by Robyn Bachar
A warm tingling suffused my body as soon as our lips met, the sort of electric reaction I usually associate with casting magic, but much, much better. He was hesitant at first, probably afraid I’d slap him or zot him with a spell, but when I didn’t object he slowly began to deepen the kiss. My knees went weak as my good sense vanished, and I slipped my arms around him to steady myself. Lex held me close as he continued to kiss me, and I leaned into him. I’d forgotten how well we fit together. He sighed, as though my lips were delicious and he savored them.
“This is a bad idea,” I murmured.
“No, this is a good idea.” Lex nudged me back toward the couch, and I sat down in a less-than-graceful flop. Next he joined me and drew me into his arms.
“Oh yeah? How?” My hormones were obviously happy to see him, but I still had a little bit of brainpower left, enough to be skeptical of the situation.
“Because letting you go was a bad idea. I don’t want to make that mistake again.” His voice was low and strained, and I wished it wasn’t so dark so I could see his expression. I sighed, a mix of old pain and new uncertainty, but he kissed me again and I stopped arguing.
I relaxed into the embrace, returning the kiss passionately. I felt better instantly—safe, warm, desired. Lex stroked my braided hair and let his hand rest at the small of my back. I ran my own hands up and down his back, debating whether or not it would be a good idea to tug his shirt off, but then I felt him unhooking my bra. My pulse jumped, and my magic decided to take that opportunity to wreak havoc on a pair of unsuspecting table lamps. With an electric sizzle followed by two sharp pops the light bulbs flashed and exploded. Startled, we jumped apart, the mood broken. We stared at each other, and I felt a guilty blush heat my face.
“Cat—” he started, and I held a hand up to stop him before he could say anything further.
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to get some new bulbs, and we’re going to pretend that never happened.”
The only good Secret is a buried Secret.
Deep Dark Secret
© 2012 Sierra Dean
Secret McQueen, Book 3
Secret McQueen has hunted vampires, werewolves, and every conceivable supernatural menace-to-society. Seen it all? Not even close. When the queen of the were-ocelots comes to her for help finding a missing girl, the half-vampire/half-werewolf soon realizes how much she has to learn about the things that go bump in the night.
The case of the missing cat is one thing. Pile it up with her new duties as a Tribunal Leader, her tenuous position as mate to the king of the Eastern werewolves, and a slew of new (and unwelcome) supernatural abilities, and Secret is once again in familiar territory. Way over her head. But for this multitasking half-breed, it’s business as unusual.
What knocks her for a loop, though, isn’t her lover’s intoxicating kiss. It’s the missing memories rushing at her from out of nowhere, signaling a rapidly approaching fork in her destiny. Her choice will affect not only her life, but her love.
Warning this book contains a werewolf king with wandering hands, a creepy English professor with nefarious plans, and one hell of an unexpected gala evening at Columbia.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Deep Dark Secret:
One of the perks of dating a billionaire was access to the most unprecedented views of the city.
I love New York more than any place in the world. Everything from the dirty sidewalks of Chinatown to the clean white lines of the Museum of Modern Art warmed my heart and made me smile. It was a city I normally saw from the ground floor looking up, so when I got to look at it from eighty floors overhead, it was like being in heaven and gazing down at the earth.
Having never seen the city in daylight, I wondered if it could match the magic of a Manhattan night. With all the lights and the sinewy lines of white and red traffic, could it possibly look as beautiful in the sun?
Lucas’s reflection in the window gave away his approach, but I acted surprised when he came up behind me and handed me a glass of red wine.
“I love this room.” Since Lucas and I had begun dating last year, I’d had a chance to see every room in his three-story penthouse in Rain Hotel. The massive lounge on the third floor was by far my favorite. The couches were black microsuede, and there was a stocked bar on the back wall. But it was the view I liked best. A full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows provided a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the city.
When the lights in the room were turned off, it was like nothing stood between us and the city.
Wait, when did he turn the lights off?
Warm breath puffed against my neck, reigniting the shivers I’d felt at dinner. His nose traced the line of my jaw, his mouth skimming against my throat making goose bumps explode all over my body. When Lucas looped his arms around my waist, pulling me close to him, the heat of his body was surprising. Since I was always an average temperature, the presence of a werewolf was like standing next to an open flame. I was used to Desmond, but Lucas felt different somehow.
He nipped my earlobe, and I took a big swallow of the wine he’d given me.
“This is great. Cabernet?” The moment I said it I knew I was babbling like an idiot. Of course it wasn’t a cabernet; I could have figured that out on my own just from the taste.
“Pinot noir,” he whispered against my skin. The name of a wine had never sounded so sensual.
Damn my fickle libido. A familiar hot tingle was stealing through me, turning to molten heat under the surface of my skin. Everywhere he touched me—and his hands were roaming now—felt like I was being burned. Only it wasn’t unpleasant. It was never unpleasant when Lucas touched me.
Which was why I tried to avoid it.
I understood perfectly well that my soul-bond with him made me respond to him as a mate. But I was living with Desmond, I loved Desmond, and where I came from it meant something to be in love. The problem with the bond was that my metaphysical connection to Lucas was actually stronger than my connection to Desmond. So although my emotional attachment to the wolf lieutenant was deeper, my bond to Lucas was almost overpowering. It had overshadowed the secondary bond altogether the first time I met the two of them.
When I was in close quarters with Lucas—with his hands all over me and his voice so intoxicating in my ear—the bond fought to squash reason. Sure, you love Desmond, it said, but this is right too.
According to Lucas it was right for me to love them both. But I think he still wanted me to love him more. And I think it was driving him crazy knowing I was having sex with Desmond but still hadn’t shared that part of myself with him. Most men would be pretty frustrated waiting almost a year to bed their girlfriend. I can’t imagine it made it easier to know I was getting satisfaction somewhere else, while Lucas got none.
At least I hoped he wasn’t finding his satisfaction somewhere else.
The thread of possessive jealousy in that thought fed the building desire, and when Lucas kissed my shoulder blade, I shuddered.
“Lucas…”
He found the hem of my shirt, his smooth palms ducking under the loose cotton. Skin-to-skin contact was too much. I let out a gasp, startled by the burst of liquid heat rippling outwards from his fingers.
“We can—”
“Shhh,” he urged, inching closer, pushing us nearer to the window. I put a palm up, still holding the wineglass in my other hand, and the coolness of the window made the fiery presence of his body that much hotter.
He was taller than me by a head, so he was forced to stoop as he kissed me. I think the extra distance between our upper bodies was the only thing keeping me sane. Then my shirt was up as high as my bra, and sanity was a fleeting memory.
I turned towards him and met his wandering mouth with a scorching kiss. Pressed against him like this I couldn’t ignore his growing hardness, and my mind swam with the possibilities. I growled into his mouth, biting his lower lip, and he responded by edging his knee in between my legs. Knowing Lucas’s make-out style as well a
s I did, he was on the verge of picking me up. I guess tall guys don’t love getting a crick in their neck when they have short girlfriends.
I saved him the trouble and shoved him backwards. He fell off the raised platform by the windows and onto one of the large couches, but a firm grip on my shirt meant he took me with him. Lucas landed on his back, and I was straddling him, still holding a half-full glass of wine, which I’d miraculously saved on our way down.
I sipped the drink and tried to act nonchalant, but he was using his new position to his advantage. Lifting me so I was poised over his hips instead of his stomach, he let out a groan as I shifted my balance.
“Sorry,” I whispered, putting my glass down on the coffee table.
“I’ll show you sorry,” he growled, seizing a handful of my hair and pulling me closer, kissing me with naked, ferocious hunger that brought the heat between us to a fever pitch. He tugged at my shirt and instructed, “Off.”
I complied, tugging the shirt over my head and tossing it away. It caught the wineglass, knocking the drink over and sopping up the remains. Well, at least I’d ruined a shirt with something other than blood for once. Ignoring the mess, I returned my attention to Lucas, licking his jaw. His stubble made it feel like I was licking sandpaper, but the sensation wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
The distinctive flavor of cinnamon unique to him flooded my mouth, and combined with the remnants of the pinot noir, it was a heady, dark blend that made me think of Middle Eastern spice bazaars and old spells Grandmere warned me about.
He spread his wide palms across my stomach, moving them upwards until he was cupping my breasts. A masculine smirk played at his lips, and he got harder, his erection straining against the thin knit of my black tights. My yellow eyelet skirt had already been bunched around my hips.
When he reached to unclasp my bra, I froze. The new tension was obvious to him, because he stopped immediately, his hands coming back around to the front like he was saying, Here they are. No funny business, I promise.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“It’s okay.” His voice was raspy and thick with lust.
“It’s just that—”
“Secret, I get it.” His hands fell to my thighs and, as if acting of their own volition, slid under my skirt. When I didn’t stop him, he moved closer to my inner thigh, and one thumb grazed the damp fabric between my legs.
I groaned.
“Let me…” He stroked a little harder, a little faster, until my breath became low, husky panting and I was rocking my hips to meet the frenzied gestures of his fingers. “Let me do something.”
“We can’t—”
“Not that,” he promised before I could voice my hesitance. “Will you trust me? I want to do something to you, Secret.”
He stopped stroking me, and I mewled in protest, my hands clenching the front of his shirt. I didn’t remember grabbing him. Lucas sat up, his mouth hovering over my breast a moment before he licked one taut nipple through the lace of my bra.
“Oh, yes. Yes, whatever you’re going to do just do it already.”
Letting him in could mean losing him forever.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past
© 2012 Vivi Andrews
Elizabeth “Biz” Marks has the magic touch when it comes to matters of the heart—except her own. In a slightly tipsy fit of loneliness, she once tried to harness a little love mojo to work in her favor. Instead the spell mutated into a nightmarish curse that kills off her boyfriends on her favorite holiday: Valentine’s Day.
With three permanently ex-boyfriends on her conscience and another hearts-and-flowers holiday approaching, the last thing she needs is a too-gorgeous-to-be-true reporter snooping around.
Biz just has extraordinarily bad luck, or she’s a bona-fide Black Widow who bumps off her boyfriends for a chunk of the inheritance money. Either way, Mark Ellison is sure there’s a story here. Especially when his attempts to charm her send her into a panic.
The harder Biz tries to keep Mark and his beguiling dimples as far away as possible, the harder he digs to get at the truth. Now she’s beginning to wonder if his is the love that will finally break the curse...or if she’ll be burying her heart along with him.
Warning, this book contains curses, meddling ghosts, nosy neighbors and enough peppermint Schnapps to drown the inhibitions of even the most cautious witch.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Ghosts of Boyfriends Past:
Had he gotten more gorgeous since the last time she saw him? Or was it just the shock of seeing him for the first time in good lighting? The face was still mouthwatering, but it was the arms her memory had failed to honor. In spite of the winter chill, he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his sleeves were shoved up to the elbow, revealing tanned, corded forearms. Those arms made him seem capable, somehow. As if like Atlas he could lift the world.
“Ms. Marks. Fancy seeing you here.”
He smiled. Biz’s heart rate doubled.
She forced herself to swallow the sawdust and gave him a pathetic smile. “Yeah. Fancy.”
“That’s him?” Gillian asked in the world’s loudest whisper. “You said he was a hunk, but I thought we were grading on the Parish Island curve. God’s balls, he’d be a stud at a Hollywood premiere. Move over, McDreamy.”
Biz shot her a please-for-the-love-of-God-shut-up look. Where was a muzzle when you needed one?
Mark wove his way over to their table, a sly little smile saying he’d heard every word. Conceited jerk.
His eyes rolled over her from the top of her head to the table’s edge and back up again. Biz squashed the urge to check her hair. She hadn’t brushed it after falling out of bed, but she refused to feel self-conscious about her sloppy knot.
Even if he looked like he stepped right out of a catalogue, starched, groomed and gorgeous. Biz probably looked like she’d survived a cyclone flying away with her trailer. His expression was appreciative, but she needed him to stop staring. Only a deeply cursed man could appreciate her when she resembled a half-groomed yeti.
“Are you stalking me?”
“Good morning to you too, Biz. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Before she could reply, Molly materialized at his side as if by teleportation. “Can I get you anything?” she asked breathlessly, her eyes locked hypnotically on his face, Kierkegaard forgotten on the back table. “Anything at all.”
Mark ducked his head, and Biz thought she saw a touch of rose on his cheekbones. Was he blushing? Had Molly’s slavish adoration actually embarrassed him? “Just an orange juice. Thanks.”
Molly nodded five times in rapid succession, channeling an existential bobblehead, and then darted off to collect the nectar for her new deity.
“Cute kid.” He coughed, the red on his cheeks brighter.
Biz fell all over herself—literally—in his presence, and he just got cockier. Gilly compared him to a movie star and he took it as his due. But little Molly Kinneson decided to worship him and suddenly he was modest? Where had that come from? Biz began to wonder if she would ever see the real Mark Ellison beneath his chameleon surface.
Not that she wanted to know the real Mark Ellison. Not at all. She just wanted him to leave.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, not caring how rude she sounded. He’d avoided the stalking question, she noticed. Couldn’t a girl enjoy the best breakfast on the Eastern seaboard without being reminded of the day of death steadily approaching?
“I was walking by and I saw you through the window. What can I say, I felt compelled to come talk to you.” He slid into the booth beside her, his large body crowding against her. “Mind if I join you?”
Compelled. Oh, God. Last night she’d been so stupid to stay in his presence for even a nanosecond. She needed to keep her distance.
She scooted her hip away from his. “Would you leave if I said yes?”
“Not if I can change your mind.” His smile said he was sure he could. The man certainly
didn’t lack for confidence.
“You know, at some point that arrogance is just sickening.”
He leaned closer, revealing little crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. “Do I sicken you, Biz?”
No, sir. That definitely wasn’t the problem.
She put her hand on his chest and shoved him back. He let her move him but gave just enough pressure that she felt the imprint of his muscles against her fingers. Yum. “Does no one ever say no to you?”
“No is just a point to begin negotiations.”
“No means no, honey.”
“Does it? Do you mean it, Biz? If you really mean it, just say the word and I’ll leave.”
“Before or after you get your interview?”
He shrugged. “There are other stories. This may come as a shock to you, but lots of people want to be interviewed by me.”
She’d buy that lots of people probably fell all over themselves to give him their stories—over and over and over again—but she didn’t believe he would give up and walk away so easily. He was lying, or at least not giving the whole truth, and not just because he was trapped by the curse. There was something else.
Molly appeared suddenly at the table, carrying the largest glass of orange juice Biz had ever seen and all but trembling with eagerness to serve. “You can interview me,” she vowed breathily.
Biz stole a look at Mark’s face. Definitely blushing.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, inclining his head to indicate the gratitude was for the juice, not her adoration.
When Molly continued to hover, Gillian rolled her eyes. “Molly, can we get our check?”
The girl made a small protesting sound in her throat but backed away from the table, her eyes still fixed on Mark.
When she disappeared into the kitchen, he draped his arm across the back of the booth behind Biz and leaned toward her with an inviting gleam in his eyes. “See? Some people like me.”