But for my needs, the car may as well have a light from heaven shining upon her. This is a blessing when I need one most.
I calm my walk as I approach his driveway, edging along grass that needs mowed and taking a peek through a pair of partially open shabby curtains. My former good buddy is sprawled on his couch snoring, mouth wide open. I wonder if he was able to keep his job at the gravel pit, or if he was fired for one of many reasons he’d been fired from everywhere else. I smile as I remember the fun we had together. Feels like about a hundred years ago, even though it’s been more like two. “Fun” had been a rare commodity in my world back then, and right about now it is extinct.
I consider knocking on his door, asking if I can borrow Chelsea, but I don’t consider for long. The debate lasts exactly two seconds before I turn away from Mark’s window and walk to the car I’m about to appropriate for myself. She’s unlocked so I slide onto the seat and palm the steering wheel, ignoring the sting on my knuckles as I grip the wheel. I haven’t driven a car in a while—not since I stole my father’s Explorer one fated night, and being in the driver’s seat sends a rush of intoxicating freedom surging through my veins.
Freedom I can’t allow to be taken from me. Not again. Not ever.
I am prepared to hot-wire her, a handy trick, but then check the glove compartment—the stupidest place to keep a set of keys second only to the visor.
There, beneath the expired registration is a key taped to the vinyl cover of the owner’s manual.
Before my luck runs out—given the way every other damn thing has worked out tonight, it very well might—I jam the key in the ignition and turn over her blubbering engine. Loud. Way too fucking loud.
As I back out of the driveway, Mark’s door swings open. He lumbers out, wearing boxers and nothing else, rubbing his eyes, his hair and beard scraggly. I stomp on the brakes and shift in to drive. Mark’s stark confusion fades and he smiles.
It’s as good as getting his permission. I jerk my chin in a silent good-bye and gun the engine. The fuel gauge reads three-quarters full, plenty of gas to get me to the shittiest convenience store I can find. I need supplies for where I’m going and if the place is shady enough, the clerk won’t bat an eyelash at my T-shirt covered in blood. One hand gripping the wheel, I keep my eyes on the road while searching the front and back for something to change into. Surely Mark has left a shirt or— My fingers curl around something cool and slick in the back seat and I pull it into my lap. The dark leather smells like pot, and has seen better days—like the nineties—but the jacket will have to do. At least it’ll cover my shirt.
My bleeding knuckles, however . . . I shake my hand out as I pass a Waffle House, several semis parked in the lot, the inside well lit—a little too well lit. Stopping even briefly to wash my hands is tempting, but risky. I settle for the napkins I spotted in the glove compartment when I was digging for the keys.
Alternating hands on the steering wheel, I wipe as gently as possible, grateful that most of the blood isn’t mine and consider I’m luckier than I gave myself credit for a moment ago. My father was always a fighter. I’ve seen him take down a man twice my size—one who was out-of-his-mind high. I shouldn’t have been a challenge for him tonight, but I had the element of surprise.
What I didn’t have was the proof I went to my childhood home to reclaim. The videotape that would exchange mine and my father’s places in the eyes of the law and anyone with a functioning conscious. The plan was to send him to prison, not send myself back. It was time. Jeremy is gone. Mom is safely out of the country.
But now . . . now I don’t know what the hell to do. Without proof of what he’s done, it’s my word against my father’s, and there’s no doubt who the masses will believe.
I have no idea how I’m going to get that tape. It isn’t as if I can go back and ring the doorbell. It’s not like I can go to the police and plead my side of the story.
There isn’t much sympathy for the ex-con who beats the police chief unconscious. Especially when the police chief is his father.

A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.

Kabana Wild and Jamaica Wild Excerpts & Giveaway with Josie Jax

Kabana Wild and Jamaica Wild

Tropical Duets # 1 & 2

By: Josie Jax  
Releasing March 1, 2016 and April 5, 2016

Loose ID

Blurb for Kabana Wild: Tropical Duet #1
Release Date: March 1, 2016 

Three people...three depraved inferno of scandalous pleasures. 
Movie star Mitch Wulfrum is tired of deflecting the gay rumors buzzing around him. It's time for drastic measures to suppress them once and for all--even if it means marriage in name only to the first trophy wife he can get his hands on. And beautiful sugar-cane princess Kiona 'Alohi fits right into his plan.

Kiona can't believe her luck when she's presented with Mitch's proposition. Her overbearing father is dangling her trust fund over her head as an enticement to dump her oh-so-sexy, but oh-so-unsuitable lover, Nakolo. A bogus marriage to Mitch will net her everything she wants--money and love, even if she can only have Kol on the sly.

What she doesn't expect are the sexual sparks that fly between her and Mitch, or, when Kol catches them together, the heat that flares between the two men. One scandalously pleasurable encounter after another fans the flames of attraction, until they begin to dream that all three of them could have everything they ever wanted--and more than they ever expected.

An intricate, fragile web of lies and deceit are all that keep their wanton secrets from erupting into the public eye. Trouble is, one scheming photographer named Anjelee has already clicked the shutter that could ruin all their lives.

Buy Links:      Amazon | All Romance | Google Play | Kobo
Excerpt : Kabana Wild: Tropical Duet 1 by Josie Jax

He thirsted for her as always, but how to get his final fill of her in this cramped little sports car?
Nakolo, the sunroof… It was as if Pele whispered the solution in his ear.
“Stand up,” he ordered.
“S-stand up?”
“You heard me. Stand up. Remove your shoes, plant a foot on each seat, and stand up so your top half is through the sunroof.”
Her mouth fell open, and a sound that resembled a wheeze tore from her throat. He watched as she blinked, scanned the inside of the car, and looked up through the sunroof. Nakolo knew the precise moment understanding dawned on her.
For a full thirty seconds, she stared deep into his eyes, her own tearing up. She finally understood his desperation and intense desire to have her, to reclaim what was his after seeing her with another man.
Kiona twisted, assuring the car remained in park, and removed her shoes. She reached for the sunroof’s edge and pulled herself to a standing position. She was a tall woman, and it was a small car, so with her feet placed as wide as she could get them on each front seat, the roof came to waist level.
She set her elbows and forearms on the roof and leaned on them. “I’m ready,” she whispered down to him.
He scooted forward and drew up her dress, stuffing the front hem beneath the garment’s waistband. And there it was, her jewel—hisjewel. Nakolo’s mouth watered, and his balls throbbed, engorging like a balloon ready to pop.
Hemolele! Mmm, my love, you are so gorgeous, so”—he swiped his tongue up her slit, eliciting a scream from her—“delicious.”
The flavor of cream and faint salt burst in his mouth. Holy islands, she was wetter than the sea. He drew back and studied her toned thighs and the top of the V they held dear. Except for a small patch of dark curls above her clit, she always kept her pussy shaved for him so he could feel her silky lips on his tongue or encircling his shaft. The labia were smooth and naturally tanned, her nub pink and swollen, emerging at the top of her cleft like the early bloom of a hibiscus. God, what perfection!
Nakolo couldn’t delay any longer. He wrapped his arms around her hips and reached behind her. Sinking one finger into her dripping-wet puka, he closed his mouth over her swollen bud.
She screamed again, this time far louder. He heard her hands slap the roof and rejoiced when her voluptuous body spasmed in his arms, against his face. He flicked his tongue over her clitoris while gazing upward through the sunroof. She was like a siren of the sea. He watched as the Pacific winds blew inland, tossing her hair in a wild mass, her breasts perky mounds, her face contorted in ecstasy.
Her pelvis did a swiveling dance, abrading over his face. She growled, reaching for that pinnacle that always came so easily for her. Nakolo pumped his finger faster, adding another, then a third. She spread wider, accommodating him, coating his fingers with her stickiness. With his tongue, he thoroughly explored every fold, crease, and little bulge, knowing the time would come very soon when he would have to yank her down into the car and plunge himself into her.
She was almost there, he could tell by the stiffening of her dance and the animal mewls escaping from deep in her throat. But somewhere in the sexual blur of his mind, Nakolo heard the hum of a car engine. He whipped his head around to see a sleek Mercedes pull up behind Kiona’s car.
“Goddamn it,” he swore when he saw none other than Mitch Wulfrum—the damn movie star—unfold himself from the driver’s seat and stride toward Kiona’s car.
Kiona’s windows were darkly tinted, so most likely Mitch couldn’t see Nakolo. If Mitch had spied Nakolo’s truck back at Jager’s house, he’d probably know Nakolo sat in her car. But if he hadn’t peered out the window at Nakolo’s boyish antics, Mitch wouldn’t know whose truck it was and might assume Kiona was alone and the truck abandoned.
Not knowing one way or the other added an edge of excitement to the unexpected situation. Nakolo’s loins simmered with reluctant fire. Did he want to be discovered or not?
As Mitch approached the driver’s side, Nakolo studied the strikingly handsome face, the tall, lean body…and the bulge in the jeans Mitch now wore. Nakolo swore under his breath. Why was it he found the sight of this man sauntering nearer so very arousing while Kol orally pleasured Kiona? Where had his anger gone? And why hadn’t he demanded an explanation from Kiona about her tryst with this man before Kol had dived right into satisfying his sexual urges?
“Mitch, what are you—what are you doing here?” Kol heard Kiona choke out.

Jamaica Wild: Tropical Duet #2
Release Date: April 5, 2016

Hiding in plain sight at a nude Caribbean resort with her best friend Keefer seems to be the perfect plan for paparazzi photographer Anjelee while she awaits the blackmail funds to hit her offshore account.

But her plans go awry when Jager tracks her to sultry Karibu Resort and threatens to extradite her back to the U.S. and see her imprisoned for her crime. As PR agent to a famous Hollywood celebrity who Anjelee has blackmailed, Jager's loyalties lie with his employer, movie star Mitch Wulfrum.

Or do they?

As soon as Jager steps foot onto the anything-goes island and sees the gorgeous Anjelee and handsome Keefer living it up in the buff, it's as if Jager's been drugged. Before he can get Anjelee in handcuffs and haul her back to jail where she belongs, Jager finds himself smoldering in the Jamaican heat and entangled in the couple's hedonistic web of lust.
Goodreads Link:

Buy Links:      Amazon | Kobo | All Romance | GooglePlay
Excerpt : Jamaica Wild: Tropical Duet 2 by Josie Jax

Chapter One
Jager Manning stepped from the resort’s boardwalk onto the nude-pool deck, his jaw clenched. Despite the breeze whipping off the Caribbean Sea, perspiration coated his forehead. His nostrils flared with his rapid breathing. But he didn’t give a devil’s damn if he looked like a hissing cobra prepared to strike. He would find her, and he would tear her apart with fangs of lethal venom if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth.
His fingers curled into tight fists. No, make that, he would find her, and he would kill her with his bare fucking hands.
He scanned the stone structure of the outdoor restrooms that divided the au naturel area of the resort from the clothing-optional section. A tinkling waterfall tumbled behind the building into crisp blue waters of a huge figure-eight-shaped swimming pool. His gaze briefly touched on each of a dozen naked people, whooping and squealing at the far end during a game of pool volleyball, but none of them were her.
No, he could never mistake anyone else for her.
He didn’t want anyone else.
He wanted her.
Bare-breasted women of all shapes and lovely sizes floated and bobbed in the water, but it didn’t faze him. Hell no. He was on a mission and not to be sidetracked, even by droves of hot, buck-naked chicks.
He darted a look at the swim-up bar and grill to his right. A thin Jamaican man in a bright-red floral shirt and black shorts stood behind the grill, whistling and flipping burgers. Jager’s stomach growled. His flight had only included a snack, so it’d been over seven hours since he’d last eaten anything of substance, yet even the enticing sizzle and meaty aroma couldn’t detour him from his course.
To find that scheming, thieving bitch, Anjelee Montrose, and throttle her from here to the goddamn moon.
His searching stare shifted to the buxom female bartender as she slid a piña colada across the tiled bar toward a buff, tattooed male. Reggae music blared from the overhead speakers. At the man’s good-natured, overtly sexual thanks, the bartender threw her head back and laughed. She gyrated her voluptuous hips to the catchy island tune and flung her long dreds over one chocolate-toned shoulder.
Jager skimmed a quick look across the pool in the direction of an accented female voice typical of those residing on the small island of Karibu just off Jamaica’s southern coast.
“Left hand green.” One of the resort’s entertainment emcees held a colorful cardboard spinner in her hand and a microphone in the other. She glanced toward a group of bodies entwined on the plastic, dotted game board opposite the pool deck from where Jager stood. There was no mistaking the game.
Naked Twister.
His gaze took hungry inventory. He searched for Anjelee amid the tangle of male and female limbs, asses, tits and dangling cocks and scrotums.
Then he saw her. Her husky laughter and pale-blonde, pink-striped hair positively ID’d Anjelee. Her toe-touch position caused her long locks to drape over the rear of another equally blonde woman, but it was the sight of that tight little bare rump sticking up in the air that had him stalking around the pool’s perimeter. His carotid pulse beat high in his neck, whooshing up to echo like a bongo drum in his head. He didn’t take his eyes off her even as he weaved his way around lounge chairs, beach bags, and couples engaging in varying displays of affection.
“Oh, yeah, there you go, baby.” At the nearby male voice, Jager glanced downward toward three people in a clench near the pool’s waterfall. The woman moaned while being sandwiched between two men.
Holy crap. Make that displays of all-out sex.
A dark-skinned, attractive woman in a security uniform emerged out of nowhere and trailed close on Jager’s heels. “Excuse me, mon, but you can’t—”
He held up a hand and cut off the voice of apparent authority.
Nothing and no one could stop him at this point. He couldn’t wait to curl his fingers around Anjelee’s smooth neck, to drag her kicking and screaming back to the States. He longed to watch as the prison bars slammed shut in front of her impish little stunned face. Her green cat-eyes would snap with fury while he laughed his ass off at the spoiled fit she’d no doubt throw once she realized she’d finally been caught.
Jager neared, keeping his gaze trained on her upthrust rear. His mouth watered involuntarily. “Uh-huh, don’t look, you fool,” he mumbled to himself. “No matter how good she looks, she’s not going to distract you from getting even and getting justice for Mitch.”
He stopped directly behind her and raked his stare over the tanned arch of her spine, down along the tight buttocks and shapely legs. Against his will, his eyes riveted back up and zeroed in on the moist slit glistening in the sun.
Jesus Christ, help him.
“Right foot red,” the emcee ordered.
“Red? Oh, shit.” Anjelee let out a giggle of delightful protest, but she twisted obediently into a crabwalk pose.
He waited the endless beat for her to look up and spy him.
Finally, her eyes met his. It delighted the hell out of him when her pupils focused on him in recognition. She blinked, and her tanned, heart-shaped face scrunched momentarily, her stunning eyes finally widening with astonishment.
Jager braced himself for the electricity of her bright-green gaze. Once the power of it leveled out and dissipated in his system, he inhaled and crossed his arms. “Hello there, Anjelee.”
“What…? What are you doing here?” She clamped her thighs shut, but not before he got a full-on view of her shaven pussy lips and the pierced hood above her clitoris.

Author Info

Josie Jax is the new pseudonym for a USA Today bestselling author of erotic romances in various genres. She lives in the Midwest and dreams of becoming a crazy cat lady by rehabbing an old barn into a fancy mansion for stray cats and stranded kittens.
Please visit Josie’s website or feel free to email her at

Author Links:  Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodReads 

Rafflecopter Giveaway ($25 Amazon eGift Card and a Download of Aching for Annabell by Josie Jax)