Agent Ryan Madden always had a tough time fitting in at the Washington D.C. FBI field office. As the daughter of a fallen agent, Ryan had the determination to make her father proud and uphold his legacy. Unfortunately her anger management issues and jagged demeanor caused more problems than she’d expected. Hoping to teach her a lesson, Ryan’s superiors sent her and her tacky pant suits to the Biloxi, Mississippi field office for a change of scenery.
FBI agent Remington (Remy) Archer was anxious to meet his new partner…that was until she walked into his office. He’d been expecting a man, not a sexy female with bright hazel eyes and a trendy bobbed haircut. His instant attraction to Ryan was alarming but he was resolute in his decision to make things work. That was, until they were assigned their first case together. How was he supposed to go undercover at a BDSM club with a strong willed woman who refused to submit to anyone?
Get covert with Ryan and Remy as they brave the danger of the human trafficking and drug trade in the fourth installment of Taylor Dawn’s best-selling Magnolia Series.
International Bestselling Author Taylor Dawn (formerly writing as C.D. Taylor) began writing as an item to check off her bucket list. She resides in the southernmost part of Illinois, right on the mighty Mississippi river. She enjoys the quiet country life with her husband, son and the many farm animals that make up the rest of the family. Deciding that farm life was just a little too mundane, Taylor began writing romance and fantasy to liven things up, so far so good. Before starting her writing career, Taylor entered the field of cosmetology. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found sitting around a table making people laugh. She has always wanted to be a standup comic. She loves pulling practical jokes, dresses up in a costume every Halloween and believes that dancing is the key to a happy life (even if you aren’t a good dancer). She believes that life shouldn’t be taken too seriously, we will never get out alive anyway. More than anything, she is a kid at heart, she doesn’t believe in bedtimes, eating everything on her plate, or having ice cream only for dessert. Her favorite quote is by Dr. Seuss…”Why fit in, when you were born to stand out.” You can find Taylor at taylordawn-author.com
Book Title: Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings, Book One) Author: Rachel L. Demeter Genres: Adult, Historical Romance, Fairy Tale Retelling Release Date: March 15, 2017 Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Pick up Beauty of the Beast for just $2.99
(March 31st only)
Experience the world’s most enchanting and timeless love story—retold with a dark and realistic twist.
A BEAST LIVING IN THE SHADOW OF HIS PAST
Reclusive and severely scarred Prince Adam Delacroix has remained hidden inside a secluded, decrepit castle ever since he witnessed his family’s brutal massacre. Cloaked in shadow, with only the lamentations of past ghosts for company, he has abandoned all hope, allowing the world to believe he died on that tragic eve twenty-five years ago.
A BEAUTY IN PURSUIT OF A BETTER FUTURE
Caught in a fierce snowstorm, beautiful and strong-willed Isabelle Rose seeks shelter at a castle—unaware that its beastly and disfigured master is much more than he appears to be. When he imprisons her gravely ill and blind father, she bravely offers herself in his place.
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Stripped of his emotional defenses, Adam’s humanity reawakens as he encounters a kindred soul in Isabelle. Together they will wade through darkness and discover beauty and passion in the most unlikely of places. But when a monster from Isabelle’s former life threatens their new love, Demrov’s forgotten prince must emerge from his shadows and face the world once more…
Perfect for fans of Beauty and the Beast and The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty of the Beast brings a familiar and well-loved fairy tale to life with a rich setting in the kingdom of Demrov and a captivating, Gothic voice. Beauty of the Beast is the first standalone installment in a series of classic fairy tales reimagined with a dark and realistic twist. Disclaimer: This is an edgy retelling of the classic fairy tale. Due to strong sexual content, profanity, and dark subject matter, including an instance of sexual assault committed by the villain, Beauty of the Beast is not intended for readers under the age of 18.
~ Isabelle bravely takes her papa’s place ~
Quite a while later, as Isabelle relaxed and soaked in the hearth’s warmth, she found herself nodding off to sleep.
Her mind detached from the stress of the past few days and receded to another time and place. She recalled her journeys with Papa when she’d been little more than a girl. All the villages they’d passed through; all the faces they’d seen. She thought of reading fairy tales beneath a bejeweled sky, of leaning against a mountain of crates as Papa pointed out the constellations and their eternal stories—
Rattling seized her attention and ruptured her thoughts. She peered at Papa, who was carefully examining his teacup. Not with his sightless eyes, of course—but with wandering fingertips. The same impressive coat of arms engraved the fine proclaim; Papa ran his weathered fingers over its surface, clearly in awe of the raised gold decorations and studded gems. The thing must have cost a small fortune. Indeed, she’d never beheld such finery. Even the wares Papa had once sold paled in comparison. The faded brim of his top hat hung low and covered his glassy eyes.
Then her mouth went dry as he slipped the teacup inside his coat. Has he gone mad—or simply grown that desperate? It was completely unlike Papa to steal. How could he—and after being shown hospitality?
Her outcry startled him. He half leapt from the chair—and Isabelle watched in horror as the teacup tumbled out from the coat. It rattled and rolled onto the stone ground, shattering into a million pieces.
A gloved hand broke through the darkness, quicker than a lightning strike. The hooded figure emerged from the shadows and seized Papa by his cravat. His other hand clasped a branch of flickering candles. The illumination flashed across the dark folds of his cloak, soaking him in a pool of light.
“Stealing from me, are you? Breaking my family’s keepsakes?” A sharp jerk forced Papa to his feet. The rough movement sent the top hat tumbling from his head and onto the stone floor. Papa’s waxen features melted into an expression of horror and confusion.
Her heart pounding, Isabelle lunged forward and frantically cried out, “Let him alone! It was an accident. Don’t you see that you’re frightening him?”
“Good.” The simple declaration threw Isabelle into stunned silence. Papa called out for her as the man strode from the sitting room, his solid legs eating up the ground in swift, decisive strides. Mon Dieu, he was physically dragging Papa through the castle. This isn’t happening. It cannot be…
“Stop it! Stop it now—you monster!” Isabelle picked up her skirts and frantically chased after them. Parts of the castle were dark and unkempt, causing her to trip several times over wayward pieces of furniture. Her heart violently pounded in her ears. The man moved impressively fast; between his agile stride and sweeping cloak, he almost appeared to float through the corridors. Plopping onto the stone floor, his dog gave up trying to keep pace. Dust motes rose and fell in midair like ashes, obscuring her vision. She followed the branch’s illumination, watching as the candlelight threw prisms along the walls and floor.
“Please, monsieur. Have mercy, I beg you! He didn’t know any better. He’s not in his right mind. He would never—”
“No one steals from me.” His low voice echoed in the darkness, steady as a war drum.
Isabelle felt herself descending. She ducked as she crossed a low archway, where she was met with a steep flight of stairs. A mouth into Hell. The ceiling lurked unusually low and was strung with cobwebs. Isabelle hiked up her skirts, which were now a filthy mess, and raced down the decayed steps. The hooded figure kept a swift pace while she desperately pursued Papa’s frightened cries.
Plagued by the darkness, Isabelle tripped and crashed down the stone steps. Pain cascaded through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her skinned knees and elbows throbbed, her heart pounded, her head burned. She spared a moment to catch her breath as she struggled to her feet and resumed her vain quest. Papa’s muffled pleas and the sound of slamming bars ripped at her very soul.
The dank dungeon was nearly black. She slowed her pace, moving toward a beam of light at the far end. Rats the size of kittens scurried across the stone floor and filled the darkness with their terrible squeaking. Her heart thudding, Isabelle rushed through the maze of cells, following Papa’s voice and that flickering light. Chains and crude-looking objects littered the ground—torture devices from a past age, she realized with a shudder.
She found them.
Papa was grasping the rusted bars; disoriented and frightened, he was murmuring incoherent pleas. Tears fell from his sightless eyes, though Isabelle knew he fought to restrain them. The branch of candles sat in front of the cell, its wavering light illuminating his terrified expression.
“Forgive me. I have wronged you when you showed my daughter and me hospitality and mercy. Please, monsieur!”
The man towered before him, silent and still. His long arms remaining crossed, he stood with his lean torso straighter than a broadsword. His hood was drawn back, though Isabelle couldn’t see his face from her angle.
“Papa, I’m here,” she said beneath the weight of a strained breath.
“I-Isabelle?”
Not sparing a moment, she dashed over to the cell—and the man slowly rotated into sight.
Except he resembled more of a beast than any man she’d ever seen.
Isabelle clamped both hands over her mouth and forced her eyes away. The sight burned—and the inferno in his gaze only kindled that fire.
Half of his face looked monstrously twisted; charred mounds of puckered flesh distorted the features beyond any recognition, draining him of all traces of humanity. Those heaps of burned, leather-like skin gleamed and glistened in the candlelight. His hairline receded on the left side of his face and slanted high above a shriveled ear.
Under the severe scarring, his age was more or less indistinguishable—though Isabelle guessed he wasn’t a day under thirty-five.
But his eyes were breathtaking. Two brilliant sapphires. There was also a great sadness and anger in those eyes, as if he’d suffered more than his share of original sin. Alas, as she gazed into his eyes, all she saw was blue ice—an endless, arctic landscape of cold desolation.
The man turned away, appearing greatly affected by her stare, and hastily rearranged the hood. His scarred hands trembled as he smoothed down the cloak’s thick folds.
“Release him,” she demanded. “He didn’t mean any harm. I—”
“No one meddles with my family’s possessions. He can rot down here as my prisoner. He ought to count himself fortunate that I haven’t taken his hand.”
“Your prisoner? This... this is a mistake! You must believe me. He’d never—”
A deep, husky chuckle cut through her plea. “Even so.”
“Please. Just let him out.”
“It’s too late for that.” Those words seemed to speak volumes. He exhaled a long breath, and Isabelle watched as it unfurled against the darkness in a cloud.
Silence.
“Why... why are you so angry? Why must you be so hateful? So cruel?”
“If I let him go,” he said at length, “what can you offer in return?” Isabelle couldn’t find her tongue. She wandered directly in front of the cell, almost in a lucid trance, and clasped the cold bars. Papa was huddled in the corner now, coughing and shivering. Guilt, unlike anything she’d known before, pulsated through her. I’m to blame for this. And if Papa stays here, he’ll die well within a fortnight, likely much sooner…
“Get out of my sight.” The man’s voice jarred Isabelle from her inward stupor. She turned to him and stepped forward, raising her chin at a defiant angle. I am not so easily broken or frightened.
I am a survivor.
She scanned her empty, dank surroundings: the cold stone walls, sweeping cobwebs, and blazing branch of candles. Despair encased her. Stark emptiness. She dared to step closer while a faint trace of pity bloomed inside her heart.
They stood centimeters apart. Heat radiated from the man’s body, surrounding her, immersing her. Isabelle vainly searched for softness in him, but only a dark, embittered spirit reached her. She stared up at his towering frame and gestured for him to bow forward. He hesitated, then did as she commanded. Her hands shook, damn her, as she peeled back his hood and met that piercing gaze again.
Half of his face was handsome—devastatingly so. In her twenty-two years of life, she’d never beheld such haunting beauty.
Jet‑black waves, rich and flowing, framed the chiseled lines of his startling features. Stubble peppered the strong curve of his jawline and shadowed a smooth, sculpted cheekbone. The right side of his face was striking, beautiful—a stark contrast to its wrecked counterpart. And within those patrician angles and intense eyes, she encountered his humanity.
His was a face of inconsistencies. Complex. Damaged. Predatory. And more than a bit intriguing.
“I will stay with you,” she heard herself whisper. “In my father’s place.”
“Isabelle—no! I forbid it!”
The man folded long, strong arms across his broad chest. His gaze crawled down her face and settled on the rise of her breasts—planting directly on her silver cross.
“I demand he’s seen by the finest of physicians.”
“Isabelle! Listen to me! I’m an old man. I’m dying. I—”
The man’s dark, strangely erotic voice cut through the cellar, and his eyes whipped back to her own with a startling force. “As my mistress.”
“What?”
“You must stay here as my mistress. For as long as I demand. Perhaps forever.” Forever.
The word rang with a note of finality.
“Please, Isabelle! I beg you. Don’t do this!”
How could I endure it?
“Do as I say and your father shall safely return home.” He waved his cloaked arms with a magician’s delicate grace. “Your father—whatever family you may have—shall want for nothing. A house, clothing, anything they require. You only need to say the word. Your father will be under my protection—under the care of nurses and physicians—until his last breath.”
Isabelle briefly recalled what—and who—was waiting for her back in Ruillé. This fate wouldn’t be much worse. This desolate castle could serve as the perfect hideout. Papa would live in France, free from Raphael’s clutches and in the hands of the world’s greatest physicians…
“How... how can I trust you?” And does he even have the wealth to uphold such a promise?
“You cannot.”
She had faith Papa would send help once his health recovered. Or she’d find a way out, means of escape. In the interim, she would survive this grim castle and whatever horrors it concealed.
Papa would not. The castle would crush him beneath its dark heel in a matter of days.
Isabelle glanced at Papa again, then stared into the man’s brilliant eyes. There, lurking within those expressive depths, she found the softness she’d pursued minutes before.
She sucked in her breath and nodded her agreement.
“It is done.” The man swept backward. “He’s to remain down here till first light. Then our agreement shall be carried out. In the meantime, I will bring blankets and food—”
“But it’s so cold! He—”
“Stole from me while he was a guest in my castle.”
He would not compromise. That much was certain.
“I demand to stay with him.”
“As you please.” He unlocked the cell. “Beyond the dungeon lies a labyrinth. Try to escape, and you’ll be lost forever.”
He tapped the wall with his booted heel. It swiveled, spun, and rotated, sweeping her captor to the other side...
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Rachel L. Demeter lives in the beautiful hills of Anaheim, California with Teddy, her goofy lowland sheepdog, and her high school sweetheart of fourteen years. She enjoys writing poignant romances that challenge the reader's emotions and explore the redeeming power of love.
Imagining dynamic worlds and characters has been Rachel's passion for longer than she can remember. Before learning how to read or write, she would dictate stories while her mother would record them for her. She holds a special affinity for the tortured hero and unconventional romances. Whether crafting the protagonist or antagonist, she ensures every character is given a soul.
Rachel endeavors to defy conventions by blending elements of romance, suspense, and horror. Some themes her stories never stray too far from: forbidden romance, soul mates, the power of love to redeem, mend all wounds, and triumph over darkness.
Her dream is to move readers and leave an emotional impact through her words.
I waited ten years for the right guy, then four come along at once.
I wasn’t even looking for my Mr Right. I thought I’d found him and he was just waiting for that perfect moment to pop the question. When the time came it was far from perfect The event left me a humiliated, broken-hearted mess.
Still, a person would have to be batshit crazy to do what I’ve done, or I’m about to do.
I’m Orange County bound with all my worldly possessions crammed into five suitcases and an agreement to marry one of four complete strangers.
I just don’t know which one of the four men it’s going to be.
No need to panic.
I have a whole month to make my decision. Who would do such a thing? No sane woman that’s for sure, but then with a name like Seraphim, I was never going to normal.
“Stay, Finn…please,” she mutters, her fat lip wobbling. She’s killing me.
“I can’t, Hope” I shake my head and the heaviness in my heart, the sadness I feel is a fraction of the sorrow I have endured and she knows this. “I wasted ten years of my life with a man who had no intention of marrying me H, and he even took delight in humiliating me about that fact in front of all my friends. He made me feel utterly worthless and now...” I stutter and draw in a fortifying breath, “I have these men and one of them promised to marry me. I get to choose…me, I—” I clamp my mouth shut at my apocalyptic fuck-up.
“Men?” she snaps.
“Man, I meant man.” I wave my hand to dismiss my seemingly silly mistake,
“You said men,” Hope corrects and then gasps. “Finn you didn’t answer that advert?” Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes like saucers and we both suck in a shocked breath.
“I…I…—” I can’t construct a sentence. She steps up to me and interrupts so I don’t have to. I wish she didn’t.
“That’s who you’ve been talking to so secretively these last three months every spare minute. That’s what all this gym shit you’ve been dragging me to morning, noon, and night for the last three months has been all about. It’s because you need to be fit enough to take on four guys?” She stares at me and her mouth is open so wide it’s comical, but I’m not laughing. I’m waiting for the scream, the howl of judgement to rain down on my slutty arse. I draw in a breath and brace.
“Yes.” I tip my chin and time comes to a halt…and continues to halt I frown at my friend, the statue. Her wide emerald eyes are fixed and focused, though I’m not sure on what. I wave my hand in from of her face but she doesn’t flinch. Is it possible to be catatonic standing up?
“Hope? Are you okay? You’re kind of freaking me out.” I look around to see if anyone else is observing my friend’s weird behaviour, but no one is paying us any attention. Well, other than the parking officer who is scowling between Dolly and the No Waiting sign. “Hope!” I hiss a little loud, and she blinks and gives a full body shudder, regaining her senses.
“Four guys?” she asks with a degree of aw in her tone.
I hesitate but answer.
“Yes.”
“At one time?” She arches a brow and her lips begin to curl into a wicked smirk.
“Not necessarily. We haven’t actually gone over the logistics,” I reply, a little straight-laced given the topic, but we’re hardly in a secret-sharing environment.
“But they wanted a twenty year old?”
Her incredulous face pisses me off and I place my hands on my hips and tip my chin, my tone is a little on the defensive side.
“Well, they got a mid-to-late twenty-year-old, that has worked her arse to knock the last several years off her clock…literally.” I straighten my back and subtly tighten my tummy in lieu of drawing in an obvious slimming breath.
“Oh babe, you do. You look smoking hot don’t worry about that.” She pats my arms and flashes her best friend reassuring smile. “No. You need to worry more about the fact that you don’t have enough holes, because babe, that’s something you can’t fix at the gym.” She bites her lip to hold in her trademark filthy laugh, but I crack first and she’s quick to follow. She throws back her head, full on belly aching, dirty laughter falling from her lips, eyes streaming, shaking her head. “Oh my God, you’re going to be kept busy around the cock.” She doubles over at her own joke and waves me down because I think she has another. “They’re in the Forces right? They’re going to want everything to run like cockwork.”
“Okaaaay then, are we finished?” I pat her back as she attempts to regain her composure.
“Sorry. So sorry…too tempting, but you’re right, you have a flight to catch…the cock is ticking. No time to be dicking around now.” She snorts out another laugh.
“Hope.” I sigh.
“Look, Finn. I still think you’re batshit insane, but if you have to go crazy at least you’ll have lots of nuts to keep you company.” She pulls me in for a final hug, but I can see she’s genuinely smiling, and her face is a little wet from her tears, but her expression doesn’t hold any anxiousness or tension. There’s a little worry, but that’s understandable. Maybe I should’ve told her sooner. “I just want you to promise to do one thing for me.” She clears her throat and her tone is soft but serious.
“What’s that?” I ask and wait with bated breath for her to tell me what she’ll need from me to ease her mind, and if it’s anything within my power. She hesitates a moment before her shoulders start to shake.
“Pictures…I want lots of pictures.” She snickers some more.
“I’m gone. I’ll call you when I land.” I turn on my heel and start to push the half-tonne trolley away from my best, but annoying friend.
“With pictures!” she calls after me.
“Sure, with pictures.” I turn my back to the trolley, so I’m facing her but pushing the beast up the ramp, away from the cars.
“You go, girl. Take one for the team! Oh wait, no. Take four with the team!” she shouts over the entire departures drop-off area, with the volume of a crowd control foghorn.
While not conventional, wife wanted ads are nothing new. That is unless the wife is wanted for four husbands. Not a bigamist, she'll just marry one of them. You have to think these guys must be something else to believe anyone would be interested. Finn's best friend was in that frame of mind until she met them face to tablet. The motormouth's mouth open, she just couldn't speak. These guys are HOT. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
You might think this is just a steamy story with little depth. There is steam, I mean lots of steam, however, each guy is special in his own way. Finn has strength and depth despite the people in her life who have failed her one after the other. Here are four men who want nothing more than to make her happy and teach her she is special.
The men have been a team/family since they met as teens. They have served our country, three are still active. They have supported each other. Now they want more. Can Finn fit the bill? They know she is exactly what they want, but are they it for her? After learning how special they are, how can she choose just one? If that isn't enough of problem, her sappy ex shows up. She'd been with him for ten years before she'd finally had it with him (oh, he is a peach) Her choice is even harder now.
This is a story you won't want to miss. Ms. Palmer makes a surreal situation believable. One thing for sure, you are going to be glad Finn has to make the choice and not you. But, you can choose to read this. It's a good one. Reviewed for Words Turn Me On
Author Bio
Dee Palmer hates talking about herself in the third person so I won't. My husband had my iPod engraved one Christmas with 'sing like no-one's listening' and I know my family actually wish they weren't listening because I am, in fact, tone deaf but it doesn't stop me and this gentle support has enabled me to fulfill a dream. This has been a truly brilliant experience. Amazon Best seller in Erotic Romance category and short listed for Erotic Author Guild Best Breakthrough Author and Best Series for The Choices Trilogy in 2015..it's been a pretty fantastic first year!
Dirty Filthy Rich Men, an all-new sexy, contemporary romance from NYT Bestseller Laurelin Paige is available now!!!
Dirty Filthy Rich Men by Laurelin Paige
Genre: Contemporary Romance
From NYT Bestselling author Laurelin Paige, discover a whole new world filled with sex, love, power, romance and dirty, filthy rich men.
When I met Donovan Kincaid, I knew he was rich. I didn’t know he was filthy. Truth be told, I was only trying to get his best friend to notice me.
I knew poor scholarship girls like me didn't stand a chance against guys like Weston King and Donovan Kincaid, but I was in love with his world, their world, of parties and sex and power. I knew what I wanted—I knew who I wanted—until one night, their world tried to bite me back and Donovan saved me. He saved me, and then Weston finally noticed me, and I finally learned what it was to be in their world.
And then what it was like to lose it.
Ten years later, I’ve found my way back. Back to their world. Back to him.
This time, I’m ready. I've been down this road before, and I know all the dirty, filthy ways Donovan will try and wreck me.
But it’s hard to resist. Especially when I know how much I’ll like it.
Excerpt:
After she was gone, I walked over to the windows and drank in the scene. The Town Center was high enough that it had an unblocked view of downtown Manhattan, Brooklyn, and beyond.
Giddiness surged through me, starting like a pinprick at my center and moving out through my veins in all directions until even my fingers and toes felt warm.
I was really here.
I made it.
It wasn’t the way I thought it would be, but in the end, it still came out of my time at Harvard. I’d always known that connections made the difference in a career, and here I was. Finally. At the top of the world, looking out.
I couldn’t stop grinning.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” a male voice came from behind me.
Still smiling, I glanced up and caught his reflection in the window.
And everything disappeared.
The world that had buzzed below, the beautiful scene, the excitement that had unfurled through my body—all of it evaporated and all that existed in its place was a pale, hollow shell of myself and the man in the perfectly tailored suit behind me.
I turned to look at him directly. Our gazes smashed together, and my legs nearly fell out from under me.
“Donovan,” I rasped. It was a miracle that I managed to find enough voice to say that much.
And there was so much more that had to be said. So much more that I hadn’t prepared for. Which was ridiculous since I’d talked to him so many times in my head over the years, practiced so many conversations, but never did he show up out of the blue looking so dastardly handsome in a dark gray three-piece suit, his face rugged with scruff, his eyes hazel and earnest despite the playful smirk on his lips.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I wasn’t even sure how to breathe anymore.
He broke our gaze to nod out the window at the skyline, walking toward me as he said, “I’m sure you found the Empire.”
Though his focus was now on the scenery, I didn’t take my eyes off him as he approached. He didn’t stop until he was right beside me. So close our shoulders would touch if I coughed. Tension ran off him like foam spilling over from a mug of beer. Good tension. Bad tension. I wasn’t sure if there was a difference when it came to Donovan.
Which was why I was screwed if he was here.
Why the hell was he here?
“I thought you were in Tokyo.” I couldn’t stop staring at him. He’d gotten more refined with age, and rougher at the same time. His hair was short and his curls gone, giving him a polished look he lacked before. The lines by his eyes were more defined and his expression seemed harder than I’d remembered. It made him sexier.
As if he was a man who needed to be sexier than the one I knew.
“I came back two months ago,” he said offhandedly. “That’s it right there.” He leaned his face in close to mine as he pointed to the famous structure. “Do you see it?”
Fuck if I cared about the Empire. I was in Donovan Kincaid’s orbit. What else was there in the world?
USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author Laurelin Paige is a sucker for a good romance and gets giddy anytime there’s kissing, much to the embarrassment of her three daughters. Her husband doesn’t seem to complain, however. When she isn’t reading or writing sexy stories, she’s probably singing, watching Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She's also a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn't do anything with the organization except use it as material for her bio. She is represented by Rebecca Friedman.
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