The Eligible Billionaires Boxed Set (Books 1-5) by Maggie Marr

Special price $6.99 (price goes up to $9.99 on 5th January 2017)

Blurb Eligible Billionaires Boxed Set Books 1-5:

For a *LIMITED* time Get five Bad Boy Eligible Billionaires for one ultra low price! Meet Cole, Tristan, Nick, Ryan, and Trevor. Jet set from South America, to L.A. from the exotic resort of Mesquale to France, with a media mogul, corporate raider, real estate tycoon, resort owner, and restaurant heir. Each Bad Boy Billionaire is shockingly sexy both in and out of the bedroom. Enjoy all five of the Bad Boy Eligible Billionaires!

Buy links:

Amazon: http://mybook.to/eligible1to5

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/eligible-billionaires-box/id1167094956?mt=11

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/eligible-billionaires-box-set-books-1-5-maggie-marr/1124918311?ean=2940156874484

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/eligible-billionaires-box-set-books-1-5

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Maggie_Marr_Eligible_Billionaires_Box_Set_Books_1?id=ssZJDQAAQBAJ&hl=en

*****

Excerpt from Can’t Buy Me Love (Eligible Billionaires Book One)

“Is it always this hard?”

For Cole Jackson only one response answered Meg’s question: Yes. Every conquest was the outcome of a hard-fought battle, every win the results of a decimated other side, every challenge more difficult than the last. Otherwise, what was the point? With ease came softness and with softness a swift defeat.

Cole yanked at the knot of his cobalt blue tie, tired of the daylong stranglehold. On the far side of his office window, night sucked away the last light of day as the sweltering orange sun surrendered to the Pacific. The streaks of pink, orange, and fuchsia that decorated the sky failed to captivate Cole. He could witness such displays of color on any horizon, in any city, on any night—so why waste time with this sunset?

Cole reached for the crystal decanter stationed on the bar in his office. His pour was generous and neat. Amber liquid shimmered in the final rays of the sun. He sipped the bourbon. Heat slid down his throat, but the liquor didn’t scorch him nearly as much as the woman who, after a six-month absence, now stood in his office.

“There are cell phone towers up and down the entire California coastline and the one spot in Los Angeles where I can’t get a signal is your office?”

Meg Parson’s voice was brighter and lighter than the curves of her body would suggest. She shifted her weight and her hip teased forward against her suit skirt. The outline of bone against taut fabric taunted Cole with hints of lace panties. In a careless moment his gaze roamed over her legs, caressed her skirt, and brushed over the outline of her breasts.

Hunger for Meg clutched his belly and twisted hard. Cole turned toward the ocean and the unwatched sunset—away from Meg. Better to feign interest in the blossom of color on the horizon than to indulge his desires to stare at his colleague and former assistant.

“Hello? Hello?” Meg said into the phone.

In the window, Cole caught Meg’s reflection as she flipped her long sable-colored hair over her right shoulder. She tightened her jaw and closed her eyes.

His stomach clenched as Meg’s tongue caressed her pout of a mouth. Cole took another slug of his drink, hopeful that the liquid heat burning down his throat would distract him from his desires.

No. Luck.

He set his jaw in opposition to his craving and pulled his gaze away from Meg’s indelible imprint on the glass. He didn’t need the reflection; her every sinew was seared into his mind but Meg was off-limits.

In the three years she’d worked for him, Meg made herself indispensable, and he had been fool enough to let her become a necessity. She knew everything about him—from the way he took his coffee down to his shoe size. She ran his business affairs seamlessly. He leaned on her. Depended on her. Cole even began to need her and needing anyone was intolerable. To need a person was to appear weak. Need allowed vulnerability to take root. Need was the end of strength. No, to need Meg was completely unacceptable.

“Yes, hi. This is Meg Parson. I have Cole Jackson for Stan Morton,” Meg said.

With the sound of his name on her lips he faced her. This was a business deal, nothing more.

“Of course I’ll hold.” Meg covered the mouthpiece and her blue eyes sparkled with the thrill of the deal. “Why didn’t we use your landline?”

Cole’s heart quickened as Meg’s excitement spilled over to him. Cole sipped his drink and watched Meg over the top of his glass. This time, her proximity, and not the bourbon, seared through him.

“They’re getting Stan,” Meg whispered, still covering the mouthpiece.

Stan Morton owned one of the two things Cole wanted most in the world: TBC Studios.

And the other thing?

Cole’s eyes traced the porcelain curve of Meg’s neck as she twirled a piece of hair between her thumb and pointer finger. Well, the other thing wasn’t for sale, nor was it negotiable. Office dalliances weren’t Cole’s style and neither was a long-term commitment. Meg was the type of woman who required he break both rules, and Cole preferred his relationships exactly as they’d been for the past decade: hot, fast, and disposable.

This deal was Meg’s baby, and once it was consummated Cole would have to promote Meg. If he waited any longer another company would swoop in and grab her. One of his competitors might already be trying.

“How will you celebrate?” Cole rarely asked Meg anything so personal. A dusty pink flush crept over Meg’s ivory-colored cheeks.

Protectiveness surged through Cole.

“I’m thinking Bali.” A smile started in Meg’s eyes and quickly encompassed her whole face as she thought about a luxurious and well-deserved beach vacation.

“Nice choice.”

“And you?”

*****

Author Bio:

Maggie Marr is the author of contemporary romance and women’s fiction. She writes smart, sexy, women and the men they love. She got her start in Hollywood pushing the mail cart at ICM, but quickly rose through the ranks to become a motion picture literary agent. As well as writing, she maintains a boutique legal practice dedicated to the needs of creatives & entrepreneurs. She is the current President of Los Angeles Romance Authors (LARA) and legal adviser to the Women’s Fiction Writers Association (WFWA). Maggie loves all things pop culture and when she isn’t taking care of her clients or writing she can be found reading, chasing kids, or exercising her rescue pup

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Website:  http://www.maggiemarr.net/

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Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/maggiemarrbooks

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/maggiemarr

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30741954-a-forbidden-love

Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services.

 

They must both learn to trust again in order to save her ranch and her life. @TeriLRiggs #westernromance #ColtraneCorners #OldWestRomance

Blurb:

Elizabeth Coltrane has given up on finding a man who will love her in spite of the physical and emotional scars she carries thanks to a mountain lion attack. When her father is murdered, she inherits Coltrane Corners. The only man she can trust to save her cattle ranch is the foreman she just fired…and the man she’s loved since she was a child. But can Elizabeth keep her desire for Chase under control and her heart safe as they work side by side every day?

Chase Cameron is determined the bad blood of his abusive pa will end with him and vows to never marry. When Elizabeth needs his help getting her cattle to market, Chase has to decide if he can do the job while fighting the strong attraction he has to her.

When accidents begin to happen, threatening Elizabeth’s life, Chase discovers he is willing do whatever takes to keep her safe. They must both learn to trust again in order to save her ranch and her life.

Available from Amazon: http://mybook.to/coltranecorners

*****

Excerpt:

Chase stepped past her and stood next to the buggy. “Everett sent me to fetch you home. Now if you’d be so kind as to step aside, Miss Elizabeth, I’d be happy to load your trunk in the back of the buggy.”

Although she deserved his sarcasm, she cringed at the way he said ‘Miss Elizabeth.’ “I’d rather stick a cactus needle in my left eye than ride anywhere with you.”

“I think that can be arranged, but I imagine a poke in the eyeball would hurt like the dickens.”

“I’ve been gone six years, and you haven’t changed a bit, have you? Everything’s a big joke. You’re more infuriating than ever.” What was wrong with her? She couldn’t keep the hateful words from tumbling out. “I’d hoped you might have learned a few manners and social graces. But here you are, still a simple cowpoke.”

“What can I say? Once a donkey’s behind, always a donkey’s behind.” He threw her words back at her. “You know how things go when you spend your days chasin’ after cattle and ridin’ fences. A man can’t be expected to learn much in the way of social graces when he’s out mucking through pastures full of cow patties and horse dung.”

She’d finally pushed him too far, gotten a reaction from him that wasn’t served up with a smile. Elizabeth saw the hurt in his eyes, heard the anger in his voice. Her face heated with guilt.

“I may have been overly crude when I called you simple and a donkey’s behi… Well, you know what I said.” She let her eyes drift down. She shouldn’t have spoken in anger. The insults weren’t very ladylike, but considering the way he’d treated her in the past, she’d truly thought he deserved the words…until she saw the hurt in his gaze.

“I accept your apology—such as it is.”

Her head jerked up. “I wasn’t offering you an apology.”

“No kidding.” His voice was low. “I’ve tried to ignore your bad behavior since this is your first day back, but damnation, Elizabeth, when did you turn into such an uppity snob?”

“Pardon me?” She tilted her head to one side. “I’m not a snob.” Well, maybe she did sound a little snooty, but he was the one to blame for that. He brought out the worst in her. “I don’t—”

He cut her off. “Never mind.”

Her eyes followed Chase as he sauntered back to the stagecoach in that don’t-rush-me cowboy way that always looked so darn good on him. Oh yes, years of hard work had definitely added plenty of muscle and strength to his broad shoulders. He picked up her heavy trunk as if it weighed less than a barn cat and carried the chest on one shoulder to the carriage without even breaking a sweat. He made quick work of securing the trunk, then he was back at her side, standing a bit too close for her liking.

“You gonna let me escort you home or are you planning on walking?” He glanced down at her feet and shook his head. He looked up, tipped his hat back, and scratched his forehead. “I can tell you right now, the fancy city boots you’re wearin’ aren’t gonna carry you very far.”

Elizabeth weighed her options and wondered how she’d managed to back herself into a corner so quickly. Of course she wasn’t going to walk all the way to the ranch, but she sure as heck wasn’t about to admit that to Chase. She couldn’t very well rent a horse from the livery—she wasn’t dressed suitably for riding. Maybe she’d hire a carriage instead.

“Damnation, Elizabeth. Either you’re comin’ or you’re not.”

“I’m still thinking. There’s no need to raise your voice at me.”

“If you’re gonna be noodling on your decision much longer, I’m gonna march my boots over to Burt’s Saloon and have a drink.”

“What a good idea. You go have your drink, and I’ll noodle on the subject a while longer. I’ll give you my answer when you return.”

He was grumbling under his breath as he walked away. She heard him anyway. “Well, if this don’t beat all. Damn fickle woman.”

Fickle? She’d show him fickle. “Oh, Chase, before you go, would you be kind enough to give me a lift up? I’d just as soon sit while I noodle.”

He stomped back in her direction, kicking up small clouds of dust.

She liked—perhaps a little too much—the warm, confident feel of his large hands wrapped around her waist as he gave her a boost up.

“Ten minutes, Miss Elizabeth. Then I’m comin’ back and you’d best have an answer for me.”

Elizabeth busily tucked her skirt’s mountain of material into the carriage.

“I promise. You’ll have your answer when you return.”

For the first time since she’d stepped from the stagecoach, she graced him with a smile.

***

Chase swung open the saloon doors, still riding high on the smile Elizabeth had offered. A smile more brilliant than a Texas sunrise and more embracing than a Texas sunset, he marveled. Instead of the braids she’d worn as a child, her blonde hair was now pulled back in a tight chignon. Several whisper-thin tendrils had escaped, caressing the smooth looking skin of her face. His fingers itched to tuck the flyaway wisps of hair back behind her ears. Better yet, he wanted to toss the stupid hat, free the hair from its tight bun, and run his hands through the loose curls.

Elizabeth confused him. He was drawn to her, yet she’d been nothing but pure mean since she’d stepped off the stage. But damned if a certain one of his body parts wasn’t about to embarrass him in the middle of Burt’s.

What was he thinking? Elizabeth was off-limits. She was right. He was nothing but a simple cowpoke. She deserved better. Hell, for all he knew, he’d turn out like his pa a few years down the road. And what would her father think? Everett was not only Chase’s boss and mentor, he’d become his closest friend over the years. He’d definitely want more than a simple cowpoke with bad blood in him for his daughter. Maybe when Chase’s ranch became successful, he’d finally feel respectable. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. Even when the ranch began producing, his past would haunt him. He’d stick to his plan, one which didn’t include Elizabeth, or any other woman. Now all he had to do was convince his unruly body part of the fact.

He ambled to the bar, ready for a drink, and hoping to put all thoughts of Elizabeth out of his mind. The piano wasn’t playing. Then again, it seldom was until evening when things livened up in town. This time of day, the only noise came from the loud voices and laughter at the table where a group of men were playing a rowdy hand of poker. The place smelled of stale tobacco and cheap perfume. Only two of Burt’s saloon hall girls were strutting their assets around. They were dressed in colorful, flesh-baring costumes and cheap boas. Chase thought of Elizabeth’s feathered hat and smiled. She’d probably paid a fortune for the damned thing. He saddled up to the bar, with a grin still plastered across his face.

Burt brought him his usual shot glass full of whiskey and set it down in front of him with a loud thwack, then did a double take.

“Damn, Chase. What’re you all gussied up for and smiling like an idiot about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy old geezer. Been dippin’ in the barrels a little too much today?”

“I don’t drink this piss-water. I just sell the stuff to fools like you.” Burt leaned in and sniffed. “So come on and tell me, what’s the pretty smell? You’re wearing cologne, ain’t you? Kinda reminds me of cloves.”

“It’s called bay rum and it’s none of your business how I smell.”

“You’re all shaved, bathed, and wearing clean duds.” Burt stared at him for a moment. “Hell in a handbasket, you done gone and dusted off your Stetson. Something’s up.”

“Well, if you gotta know, I’m escorting the boss’s daughter home to Coltrane Corners. I thought maybe, since she’s been living back East for the last six years, she might not be appreciative of ridin’ alongside a dust-covered, unshaven, cattle-smelling ranch hand.” Simple cowpoke my ass. “Now if you’re done mindin’ my business, I’d like to enjoy my whiskey in peace and quiet, and then be on my way.”

The nosey barkeeper leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “Can I ask you one more quick question?”

“If it’ll buy me a moment of alone time? Sure, ask away.”

Burt stood straight, lifted a glass, and wiped at the rim with a cloth. “Are you picking up Miss Coltrane in the Coltrane carriage?”

“Of course I am. You don’t think I’m gonna toss her over my horse’s back and ride away into the sunset with her, do you?” Chase scrutinized Burt’s face and narrowed his eyes. “Why’re you asking?”

“’Cause if my eyesight ain’t failed me, I believe the Coltrane Corners’ rig took off about the same time you was a-walkin’ through the saloon’s doors smiling like a ninny. And you, my friend, weren’t riding in it.”

*****

Author bio:

As a child, Teri made up her own bedtime stories. When her children came along, Teri always tweaked the fairy tales she told her daughters, giving them a bit more punch and better endings when needed.

Now she spends her days turning her ideas into books. She lives in Marietta, GA with her husband.

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Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services.

 

Doing The Gingerbread Man: A Holiday Story

 

I had intended to bake gingerbread men for you lovely lot — you know something nice to share over our Christmas morning coffee. I’d never done it before, but I thought it would be fun. As with the best made plans, the undertaking turned out to be a bit more of a challenge than I had expected.  I found a recipe, made a grocery list and discovered that not a single grocery store in all Guildford had any ground ginger. Not one to be deterred, I decided to be a little more creative and make my gingerbread man fictional. I didn’t need ground ginger for that, and you can still have your Christmas morning coffee and enjoy my gingerbread man. The story is short, very sweet, and complete. Oh yes, and it’s plenty naughty.

 

 

Doing the Gingerbread Man

 

It might have been too much mulled wine, or perhaps a sugar high from eating damn near as much of my holiday baking as I … well as I baked. It might have been just a longing for a little bit of that holiday magic I remembered from my childhood. Whatever it was, on a whim, I decided to bake gingerbread men. I mean why should kids have all the fun. I was alone over the holiday and I had decided that I was going to make the best of it, that I was not going to feel sorry for myself. I was going to have a good time if it killed me, and that good time involved making, decorating, and eating gingerbread men.

The recipe I found online not only promised that my ginger bread men would be tasty, but that they would also be chewy. My mouth watered at the thought. I had all the ingredients, and in my cupboard I found red hots for buttons, dried cranberries for lips and slivered almonds for eyes, plus I had several tubes of icing in primary colors all ready and waiting to spiff up those men when I took them out of the oven.

The recipe was supposed to make sixteen gingerbread people – gender of your own choosing, but I never was great at following a recipe. I reckon they’re just guidelines anyway. Instead of the requisite sixteen biscuit boys, I opted for one giant, macho, gingerbread man, one that would fill the entire cookie sheet. By the time I had the dough mixed up, I’d switched from mulled wine to Prosecco. Truth be told, most ginger bread men were entirely too unmanly for my taste. I intended to create a testosterone charged, hunk of a gingerbread man, one that would seriously make my mouth water and give me something to wrap my lips around. I wanted my big GBM – something that size had to have a name — to have bulging biceps. I’m a commercial artist by trade because it pays the bills, but I’m artsy fartsy by nature, and well-shaped biceps and decent pecs and abs sculpted from liberally-sampled ginger cookie dough were not beyond my artistic abilities. Strangely enough the more Prosecco I sipped, the more creative I became. In no time at all I decided GBM didn’t need red hots for buttons because GBM wasn’t going to wear a shirt. I was having visions of Magic Mike by the time I got down to GBM’s trousers. I had plans for a little blue frosting thong with just enough pouch to cover GBM’s junk. But then I decided maybe I didn’t want said junk covered. After all this was a private performance for an audience of one. “It’ll be much easier for me to eat you and taste your yummy gingery goodness without frosting,” I said to my creation. “Besides who needs all those extra calories?” I could almost swear I heard a low throaty moan, but then more than likely it was my own. I raised my glass to my buffed biscuit boy feeling a bit like Dr. Frankenstein in her laboratory as I polished off the glass, rubbed my hands together and went to work on making sure GBM was … um…err … anatomically correct.

When a girl has her hands on a man’s cock, and she gets the feel for it, the shape of it, the way it responds to her touch, well how can she not get a little wet, a little squirmy, a little hot and bothered, and who would have thought that was true even with a gingerbread cock? I’ll admit I took time out from my efforts for a little browsing of the internet researching just exactly how I wanted GBM’s cock to look, making him wait on the table unformed and unfulfilled while I checked out schlongs online. I decided to go for heavy, somewhere in between flaccid and semi, resting languidly against GBM’s golden tan belly so as not to obscure the view of his weighty balls.

I remember as a little girl secretly pretending that my Barbie and Ken were fucking, even though poor Ken didn’t have the equipment for the job. I only ever did that when my rather conservative mother wasn’t home, and even then I felt guilty. Not tonight though! Tonight I felt empowered. Tonight was all about indulgence, all about my fucking pleasure, and here I was making it up to poor Ken by creating right proper, and proportionately substantial, bits for GBM, shaped to suit my very active fantasy life. For a long time now, my sex life had been solo, so my fantasies tended to be doozies. That meant I saw and heard sexual innuendo everywhere in everything, and eating a hot gingerbread man was just too delicious not to fantasize about.

When I finally got down to serious hands-on with GBM’s meat and two veg, my buzz was way more than alcoholic. I was the queen, I was the creator, the dominatrix, I was GBM’s goddess and he lay before me passive and obedient to my will. And then the true artist in me came out. In my imagination, the feel of a cock became almost tactile. I imagined a man asleep not yet aroused to my touch. I imagined sliding close to him, under the blankets, all naked and needing, needing the feel of maleness — of maleness needing me back. In my mind’s eye, I traced the silken smoothness of hard growing beneath soft. I cupped the weighty sac, slightly cooler to the touch, full and tight, resting in my hand. My mouth watered anticipating the taste of maleness, ginger and spice and everything nice, everything so fucking nice.

“Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.”

“Oh trust me, my little humunculous, you don’t want to run from me, not when I have your cock in my hand. Oh yes, I can see that smile on your face. You can’t fool me. I know what you want, and when I’ve made it so hot you can’t stand it, I’m going to eat you.”

I would have considered taking a break to tuck my set of shiny love balls up inside me, to jiggle and tease me while I worked on my creation, but I couldn’t leave him alone in such an unsatisfied state. Instead I stood at the counter hunched over his prone body, shifting from foot to foot, pressing my thighs together. The heady smell of ginger and heat flaring my nostrils and filling my mouth with saliva as I touched and fondled and formed the cock of my dreams. Lust heated the kitchen far more than the oven did. Sweat trickled down my spine, and thoughts of Pygmalion, in love with his own creation, thoughts of breathing life into grain and spice, leavening and oil connected me to an age old story of wanting, needing to create something to love, something that would love me back, something that I knew intimately because I had touched him as no one else had or ever would. Even in my state of arousal, my state of need, I found myself waxing all Biblical to GBM, with my slightly enebriated, more than a little bit self-centered version of Psalm 139.

 

For I created your inmost being;

I knit you together on my kitchen counter.

 You are fearfully and wonderfully made,

Even if I do say so myself

 

In the heat, I had shed my shirt and jeans, standing before my man in my red Christmas knickers and bra with a sprig of mistletoe in my damp hair, anticipating some serious mouth action when GBM was complete. At last, pleased with the shape of him, I got down on my knees and tuck him on his non-stick surface into the oven raising my arms to the heavens as I shut the oven door and steamed the glass all but shouting, “live, damn you! Live!”

Okay, now I know this sounds insane, but the second I did that, there was a flash of lightning and the electricity buzzed popped and crackled, and then went out, leaving me in the dark with GBM in his super-heated prison. But never fear, my oven is gas, and while I lay half naked curled on my side with my fingers in my panties, GBM got hotter and hotter and more and more ready, and I swear, his cock got bigger and bigger. Okay, yes, I know that’s the result of baking soda, but you gotta remember, I was in an altered state, I was just this side of Nirvana, I was having a religious experience.

Perhaps I passed out. Perhaps I really was temporarily traipsing around Nirvana. I had to be dreaming, though, because when the lights came back on the oven door burst open and wow! GBM crawled out all bronze and rippling and fully grown. Some parts of him were way more fully grown than others. And what do you think? The first words out of his mouth were, “I want to eat you, my lady, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

I always figured I’d be a beneficent creator, so I laid back in front of the oven and let GBM open my legs and run his hot, gingery, very talented tongue all over my juicy landscape. And just when I was writhing and grinding and guiding his ginger head closer to my itch, he pulled away, and I got my first look at that magnificent spicy, bronze cock, raised for the occasion.

The heat of him all but scorched me raw as he shoved his sizzling thickness up inside me and began to hump and thrust, filling the whole kitchen with the spicy, humid scent of sex and ginger – some of it his, but a good bit of it mine. He rode me until I knew I’d have bruises on my ass, and I didn’t care. I wrapped my legs around his floury ribs and met him thrust for thrust, slipping and sliding up and down his well-buttered torso. When I came, he pulled out and straddled me, holding his heavy staff up to my lips. “Eat me. Eat me now,” he said. I barely managed a few delicious licks and sucks down his gingery length before he came in buttery, spicy purts at the back of my throat. “I heard you love cream fillings,” he managed as he exploded again and again until butter and ginger and crème ran down my chin and onto my tits and I sucked and slurped and mewled like a kitten. How could anything taste so good?

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?”

I came to feeling a little singed around the edges and looking up into startling brown eyes. I blinked, not sure but what I was still dreaming, then I blinked again as I took in the total package, looking up into an outdoorsy tanned face with strong cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose that looked as though it might have been broken at one time. There was a full-lipped smile and a dimpled chin and the whole lot was topped off with bed-headed ginger-bronze hair and matching stubble.

“What happened?” I managed through a parched throat.

“You had me really worried there for a minute,” his voice was a toffee rich baritone I could have eaten with a spoon. “I think it was some sort of an electrical surge, or something. I heard it from outside and saw this bright flash of light. When your door was standing open, I feared the worst.”

“I was baking.” I did a quick glance at my oven, then did a double take only to find that the cookie sheet was empty and smoking heavily.

“Mm,” the man said, glancing first at the recipe for gingerbread men on my phone, which now lay on the floor next to me. Then he stood, grabbed a potholder and pulled the empty cookie sheet from the oven with a hearty chuckle. “What happened, did your gingerbread men run away?”

“I guess maybe he did,” I replied, looking around the room, as he offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. “I did threaten to eat him, after all.”

“Him?”

“There was just one. A big one.” It was then that I noticed my state of undress. “Oh god, I’m sorry. It was, well it was really hot in here, so I …”

“It is, hot.” He said, the smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he looked away to give me a little privacy. “Could have been all the heat that caused the electrical surge.”

“I’m sure that was it.” I replied.

“I’m Nick, By the way,” he said, still keeping his eyes averted. “I just moved in next door.”

“Janet,” I replied, zipping my jeans and turning to face him. “Welcome.”

He shot me a quick glance and when he saw that I was decent, he offered his hand. “I was just delivering a little Christmas cheer.” And then he gave me a flirty little grin that made me feel hot all over again. He nodded to the plate of gorgeously perfect gingerbread men setting on the table. “Perhaps these’ll make up for the one that got away.”

“Thank you. I had my mouth set for gingerbread men.” Then I added quickly, “sometimes my imagination runs away with me.” I looked around, half expecting GBM to be peeking out from behind the pantry door. “With the size of the one I made though, I imagine he’d still be gooey in the middle.”

“Gooey in the middle is all right as long as he’s hard where it counts. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that.” He ran a hand through mussed ginger curls.

“Well you can hardly be blamed under the circumstances,” I replied. “What with finding me in my underwear all sprawled on the kitchen floor in front of the oven.”

He looked around. “You don’t suppose he has something sinister in mind, this giant runaway gingerbread man of yours, do you?”

“I did feel a bit like Dr. Frankenstein when I was making him,” I said. “It’s possibly he’s now out on the street running amok.”
“If the villagers all turn up with torches and pitchforks later tonight, we’ll know why,” he said.

“Best be vigilant.” I put on the kettle and nodded him to sit at the flour dusted kitchen table, still wondering what had happened to GBM. “So what do you do for a living, Nick?” I asked.

“I just opened a bakery down the street. While I do seriously delicious cookies and cakes, my specialty is breads.”

“Oh my God,” I dropped into the chair next to him, feeling like I’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone. “You own The Ginger Bread Man?”

He raised his brown eyes to meet my gaze, and a smile split his face. “Yup, that would be me.” He pointed to his hair. “I am the ginger bread man.”

 

Wishing you all Delicious Holidays!

 

Gray Christmas: New Holiday Treat from Lisabet Sarai

Gray Christmas Blurb:

Widowed author Emma Granger has reconciled herself to spending Christmas Eve in snowy Boston, with a bottle of wine and her cat. A crash from the apartment above overturns her plans for a quiet evening at home. When she investigates, she meets Nick North, an energetic iconoclast with a gray ponytail, a silver earring and bright blue eyes that kindle feelings she’d thought were gone forever.

 

 

 

You’re never too old for some holiday naughtines

 

 

Buy Gray Christmas Here:

Amazon  US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N6JJIQD/

Amazon UK –   https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N6JJIQD/

Smashwords –  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/691291

 

Coming to other vendors soon! (I hope…)

 

Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33550862-gray-christmas

 

 

Gary Christmas Excerpt:

A bit of gray frizz peeked out from the neckline of his tee. I wondered if he was hairy all over, then blushed when I realized he was looking at me. Did he know what I was thinking? God, I hoped not! How embarrassing it would be if he realized a horny old grandmother was lusting after his body!

 

I nibbled at my cheese, glancing out the window so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “It’s snowing harder.”

 

“Good thing we’re warm and cozy together in here.” Something in his tone made alarm bells ring. When I turned my attention to him, though, he was studying his cracker.

 

“So—um—what about you? Are you married?” Might as well take the bull by the horns.

 

“Was.” He wiped his elegant fingers on his napkin. “She left me for a younger man. About ten years ago.”

 

“Ouch! That must have hurt.”

 

“Yeah, especially since I was in the hospital recovering from heart surgery at the time.” His manner was nonchalant, as though we were still discussing the weather. My chest grew tight in sympathy. “She was a selfish bitch.”

 

“I think you’re being too kind.”

 

“I’m lucky she’s gone. I’m better off without her.”

 

“I think I’d have to agree.”

 

“Though I have to say she was great in bed.”

 

For that, I had no reply. I fumbled with a piece of flatbread, trying to hide my confusion, but I could feel my cheeks were flaming red.

 

“What about your husband? Was he a good lover?” I couldn’t look at him. I knew there’d be a saucy grin on those enticing lips, and a brash twinkle in those eyes.

 

How could I explain about Tom and me? All the great years we had together, so many erotic adventures, and then the pale, bland final decade, when he’d lost interest in fucking. Not that it had been his fault. Between menopause and arthritis, sex simply stopped being fun for me. He hated knowing that penetration caused me pain, so he pulled away, and God help me, I was almost relieved. But now I missed the days when we both loved my body, almost as much as I missed Tom himself.

 

I could hardly share all that with a stranger, though.

 

 

About Lisabet:

Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – nearly one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

 

You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter.

 

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101 is Now Available fore Pre-order

I’m very excited to announce that The Psychology of Dreams 101, which began its life as a serial,  is now available The Psychology of Dreams 101for pre-order as a novella in eBook format. You can get your copy from any of your favourite book sellers. Be warned up front though, this novella is a dark romp through sizzling sexy dreams that can very easily become nightmares. If you like a few chills with your sizzle, then The Psychology of Dreams 101 may be just the stuffer for you eReader stocking.

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101 Blurb:

 

What if there was punishment when you didn’t dream the right dreams? That’s the dilemma Leah Kent, and her professor, Al Foster must face—dream right, or take the punishment. The Psychology of Dreams 101 is a wander into the sexy and dark unconscious as Leah takes a Psychology of Dreams adult education class, only to discover that the required dream journal leads to some seriously kinky night journeys. But not all dreams are pleasant ones, and some have far-reaching repercussions in the waking world.

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101 Excerpt:

 

You look beautiful when you dream.

That was the first sentence; that was how it all started.

Leah thought it might be some sort of lucid dreaming when she saw the words scrawled across the page of her open journal on the nightstand. She’d had every intention of asking her instructor about it, but then she couldn’t really tell him the dream that had brought it on, could she? It sounded like the sort of thing the unconscious of a pathetically shy introvert would write to herself from the dream world because she had no one in the waking world to say it to her and, while that might be true—the pathetic introvert part, she didn’t want to make it more obvious to her instructor than it probably already was—especially when she had half a crush on him.

Besides, it also sounded like the sort of thing a sex-crazed slut might write to herself when her vibe batteries ran down. That made her sound even more pathetic—the vibe and the batteries part, not the slut part.

She had just started a course on the psychology of dreams. She tried to take advantage of adult education classes whenever possible. It got her out of the house and forced her to interact with other people—real flesh and blood people. With her job, online shopping, online banking, direct debit, grocery delivery, she never had to leave the house really, and that suited her just fine, but she knew it shouldn’t. She knew it wasn’t healthy. Sometimes going to the classes was more of an ordeal than a pleasure, but that was not the case for the psychology of dreams class.

She had to admit, she’d taken that course because she’d overheard several women giggling and talking about how hot the instructor was and how their dreams had become very sexy since they’d started his class. A part of the class work was to keep a dream journal. The women had been sitting at the table next to her in the coffee shop poring over their journals together and laughing about how they thought Al—Al Foster was the instructor—would respond when he read their dreams. She’d been taking a photography course then, and it had been one of the few times Leah had actually forced herself to initiate conversation, asking the women about the class. They were only too happy to share, and soon she was laughing and blushing and joking right along with them as they told her all about the psychology of dreams course and how it had truly stimulated their dream life. The next term, she signed right up.

A dream journal—that had sounded simple enough when Al—he’d insisted they all call him Al—had explained what it was. All she had to do was write down her dreams every morning when she woke up. But by the time she sat down at the breakfast table with her bowl of cereal and her coffee, dream journal and pen at the ready, she could remember nothing but bits of broken images—nothing dramatic, nothing with hidden psychological meaning—certainly nothing sexy.

After a week of drawing blanks from the dream world, Al had helpfully suggested that she keep the journal open by her bed, and that she set an alarm for every two hours. When the alarm went off, she was then to write just a few key words of what she remembered, words that would jog her memory in the morning.

The first time the alarm went off, she woke disoriented and confused. By the time she remembered why she’d set the alarm, she also remembered she’d forgotten to set the trash out for pick-up. She remembered that she needed to order some more vitamins online. She remembered that she needed to put the clothes in the dryer, but what she didn’t remember was her dreams.

The second alarm, she must have unconsciously shut off before she got fully awake, but on the third, she managed a little dream snippet about chasing a big dog through the local McDonalds, a dog who had shamelessly stolen her Big Mac right out of her hand. She hated Big Macs, and big dogs made her nervous. Well, that was at least something to analyze, wasn’t it? Though Freud had insisted that sometimes a cigar was just a cigar, surely that didn’t hold true for Big Macs, which she didn’t like, and big dogs, which she didn’t trust. Al would be pleased.

The second night there was a dream about a leather jacket with a huge snake for a collar, a snake that talked—kind of like a parrot. There was a dream in which she’d gone to the supermarket and ended up in a maze, unable to find her way out. There was a dream of planting begonias in front of the convenience store around the corner. For the rest of the week, she was excited to see that the setting of the alarms was working. Her key words helped her to remember details, and the rest was easy.

 Pre-Order The Psychology of Dreams 101 Here:

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Amazon DE
All Romance eBooks
Smashwords

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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