Last Chance to enter the Super Summer Reads Giveaway

 

 

Hi my Lovelies! I’m writing this post from the Big Apple — my last days of our annual holiday here, and as you might have guest, there has been reading, writing and inspiration at every turn. I hope your summer is sizzling with fun and adventure. And what would summer be without some good old fashioned binge reading during your summer hols?  That’s why I’m posting a quickie to remind you not to miss out on a fabulous binge read possibility. You only have until Tuesday the 15th of August to take advantage of the chance to win big and get yourself some fabulous freebies while you’re at it. Enter the Super Summer Reads Giveaway at Book Hub. Deets below!

 

Super Summer Reads Giveaway at Book Hub

 

 

You don’t want to miss out. Hurry and enter for a chance to win the giveaway and don’t miss the chance to partake of the freebies as well. Super Summer Reads Giveaway is going on right now at Book Hub until the 15th of August.

 

Three lucky winners will walk away with a HUGE bundle of books. This is a multi-genre giveaway with chances to win other fab reads as well as the chance at the book bundle. I’m very proud to announce that my novel, In The Flesh, the first book in the Medusa’s Consortium Series, is included in that massive bundle.

 

Here’s your chance at a treasure trove of great reads from all genres. To enter just follow the above link. And while you’re there, be sure to check out the other fab freebies as well.

 

 

 

Landscapes FREE!

Just a quick reminder that to celebrate the upcoming launch of Blindsided, you can still downlowad my exciting M/M novella, Landscapes FREE! Landscapes is the very first of the Medusa’s Consortium stories. A fast paced, sizzling, chilling erotic read, Landscapes will definitely whet your appetite for more. All you have to do is click the hyperlink for your free download. Download yours and share the news with your friends so they can download theirs too. I want to spread the fun.

 

 

Happy reading everyone!

 

Beverley Oakley Launch and Giveaway for Devil’s Run

 

 

 

 Be sure to enter the Giveaway:

Beverley is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here.

 

Devil’s Run Blurb:

A rigged horserace and a marriage offer riding on the outcome. When Miss Eliza Montrose unexpectedly becomes legal owner of the horse tipped to win the East Anglia Cup, her future is finally in her hands – but at what cost?

 

George Bramley, nephew to the Earl of Quamby, will wager anything. Even his future bride.

 

Miss Eliza Montrose will accept any wager to be reunited with the child she was forced to relinquish after an indiscretion — even if it means marrying a man she does not love.

 

But with her heart suddenly engaged by handsome, charming Rufus Patmore who has just bought a horse from her betrothed George Bramley in whose household her son lives as a pauper child, the outcome of the wager is suddenly fraught with peril.

 

 

**This is book 3 in the Scandalous Miss Brightwells series, though it can be read as a stand-alone.

Amazon US | All other retailers

 

 

Devil’s Run Excerpt:

Chapter One

 

“And there’s nothing else you’d like, my dear? No?” Straightening after receiving a polite rebuff, George Bramley found
it an effort to keep the syrup in his tone. His bride-to-be had not even looked at him as she’d declined the piece of marchpane he’d been certain would win him at least a smile.

Hovering at her side, he weighed up the advantages of a gentle rebuke, then decided against it. Until yesterday, he’d thought her quiet demeanour suggested a charmingly pliant nature. Now he was not so sure. In fact, suddenly, he was not sure of anything.

“A glass of lemonade, perhaps, my angel? Or a gentle stroll?”

“I would prefer to be left alone.” Miss Montrose waved a languid hand in his general direction, while she continued to gaze at the still lake beside which their picnic party had situated itself.

The languid arm-wave had not even been accompanied by a demure thank you as subtle acknowledgement of her gratitude that not only had Mr Bramley, heir to a viscountcy, stepped in to rescue Miss Eliza Montrose from impoverishment, he was prepared to treat her publicly as if she were as fine a catch as he could have made.

A soft titter brought his head round sharply, but the ladies behind him, bent over the latest Ackerman’s Repository, appeared occupied with their own gossip as they lounged on cushions beneath the canopy that had been erected to protect them from the sun.

Awkwardly, he looked for occupation as he continued to eye his intended with a mixture of irritation and desire—both lustful desire, and the desire to put her in her place.

The idea of the latter made him harden. She was beautiful, this quiet, apparently retiring, young woman who said so little, but whose eyes spoke such volumes. The afternoon sun glinted on her honey-gold hair and imbued her porcelain skin with a warm glow. The skin that he could see, at any rate.

He pushed back his shoulders. On their wedding night in six weeks, when he’d at last take possession of her, he’d rip that modesty to shreds. The skin she was so at pains to hide would be his, not only to see, but to caress and taste. When she was his wife, the beautiful, distant Miss Eliza Montrose would no longer get away with paying George Bramley so little attention. No, he’d have her screaming and writhing at his command. He would make her like the things he did to her; or at least, show him she did if she enjoyed harmony as much as she appeared to. None of this languid reclining like a half-drugged princess in his presence. He’d keep her on her toes, ready to leap to his bidding at the sound of his footstep. She’d learn to be grateful.

Feeling ignored and superfluous, he turned to his uncle’s detestable wife, Lady Quamby, and said with a smile, “Perhaps you and Miss Montrose would like to accompany me to the turret. Since you appear to have enjoyed this new novel, Northanger Abbey, so much, you might be interested to know there is an excellent view of the ruined monastery not far from here.”

He was just priding himself on being so attuned to the feminine inclination for pleasure, when Lady Quamby half turned and sent him a desultory smile. “Oh, I think Miss Eliza looks perfectly comfortable, and Fanny and I are having such a lovely little coze.” As if imitating Miss Montrose, she waved a languid hand in his general direction. “Why don’t you take Mr Patmore off to see it? The two of you can tell us all about it when you return.”

The fact that Miss Montrose didn’t deign to even speak for herself, much less glance in his direction, sent the blood surging to Bramley’s brain. By God, when he was married to Eliza Montrose, the limpid look of love so lacking now would be pasted onto her face every time he crossed her line of vision. She’d soon learn what was good for her.

He inclined his head, hiding his fury, and was on the point of leaving when Lady Quamby’s sister, Fanny —for he’d be damned if he’d accord the little strumpet the title of Lady Fenton—leapt up from her chair. She’d been poring over the latest fashions, but now she smiled brightly up at him.

“I’ll come with you, Cousin George. We’ll have an excellent view of the children learning to row from the battlements. I told Nanny Brown she could take them in the two boats if they’d been good.”

Bramley stared down her liveliness. In fact, he was about to give up the idea of going up to the battlements altogether when his other guest, Rufus Patmore, suddenly rose and joined Fanny’s side with a late and unexpected show of enthusiasm.

“Capital idea!” declared Rufus.

George flashed them both a dispassionate look. He’d chosen to invite his betrothed, Miss Montrose—whose chaperone was currently tucked up in the green bed chamber nursing a head cold—to be his guest at his uncle’s estate, Quamby House, after receiving intelligence that Ladies Quamby and Fenton would be safely in London with their husbands and children. Instead, the brazen Brightwell sisters—as they’d infamously been called when he’d first made their acquaintance—had altered their plans, and were now in dogged attendance, reminding him as they always had, of some awful tenacious climbing plant, determined to find a foothold wherever they could in order to rise in the world.

Rufus, a last-minute addition and acquaintance from his club, Boodles, was here because he’d just purchased a horse from Bramley the night before. Now, Rufus was gazing at Lady Fenton, with the same dewy-eyed fondness George was used to seeing reflected in the eye of his uncle, the Earl of Quamby, who called the Brightwell sisters his precious rose-buds. To George, they were common dandelions! And now they had overridden Quamby House, the rambling Queen Anne manor house and estate that would have passed to George the moment his uncle quit this mortal coil, were it not for the snotty-nosed infant Lady Quamby had borne far too early in her marriage to George’s uncle.

George shook his head. He’d changed his mind. Only, there was Rufus striding across the lawn, skirting the lake with Fanny at his side, and George didn’t want to be seen as petulant for having offered the suggestion in the first place. Or have his snubbed and ignored status so much on parade, since the two remaining ladies—Miss Montrose and Lady Quamby—had their heads bent together in deep discussion, with no apparent interest in seeking his company.

By God, he thought, clenching his fists as he set off after them at a brisk trot, they’d all rue the day they showed George Bramley so little respect.

 

 

 

 

Other Books in the Series:

Book 1: Rake’s Honour

Book 2: Rogue’s Kiss

Book 3: Devil’s Run

 

About Beverley:

Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her first her 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher.
Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley became a journalist.

Twenty-six years later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North Sea.

Since 2009 Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances, mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery, intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off a thrilling race to save someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel from the noose – it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt Scotch.

Beverley lives with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.

You can get in contact with Beverley at:

website | Facebook | Pinterest | Twitter | Goodreads

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Sexy Just Got Kinky Now Just $.99/99p

 

 

Sale – Sexy Just Got Kinky Just 99c/p!

The Brit Babes have some great news! Our deliciously naughty anthology, Sexy Just Got Kinky, is currently on sale for
just 99c/p. Get your copy now. But you’ll want to hurry because the sale ends this Friday!

Sexy Just Got Kinky Blurb:

Tantalise your dark side with kinks to make you think. From lovers behind bars to lone ladies behind the lens—fisticuffs and feathers, lilos and lube, scissors and sticks, whips, canes and bondage, there’s sure to be a kink within these pages to whet your appetite, tickle your fancies and heat up cold nights.

So, what are you waiting for? Grab your copy quick, and please tell all your friends!

 

 

 

 

 

Get your copy of Sexy Just Got Kinky here:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Amazon AU

Amazon CA

Amazon DE

Barnes & Noble

iBooks UK

iBooks US

Kobo

Smashwords

 

And just to tempt you a little bit more, here is an excerpt from my contribution to Sexy Just Got Kinky, A Bird in the Bush. Enjoy!

 

A Bird in the Bush Excerpt:

Cockerel, rooster, male chicken—whatever the hell you wanted to call him, he was enormous! Think Big Bird of thebarnyard, and you get the picture. Oh my God! I wanted to bury my face in those gorgeous scarlet and emerald tail feathers while he wriggled his arse and cock-a-doodle-dooed at the top of his lungs.

Okay, let me just clarify before you get the idea that I do obscene things to animals. This was not a real cock… not the barnyard kind. I did say think Big Bird, didn’t I? This was a man strutting around Stoke Park in a fucking chicken costume! And it was a bloody brilliant one—no cheap-arsed papier-mâché, not this cock, no siree! Even from a distance—and it wasn’t much of a distance because I nearly ran into him on the sidewalk in front of the duck pond—I could tell those luscious plumes were genuine ostrich. Even the very thought had my nipples drilling through my vest.

The ginormous rooster stepped back all chivalrous-like and gave me a well-executed bow. Before I could ask what a big cock was doing parading around the duck pond in Stoke Park, he reached into a leather bag that hung over one broad avian shoulder and pulled out a lollipop, which he unwrapped. And then the cheeky cock stuck it in my mouth, brushing the tip of my nose with the soft golden feathers that covered his hands.

My dirty mind went crazy. I’ll admit I might have even moaned out loud and rolled my eyes. I mean it was a cherry lollipop, for God’s sake! The end resembled the tip of a penis all bright and hard like it was anticipating some serious in and out, and the giant rooster just sticks it right in my mouth! It’s bad enough that I moaned, but then… I slurped. Loudly. I didn’t mean to, honestly I didn’t. It’s just that I was already salivating and having something hard stuffed into my mouth when I was fantasising about a tumble behind the shrubbery with those thick, silky feathers wrapped around me, how could I not slurp?

 

Sex as a Creative Act

(From the Archives)

Sex and creativity are often seen by dictators as subversive activities.  –Erica Jong

 Several years ago Victoria Blisse and I led a panel discussion on sex and spirituality, a discussion we both felt was essential to erotica writers. We didn’t know what to expect, but a full house of enthusiastic people willing to share their thoughts on the deep connection between the spiritual and the sexual and the common vocabulary as well as the common experience is what we got. We both came away feeling like we were the richer for the effort, and I came away with my mind racing about that creative act of sex and where it leads us.

A while back my husband emailed me a link to an article about masturbation as a treatment for restless leg syndrome (It’s orgasm that actually seems to help. The means is optional.) I can almost see you scratching your heads in a WTF moment with that statement. 🙂 Anyway, the article led us to an impromptu discussion of all of the other benefits of sex. Sex is a good sleep aid, sex can help with weight loss, sex can improve skin, hair and nails, just to name a few. There was even an article in Psychology Today about semen as an anti-depressant. Strangely enough though, the jury, however, is still out on whether sex is an aid or a deterrent to creativity.

For the naysayers, abstinence has long been championed as a way to focus sexual energy for creative purposes. On the other hand, a 2009 study at the University of Newcastle-on-Tyne and the Open University showing that professional poets and artists had almost twice as many sex partners as other people. The study also showed that the number of sex partners increased as creative output went up. The conclusion drawn was that the more creative you are, the more sex partners you were likely to have.

I’m sure that’s a simplification, but I wonder which came first: the sex or the creativity? Is it the creative force that makes us horny, or is it being horny that makes us creative? My guess is that every writer, poet or artist would answer that question differently. However, I don’t think there’s any denying the close connection between the creative force and sexuality. Nor do I think that’s particularly surprising. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Freud was right. It IS all about sex. But I wonder whether we really understand just what sex is all about.

Yes, the basic biology is obvious, but we humans haven’t had sex simply to procreate in a very long time now. We’ve evolved to want, to expect, even to need more from the sex act than just the next generation. Perhaps that goes hand-in- hand with our cultural evolution, what sets us apart from our animal cousins — at least in our own eyes. For humans, all things seem to have evolved two meanings. First there is the concrete realm in which we’re born, nurtured, thrive, reproduce and die. But we develop another level of meaning when we no longer have to use all of our energy just to survive. When starvation is no longer an issue, food and its preparation and presentation become art. When keeping out the cold is no longer an issue, clothing becomes fashion, and magazines tell us how we can be walking galleries for the art of clothing. When finding shelter from the elements is no longer necessary, our very homes become an artistic expression of ourselves. In a world where all our basic needs have evolved more than one meaning, the artistic expression becomes as important as the function.

But all of these necessities are mundane. Sex is not. For our ancestors, sex was the magic by which two people become three. Today sex is the magic by which two people become one, or by which one person becomes more herself or himself. On one hand procreation has given way to re-creation,  but on the other hand, how can an act that has evolved from the very need to create the next generation be rooted in anything but creativity?

How can the process of creating be anything but sexual? Writing a story is a penetrative act resulting in something larger, something much more alive than the words on the page, than the idea conceived. That’s heady stuff. That’s the writer in full rut. It’s intimate, it’s messy, it’s rough and tumble, it’s voyeurism and exhibitionism and full-on heat. If it isn’t, then there hardly seems to be a point.

That being said, anyone who has had good sex, lingering sex in which time seemed no longer to exist, will recall that
what mattered was the wonder of the act itself, the amazing intimacy with the other. Any writer or artist knows that experience up close and personal. At some point the creative act itself becomes the sum total of existence. The writer’s world shrinks to and expands out from that act, and the end no longer matters.

So how did I get from masturbation for restless leg syndrome to once more worshiping at the altar of the Divine Creative Sexual Force? Well I suppose it’s all just a part of the journey isn’t it? And besides, where else would I go with it?

 

British Bad Boys Last Chance

If you’ve not downloaded your copy of the British Bad Boys Boxed Set, do so without further delay, or read it on Kindle Unlimited. This fab boxed set, which contains my novella, In Training, will disappear from bookshelves forever on August 11th. Download and it’s yours to enjoy again and again. Read on Kindle Unlimited and enjoy the fantastic advantage of an online free library. Five days left! Don’t want to miss the opportunity.

And here to tease and titillate is a little excerpt from my novella, In Training. Enjoy!

British Bad Boys Boxed Set Blurb:

Indulge yourself with this boxed set of stories written by bestselling and award-winning British romance authors. No one knows British bad boys better than they do!

Come and spend time with a dirty-talking London tattoo artist, a Scottish bad boy, a British gangster who won’t take no for an answer, and MORE! These men are all hotter than hell and have accents to die for. Whatever your desire, you’ll find it within these pages.

Packed full of brand new standalone, steamy stories with no cliff-hangers. With happily-ever-afters guaranteed, you won’t want to miss out on this limited collection, available for a short time only!

In Training Blurb:

Getting fit on reality TV is PR guru, Lauren Michael’s, brainchild for gym equipment and fitness company Physicality, Inc. The brilliant PR stunt involves one brave volunteer who wants to be fit badly enough to submit to the not so tender training techniques of personal trainer, Wolf Jennings, whose successful, but non-conventional, methods would make a drill sergeant look like a fluff ball. But when CEO and owner of Physicality, Inc, Claire Amos, decides her PR ace in the hole needs to walk the talk , Lauren finds herself between a kettle bell and a hard place … er a hard trainer. That’s nightmare enough, but for six weeks, 24/7 the explosive chemistry between the two will be sweated out live on camera for the whole world to see. What could possibly go wrong?

In Training Excerpt:

And suddenly it was like that slow motion scene in a horror film, just before the pretty young innocent is shredded by Freddy Kruger or pursued by the monster from the fetid swamp. Wolf Jennings turned to gaze at the camera from beneath hooded eyelids that revealed familiar blue eyes. He offered a smile that was damn near erotic. Then he said in a very northern accent, “If you do your part, I guarantee I’ll get you there.”

As the clip ended and Misty and Del were once again on camera, Lauren sat frozen to the spot, just like all those poor women in the films. She didn’t scream, though she felt like it. Instead she managed in a shaky voice, “I can’t work with him.”

“I can’t work with her.” The response on the other end of the phone was simultaneous. The familiar voice was honey and heat and frustration. Then he continued, sounding at least as breathless as he had on his video, as he had when he got up close and personal with her in the garden behind the pub. “There’s been some mistake, Claire. I can’t work with her. We can’t work together.”

The smile on her boss’s face slipped just a fraction. “Why ever not Wolf?  You two are perfect together. Not only is Lauren comfortable on camera, but she’s horribly unfit.” Before either of them could respond, she continued. “I need my PR ace in the hole fighting fit, and right now I doubt if she could fight her way out of a paper bag.”

“Oh yes I could.” Fuck Laruen sounded like a kid at the Christmas pantomime.

“Didn’t look like you could on the stairs,” Claire responded. She turned her attention back to Jennings. “Obese couch potatoes or under muscled, out of shape career women, unfit is unfit, Wolf.”

“I’m not really that unfit.” Lauren barely got the words out before they both said in unison

“Yes you are.”

A part of her wanted to crawl under the seat in her embarrassment while the other part wanted to punch Wolf Jennings right in his smug gob. Instead she snarled between her teeth. “You lied to me, Jennings.”

“I lied to you?” His voice became a hushed growl. “How do you figure that? If anything you lied to me.”

“As I recall you’re the one who sat down right next to me and wheedled your way in. I didn’t ask for your company.” She leaned closer to Claire’s iPhone, which the woman obligingly held up for her, with a bemused shrug. “I didn’t even know who the hell you were, or you’d have been wearing your Sneck Lifter.”

“Did you two have sex?” Claire Amos seldom pulled punches.

“We didn’t.” Lauren said.

“We would have.” Wolf said

“Would not,” she responded.

“Oh and that’s why you grabbed for the condom was it? You couldn’t even wait to get to a room.”

“You had me pushed up against the garden wall. I wouldn’t have come near you if I’d known that you were Wolf fucking Jennings.” She grabbed Claire’s phone away and all but yelled into it. “Look I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to. I’m not one of your fucking gym bunnies.”

“Clearly,” he spat back.

Lauren felt the chill of doom crawl up her spine as Claire took the phone from her hand. The smile on her face was back, this time with a good dose of scheming behind it. “Let me get this straight, the two of you ran into each other in a pub?”

“Yes.”

“And one thing led to another and you got touchy-feely.”

“Yes.”

“Mind telling me why you didn’t do the deed?”

“You sent me the fucking file with Lauren Michael’s image front and centre,” Wolf managed. Even on the phone, Lauren could tell he was struggling as much for control as she was. “I don’t sleep with my clients.”

“Well you must not have been too into each other if you let a little text file stop the action.”

“I didn’t check it intentionally.” He sounded offended. “The phone fell out of my jacket and the message popped up with Lauren’s name and photo.”

Claire actually giggled. “I won’t even ask which of your explosive cardio moves you were trying on Lauren that made your phone fall out of your pocket.”

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© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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