Vanessa Booke's Blog

Hello lovelies,

I know it’s been quite a while since you’ve heard from me but I have some amazing news for you! I’ve chosen to publish another volume of Drawn to You and will be releasing it later this year.

When I first released Tristan and Emily’s story into the world, I felt an enormous amount of pressure to bring you a story that could outdo Bound to You. It took me a long time to realize that it was okay if Drawn to You turned out to be a little darker than Rebecca and Nicholas’. It actually makes complete sense to me now. Tristan and Emily were both molded out of pain and loss, and I think that’s an important distinction in the series.

One of the biggest mistakes I made with these volumes is letting self-doubt get the better of me. I can honestly say that the majority of my fans loved Tristan & Emily’s story and to this day still do. For that, I’m forever grateful.

I think one of the hardest things we have to do as authors is to take negative reviews and use them as fuel to become a better writer, without letting them snuff out our light entirely.

So if you’re still with me, I hope that you’ll enjoy this next stage of the Millionaire’s Row Series. I have some fun things planned.

Along with adding another volume, I will also be releasing a prequel called Drawn to Her and re-releasing Volumes 1-3 with some expanded chapters.

I’ve wanted to do this for some time but as you know I’ve needed some time away from this story. As soon as the revised book is ready, I’ll reupload to all online retailers. Drawn to You and Drawn to Her will be available wide and they’ll be available for purchase on my website.

More details coming soon.

xx, Vanessa

I know it’s been years since I first published Bound to You & Drawn to You, but I’m happy to tell you that I will be continuing with this series and adding more books. I’ve been working on Drawn to You: Volume 4 for what seems like forever, and I can only hope that this new volume will be worth the wait for my loyal readers.

Thank you to those of you who’ve never given up on me, despite taking time to chase other plot bunnies.

Now I just want to let you know I have every intention of releasing Drawn to You this month, but I’m not giving out an official release date. Originally, I had a pre-order set up but I was having issues with Amazon. I likely won’t be doing anymore pre-orders for this specific series.

I am hoping to offer the fourth volume as a wide release, meaning it will be available on Amazon, B&N, iBooks, and Kobo. I’m not exactly sure for how long considering most of my readers are on Amazon, but I’ll make that decision based on what’s best for the series.

Keep an eye out for links. I’ll be posting them soon-ish.

Xx

Vanessa Booke

I’m so excited to share my new release with you guys! Grade A Asshole is releasing this month as a full-length novel with over 30 chapters. This story was so much fun to write! I really hope that you guys enjoy it as much as I do. If you haven’t signed up for my newsletter, make sure that you do. I will be sending readers an email as soon as the book goes live. It’s set to release April 15th.

Scroll down for a sneak peek at chapter 1.

Pre-order your copy on Amazon here.

Take a peek at chapter 1 of this highly anticipated, steamy professor/student romance.

I eat professors like him for breakfast.

My fingers pulse as I sit waiting with my English paper in hand, and an argument on the tip of my tongue. There’s no way I deserve this grade. My cheeks burn at the sight of the bright letter F on my most recent class essay. Poetry has never been my forte, but I signed up for English 401: Poetry and Prose because it’s the only elective I need before graduation. Was it stupid to assume we would be doing more reading than writing? Maybe. Sure I’m not a fan of fluffy imagery, or the complexity of Keats’ love for nature, but I’m a damn good writer.

Professor Dorian’s class was supposed to be an easy A. After four years of busywork, stuffy literary papers, and over the pretentious professors who act like they know everything, I’m over school. I’m ready to travel the world, get away from my dysfunctional family, and find my place in the world. Besides, if I have to read The Bell Jar one more time, I’m going to stick my head in an oven.

My forehead is in my hands when I hear footsteps echoing down the hallway. Relief washes over me as I silently recite my well-conceived argument for Professor Dorian. I’ll just make my case and he’ll have to let me rewrite my paper. Right? There’s a reason why everyone chooses to take his class during their final quarter. Professor Dorian uses a curved grading scale, and he’s well-known by students as a softie on all accounts.

I straighten at the sound of footsteps echoing just outside the door. The rush of relief that hits me as the office door opens immediately melts into confusion. A sharp-looking man dressed in a white dress shirt and slacks walks into the office without a word. Who the hell is this? The mysterious man is definitely not the portly Professor Dorian I was expecting. This man is gorgeous. He’s tall with silver highlighted brown hair, a 5 o’clock shadow, and piercing green eyes that sit framed by thick black glasses. His shoulders are wide, so wide they nearly brush the sides of the  door frame as he steps through. 

I swallow, suddenly all too aware of how small this office is. If he steps any closer, he might as well be on top of me. Not that that would be a bad thing. My hormones rage as a fleeting look of curiosity passes across his face. His shrewd gaze takes me in and lingers on my face. If he’s even one tenth as surprised to see me as I am to see him, he doesn’t show it. The silver-haired fox shows neither interest nor surprise. I’m so awe-struck by him that I barely register that he’s finally acknowledged my presence.

“Can I help you?”

The disinterest in his voice is clear – piercingly so. He sets down the leather briefcase in his hand and leans it against the tiny bookcase across from Professor Dorian’s messy desk. He does this without ever taking his eyes off me. The way he looks at me reminds me of the predators I see on the National Geographic Channel my roommate forces me to watch. It’s slow and purposeful as if I’m his prey waiting to be taken.

I clear my throat, feeling a dryness setting in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m here to see Professor Dorian. I must have the wrong room.”

I begin to stand but sit back down realizing that I’m definitely in the right office. Professor Dorian’s name was on the front of his office door. A silence falls between the two of us, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs as I wait for the green-eyed stranger’s response.

“Professor Dorian is my English professor.”

The handsome Adonis flicks his gaze down at me and smiles ever so slightly.

“I’m your professor.”

My jaw falls open in confusion as I attempt an argument. Have I been dreaming this entire semester? I’m fairly certain that my actual English professor is the embodiment of Santa Claus. This guy appears to be the embodiment of a GQ model that stepped off the runway. I’m willing to bet under that dress shirt and tie, there’s abs without an inch of fat.

“No – I mean… Professor Dorian is old and -“

“And dead,” he says, cutting me off. My eyes widen at his flat declaration. “Professor Dorian recently passed away, so I’m taking over a few of his classes,” he says. “You can call me Professor Grant.”

“Oh, shi-” I begin to say, trying to cover my surprise. “I mean great… Nice to meet you.”

Professor Dorian wasn’t my favorite professor, but he is – or rather was- one of the sweetest professors. If you could forgive the fact that he liked ogling tits and asses all day. Yeah, he was that kind of professor.

“Let me guess- you’re from English 115.”

Ouch. I’m not a freshman. 

“Do I look like an eighteen-year-old trying to figure out who she is?” The sarcastic comment escapes my mouth before I have a moment to rethink it. Shit, Josie. You’re not making a great impression. A smirk hits his lips, and my skin is immediately set on fire by the sight. Sweet baby Jesus. The more I try not to get flustered, the redder I turn. Professor Grant is hot, really hot, and probably twice as old as me.

“Actually, I’m in English 401,” I say, finally.

The silver-haired fox looks at me as if trying to decide whether I’m lying or not. His gaze is intense and unrelenting in his search for the truth. Damn, he would’ve made a badass detective in another life. He’s practically undressing me with his eyes. Is that such a bad thing? It has been a while since you’ve gotten laid.

He takes a moment as if measuring what he’s about to say. 

“You look -” he begins to say as his eyes rake over me. “I mean… how can I help you this morning, Ms.-“

“Wilde,” I offer.

He makes it a point to step around me before taking a seat at Professor Dorian’s desk – well his desk now. The faint scent of hazelnut and citrus hits me as he passes, slightly brushing against my leg. The smell of him is so intoxicating that I can’t help but lean in. 

“Ms. Wilde?” he says, with a look of confusion.

Shit. Was I just sniffing him like a dog? 

“How can I assist you?” he adds.

I straighten my body and lean further back into my chair, creating as much distance between the two of us as possible. Josie, you’re acting like you haven’t seen a man this drop dead fine in your entire life. You should be used to gorgeous men. You’re the daughter of a Hollywood director. You grew up fawning over even better looking men than him. Get it together.

“Is there something you need?” he presses on, taking his glasses off and setting them on the birch desk.

Yes, I need your clothes off, and you fucking me over this desk. Josie, get a grip on your libido. 

“Um, well, um, yes. I came to speak to Professor Dorian regarding the grade on our last essay assignment.” 

My fingers grasp the paper wedged between my textbook’s pages. I almost feel ashamed to show Professor Grant my grade and I don’t know why. I don’t even know him, and yet suddenly his approval means everything to me. Professor Grant barely acknowledges me before firing off another question. My skin heats as my nerves begin to set in. He ignores my gaze and begins to scribble on a notepad, as if my presence no longer bears any importance to him.

“The paper on your analysis of Robert Frost?” he asks, still staring at his notepad.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

His lips slightly curve into a smirk and despite the movement, the rest of his face remains completely unmoved. 

“What’s wrong with the grade you received?” he asks, practically sighing with boredom.

“It’s… just wrong,” I bite back.

My tone stills him, and I can physically see him mulling over my words. His jaw tightens with the slightest movement. Anxiety crashes through me as he drops his pen and turns his full attention toward me. His gaze penetrates me with an overwhelming dose of irritation.

“I’m quite sure it’s not wrong. In fact, I’m certain. I’m certain the grade you received is the grade you deserve.” 

It takes me a moment to realize that maybe, just maybe, Professor Grant was the one to grade my paper, not Professor Dorian. In fact, I’m willing to bet my life on it. This man is ready to wage a war over one paper like he’s the one being offended. I stand to leave hating to admit defeat. 

“I’ve never received an F on an English paper,” I admit.

And I’ve certainly never deserved one. Not even now. The essay prompt was ridiculous and pretentious. Another busywork assignment that a 12th grader could do with their eyes closed. I grab my textbook and paper, all too ready to leave.

“There’s a first time for everything, Ms. Wilde.” 

I stop in my tracks letting his words roll over me. Irritation seeps through my veins. Is he serious? The room is dead silent, but I can practically hear him laughing at me. I turn to face him and find him looking at me with a stone-cold expression. You’re not winning today, asshole.

“I would like to contest my grade and ask for a rewrite,” I say, refusing to back down.

“Contest all you want, Ms. Wilde. The grade isn’t changing.”

He’s not willing to budge an inch.

“So, you’re not going to let me rewrite the paper?” I ask.

“No, but I’ll tell you what I will do,” he says, with a good measure of arrogance. “If you show up to class and work hard, I’ll let you remain in my class.”

My cheeks burn as his lips emphasize the word my. He turns back to his desk and begins scribbling away on his notepad again.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

He dismisses me like you would a child. I stare at his profile and curse him silently praying that tomorrow he’ll wake up as ugly as his attitude. Who does he think he is? My eyes trace him from his broad shoulders to his sharp jaw. My annoyance grows as I take in his all too appealing face. I’ve never wanted to throat punch someone as much as I do now. Stupid beautiful man.

I try one last attempt at knocking down his walls.

“I would like an exception to withdrawal from your class.”

Professor Grant shakes his head at me without ever looking up.

“Denied.”

I don’t have to look him in the eye to know he’s enjoying this. He wants me to beg for it, and even then he won’t give in to me.

“I didn’t sign up for your class. I signed up for Professor Dorian’s class.”

My words still him as he drops his pen and turns in my direction. He stands stepping into my personal bubble. He’s so close I can smell the dark, sweet scent of his cologne again.

“Ms. Wilde, let me make this clear. You can choose to stop attending my class. It makes no difference to me, but if you do, I will fail you. Your only choice is to continue my class and work hard, or fail and accept the blemish on your record.”

“Blemish? This isn’t The Scarlet Letter,” I retort.

“So you do know some literature,” he says smirking. “Do yourself a favor. Take the easy way and fail my class.”

Oh God, either I delay graduating or I’m stuck with him for the rest of spring? There has to be another way out of this. Why is this man so hateful? Professor Grant picks up my paper from the floor, which I somehow didn’t notice had left my hands. In my fit of fury, I dropped it.

“I expect the best, Ms. Wilde. I don’t deal with students who want to float through their last year of college.”

He thinks he’s so much better than his students.

“You’re an asshole!” I bite back.

The words escape my lips before I have the opportunity to think them through. He looks at me with impatience as if him allowing me to still be here is a gift from God.

“And you, Ms. Wilde, are nothing but a petulant child.”

My cheeks heat at his brash words, and tears prick my eyes. Why is he affecting me this much? Why do I care? I stand taking my paper with the large letter F from his hand, turn, and bolt from his office. There’s no way in hell this is over. Fuck him. My chest is on fire as I practically flee down the hallway. 

Don’t cry, Josie. Don’t cry.

Hello my lovelies,

It’s been a while since I’ve written any updates on here and so I know this post is long overdue, but here I am writing to you. Three years ago I published the last volume of Drawn to You – it feels like a lifetime ago – and I loved the story I wrote. That is I loved it until I started letting doubt creep in.

For the first few years after I released the third volume, I debated whether finishing this story was the right move. I thought I could walk away from it. In a way, I needed to because just thinking about it was painful. After reading several critical reviews (stupid on my part), I started to feel that the story wasn’t as good as Bound to You, which at the time was my gold standard for my writing. Side note: Team Nicholas and Team Tristan are pretty competitive. I started to doubt the characters I wrote. How could I continue a story I didn’t believe in? That questioned plagued me every time someone brought up wanting to read more about Tristan and Emily. For a while, I avoided these kinds of comments & questions.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized I’ve been letting the wrong voices in my head (yes, I know that sounds a little crazy. Lol). Instead of letting my characters speak, I let doubt do all the talking. It’s great to get feedback and use that to strengthen your writing. Sadly that’s not what I did. What I did was let other people’s opinions suppress my writing. In fact I’ve let it happen for a little too long and I’ve lost readers over it, sadly.

But I’m not writing this post to dwell in the past. I’m writing this to say that I’m getting myself together. And whether the world love or hates these characters, whether thousands of people read the next volume or just a handful, it’s coming.

I’m currently writing a second draft of Volume 4. I’m hoping to have ARCs to give out at my next signing here: https://www.facebook.com/events/25906.... I hope to see some of you there. Let’s catch up.

Xx,

Vanessa

“You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you Ms. Wilde?” His breath is on my ear and his lips are hovering dangerously close. My chin is forced upward as he grabs it. The sheer anger in his eyes should frighten me, but it doesn’t. This man has the power to break me, but something inside tells me he won’t. Something tells me Parker Grant isn’t the complete asshole he appears to be. Then again I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.

“Maybe I am special,” I counter.

Doesn’t every woman like to think so?

“You’re not.”

The words come out in an hushed growl. In a heartbeat, Parker is leaning down to nip at my neck. His thick tongue slides across my skin as he takes a moment to taste me.

“Maybe you’re intimated by an intelligent woman.”

I drag my lip between my teeth to suppress the moan building inside me. There’s no way I’m letting him know he has an affect on me. Fuck that.

“I’ve met plenty of women like you.”

He glances down my body and then back to me face.

My cheeks burn in anger. “You’ve never met anyone like me, Asshole.”

“I bet you think your pussy’s special too.”

He’s taunting me. This is just another test he’s hoping I fail.

“That, you’ll never find out.”

“But you want me to, don’t you brat? You want my tongue licking your pussy like dessert.”

For a brief moment, I swear I can almost see a smile on his face. But this asshole never smiles so it has to be my imagination.

“I don’t fuck old men.”

“No, you just let them fuck you,” he says, sliding his hand up my skirt.

His touch isn’t gentle.

Part of me doesn’t want it to be. A large part of me. My breath hitches as Parker pushes me against the door to my apartment. God, I hope Vickie isn’t here. For once, it would be nice if my roommate decided to spend the night out instead of studying for her Nursing classes. Parker groans as his erection presses into my thigh. I can feel every inch of it throbbing against me. And there’s a lot of inches.

“I’m sure you’re used to little boys who couldn’t fuck you correctly if there life depended on it.”

I laugh at his arrogance.

He’s right. It doesn’t matter how much I want him to be wrong. I step back from his grasp and roll my eyes in exaggeration.

“Does that mean you’re you ready to show me how it’s done? Are you ready to teach me a new lesson, professor?”

The words drop with sarcasm as I taunt him. The only lesson I’ll be learning tonight is how to get men like Parker Grant out of my system. Several seconds of silence pass between us as our eyes lock on one another. I begin to turn to open my apartment door, but instead find myself being pressed against it, stomach first.

“Lesson one. Don’t talk.”

His hands are pulling down my skirt and unbuckling his belt before I have a chance to reply. In two swift movements, he parts my bare legs and slides his erect cock inside of me. The sensation is so intense I practically scream as he angles himself deeper inside me. Parker doesn’t wait for my body to grow accustom to him. He presses on, only thrusting harder at the sound of my gasps. His hand wraps around my throat, forcing me to turn and kiss him.

Like us, our heated kiss is messy. Imperfect and yet undeniably incredible.

“I guess I’m not too old to fuck you senseless,” he groans.

Hello my lovelies,

It’s been a while since I’ve posted on here, but I’m glad to be back at it again. I have some exciting news! My three books Filthy Beast, Filthy Prince and Filthy Kiss now have new covers. And they’re gorgeous. Seriously, just look at them. *Lick*

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I know many of you have been anxiously awaiting Filthy Prince, so I’m happy to tell you that I’m working on releasing it next month (May)! Filthy Kiss will soon follow in July.

Before you ask me, yes, I do have plans to release several other books this year (including the final volume of Drawn to You). I won’t be announcing any dates for those until next month. So definitely keep an eye on my social media pages or of course on here.

That’s it for now.

Xx

When I published my first book, I had no expectations. And no one really had expectations of me. My success as an author bloomed and for about a year I was convinced that I was somehow special. Readers were enjoying my books and they were actually reading them. I hit a major milestone for a first time author. I hit the USA Today’s Bestsellers List.

I was selling hundreds of copies of my book a day. Even on a slow day. I was making good enough money that I quit my FT job so that I could become a FT writer. I was living the dream. It was everything I wanted. At least everything I thought I wanted.

And then the market changed. Blame it on Kindle Unlimited. Blame it on the influx of new authors. Blame it on ineffective marketing. Whatever it was, my whole world changed drastically. Sales dropped. And then a month later, my husband lost his job. Suddenly, I was looking at two options. Admit defeat and slowly disappear into the background never to be heard from again, OR continue to publish and publish often. It was obvious that Amazon’s ranking showed favoritism to authors who published often. Even more so now with Kindle Unlimited.

So I made up my mind. I decided that I was going to be like those other authors who published monthly or every few months. I wasn’t going to take six months to a year to write a book. I felt and still feel that I needed to keep up with the demand for new books that readers were requesting. Sadly, financially, I had to. Except I forgot two little things when I decided this. The first being I’m not a particularly fast writer and the second what about marketing? In my previous research, I’d come to the realization that I needed at least three months of heavy marketing to sell well. Otherwise no one would know about my book. And I basically threw that to the wind.

And it was one of my biggest mistakes with Drawn to You. The second book in my Millionaire’s Row Series. While it was a story I was passionate about…A story I thought would blow away Bound to You. Financially it didn’t. I say this knowing that I have many readers that love Tristan and Emily’s story. But for me, it was a story I felt rushed to write. Readers were hungry for it and I had made promises I wanted to keep.

So I wrote it and published it. It was completely different from Bound to You. In every way, including how I marketed it. Because I really didn’t and it really showed. Sure, it sold. In comparison to other books, it sold spectacularly well. But in my eyes, it was a failure. It wasn’t the story that I wanted it to be. Even worse because it was a lot larger than I expected story wise. It wasn’t something I could wrap up in 70k words. So I left readers with an unsatisfying ending. Promising more soon.

But soon came and passed. I couldn’t touch the story. Months passed. I wrote some and then deleted it. How could I add onto a foundation I didn’t believe was properly built? No way. I’ve tried. So I’ve resolved myself to going back to the first three volumes and fixing it before publishing the final volume. A year has passed and nothing has changed. Although I still haven’t given up on it.

In the meantime, I thought why not try something new? Why not try to continue with the idea of publishing often. So I started writing Hollywood Beauty and Addicted to You and got stuck on both in the editing phase. Deadlines passed. Promises unkept. I was starting to pick up really bad habits. I was starting to lose readers and I couldn’t stop. I was also losing money and I wasn’t making very much back, so I made promises to force my hand to publish.

I couldn’t stop myself from making promises because the stories were right there. Sitting on my computer. So close. Yet so far. And yet in the end I couldn’t let them go because in my eyes they weren’t perfect and still aren’t. But I put myself in a corner by telling readers I would publish them. Promoting them before I felt ready to let them go.

I cancelled preorders last minute because money was starting to become a big issue. I couldn’t afford an editor. I couldn’t afford to pay to market my books correctly. Readers were upset and rightly so. Not because I owed them something, but because I didn’t keep my promise. My promises should’ve meant something, but they were starting to mean nothing. I broke them over and over. Many of my readers were forgiving. They knew the pitfall of despair our family was financially in and the stress that came with it. But many were angry and were quick to tell me so. They were quick to tell me that they were disappointed that I wasn’t publishing fast enough. That I couldn’t keep my promises.

So for six months, I put a hold on publishing. And I just wrote. I started working on multiple projects. One that included a series of standalone novellas. Three that would include fairy tale retellings because well, I love fairy tales. I was excited and I was planning on releasing them one after another.

The first one was Filthy Beast.

I was scared about releasing this one. I wasn’t sure if people would like it. If people would get what I was trying to do and how I was tying it to a the struggles of being an author. How lonely it really is. How the anxiety you feel and the expectations of others can permanently scar you. Block you. Break you.

I felt broken.

I released the book without much promotion. I was scared. I loved the story, but I didn’t have faith in it. Because after not writing for so long and after losing so many readers, I thought well they’ll probably hate it. I got the opposite reaction. People told me how much they loved it. How it was one of the best things I’ve written. Although my sales numbers showed otherwise.

But again, the market is a very different monster than it was in 2014 (when Bound to You was published) and I didn’t exactly promote Filthy Beast the way I should’ve. Still I went on to promoting my next project, the next book in the Filthy Fairy Tales Series. That was Filthy Prince. I underestimated my readiness to let this book go. I wasn’t ready.

I had plans of publishing it in August, but August came and went and I pushed the release date to September. September came and I started tweaking the book again, which led to a complete overhaul. I wasn’t satisfied. Then I decided to give readers the option to preorder the title, which was great except that I couldn’t afford my current editor. So, I decided to try a new one. Another mistake. Another push back.

Fast forward to today…I lost a good number of edits for Filthy Prince this weekend. I’m currently having to go back and implement several of them now. Unfortunately, I had to cancel preorders because I wasn’t about to upload an unpolished file. Is this starting to seem familiar? Because this is starting to feel like the same vicious circle that I was in before. My public image is starting feel unsalvageable. I’m untrustworthy for releases. And I hate that. I don’t want readers wondering if this will be the final push back or if I’m pulling the book all together.

And yet, this is the grave I’ve dug myself.

So how do I get out? How do I fix this? Do I start over? A part of me wants to step back and revaluate everything. Maybe in a year I’ll have a different outlook on being an author. Maybe in a year, I’ll stop trying to push myself to be like other authors. Maybe I’ll finally learn to be me. Learn that I don’t need to make promises in order to keep readers interested. Learn that my stories can stand on their own.

Can I resurrect myself? Or is this the end? I really don’t know.

PROLOGUE

DECLAN

The blonde at my feet looks up at me through false lashes as she licks her lips like she’s ready to swallow me whole. Luckily for her, I have just the thing to satisfy her appetite.

I groan in pleasure as she slides my cock into her mouth with the eagerness of a porn star. It isn’t unusual for a fan to track me down after a signing, but it is unique to find one waiting half-naked for me in my hotel room. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. My agent, Marcy, isn’t happy about the number of women I sleep with, but I think it’s mostly because it creates more paperwork for her. More nameless women to track down, more non-disclosures to get signed, and even more messes to clean up. If I didn’t pay her as well as I do, I’m pretty sure she would drop me as a client.

After several delicious minutes in the blonde’s hot, wet mouth, she pushes me back against the king-size bed and crawls on top of me. It doesn’t take long for her to slip off the rest of her clothing to straddle me. A satisfied smile sits plastered to her face as she reaches down and palms my cock. I smirk at the way her eyes grow wide at my girth. It’s all real sweetheart.

The best part about fans is their eagerness to please. I’m never short on women in my bed. And they cream themselves just at thought of meeting Declan Hart, author of the world’s filthiest erotica. Yup, you guessed it baby, that’s me. I take pleasure in feeding into their fantasies. The man they see is just a facade. A carefully constructed persona with an air of mystery.

“I’ve been fantasizing about this for months.”

The blonde pulls a condom from the pocket of her discarded jeans, tearing the package with her teeth before slipping it on me. She moans, lost in pleasure as she takes every inch of me inside her.

“Ride me, baby,” I say with a cocky smile.

Her pussy clenches tight around me as she rocks back and forth, her plastic tits swaying in my face. I smother a flicker of annoyance as her hands tangle themselves in my black mane. I’ve never been fond of being touched, as ironic as that sounds. But that doesn’t stop me from getting lost in the feeling of my high. It isn’t long before she’s screaming my name. A rush of endorphins hit me at the sound of it. It’s the same rush I get from a great run, from a ride on my motorcycle, or from jumping out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. I crave that high, chase it like a junkie.

The blonde’s nails claw my chest as I jut my hips up to meet her. My grunting only seems to push her over the edge as her ass bounces on top of me.

“Are you going to come for me? I ask, pulling her hair. “You filthy little slut.”

“Fuck…oh, God,” she moans.

She convulses around me, and a second later I feel hot cum pumping into my rubber. A sense of regret fills me as I detach myself from the woman in my bed. After several awkward seconds of the blonde trying to cuddle me, I roll her off me and walk over to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?”

The voice purrs, beckoning me to come back. I don’t answer her, hoping that she’ll get the hint that it’s time to leave. We’re just finished and I’m already bored with her. I flush the condom and wipe off with a hot towel, trying to rid myself of the smell of her. After taking several long, appreciative glances in the mirror, I return to the bedroom. To my surprise, I find the blonde spread out across my bed, still naked.

I frown. She’s still here? Her eyes widen with surprise at the blatant irritation on my face.

“How about another round?”

“You need to go, sweetheart.”

“What?” she asks, her overly made-up face scrunched in confusion.

“You don’t want me to spend the night?”

I smirk. “I enjoyed you sucking me off, and I definitely enjoyed the ride, but that’s where it ends. I don’t get involved with fans.”

Her cheeks flame with anger as I turn back to my hotel closet to change. It isn’t until I’m halfway there that I hear something whizzing through the air at me. I duck out of the way just in time to avoid a bottle of Dom Pérignon whirling toward me. I was saving that to celebrate my latest release. The bottle crashes against the wall, sending shards of glass flying across the room as the bubbly liquid poor down the wall. Damn it. Marcy will be on my ass if there are any damages to the hotel room.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” she seethes. “No wonder your wife left you.”

I roll my eyes, despite the ache I feel in my chest. All of the women I sleep with have this same reaction, but thankfully the number of bottles flying at my head is low. Their expectations are just so far removed from the reality of what I’m willing to provide. The only relationships that last are the ones in books. I may spend almost every waking moment writing about love and romance, but the truth is that I don’t believe in either.

“Do you want an autograph before you go?” I ask.

“Fuck you and your tiny dick,” she spits back at me.

“We both know that ‘tiny’ isn’t the right word to describe it. Do you need a reminder before you go?” I challenge.

She scoffs as she hurriedly dresses. She pushes past me and grabs her clothes and heels off the floor before quickly dressing.

“I hope your dick falls off,” she says.

“Now, that isn’t very nice, sweetheart.”

She turns to face me, her face as hard as stone. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, asshole. You think the world revolves around you, that all you have to do is flash those baby blues and women will fall for your charms. But one day you won’t have your good looks to rely on. Karma catches up with everyone, even the great Declan Hart.”

“Careful, sweetheart, frigid bitch doesn’t look so good on you.”

She makes no answer as she storms out, leaving me with a full mini-bar and a sour mood.

***

Two hours and three obnoxiously tiny bottles of whiskey later, I’m still stewing. She has no idea what she’s talking about. No idea who I really am, underneath all the money, the fame, the sex appeal. Is it my fault that I was blessed with a strong, square jaw, thick, wavy brown hair, and blue eyes that more than one woman has said she wanted to get lost in? I worked hard for all that I have. I do all I can to maintain my body well. I eat right, I exercise, I don’t smoke. I don’t make excuses.

But I also know women don’t fall at my feet simply because I look good. No, most of them want the trappings of fame. They want the money, the notoriety, the status. They want the cars and the clothes and the jewelry, all the material excess I can provide. They want the glamor of being with a famous author. I could look like a monster, and I’d still be drowning in pussy. Because at the end of the day, money trumps all. Money trumps love.

Love.

The word turns to ash in my mouth. All women want is a cookie cutter relationship. They don’t want the real you. They don’t want the problems, and they sure as hell can’t accept failure. My ex-wife is the perfect example. She left as soon as she could take half of my money. Besides how can anyone hold any semblance of any kind of relationship when my whole life’s on display like a fucking circus? The women I do seem to attract are shallow gold-diggers. Women who look at me and see dollar signs.

I grab another bottle from the mini-bar without looking, not caring what it is. It tastes like fruity shit and burns as it makes its way down my throat. I quickly down the whole thing before I can taste any more of it. Maybe I should go out tonight, try to find someone new. Someone who won’t see me as a meal ticket. Someone who doesn’t know me as Declan Hart, international bestseller and notorious playboy. Someone who’ll make me forget all the empty, meaningless sex I’ve had, all the nameless, faceless women before her.

Yeah, right. As if such a woman even exists. As if I’d even deserve her.

After the sixth bottle, my head is blurry, my thinking is fuzzy, and it seems like an excellent idea to head down to the hotel’s parking garage and find my rental car. The first few miles take me out of whatever-the-fuck city I’m in this week. The full moon limns the tall pine trees surrounding me, and I catch a glimpse of snow-capped mountains in the distance. Seattle, then? Maybe Portland? Fuck if I know. All I know is that it’s not an endless sea of brown like Vegas, where I live.

A sign tells me there’s a sharp curve in the road ahead. If I were in a better mood, the writer in me would probably have something clever to say, some insight about foreshadowing or my life’s journey. But mostly I just feel tired. Achingly, bone-deep tired.

My eyes flutter closed for a moment. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a moment I’ll feel better. Just a brief moment, that’s all I need.

By the time I realize it’s more than a moment, that maybe I’m too drunk to be behind the wheel, I’m already  careening off the road and straight into another black blur.

The last thing I remember before everything goes black is the awful smell of something burning. It seems what’s-her-name was right. Karma does catch up to everyone.

Even me. Declan Hart.

Once in a while, I still feel like writing about Nicholas & Rebecca. So when I do, I’ll be sure to post those snippets here.[image error] This is just for me. Just for fun. Just for you.

Please note this is an unedited snippet.

*******

Small hands yank on my apron as I finish placing a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven. I look down to find Alexa waiting for me with a familiar set of blue eyes and an endearing toothy grin. A crown of red curls adorn her head, giving her an almost angelic appearance.

I say almost because earlier I found her covered in chocolate from raiding the kitchen pantry. She has a sweet tooth just like me.

“Momma, when will daddy be home?” she says, tugging on me.

My heart warms at the excitement in her voice. She has zero patience today, but I don’t blame her. Nicholas has been gone for almost a week in California. In two weeks, Knight Publishing will be opening a second office in Los Angeles. My hometown.

“Soon, baby.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when the kitchen door swings open to reveal Nicholas standing there. Speak of the devil. My center instantly heats at the sight of his tousled blond mane, rugged facial hair, and his beautiful blue eyes that seem to rake me up and down like a sex-starved man. How long has he been home?

“Daddy!”

Alexa practically squeals as she runs over to Nick and throws herself at him. He drops his hands just in time to catch Alexa before swinging her up into his arms. My chest squeezes as he brushes kisses against her curls without ever taking his eyes off of me.

“Hey sweet pea, I missed you,” he says. “Both of you.”

His eyes dance with mischief as he openly stares at my tits. There’s something predatory about that look.

“Did you bring me a present?” Alexa asks with her toothy grin.

Nicholas briefly pulls his attention back to our daughter.

“I got you something right here,” Nicholas says, tapping on his briefcase. “But first, I think we should play a game of hide and seek.”

I bite back a laugh as Nicholas flashes me a sexy grin. He puts our daughter down and then drops his brief case on the kitchen counter. Alexa claps her hands as he whispers instructions to her. She’s all too excited to play. The thing she doesn’t know is that her daddy does this to bide him time. Time that he spends reminding me exactly how much he loves me.

“Okay sweet pea, go hide and then mommy will try to find you.”

“Okay,” she says clapping her hands, before running out the kitchen door.

My heart begins to beat chaotically as Nicholas steps forward counting down as he throws off his dress jacket.

“Ready?”

The sounds of feet tapping against the marble echoes as Nicholas begins his count.

“One.”

His belt comes off in one pull.

“Two.”

His hands grab me, unzipping the back of my dress.

“Three.”

Nicholas doesn’t get past three before he’s shoving me in the kitchen pantry and pulling off my panties.

“Leave the apron,” he chuckles as I begin to untie it. “I love the housewife look.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I tease. “Grad school starts next week.”

Nicholas leans in to kiss me as he rubs circular motions at the nape of my neck.

“Think I can make you come in seven…six seconds?”

“It wouldn’t be fun if we didn’t try,” I tease.

“God, I missed you.”

The words come out in a husky groan before he buries his tongue inside my mouth. Nicholas doesn’t waste any time. In a heartbeat, he shoves his dress pants down and presses inside of me, lifting my body so my legs are wrapped around his hips. I struggle to hold onto the shelving behind me as he rocks into me.

I laugh between kisses as the whole damn shelf rattles with each delicious thrust. Nicholas grins as a macaroni elbow comes flying down and lands perfectly on my naked tits.

“Thanks babe. Dinner & dessert,” he chuckles.

This story came to me one day and I’ve been having a lot of fun writing it. It’s not one I planned, but sometimes those are the best kind. Protecting Her Curves is a Romantic Suspense with lots of humor, and it features a M/F/M relationship. ;)

As I previously mentioned, I probably won’t be publishing for the new several months but I am definitely still writing. And I’m still very happy to share with you all what I’m working on.

Below is an unedited snippet. I hope you enjoy it.

RORY

Standing in my Care Bear underwear and Scooby Doo t-shirt is not what I had in mind when I was hoping to find myself half naked in front of my hot as sin next-door-neighbor, Erik Matthews. Not one bit. Six feet of muscle answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of low cut boxer briefs with the brand Calvin Klein stitched at the top. My gaze fixes on his V cut and the light trail of hair that leads to the tip of his underwear. Damn. Any lower, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to get a Magic Mike preview of Erik’s dick. I’d be lying if I said it was the only thing distracting about my neighbor. But probably the biggest.

“Well damn,” Erik whistles. “I was wondering what was under all those baggy shirts and jeans, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this.”

My cheeks flame as Erik quirks his eyebrow at the sight of my underwear. He traces the dip of my shirt with his gaze, slowly taking in the sight of me. I swallow hard as my cheeks flame. Trying to distract myself is pointless, so I focus in on his inked arm. Three massive skulls sit intertwined with two crimson roses. The colorful tattoo covers one side of his arm in bright hues of orange and red. It’s a stark contrast to his dark skin and jet-black hair.

“Um, can I use your cell to call the apartment manager?” I ask, tearing my gaze from him and covering the front of myself.

By the sight of Erik’s amused smile, I know there’s no use hiding. He can see everything, especially the parts of me that jiggle a little too much. To my surprise, it doesn’t seem to bother him. I never pegged Erik to be the type of guy who likes curvy girls.

“Faster! Yes! Yes! Fuck me!”

The sound of a woman moaning fills the air between us. Oh shit. I’m not even sure what’s going on inside his appointment, but the pleasurable sound that echoes through the air fills me with envy. And something else too.

A loud thud vibrates against the wall followed by a deep throaty roar. I’m pretty sure someone else is over. A sheepish grin appears on Erik’s face as he checks over his shoulder. It doesn’t take long for the throes of passion to stop after one VERY loud orgasm. Almost seconds later, I hear heavy footsteps and the sound of a husky voice calling out over Erik’s shoulder.

“What’s going on man?”

My eyes are treated to the sight of a tall hunk in a white dress shirt that doesn’t hang nearly long enough. Don’t look. Don’t look. But I do.

I clench at the brief sighting of his cock. Fuck me. I’m. In. Trouble.

“Hi, can I help you,” the voice asks with irritation.

Bright baby blues stare at me as Erik leans back against the doorframe and makes room for his friend. The stranger’s eyes remind me of rain clouds hovering over the ocean. He’s gorgeous. And by the unimpressed expression on his face, he already knows it. Cocky. His body language screams over confidence. I force my eyes back to Erik, but it doesn’t help. His wicked grin only makes it harder to avoid the sight of his friend. The stranger’s white dress shirt stops just above his thigh, revealing just enough. My imagination is already spinning out of control. I almost choke at the brief sight of his glistening cock.

“Sorry, Rory, this is my roommate, Connor.”

Wait, he actually knows my name? Erik winks at me and it’s enough to send my panties into a heated mess.

“But you don’t have a roommate,” I blurt.

Perfect, Rory. Now Erik knows that you’re a peeper.

He looks up in surprise as the realization slowly hits him. The sexy dimple in his right cheek deepens. The damn thing is distracting, but so is the piercing on his lower lip. I’ve been imagining what it might feel like pressed up against my clit.

“Can we help you with something,” Connor interrupts.

The intensity of his gaze only seems to increase as the seconds fly by. He’s probably pissed that I interrupted his love fest.

“Uh, yeah. I was wondering if I could borrow your phone to call the apartment manager. I locked myself out.”

“Do you do that often?” Connor asks with a blank stare.

Something in his tone sets something off inside of me. Damn, I know I interrupted him but he really doesn’t need to be such a dick. Plus, if he was so busy why the hell did he stop to answer the door. It’s like he was looking for an excuse to get away from the one inside.

“Easy C, stop being an ass. She’s our neighbor.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just knock on Ms. Traeger’s door.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I stop mid-turn to look up at Erik. His face splits into a grin. Ms. Traeger is gone for the month. Her grandson is babysitting her apartment while she’s on vacation.”

“Maybe he’s hot,” I say, giving Connor a poignant look.

“He’s not,” Connor says with a smirk.

A blaze of heat hits me sending a flush to my cheeks. What an arrogant prick. He probably thinks he’s the hottest shit ever made.

“Damn, you’ve got a temper don’t you,” Erik chuckles.

“Maybe I don’t like assholes.”

Before I have the opportunity to slip away, Connor pulls me toward him. The electricity that shoots through his fingertips and up my skin is enough to light up the whole goddamn city. He let’s me go just as quickly as he grabs me.

Fuck. What was that?

“You shouldn’t be in the hallway looking like that,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Come inside and I’ll get you my cell,” Erik says, breaking up the tension between us. “It’s in my room.”

I stare at both of them like they’ve grown horns. Go inside the apartment? For the past several months, I’ve been dreaming about this opportunity. Several nights I’ve rubbed one out just thinking about what it would be like to be one of the girls Erik brings home.

Is this my opening? Easy girl. He’s just offering you his cellphone. Not his dick.