To many, I am little more than a myth. The Kiss of Death, a hired killer, revered by the some of the greatest criminal organizations in the world. Trained by the bratva themselves, without conscience, without mercy, the perfect soldier. I’ll kill anyone… for a price. Death doesn’t discriminate, she sells to the highest bidder, but even I have a weakness.
Nero
I want one thing—power. But power is merely a game of strategy. The pieces are on the chess board. Death is my queen, and also my pawn. She’ll paint this city red in exchange for the one thing she wants. Now all I have to do is watch it all play out. She’s nothing more than a weapon, and yet, I find myself wanting to dance with death, to possess her. And I always get what I want.
A game of power. A risk that could cost her everything. An obsession that would see the world burn at their feet. A bloodied king. A broken queen. Kill me or kiss me?
Lauren Lovell is an indie author from England. She suffers from a total lack of brain to mouth filter and is the friend you have to explain before you introduce her to anyone, and apologize for afterwards.
Lauren is a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.
LP loves to hear from readers so please get in touch.
My name is Kaden Ryan and I’m a male escort. I never intended to become an escort, but an opportunity fell into my lap and I took it. It was simple: get paid for sex, an orgasm, a night of pleasure. It’s certainly an easy way to work my way through medical school.
But not everyone’s fantasy is as simple as an orgasm. Some women like the game, and one in particular wants to push me to places I never thought I would go, paid or otherwise. She’s going to be the one to give me a real education.
She suffers from a total lack of brain to mouth filter and is the friend you have to explain before you introduce her to anyone, and apologise for afterwards.
Lauren is a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.
LP loves to hear from readers so please get in touch.
They say that love is the most powerful force in the universe. They’re wrong. Sex, lust, passion, these are the emotions which human beings crave. And they’ll spend any amount of money for a taste.
I’m the guy that makes your heartbeat rise with a look, your breath falter with a touch. It’s my job. My name is Thor Jameson and I’m a male escort. No, I’m THE male escort. My reputation is unrivaled and well deserved.
I’ve always been for sale, until the one thing I didn’t even realize I wanted was thrust in my face by chance. For once, I’m not selling, and she’s certainly not buying.
My name is Kaden Ryan and I’m a male escort. I never intended to become an escort, but an opportunity fell into my lap and I took it. It was simple: get paid for sex, an orgasm, a night of pleasure. It’s certainly an easy way to work my way through medical school.
But not everyone’s fantasy is as simple as an orgasm. Some women like the game, and one in particular wants to push me to places I never thought I would go, paid or otherwise. She’s going to be the one to give me a real education.
She suffers from a total lack of brain to mouth filter and is the friend you have to explain before you introduce her to anyone, and apologize for afterwards.
Lauren is a self-confessed shameless pervert, who may be suffering from slight peen envy.
LP loves to hear from readers so please get in touch.
He’s the hottest commodity in baseball and in the bedroom.
When he runs the bases, every woman’s eyes are glued to his stunning body and a smile that puts the night lights to shame.
I’m no queen. I’m a regular girl with a regular job. I just watch him on TV and from the bleachers, season after season.
Girls like me grab a guy like that one in a million times.
My number just came up, and he is as spectacular in bed as he is on the field.
But there’s not a woman in the world who can distract Dash Wallace from the game. Not for a moment. Not even me.
Until the night I do. And everything changes.
Hardball is a SMOKING HOT, SEXY romance with a touch of angst and a ton of heart from CD Reiss. It’s a fun, witty, full-length standalone meant for the over-eighteen crowd.
“Dash Wallace is a dirty talking, sexy professional baseball player who falls hard for the girl next door, but beware… your heart will take a beating as you watch him struggle with sticking to all he’s ever known at the risk of losing the best thing that ever happened to him. Hardball is one of those books that will suck you in and won’t let you go until you devour every last, juicy bite.”
– Sawyer Bennett, NY Times Bestselling Author
“Fiery hot and enticingly realistic, CD Reiss’s captivating writing, complex characters and explosive love scenes make Hard Ball an irresistible modern day romance.”
– Katy Evans, NY Times Bestselling Author
“Delightful, sexy, emotional, exciting, exhilarating. I loved every single second of it! A sports romance with a DASH of kink….it doesn’t get any better than that!”
– Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads
“Unexpectedly emotional, beautifully written, and decadently naughty, CD Reiss once again owned me heart and soul. Hardball was an enthralling romance from start to finish!! And I never wanted it to end.”
– Angie and Jessica’s Dreamy Reads
Author Bio
CD Reiss is a USA Today bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t pick up she’s at the well hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere but it did give her a big enough ego to write novels.
She’s frequently referred to as the Shakespeare of Smut which is flattering but hasn’t ever gotten her out of chopping that cord of wood.
If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.
“I’ve told you I’ve fantasized about you. So, tell me the truth. Do you fantasize about me?”
Bestselling novelist Jackson Ford is arrogant, exacting, and relentless on the page and off. His irresistible new editor, Ellie Parker is smart, headstrong, and not intimidated by Jackson’s attitude – or the way he turns every exchange into a filthy seduction.
There isn’t a thing these two can agree on, except their intense attraction. But with Jackson’s deadline looming, can they stop fighting long enough for him to deliver the hit she needs?
The relationship between editor and author has never been so intimate or so explicit…
Roxy Sloane is a romance junkie with a dirty mind. She lives in Los Angeles with her hot ex-military hubby and her two kids. She loves writing sexy, complex stories about pushing the boundaries and risking it all.
2nd book in the Giving You… series. Can be read as a standalone
When foul-mouthed, tattooed, vegan Marie Diaz-Austin accepted a summer internship on a ranch north of Santa Barbara to work with underprivileged and special needs kids she was expecting hard work. She wasn’t expecting the gorgeous, but conservative rancher, Will Thrash who wants nothing to do with left-wing hippies like her.
While they both may be stubborn when it comes to climate change, they’re much less rigid about considering a summer fling. Although they hate each other’s politics, they can’t deny their immediate and growing attraction to each other. But when the stakes are raised and they’re forced to make a choice what will give? Their principles or themselves?
Leslie McAdam is a California girl who loves romance, Little Dude, and well-defined abs. She lives in a drafty old farmhouse on a small orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two small children. Leslie always encourages her kids to be themselves – even if it means letting her daughter wear leopard print from head to toe. An avid reader from a young age, she will always trade watching TV for reading a book, unless it’s Top Gear. Or football. Leslie is employed by day but spends her nights writing about the men you fantasize about. She’s unapologetically sarcastic and notoriously terrible at comma placement (that’s what editors are for!).
Always up for a laugh, Leslie tries to see humor in all things. When she’s not in the writing cave you’ll find her fangirling over Beck, camping with her family, or mixing up oil paints to depict her love of outdoors on canvas.
“Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.
He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.
And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.
“Lily Anderson!” he yells again.
As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.
“Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.
I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.
“I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”
My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.
School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.
It was never like this before. Ever.
I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.
Well, before Mom died anyway, and not a day since.
Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I was taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.
Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.
I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.
I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.
Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.
My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.
Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.
Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left…forever.
I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.
Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.
Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.
I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.
“I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.
I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.
“Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.
“Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.
That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.
He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.
I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.
“Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.
“You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.
The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.
But ‘please’ never seems to work.
Nothing does.
I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
There’s something about the written word that is pure magic.
Possibly it’s the fact there are 26 letters in the English alphabet, and they can create something so beautiful or so empowering they’re capable to change our lives.
How important is it that we break suit and stretch our minds?
I like to think of myself as ‘unique’. My stories aren’t for everyone, and sometimes I may push what you believe to be ‘normal’.
Normal is subjective.
I prefer to be known as a person who’s never been ‘bound by custom’ but is ‘unique by choice’.
Maybe you pretend you don’t. Maybe you clear your browser history religiously. Maybe you pretend to be aghast whenever someone even mentions the word porn in your presence.
But the truth is that you do know me.
Everybody knows Logan O’Toole, world famous porn star.
Except then Devi Dare pops into my world, and pretty soon I’m doing things that aren’t like me—like texting her with flirty banter and creating an entire web porn series just so I can get to star in her bed. Again. And again.
With Devi, my entire universe shifts, and the more time I spend with her, the more I realize that Logan O’Toole isn’t the guy I thought he was.
So maybe I’m not the guy you thought I was either.
The Messy Mind of Monique Pearson 
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