Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Chapter Reveal: A Wish for Us by Tillie Cole

From the author who brought you A Thousand Boy Kisses comes the new emotional novel, A Wish For Us.
A story of music. A story of healing. A story of love conquering all.



Nineteen-year-old Cromwell Dean is the rising star of electronic dance music. Thousands of people adore him. But no one knows him. No one sees the color of his heart.

Until the girl in the purple dress. She sees through the walls he has built to the empty darkness within.

When Cromwell leaves behind the gray skies of England to study music in the South Carolina heat, the last thing he expects is to see her again. And he certainly doesn’t expect that she’ll stay in his head like a song on repeat.

Bonnie Farraday lives for music. She lets every note into her heart, and she doesn’t understand how someone as talented as Cromwell can avoid doing the same. He’s hiding from his past, and she knows it. She tries to stay away from him, but something keeps calling her back.

Bonnie is the burst of color in Cromwell’s darkness. He’s the beat that makes her heart skip.

But when a shadow falls over Bonnie, it’s up to Cromwell to be her light, in the only way he knows how. He must help her find the lost song in her fragile heart. He must keep her strong with a symphony only he can compose.

A symphony of hope.
A symphony of love.
A symphony of them.

Cromwell
Brighton, England

The club pulsed as the beat I was pouring into the crowd took over their bodies. Arms in the air, hips swaying, eyes wide and glazed as my music slammed into their ears, the rhythmic beats controlling their every move. The air was thick and sticky, clothes slick to people’s skins as they crammed into the full club to hear me.

I watched them light up with color. Watched them get lost to the sound. Watched them shed whoever they’d been that day—an office worker, a student, a copper, a call-center worker—what the hell ever. Right now, in this club, most probably high off their faces, they were slaves to my tunes. Right here, in this moment, my music was their life. It was all that mattered as their heads flew back and they chased the high, the near nirvana I gave them from my place on the podium.

I, however, felt nothing. Nothing but the numbness the booze beside me was gifting me.

Two arms slipped around my waist. Hot breath blew past my ear as full lips kissed my neck. Spinning my final beat, I grabbed the Jack Daniels beside me and took a shot straight from the bottle. I slammed the bottle down and moved back to my laptop to mix in the next tune. Hands with sharp fingernails ran through my hair, pulling on the black strands. I tapped on the keys, bringing the music down low, slowing the beat.

My breaths lengthened as the crowd waited, lungs frozen as I brought them to a slow sway, readying for the crescendo. The epic surge of beats and drums, the insanity of the mix that I would deliver. I looked up from my laptop and scanned the crowd, smirking at seeing them on the precipice, waiting . . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .

Now.

I slammed my hand down, holding my headphones to my left ear. A surge, a thundercloud of electronic dance music plowed into the crowd. Bursts of neon colors filled the air. Greens and blues and reds filled my eyes as they clung to each person like neon shields.

The hands around my waist tightened, but I ignored them, instead listening to the bottle of Jack as it called my name. I took another shot, my muscles starting to loosen. My hands danced over the laptop’s keys, over my mix boards.

I looked up, the crowd still in the palm of my hand.

They always were.

A girl in the center of the club drew my attention. Long brown hair pulled back off her face. Purple dress, high necked—she was dressed nothing like everyone else. The color surrounding her was different to the other clubbers—pale pink and lavender. Calmer. More serene. My eyebrows pulled down as I watched her. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t moving. She was still, and she looked to be completely alone as people crashed and pushed around her. Her head was tipped up, a look of concentration on her face.

I built up the pace, pushing the rhythm and the crowd as far as they could go. But the girl didn’t move. That wasn’t normal for me. I always had these clubbers wrapped around my finger. I controlled them, in every place I spun. In this arena, I was the puppet master. They were the dolls.

Another shot of Jack burned down my throat. And through another five songs, she stayed there, on the spot, just drinking in the beats like water. But her face never changed. No smile. No euphoric high. Just . . . eyes closed, that damn pinched look on her face.

And that pink and lavender still surrounding her like a shield.

“Cromwell,” the blonde who was all over me like a rash said into my ear. Her fingers lifted up my shirt and tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Her long nails dipped low. But I refused to tear my eyes away from the girl in the purple dress.

Her brown hair was starting to curl, sweat from being sandwiched by clubbers taking its effect. The blonde who was one step from wanking me off in full view of the club snapped my fly. I keyed in my next mix, then grabbed her hand and threw it away from me, snapping my fly closed. I groaned when her hands slid back into my hair. I looked at my mate who had spun before me. “Nick!” I pointed to my decks. “Watch this. And don’t mess it up.”

Nick frowned in confusion, then saw the girl behind me and smiled. He took my headphones from me and moved to make sure the playlist I’d set up played on cue. Steve, the club’s owner, always let a few girls backstage. I never asked for it, but I never turned them down either. Why would I refuse a hot bird who was up for anything?

I swiped my Jack off my podium as the blonde smashed her lips to mine, pulling me back by my sleeveless Creamfields shirt. I wrenched my mouth from hers, replacing it with the Jack bottle. The blonde dragged me into a dark spot backstage. She dropped to her knees and started again on my fly. I closed my eyes as she went to work.

I sucked on the Jack as my head hit the wall behind me. I forced myself to feel something. I glanced down, watching blond hair bounce below me. But the numbness I lived with every damn day made me feel virtually nothing inside. Pressure built at the base of my spine. My thighs tightened, and then it was over.

The blonde got up. I could see the stars in her eyes as she looked at me. “Your eyes.” She reached out a finger to trace around my eye. “The strangest color. Such dark blue.”

They were. Coupled with my black hair, they always drew attention. That and the fact that I was one of the hottest new DJs in Europe, of course. Okay, maybe it was less to do with my eyes and more to do with my name, Cromwell Dean, gracing the headline spot on most of the biggest music festivals and clubs this summer.

I zipped up my fly and turned to see Nick spinning my next mix. I cringed when he failed to transition the beats like I would have. Navy blue was the backdrop to the smoke on the dance floor.

I never hit navy blue.

I brushed past the girl with a “Thanks, love,” ignoring her hiss of “Prick” in response. I took my headphones off Nick’s head and put them on my own. A few taps of the keyboard later, the crowd was back in the palm of my hand.

Without conscious thought, my eyes found their way to the spot where the girl in the purple dress had stood.

But she’d gone. So had the pale pink and lavender.

I threw back another shot of Jack. Mixed another tune. Then zoned the fuck out.

*****

The sand was cold under my feet. It may well have been the start of summer here in the UK, but that didn’t mean the night wind didn’t freeze your balls off the minute you stepped outside. Clutching my bottle of booze and my cigarettes, I dropped down to the sand. I lit up and stared at the dark sky. My phone buzzed in my pocket . . . again. It’d been going off all night.

Pissed off that I actually had to move my arm, I pulled out my mobile. I had three missed calls from Professor Lewis. Two from my mum, and finally, a couple of texts.

Mum: Professor Lewis has been trying to get hold of you again. What are you going to do? Please just call me. I know you’re upset, but this is your future. You have a gift, son. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start this year. Don’t waste it because you’re angry at me.

Red-hot fury shot through me. I wanted to throw my phone in the damn sea and watch it sink to the bottom along with all this messed-up shit in my head, but I saw Professor Lewis had texted too.

Lewis: The offer still stands but I need an answer by next week. I have all I need for the transfer except your answer. You have an exceptional talent, Cromwell. Don’t waste it. I can help.

This time I did drop my phone beside me and sank back into the sand. I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart.

My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .

“What do you hear, Cromwell?” my father asked.

I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. “Piano. Violins. Cellos . . .” I took a deep breath. “I can hear reds and greens and pinks.”

I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face. “You hear colors?” he said. But he didn’t sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. “That’s good,” he said, his voice kind of deep. “That’s very good . . .”

My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasn’t from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right.

Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summer’s early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker.

She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but then—

“You’re the DJ,” she said.

Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress.

She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang.

She sounded like my mum.

A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasn’t much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didn’t know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.

“I’d heard of you,” she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ.

“Good for you,” I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped she’d piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldn’t take any more noise.

“Not really,” she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress I’d noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. “I’ve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.” She shrugged. “Decided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.”
I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didn’t like the smell.

Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet.

I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didn’t want anyone to see.

No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin.

I didn’t need this kind of crap.

“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.”

She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden.

“Your music has no soul,” she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness.

I sucked on my cigarette. “Yeah? Well, them’s the breaks.”

“I’d heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.”

I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. “It’s called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.” I held out my arms. “You’ve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?” I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto.

I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadn’t talked that much to anyone in . . . I didn’t know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. “And turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?”

The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under.

“What do you feel when you mix your music?” she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me.

Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. “I don’t feel.” I cracked one eye open when she didn’t say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin.

“Then that’s the problem.” She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. “The best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.” Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant.
Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadn’t expected her harsh comment. And I hadn’t expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like she’d taken a butcher’s knife and sliced her way through my soul.

My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, “Go back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where it’s felt.”

“Dorothy was from Kansas.” She glanced away. “I’m not.”

“Then go back to wherever the hell you’re from,” I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart.

I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didn’t want to go back to my mum’s house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldn’t find me here and kick me off the beach.

With my eyes closed, I said, “Thanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decks—all at nineteen—I think I’ll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.”

The girl sighed, but she didn’t say anything else.

The next thing I knew, the sun was burning its light into my eyes. I flinched when I opened them. The screech of swarming seagulls slammed into my head. I sat up, seeing an empty beach and the sun high in the sky. I ran my hands down my face and groaned at the hangover that was kicking in. My stomach growled, desperate for a full English breakfast with copious cups of black tea.

As I stood, something fell from my lap. A blanket lay on the sand at my feet. The blanket I’d seen beside the American girl in the purple dress.

The one she’d been wrapped in last night.

I picked it up, a light fragrance drifted into my nose. Sweet. Addictive. I glanced around me. The girl was gone.

She’d left her blanket. No. She’d covered me with it. “Your music has no soul.” A hard clenching feeling pulled in my stomach at the memory of her words. So I chased it away like I did anything that made me feel. Caging it deep inside.

Then I took my arse home.



Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.

After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.

Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.

Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.

When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.



The Naked Truth by Vi Keeland




A Standalone Second Chance Romance Novel          

              By: #1 NY Times Best Selling Author, Vi Keeland
   RELEASE DATE: Monday, July 23, 2018




It was just a typical Monday.

Until the big boss asked me to make the pitch for a prospective new client.

After two years on shaky ground at work because of my screw up, an opportunity to impress the senior partners was just what I needed.  

Or so I thought…

Until I walked into the conference room and collided with the man I was supposed to pitch.

My coffee spilled, my files tumbled to the ground, and I almost lost my balance.

And that was the good part of my day.

Because the gorgeous man crouched down and looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive, was none other than my ex, Gray Westbrook.

A man who I’d only just begun to move on from.

A man who my heart despised—yet my body obviously still had other ideas about.

A man who was as charismatic and confident as he was sexy.

Somehow, I managed to make it through my presentation ignoring his intense stare.

Although it was impossible to ignore all the dirty things he whispered into my ear right after I was done.

But there was no way I was giving him another chance, especially now that he was a client…was there?



Photo/Cover Details:
Photo Credits: Mondadori Portfolio/Paolo Stella
                 ARTeProduction/Jonathan Segade
Model: Simone Bredariol - D’men - www.dmanagementgroup.com
Cover Designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative


**Watch out for a special excerpt sneak peak of The Naked Truth on July 18th!!**


Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/2H0XH9p (*No ebook preorder. Will go live on Amazon on release day.)
Add to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2kuv7V6







Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles have appeared in over ninety Bestseller lists and are currently translated in twenty languages. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.

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Tuesday, May 29, 2018

New Release: Folsom (End of Men, Book 1) by Tarryn Fisher and Willow Aster

The nation as we know it is a thing of the past.

With the male species on the verge of extinction, a society called the End Men is formed to save the world. Folsom Donahue is one of twelve men whose sole purpose is to repopulate the Regions. The endless days spent having sex with strangers leaves Folsom with an emptiness no amount of women, money, or status can fill.

Until Gwen.

Gwen has wanted a child for as long as she can remember, but when she finally gets a chance to have her own, she uncovers a long hidden truth. The injustice she sees moves her to help save the men whom no one else believes need saving.

A forbidden love, grown in a time of despair, ignites a revolution.

Folsom and Gwen, torn between their love for each other and their sense of duty, must make a choice. But some will stop at nothing to destroy them.

Folsom is book one of the End of Men series.
I have a habit of typically staying away from co-authored novels. For me, it's hard finding continuity between the voices and if one is stronger than another I find it extremely distracting. However, a friend and fellow blogger told me about Folsom. I was intrigued right away and added it to my TBR. An unexpected happenstance landed an ARC on my Paperwhite and I dove right in....and I will say this...

Folsom is a wonderful collaboration between Fisher and Aster, both thought provoking and pulse pounding, I was completely captivated by this story. I felt that the authors took great care and respect in how they created their world. A world in which men are nearly extinct and used essentially as breeders. They are celebrated for this gift. Behind the fame, the glamour and glitz, that comes with being what is referred to as an End Man, there is darkness. A darkness that runs deep.

I took away strong messages reminding us about our humanity and equality, another way in which they beautifully handled their storytelling. Laced in was a forbidden love, the inevitable uprising of a people shown savage truths and the pulse of a government trying to maintain control.

It wasn't hard to fall in love with Gwen Allison and Folsom Donahue. It wan't hard feeling the rush of emotions their journey evokes, from the good and the bad. It wasn't hard getting lost in the mystery and suspense as their world began to crumble and change. Both characters have in their own ways experienced aloneness and seclusion, both strong willed, intelligent and good hearted. These are characters that stick with you.

Smart, sexy, and imaginative, don't pass up Folsom. I'm excited to see what happens next.

 
 It’s the little one who interests me, her hair more tangled than her sister’s, like she didn’t bother with it at all. Her eyes are curious and wild: brown, common and yet uncommon in the way they slant upward at the outside corners. She stands in the foyer, her hands clasped at her waist, but instead of studying my body like most women do, her head is tilted to the side, eyes fixed on my boots. I clear my throat to get her attention and she drags her eyes away from my feet and back to my face. She frowns and shakes her head like she’s just realizing where she is. “Your boots are beautiful,” she finally says. From somewhere beside me her sister groans and her mother lets out what I take as an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you,” I say, unable to keep the humor from my voice. “I designed them myself.” I don’t usually tell people that but she seems genuinely interested. “You design clothes?” she asks, surprised. “You’re surprised that I’m good at something other than fucking?” Her mother makes a choking noise, but we both ignore it, our attention solely focused. “Yes, I’m quite surprised,” she says. “Though I can’t attest personally to the fucking part…” “Yet,” I say. “Yet,” she echoes, with a slight nod of her head.  
The End Men: Folsom

Tarryn Fisher is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author of nine novels. Born a sun hater, she currently makes her home in Seattle, Washington with her children, husband, and psychotic husky. Tarryn writes about villains. 










Willow Aster is the author of True Love Story, In the Fields, Maybe Maby, Fade to Red, and Lilith. Willow loves nothing more than writing the day away—anywhere will do. Her husband and two children graciously put up with her endless daydreaming and make fun of her for reading while cooking. 


Friday, May 25, 2018

Rogue Royalty (Savage Trilogy #3) by Meghan March

Unthinkable. Unbelievable. Inconceivable. I don’t recognize what my life has become. I can’t tell where the lies end and the truth begins anymore. He came into my world and urged me out of my safe little corner. All my dreams are coming true except the one thing I want most— my own happy ending. But I’ll fight for it. For now. For always.   

iBooks | Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA | BN | Kobo | Audible

Woah. What a ride Meghan took us on with this series. I'm sad to see it end because I completely fell in love with these characters. Rogue Royalty is the final book in the Savage Prince series and it goes out with a bang. Meghan grabs hold at the beginning of this book just as she has with the previous books and doesn't let go until the very last word. I was consumed with this book and shut out everything else that was going on around me. I couldn't read fast enough yet I wanted to read slow so I could savior it. I didn't want it to end. The twists and turns in this book are shocking. Jaw dropping, shocking. I am usually a good judge at figuring out where the book is headed but not with Rogue Royalty. I bow to you Meghan March for your fantastic ability to keep me guessing up until the final reveal. It took me awhile to pick my jaw up off the ground. You will feel every emotion you can think of with this series and it will be worth every moment of it. I can not get enough of Meghan's words and I can't wait for more from her. It will be an instant one click, just as it has been with all her previous works. She is a must read author! 
I have to admit I struggled a little bit with this one. I found the story line starting to become pretty predictable, even back in Iron Princess. It was fairly easy for me to see the set up and all that was coming down the road. Even at the end, I was kind of surprised but a little disappointed at the second to last twist. However, what saved everything for me were there characters. There love for each other, their fight, their perseverance in the face of well everything they were facing. (No spoilers here!) Over all I really enjoyed them and their story, not just their story but their journey to the end. The end end was probably my favorite part. It was a bit of a tied up in a bow ending but it worked, it made sense and it got me a bit emotional. It was perfect! 

Regardless of my hangups, the whole Savage Trilogy was a fantastic experience. I'm loving Meghan's writing more and more with each book I read of hers. The Mount Trilogy was my first time reading anything by her and I'm twice as hooked now that I've finished the Savage Trilogy. Meghan has a gift for creating wonderfully strong, smart, creative, sexy characters that you can't help but fall in love with and creates worlds which-in you lose your self until the last page.



Who knew things could get even darker and dirtier in New Orleans? New York Times bestselling author Meghan March introduces the Savage Prince of the city, the man you never want to meet.  I do what I want and who I want. I don’t follow anyone’s rules—even my own. I knew I shouldn’t touch her, but it didn’t stop me. Didn’t stop me the second time either. Only made me want a third. My lifestyle suits the savage I am, and she doesn’t. But Temperance Ransom is my newest addiction, and I’m nowhere near ready to quit her yet. I’ll have her my way, even if it means dragging her into the darkness. Hopefully it doesn’t kill us both. Savage Prince is book one of the Savage Trilogy, set in the same world as Ruthless King, however you do not need to read the Mount Trilogy to devour this scandalously hot new story.

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | iBooks | BN | Kobo




He’s a mystery. An enigma. His very identity is a secret buried beneath layers of deception. He’s also an addiction I can’t shake. An attraction I can’t fight. And then I found out exactly who he is—a man more dangerous than the devil himself. Now I need him in order to save everything that matters to me. I have to pull back. Protect myself from the danger that haunts his every step. Which would be easy . . . if I could stop myself from falling in love with him.

iBooks | Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA | BN | Kobo | Audible









A New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels, Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had. Sign up for Meghan's newsletter and receive exclusive content that she saves for her subscribers: http://meghanmarch.com/subscribe To get the inside scoop on a daily basis, search Meghan March's Runaway Readers on Facebook and join the fun.