Blurb:
Book 1 in the No Rival series
Aubree is infatuated with two men, Max and Ryan. The two former Marines have been her close friends ever since she made her first misguided attempt at joining their kickboxing classes. When the pair invites her to join them at a weekend party thrown by Drew, a famous MMA champion, she has no idea what they have in mind. After spending one hot ménage night with the pair, Aubree learns the men’s intentions are not all about her. Feeling betrayed, Aubree turns to Drew who is also tugging at her heart. She must choose between the two men who have been the center of her fantasies, and the one man who could make all her dreams come true.
Inside Scoop: This sexy tale includes a ménage and male/male encounters that may leave you wishing for an alpha male fighter of your own.
A Romantica contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave Publishing
Available from:
Ellora’s Cave
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Excerpt:
Leaning against the cool wood of the hotel room door, she met his stare trying hard not to smile like an idiot.
“This was fun.”
Drew’s eyes flashed. “If you ask nicely, I’ll let you take me to bed.”
She shook her head at his antics. “What if I’m not feeling especially nice?”
Drew brushed his hand over her hip. “You’re right. You did feel naughty,” he agreed. Holding her stare, he bent closer, giving her time to protest his advance. The door opened at Aubree’s back. If she hadn’t hit the solid wall of Max’s chest, she might have ended up sprawled across the floor. Tilting back her head, she took note of the angry expression on Max’s face before switching her gaze back to Drew. His eyes danced with humor as he mouthed, “Denied,” and Aubree slapped her hand over her mouth to smother her giggles.
“Have a nice night, Drew.” Drew ignored Max’s snarling words.
“May I see you again?”
“I’d like that,” she answered without hesitation. Max growled. At the sound, Drew flashed him a cocky grin before giving her a wicked version of it and turning away. As soon as he moved out of the doorway, Max slammed it closed, focusing his ire on her. She’d never seen him truly angry before now. She laughed nervously.
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” she answered, incredulous. “I’ve had two glasses of champagne all night.”
“Your face is flushed.”
Aubree shrugged. “I’m happy. I had a good time.”
Max prowled toward her. The hard set of his jaw caused a flutter of desire to run through her. “Did you forget who you came here with?”
Unable to think of a single retort, she shrugged again. “I’m young and single. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?”
Max’s eyes flashed dangerously. His tone had a bite to it when he spoke. “You are not single.”
Author Bio:
Charity Parkerson is an award winning and multi-published author with Ellora’s Cave Publishing. Born with no filter from her brain to her mouth, she decided to take this odd quirk and insert it in her characters.
*2013 Readers’ Favorite Award Winner
*2013 Reviewers’ Choice Award Winner
*ARRA Finalist for Favorite Paranormal Romance
*Five-time winner of The Mistress of the Darkpath
*Named one of the top 10 best books by an Indie author in 2011- Paranormal Reads Reviews
*Best Paranormal Romance of 2012- Paranormal Reads Reviews
Connect with her online:
–Website: http://www.charityparkerson.com
–Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authorCharityParkerson
http://www.facebook.com/TheMenofSin
–Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/CharityParkerso
Description:
From New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent comes the third in her Random series:
You ever really think that you’ll win the lottery? Meet Mr. Right? How about two Mr. Rights?
Somehow the universe is handing me everything I want (except for that lottery part…), and I don’t like it. Not one little bit. Because just when you get all your dreams handed to you on a silver platter, that’s when an airplane dumps its sewage on your house. Or your mama’s diabetes takes a bad turn. Or your mobile phone gets stuck in your hoohaw.
(What? It happens…)
Boring old average me got everything I wanted already, moving from small-town Ohio to big-city Boston to follow my heart. So when the fancy invitation offering me a pile of money to come with the band, Random Acts of Crazy, to perform on an island resort and be their manager arrived, I thought it was a cosmic joke. Enough money to help my mama get what she needed, five days in sunny paradise, and a shot at greatness for the band? Unreal. One big shoe was waiting to drop. On my head.
Just like no one really ever finds a naked man wearing only a guitar standing by the side of the road hitchhiking and ends up falling in love with him and his friend and moving halfway across the country for true love, no one gets an invitation to come to what turns out to be a resort where people make what me and Joe and Trevor do together look like a chaste peck on the cheek. But…
Well.
I guess these things do happen.
To me.
–-
Pre-order links:
I’m just home from my annual visit with my sister in the States. My luggage arrived home a day and a half later than I did, but no cause to panic. All the clothes were clean, pressed and neatly folded. No laundry for me to do! My sister’s a laundry fanatic. She doesn’t believe in returning home from a trip with dirty clothes, so the night before a flight, I’m handed an over-sized bathrobe. I strip down and my sister washes and dries EVERYTHING! And if it needs ironing, she does that too. I LOVE my sister! My sister most definitely qualifies as a Domestic Goddess. In fact, all of the women in my family qualify as Domestic Goddesses … except for me …
I look fairly well-adjusted to most people, and I can pull off the normal act pretty well after years of practice, but the sad truth of the matter is, I live in the heavy shadow of a long line of domestic goddesses. It’s a burden I bear as best I can, and the women in my family have bucked up well in spite of the family secret. Bless them, they love me anyway., but there’s no denying it. I just didn’t get it … the domestic gene. It’s not my fault. You get what you get, don’t you? And I just didn’t get any of that nesty, homey, Suzie Homemaker stuff in my genetic soup bowl.
My mother could have moved into a cow shed and within a few hours, a few days at the most, made Martha Stewart herself proud. Me, I’m more the type to move into a nice flat and adapt to whatever the previous resident’s version of interior design was. Does repainting everything to my own taste ever enter my mind? Nope! Does buying new curtains and placing pictures tastefully on the wall ever enter my mind? Only if there is a spot that needs to be covered. It’s not that I’m a pig or anything. I’m not even a slob. (okay, maybe I’m a little bit of a slob) I’m just oblivious.
I know there are women who actually enjoy housework. But I’ve never been able to see what’s to enjoy? And what’s the point? Don’t give me all that satisfaction of a job well-done rubbish. Even if I wanted to do it well, I couldn’t. It’s not genetically possible. My efforts, no matter how earnest, are always mediocre at best. My mother and sister, even my sister in-law, and my neices 
could cook a three course meal for a family of twelve in a kitchen smaller than a shower stall and dirty only one pot doing it. My kitchen is considerably bigger than a shower stall, and there are barely enough dishes in my house to make pasta and a salad for my husband and me. No, it’s not a shortage of cookware; it’s a shortage of domestic savvy.
Oh, I took home economic classes like all girls my age were forced to when we were in school, and I even passed the courses, but I think it was because the teacher took pity on me, or maybe she took pity on herself because she didn’t want me back in her class again. Don’t get me wrong, I can cook a decent meal. I can run a vacuum through the centre of the living room to get the crunchy bits all off the carpet. I can iron the biggest wrinkles out of a shirt without ironing back in too many more new ones in the process. I can sew on a button and even get the blood stains out of the shirt afterward from the needle wounds in my finger. But I lack finesse, I lack enthusiasm, I lack that certain domestic spark that the other women in my family just naturally have.
My sister would say my gifts lie in other areas. And she would say that while whipping up a batch of cookies between ironing creases in her tea towels. I love to go to her house. It always feels like someone just freshly unwrapped the package. And the cool thing about my sister’s house is that she manages to make it look clean, smell like freshly baked cookies and feel comfy and welcoming all at the same time. If I ever manage to get my house clean enough to meet the standard and make it smell like freshly baked cookies, the resentful scowl with which I would welcome guests and the deep beetling of my brow from all the effort that doesn’t come naturally would go a long way toward cancelling out the comfy and welcoming feel I was aiming for.
It’s a good thing I can write, because I can’t sew, crochet, make tasty canapés or do any of that homey artsy stuff. Fortunately the women in my family have never held my genetic short-comings against me. They love me anyway. I’m glad, because they do that even better than they do domestic stuff, so I came out okay in the end. And really, I think it’s an excellent trade-off, the domestic gene for the writing gene. I’m not too warped from my dearth of domesticity, and the writing gene has made me almost completely self-entertaining and a very cheap date. Plus I can do a fair job of entertaining others as well. It may just be that in the end, my mother got a real bargain with me after all.
Blurb:
When lonely insurance broker, Bailey, gets himself a new hobby, he ends up exchanging letters with a war zone. But he’s not expecting what happens next…
Bailey Hodgkiss is lonely and dissatisfied with his boring life as an insurance broker. In an attempt to insert some variety, he signs up to a website to write to serving soldiers. He’s put in touch with Corporal Nick Rock, and over the course of a couple of letters, the two of them strike up a friendship. They begin to divulge their secrets, including their preference for men.
Nick encourages Bailey to add more interests to his life. As a result, Bailey picks up his forgotten hobby, photography, and quickly decides to team it up with his other preferred interest, travel.
Booking a holiday to Rome is his biggest gesture towards a more exciting existence, and he eagerly looks forward to the trip. That is, until Nick says he’s coming home on leave, and it looks as though their respective trips will prevent them from meeting in person. Is there enough of a spark between them to push them to meet, or will their relationship remain on paper only?
Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/letters-to-a-war-zone/
Add to your Goodreads shelves: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20722128-letters-to-a-war-zone
*****
Excerpt:
After clicking all the available links on the website to find out more about it, Bailey decided to go ahead and sign up. He’d never know what it was really like unless he gave it a go.
He’d read about the site in an article somewhere, about how it linked people with serving soldiers, pilots, marines and sailors in order to write to them. It had been proven that receiving mail—even from someone they didn’t know—improved military morale. It sounded like a damn good use of time to Bailey, and it would be interesting, too.
He began typing his details into the online form. Of course, the chances were that he’d be paired up with a man, given the ratio of males to females in the forces. It didn’t matter, though. He could still exchange letters with a guy, become friends. It seemed like such an old-school way to communicate with someone, given how technology had come on over the years, but at least it was different. Perhaps it would give him something in his life to look forward to, something other than getting up, showering, going to work, coming home, eating, watching television and going to bed. The watching television—and even the eating—were occasionally replaced by nights out with friends or seeing family. Weekends were spent cleaning, washing clothes, gardening and odd jobs. Dull stuff, in other words.
He had an utterly mundane life, and Bailey knew it. It wasn’t even as if his job was exciting. Insurance broking was hardly thrilling, game-changing, or going to save the world. He didn’t expect having a pen pal to change his entire life, but it would certainly break the monotony. Hopefully.
He went through the various steps to fill in his details and create a profile, then continued right through to the information on actually writing and sending the letters. It looked straightforward enough.
His mind made up, Bailey immediately went in search of a pen, some nice paper and an envelope. Armed with a print out of exactly what to do when the letter was finished, he settled down at the kitchen table. Instantly, his mind went blank. What the fuck was he meant to say? He didn’t know any soldiers or other military personnel, didn’t know anything about their lives, other than there was a great deal more to it than shooting people and being shot at. His own existence was so fucking boring that he didn’t want to write about it. Unless there were any insomniacs in Afghanistan—telling them about his day would solve that particular condition right away.
After chewing on his biro until it broke, covering his lips and chin with ink, Bailey replaced it, resolving to try harder. He’d tell his pen pal the bare essentials about himself, then ask lots of questions about them and their work. That was bound to rustle up some conversation.
That decided, he began to write, absentmindedly swiping at his inky skin with a tissue. He’d have to scrub it off when he was done with the note. His wrist and hand had begun to ache before he was halfway down the page. He rolled his eyes. He sat on his arse at a desk all day, using a computer. As a result, even writing something short by hand was hard work! There was no way he was going to divulge that particular piece of information to someone that was willing to lay down their life to protect their country.
He just about managed to fill a single side of the A5-sized paper. And that was only because he’d formed large letters and spaced his words and lines out plenty. But he tried not to worry—at least he’d finished it, his first letter to a war zone.
He read through it carefully, relieved to find no mistakes. He’d forgotten how much more difficult—and messy—errors were on the written page. Computers let you edit and rewrite to your heart’s content. No correction fluid or crossings-out necessary.
Finally, he addressed the envelope. It felt like the longest address ever. The area and country was bad enough, even without including the soldier’s name and BFPO address. But it was done—Bailey Hodgkiss had penned a missive to Corporal Nick Rock, currently stationed at Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
Now he’d just have to post it and wait for a reply. The website had said his missive would take between one and three weeks to reach Corporal Rock. Then he had to allow for time for him to read it and send a reply. It could be around six weeks before he heard anything. If he heard anything at all.
*****
Author Bio:
Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over 100 publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include several editions of Best Bondage Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica 2013 and Best Erotic Romance 2014. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies, and also edits for a small publishing house. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9
