I have been staring at her for three months. Watching her. Memorizing her.For ninety-two days, I’ve looked into those lifeless green eyes.

And for ninety-two days she has inspired me in ways I never knew possible. A muse, unbeknownst to her. Motivating me. Encouraging my darkest desires.

I’m a man who knows what he wants. And what I want is the beautiful and broken Holland Howard.

My name is Jensen Payne—photographer, autocrat, lecher, Scopophiliac. I am who I am and I will not—cannot—change.

*This is an Erotic Romance. Recommended for readers 18+ ONLY.

WARNING: This book contains possible emotional triggers.

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I have been watching her for three months.

For ninety-two days, I’ve looked into those lifeless green eyes. Let my gaze slide over her flawless, pale skin. Fantasized about her luscious lips.

For ninety-two days she has inspired me in ways I never knew possible. A muse, unbeknownst to her. Motivating me. Encouraging my darkest desires to life through my work. Just when I was so close to giving up, surrendering to my unchangeable fate, I spotted her, and haven’t been able to look away since.

I don’t think she has a clue that my eyes find her the moment I step into this establishment. She’s oblivious to the way I always sit at the same table—the one with the best view of the bar. Of her. Unaware I spend my evenings watching her.

Memorizing her. Inch by exquisite inch.

Her soft beauty and innocent naivety keeps me coming back. Over and over, since the day she first served me. My cock grows hard beneath the shelter of the table as she strides toward me, her breasts bouncing lightly with each step. My arousal has nothing to do with sexual gratification. Though she has a beautiful body, curvy in all the places a man’s hands like to grip, and hold, and conquer, I’m turned on by the way she makes me feel inside. By the strength and craving and ambition she has unknowingly restored in me.

A man’s wet fantasy. A woman’s aspiration. My divine intervention.

“Take off your clothes.” My voice is gravelly and I hardly recognize it. I’ve imagined how she looks naked a million different times. Dreamt of this moment more than I can count. My hands circle around the device clutched in my grip, squeezing firmly.

One auburn brow arches as if in challenge, a silent remark to my lack of polite request. I mimic her, cocking my own brow, but give her nothing else. Manners don’t belong in the bedroom. This is who I am and I do not apologize for it.

I ask once—and only once. I offer a choice and they make their decision. After that, it’s my way. Anybody who doesn’t agree is free to leave. I don’t want her to go—I’ve waited far too long for this—but I am who I am and I will not—cannot—change.

She threw me off with the striptease and the drink. And that kiss. That hot as hell, fucking kiss. But I’ve had enough questions and more than enough storytelling for one night. Talking like this, sharing my personal shit—I don’t do it. I bind. I photograph. And I fuck. There’s no point in anything else.

Cheryl McIntyre is the author of the bestselling Sometimes Never series, as well as the Dirty series, Infinitely, and Dark Calling.

She calls Ohio home, though she secretly dreams of living somewhere much warmer–preferably near a beach. She is a mother, author, and insomniac, as well as a reader, self-proclaimed movie critic, and incredibly bad singer. Her life revolves around four things: family, music, books, and really bad scary movies.

You can follow her author page on Facebook where she lives part time. On Goodreads—which is like crack for avid readers. On Twitter, though she has still not yet mastered the art of tweeting. On tsū. Or on her website.

Copyright © 2015 Corinne Michaels

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

 

Liam wasn’t supposed to be my happily ever after.He wasn’t even on my radar.

He was my husband’s best friend—forbidden.

But my husband is dead and I’m alone. I ache for him and I reach for Liam.

One night with Liam changed everything. Now I have to decide if I truly love him or if he’s just the consolation prize.

Corinne Michaels is an emotional, witty, sarcastic, and fun loving mom of two beautiful children. She’s happily married to the man of her dreams and is a former Navy wife. After spending months away from her husband while he was deployed, reading and writing was her escape from the loneliness.

Both her maternal and paternal grandmothers were librarians, which only intensified her love of reading. After years of writing short stories, she couldn’t ignore the call to finish her debut novel, Beloved. Her alpha Navy SEALs are broken, beautiful, and will steal your heart.

A dark romance about the lies that lead us down…I’ll do anything to get safe, even if that means working at the scariest club in town.

I’ll do anything to stay hidden, even if it means taking off my clothes for strangers.

I’ll do anything to be free. Except give him up. When he looks at me, I forget why I can’t have him. He’s beautiful and scarred. His body fits mine, filling the places where I’m hollow, rough where I am soft.

He’s the one man who wants to help, but he has his own agenda. He has questions I can’t answer. What are you afraid of?

You.

In the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.

The bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound that feels almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back, protect me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing and the catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be. But I’m never quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.

I reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body around so the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a view of my ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in my vision.

The smile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a prop, like the four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the stage.

Broken.

A few people clap from the back.

Now all that’s left is the thin satin fabric. I grip the pole and head into my routine, wrapping around, sliding off, and starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, reveling in the burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin and the cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a routine. Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.

I finish on the pole and begin to work the stage, moving around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out shadowy silhouettes in the chairs.

Not many.

There’s a regular on one side. I recognize him. Charlie. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and slow to pick it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.

His posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the other under his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s tension in the long lines of his body. There’s power.

And that makes me nervous.

I spin away and shake my shit for the opposite side of the room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter of time before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.

Still I can’t help but notice his leather boots and padded jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of leather, the tough kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body from impact.

The song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming to an end and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off. Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way he watches me.

There’s patience in the way he watches me. And patience implies waiting.

It implies planning.

I reach back and unclasp my bra. I use one hand to cover my breasts while I toss the bra to the back of the stage. I pretend to be shy for a few seconds, and suddenly I feel shy too. Like I’m doing more than showing my breasts to strangers. I’m showing him. And as I stand there, hand cupping my breasts, breath coming fast, I feel his patience like a hot flame.

This time I do miss the beat. I let go on the next one, though, and my breasts are free, bared to the smoky air and the hungry eyes. There are a few whistles from around the room. Charlie holds up another five-dollar bill. I sway over to him and cock my hip, letting him shove the bill into my thong, feeling his hot, damp breath against my breast. He gets close but doesn’t touch. That’s Charlie. He tips and follows the rules, the best kind of customer.

I don’t even glance at the other side of the room. If the new guy is holding up a tip, I don’t even care. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who follows rules. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about him or letting him affect me. Maybe my run-in with Blue made me more skittish than I’d realized.

All I have left is my finale on the pole. I can get through this.

This part isn’t as physically strenuous as before. Or as long. All I really need to do is grind up against the pole, front and back, emphasizing my newly naked breasts, pretending to fuck.

That’s what I’m doing when I feel it. Feel him.

I’m a practical girl. I have to be. But there’s a feeling I get, a prickle on the back of my neck, a churning in my gut, a warning bell in my head when I’m near one of them. Near a cop. My eyes scan the back of the room, but all I can see are shadows. Is there a cop waiting to bust someone? A raid about to go down?

I can barely suck in enough air. There’s only smoke and rising panic. Blood races through me, speeding up my movements. A cop. I feel it like some kind of sixth sense.

Maybe he feels my intuition about him, because he leans forward in his seat.

In one heart-stopping moment, my eyes meet his. I can see his face then, drawn from charcoal shadows.

Beautiful, his lips say. All I can hear is the song.

I’m not even on beat anymore, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because there’s a cop here and I have to get out. Even if my intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.

I’ll never be safe.

Like the one I’d do at the end of a ballet recital but made vulgar. I barely manage it this time, a rough jerk of my head and shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage, running down the hallway. I’m supposed to work the floor next, see who wants a lap dance or another drink, but I can’t do that. I head for the dressing room and throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants. I’ll tell them I feel sick and have to leave early. They won’t be happy and I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they won’t want me throwing up on the customers either.

I run for the door and almost slam into Blue.

He’s standing in the hallway again. Not slouching this time. There’s a new alertness to his stare. And something else—amusement.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“I have to… My stomach hurts. I feel sick.” I step close, praying he’ll move aside.

He reaches up to trace my cheek. “Aww, should I call the doctor?” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

I grip my bag tight to my chest, trying to ignore the threat in his words. And the threat in his grip. I really do feel sick now, but throwing up on him is definitely not going to help the situation. “Please, I need to leave. It’s serious. I’ll make it up later.”

He’ll know what I’m saying. That I’ll make it up to him personally. I’m just desperate enough to promise that. Desperate enough to promise him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that I know it’s a decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m desperate enough for that too.

“Please let me go.” The words come out pained, my voice thin. It feels a little like my body is collapsing in on itself, steel beams bending together, something crushing me from the outside.

Regret flashes over his face, whether for refusing my offer or forcing me that low. But this time he doesn’t let me go. “There’s a customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”

It’s release day for With Every Heartbeat by Linda Kage!! I love this new adult romance and I simply adore this series, so I am so excited to share it with you!! Linda is sharing an excerpt AND a giveaway, so be sure to read all the release day festivities!

*New Adult Romance*

**Explicit Scenes and Language**

I used to think everything was black and white, truth or lie, easy or hard, that if I could just escape my strict, overbearing, abusive father, my life would be perfect. But since I’ve found a reason to risk his wrath and leave, to help a friend in need, I’ve come to realize everything I thought I knew is wrong.

Friends have their own agenda, honesty comes with a dosage of lie, easy doesn’t even exist, keeping secrets sucks, and love…love is the most painful thing of all.

Maybe if Quinn Hamilton hadn’t asked me to skip classes for the day and help him pick out an engagement ring for my best friend, I wouldn’t have fallen for him so completely on that sunny Tuesday afternoon and I wouldn’t feel so conflicted. But I did, and I can’t take it back, no matter how hard I try. So I have to deal with the fact that even I’m not as good, or honest, or caring as I’d always thought I was, and no matter what I do next, someone’s going to get hurt. Probably me.

-Zoey Blakeland

*Don’t worry! The hero and heroine are not cheaters.*

As I swept inside the front doors of the library, I started grinning. Even the possibility of getting to see him had my blood pounding with excitement. I didn’t have to search; I went straight to our spot. But as I turned down the aisle of books that led there, I slowed to a stop. He wasn’t there.

My shoulders slumped. But then a breath later, two arms slid around my waist, making me squeak in surprise. I was pulled back against a hard chest I’d recognize anywhere.

“You came.” His voice was filled with wonder before he spun me around.

His smile created a buzz that echoed through my entire body. I grinned back and touched his dimple; my lips hurt from stretching them so far. His own smile widened. And then he was pulling me up to his level and kissing me.

“God, Zoey. I can’t resist you in a pair of jeans or even shorts. But a skirt—” He shook his head even as his palms caught my bare thighs and smoothed their way up the outsides, right under my skirt. “You want to kill me, don’t you?”

Linda grew up on a dairy farm in the Midwest as the youngest of eight children. Now she lives in Kansas with her husband, daughter, and nine cuckoo clocks. Her life’s been blessed with lots of people to learn from and love. Writing’s always been a major part her world, and she’s so happy to finally share some of her stories with other romance lovers.

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