"Exquisitely sensual, Maldeamores is the most unforgettable forbidden romance I have ever read." Katy Evans, New York Times Bestselling Author of the REAL Series. "Refreshingly 'taboo' - in a community where we're inundated by novels claiming this title, it's wonderful to finally find a book that not only truly lives up to the word, but is also well written, moving, and beautiful in its prose." Stylo Fantome, Best Selling Author of the Kane Trilogy.
Belén: I’ve loved Luciano ever since I can remember, desired him before I even knew what it meant. He’s always been the only man in my life—my constant protector, and his rejection only intensifies my need.
Luciano: I’ve never known a love more fierce than the one I feel for Belén. But I force myself to deny her no matter how much it hurts.
Our love is a sickness and both of us are infected.
Because there’s no cure for being from the same family
***Warning***
This novel contains graphic sex scenes, including: incest, F/F, and ménage, M/M/F. Some drug use and violence.
Now that Luciano lives in the same building, he comes over all the time. Both he and Titi have a key, and I have one to their apartment that I keep on my key chain.
Our front door opens while I’m sitting at the dining room table doing homework. I look up, expecting to see Mami coming in with the groceries, but instead it’s Luciano and he doesn’t look good.
His lip is swollen and bleeding—his eye took a punch too, and it’s almost closed from the pressure. He’s hurt and it startles me. I stand up and my pen rolls to the floor, but I stay silent, waiting for him to say something first.
"I didn’t think you’d be home," he says. His face is totally straight, lacking any emotion.
"The library was closed for a special event. Was there a fight? Are you okay? You’re bleeding."
He nods and says nothing.
"Let me get you some ice," I say, running to the kitchen.
I put ice in a bowl and run a clean towel under water, then grab some gauze and peroxide from the bathroom and take it all to the living room where he’s sitting.
Kneeling down beside him, I put ice cubes in the wet towel and lift it to his face. I ask permission with my eyes and Luciano gives me a quick nod. He winces from either the cold or the pressure and I put my hand on his chest to calm him. It’s an automatic gesture.
"Does it hurt?" I ask him.
He shakes his head.
His chest feels solid under his T-shirt and touching it does strange things to my body. I try to focus on the task in front of me.
"Titi will kill you," I say, pulling my mind away from his hard chest. "You should try to stay out of fights," I add, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around him or crawl into his lap. Luciano is, and has always been, the only man in my life. I look to him for reassurance all the time, even though we’re almost the same age.
I dab at the gash under his eye that is bleeding the most.
"Easier said than done," he says, and then grabs my wrist hard. I stare at the juncture where his hand meets my arm. His knuckles are white and my skin under his grip is turning bright pink.
My lips immediately part and my stomach fills with unease. I can always read Luciano, but right now I can’t tell what’s happening. He has sweat on his brow and there’s dirt smudged on his face and his arm. He doesn’t release my hand.
"Luciano, you’re scaring me."
He drops my wrist disdainfully and his eyes graze slowly down my body. I glance down at my own chest and suddenly remember that I took my bra off when I got in. I’m wearing a white button-down shirt, unbuttoned a little bit. My nipples are hard from the cold ice in the tea cloth. The shirt brushes over my breasts just enough to make shivers skirt up my back.
Mara White is a contemporary romance and erotica writer who laces forbidden love stories with hard issues, such as race, gender and inequality. She holds an Ivy League degree but has also worked in more strip clubs than even she can remember. She is not a former Mexican telenovela star contrary to what the tabloids might say, but she is a former ballerina and will always remain one in her heart. She lives in NYC with her husband and two children and yes, when she’s not writing you can find her on the playground.
No comments:
Post a Comment