Thursday, 17 September 2015

RELEASE BLITZ - Indecent Cravings: Part Four by S.K. Cross @givemebooksblog @skcrossbooks

Title: Indecent Cravings: Part Four
Series: Indecent Cravings #4
Author: S.K. Cross
Genre: Erotic Romance
 Release Date: September 17, 2015


Storm clouds are moving into Miami...

Jayd (formerly Abigail) is stunned at new revelations about Lukas Thorn, including a dangerous peek into his past. Once Lorena convinces her to see things differently, Jayd submits to her first week of "private training" at Lukas' Key Biscayne mansion.

As she continues her search for Karissa, Jayd senses evil forces moving in on both her and Lukas. An event soon forces her to choose whether she will return to her upper-crusty college world in Boston or continue her hot steamy new life in Miami permanently.

Do not read if any of the following offends you: Dirty talk, floggers, riding crops, anal sex, strap-on dildos, heavy ropes, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, tongues in places they probably shouldn't go, sensory deprivation, public humiliation, girl-on-girl, girl-on-guy, guy-on-two-girls, two-girls-on-girl, well-endowed M2F transsexual-on-girl, well-endowed M2F transsexual-on-guy, tease and denial contests, dominatrixes, and sex swings...all consensual and in the spirit of fun and personal growth. (Not all of these appear in this book but will be explored over the course of the series... and more!)

You have been warned.

Themes explored: Overcoming personal challenges, discovering one's purpose in life, inspiring people to live their own lives on their own terms, and refusing to allow others to control how you think.

Mature content. 18+ only. Book 4 of a multiple-part continuing series.

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Another sultry beat begins. I move around him. He spreads his legs on the stool as I bend forward and flop my hair over his naked knees.

I want to stop and bite them, but the hair flop is a tease Lorena’s choreographer taught me. As I steal a glance at his sapphire demons of eyes, I know I’ve had the desired effect. I swear I even see a twitch in those shorts.

Then I turn around and back up into him, making sure my denim cutoffs are as close to him as I can get without touching him. I sway from side to side, pulling them up tight so he can see the G-string of my thong, then pulling the top down just enough so that the top of my panties come halfway down my ass crack.

Then back up again. I spin quickly, waving my finger in a no-no stance, then placing my hands on my hips with an “underlook” and a sultry smile.

Twitch! I saw a twitch! That was a massive one. Well, naturally. He smiles while running his hands up the sides of his face into his hair. Hopefully, I’m making him want to pull it out right now. I’m a pretty talented twitch-reader.

Next thing I do is straddle him, my legs as wide as they go as I place my face near his crotch.

Then I draw a somewhat straight but sort of diagonal line up to his right ear with my head, making sure my perfume hits his nostrils with a flick of my hair.

It takes all of the effort I have ever summoned to not dive into that muscular pulsing neck as I reach his ear and drop a hot dollop of sweet girl breath into his acoustic cavity.

The next move is tricky. Lorena’s choreographer was emphatic about this point, that whatever I do as I rise above him I can’t touch him. It takes balance and precision. I fucked it up numerous times, but eventually got it right.

Here goes.

I shift my weight onto his thighs without touching his crotch. Then I move so my face rises from below his chin to the top of his head, looking him in the eye and then allowing the center of my breasts to fall right to his eyes.

Then, I lean back and remove my tank top, exposing my bra. Then I move forward to almost touch his nose while snaking one hand behind me and unlatching it.

The brilliance of this move is how the bra falls without him knowing it’s going to happen. One moment he’s looking at the piece of fabric between my two girls. The next, he’s looking at the naked spot between them, their mounds dancing around his peripheral vision.

Then I tilt my head and move to his right, landing another hot breathy whisper of nothingness to his other ear.

This time I feel the twitch. The choreographer would have deducted points for getting too close, but come on! It’s Lukas Thorn’s cock!

Sensations swirl around me, colors dance, and my breathing is heavy as his throbbing warrior presses against my thigh, up my taint, and up my backside.


Oh my.

Author Bio

I am the owner of a foul-mouthed dirty mind, a living contradiction who enjoys pushing hot sexy fun to the edges of normalcy ... while telling the stories of inspiring characters who rise above personal challenges to live happy and fulfilled lives.

Author Links


EXCERPT REVEAL: Last Hope by Jen Frederick & Jessica Clare @_JessicaClare

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In the explosive new Hitman novel from the bestselling authors of
Last Kiss and Last Hit a jungle mercenary
and a female target find love on the run...


Barnes & Noble:

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I wake up with my face pressed against a warm, broad chest and my legs tangled in the leaves of a tree. Somewhere close by, I hear birds chirping. There’s sunlight dappling my face and everything feels damp.
Everything also hurts.
I’m dazed and my head is ringing with pain, and the sun is beaming right into my eyes, which is freaking annoying as hell. I rub a hand across my face and it takes me a few moments to realize that I shouldn’t see the sun at all if I’m inside an airplane.
Then I remember the storm. The thunderous boom as the plane was hit by lightning. Screams. The wing catching fire. The chaos of Afonso with his gun. Free-falling through the cabin, my grip on the seats the only thing keeping me from flying through six thousand feet of empty air.
Mendoza’s hand ripping out of mine when the cabin depressurized. The screams of people going silent.
I remember him, too.
A noise from somewhere nearby catches my attention. It sounds like heavy breathing. I open my eyes and look around.
I’m still strapped to my seat. There’s a portion of the plane underneath me, and the two seats Mendoza and I buckled into are still together.
He’s next to me, the broad chest I’m currently draped across. His eyes are closed, dried, crusted blood around the injured one. He’s got an enormous bruise on his forehead and his arms are around me, as if he was trying to protect me even as we fell.
“Mendoza?” I ask, sitting upright and pulling out of his arms. Sitting up makes everything in my body scream with pain. My ankles hurt, but I don’t know if it’s because they’re seriously injured or because they were tucked under the seat in front of me, which is also still attached. I test my legs, untangling them from his longer ones, and wince at the pain shooting through my body. It feels like I’ve been trampled in my sleep. My ribs hurt, and my right arm radiates agony.
But . . . I’m alive. I sit up a bit straighter and look at my right arm. The purse I’ve carried for days is gone. The skin is puffy and turning purple. When I flex my fingers, the pain brings tears to my eyes. I look away from it, faint and sick to my stomach at the sight. It’s not just the pain but what it represents. I’m a hand model. I can’t do a thing if my hands are jacked up.
Not that it matters right now.
“Mendoza,” I say again, because I’m about to panic, and panic hard. “Wake up. Please.”
He doesn’t stir.
Fear clutches me, and I grab his shirt with my good hand and give him a shake. “Mendoza?”
That doesn’t wake him, either. I press my cheek to his chest and listen for a heartbeat.
It’s slow and steady. Whew. I sit up and examine him again. The knot on his forehead is huge. Maybe he just got knocked out. I’ll have to figure out how to wake him up once I figure out where we are. It looks like our section of the plane somehow separated from the rest of the wreckage, which is why we’re alive and not a skidmark on the ground.
I shift in my seat and the world tilts. My eyes go wide and I freeze in place, then look around.
I can see trees overhead, and sunshine, but it’s just now occurred to me that we’re not on the ground. The chairs are tilted and everything shakes when I move.
I’m pretty sure we’re in a tree. Clutching at the arm of the chair, I sit up carefully and look around.
I see nothing but air and leaves, green vines and dappled shadows. In the distance, I hear the sound like heavy breathing again. I look at Mendoza, but it’s not him. Oh God. Is it Afonso? Is he still here? Biting my lip, I crane my neck and try to peer down below. We’re at least twenty feet off the ground.
It’s like the wreckage has been swallowed up by a wall of green. Green and wet. On the jungle floor, there’s more greenery and what looks like smoking wreckage. Pieces of the plane are scattered all over the forest floor, along with a few scattered suitcases. In the distance I see another row of chairs, this one facedown in the dirt. The heavy breathing starts again, and this time I see the source: a jaguar, stalking through the wreckage.
My eyes widen and I go very still.
A heavy rain begins to fall, spattering me from above. I don’t move. My gaze is on that jungle cat as it sniffs through things. If it notices us, I don’t know what we’ll do. Mendoza is unconscious and if I try to move him, we might both fall out of the tree . . . and land right in front of the cat.
The situation hits me and I start to cry. I’m alone. I’m really fucking alone. I’ve never camped a day in my life, much less been in a jungle. I look down at my hands. They’re my livelihood. My way to earn a living. My income depends on them being soft and perfect, my nails elegant ovals.
I have a long gouge down the back of one hand, and my pinky is bruised and swollen. My wrist looks like an elephant’s leg, if elephants were black and blue. Not gonna be hand modeling for a long while after I get out of here.
If I get out of here.
I’m sorry, Rose. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. I shudder back a sob as the cat slinks into the underbrush, something dangling and arm-sized in its mouth. I’m in the jungle with a busted hand and a stranger that just wants the information I’m carrying . . .
And I don’t even have the information anymore. The purse is gone. I sniff hard, trying to fight back another sob that’s threatening to break free.
“Don’t cry,” a voice says softly.
I turn and look at Mendoza. His shirt is sticking to his big body, wet raindrops splatting down his face. He looks at me and smiles crookedly, and lifts a hand to try to touch my face. “Don’t cry.”



Mendoza: I grew up in the slums and lost everything I loved to poverty, illness, and death. I had only one skill to leverage myself out of my circumstances—violence. Being hired out as a mercenary hitman brought me money and built an empire. But all that I've fought for is in jeopardy. My next job: Steal secret information that could bring down world governments. Find my target. Destroy it. But then, I meet her.

Ava: Karma hates me. When my best friend Rose is kidnapped, I have no choice but to take a job as a mule for a pair of criminals intent on selling top-secret information to the highest bidder. I should have known that bad luck tends to cling, because the plane I'm on goes down. That I survived a crash-landing was a miracle. And so was being rescued by Rafe Mendoza—hot, sexy, dangerous. The thing is, he wants the information that I need to free Rose. I can't let him have it, but I need his help. And I need to fight this crazy attraction for this mercenary with hungry eyes. Rose is depending on me, and I won't let her down, no matter how appealing Rafe is.

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Hitman Series Reading Order

Last Hit (bk 1)
Barnes & Noble:

Last Breath (bk 2)
Barnes & Noble:

Last Hit: Reloaded (bk 2.5)
Barnes & Noble:

Last Kiss (bk 3)
Barnes & Noble:

Last Hope (bk 4)  Pre-order
Barnes & Noble:

Meet Jen & Jessica

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Jen Frederick lives with her husband, child, and one rambunctious dog.  She's been reading stories all her life but never imagined writing one of her own. Jen loves to hear from readers so drop her a line at

Author Jessica Claire
This is a pen name for Jill Myles.
Jill Myles has been an incurable romantic since childhood. She reads all the 'naughty parts' of books first, looks for a dirty joke in just about everything, and thinks to this day that the Little House on the Prairie books should have been steamier.
After devouring hundreds of paperback romances, mythology books, and archaeological tomes, she decided to write a few books of her own - stories with a wild adventure, sharp banter, and lots of super-sexy situations. She prefers her heroes alpha and half-dressed, her heroines witty, and she loves nothing more than watching them overcome adversity to fall into bed together.