I worked two jobs, made ends meet, and hung out with my mom and twin brother. The other part of my life was about avoiding him, but when SWAT raided my boyfriend’s home, that was the last straw. The boyfriend got tossed and to help me keep busy, my brother talked me into joining their old band again, but I had to be honest. It wasn’t a hard sell. Playing drums was in my blood. I used to be addicted and that craving hadn’t been satisfied in three long years. The only problem was their lead singer.
It was him.
The drums might not have been the only thing I was addicted to. I think I was still addicted to him too.
Excerpt: (Bri's pov)
Luke hit a jarring note on his guitar below, drawing me from the past and back to reality. Seriously. I’d been ready to take on two thugs beside a dumpster for my stupid-ass cousin, but this had ice filling my veins.
I rolled my eyes upward. What was wrong with me?
The melody was addictive. I felt it reach deep inside me and take root. My breathing wavered as he kept playing. He moved down a chord, and the sound of it seeped into me, smoothing out the haunted memories. Then he began singing. His voice was soft and low, but I could hear it as if I were in the room. He was weaving a spell. It was like he threw a spear that had a rope attached to it at me from a hundred yards away, and it embedded deep into my stomach. Then he began pulling on it. I couldn’t fight because it would yank out my insides, but damn, I didn’t want to go with it. This whole thing with Luke was both painful and exhilarating at the same time. I had two urges going through me at once. One was to crap my pants, and the other was to start doing cartwheels.
I was just messed up, which is why I started down the stairs. I still had no clue what to say, but I had to do something.
He was hunched over the guitar in his lap with a beer at his feet. His eyes were closed, and his head hung over the guitar as he hit another chord, his thumb beating out the base. Since he was only wearing jeans, I saw some of the scars on his back. A storm of regret, shame, and longing all swirled inside me. I wanted to go to him, run my hands over those scars, and make them disappear. I couldn’t, though. We weren’t close anymore.
So many ghosts within you
So many haunts to pull you away
You look, I reach out and there’s nothing to do
They take you from me again, far away
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t take your hand
He kept singing, and my heart felt like it was splitting into two, but then he faltered. His eyes opened, and he looked up. He didn’t stop playing, but he stopped singing.
I felt like he was strumming me. I couldn’t look away from his gaze. His thumb stopped hitting the bass, and his fingers slowed on the guitar. “What are you doing here?”
Right. I was pretty sure I was seeing lust in his eyes. With that thought, a fever took over my blood, heating me up. “I,” my tongue wet my lips, “um, I’m here to talk about you and me.”
His gaze clouded over, and his eyelids lowered. He bent his head back over his guitar, but he didn’t start strumming again. “There is no ‘you and me.’ You’re in the band. That’s it.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Luke,” I started.
“No.” He stood up abruptly, setting his guitar to the side. He advanced toward me, his eyes were smoldering.
When my back hit the wall, I realized I had nowhere else to go and could only watch as he closed in on me. A part of me wanted him to keep getting closer; the other part of me was still thinking about crapping my pants.
He leaned a hand against the wall beside my head, keeping a few inches between us. His eyes were hard as he said, “There is no you and me. That died long ago, remember?”
Author Information
I didn't begin writing until after undergraduate college. There'd been storylines and characters in my head all my life, but it came to a boiling point one day and I HAD to get them out of me. So the computer was booted up and I FINALLY felt it click. Writing is what I needed to do. After that, I had to teach myself how to write. I can't blame my teachers for not teaching me all those years in school. It was my fault. I was one of the students that was wishing I was anywhere but at school! So after that day, it took me lots of work until I was able to put together something that resembled a novel. I'm hoping I got it right since someone must be reading this profile! And I hope you keep enjoying my future stories.
Beverly Preston writes the perfect romance hero: sexy-as-hell good guys, the kind you want to screw your brains out and put a ring on your finger.” Sinfully sexy, emotionally rich contemporary romance series! Stunning love stories set in exotic destinations such as Bora Bora, Greece, Italy and more. Laugh, cry and fall in love with The Mathews Family one Happily Ever After at a time: with a Hollywood A-list actor, a sexy contractor, an Italian winemaker, and a dream-come-true architect.
EXCERPT
Seconds after hearing the click of the front door shutting, his mouth was at her ear. His fingers slipped beneath the straps on her shoulder, lifting the dress above her head and tossing it on the end of the bed.
Spikes of sensual energy gathered between them. Reed nuzzled the rasp of his stubble into the sensitive spot on her neck and her skin came to life beneath his firm yet gentle touch. Tremors chased down her spine and desire ached between her thighs. Never in her life had JC been so completely in tune with the bodily forces filling her physically and emotionally.
A slight giggle dissolved into a soft gasp as one arm crossed beneath her breast, pulling her closer. Gooseflesh covered her body as his lips traversed the slope of her neck and shoulder, revisiting receptive areas he’d pursued the night before.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. Reed pressed the shape of him, rearing and stiff, against the small of her back. Her head listed back against his chest, followed a soft ambiguous cry of need. “How do you do that to me?”
He turned her to face him, cupping the tender curve of her breast. “Darlin’, in few minutes, you’re not gonna give a damn.”
Heat.
Heat spread everywhere, engulfing her senses in flames of desire. Draping her wrists over his shoulder, she raised on her tippy-toes, searching for his lips. Reed resisted her fervent urges, pulling back, not allowing her the passionate kiss she yearned for. He stared into her eyes, capturing her spirit with his ice blue eyes. Zings of pleasure chased though her and JC feared she might melt before they even started.
Unspoken words drifted between them.
Reed’s unconditional acceptance disarmed her. He accepted her commitment phobias, occasional neurotic tendencies, her fears of love, her mishaps in life and bad judgments. He understood her implicitly and appreciated her exactly as she was.
Her heart pounded. Excitement and nervousness mingled through her emotions. Her eyes drifted shut as she leaned into his chest and his hands played over her slowly, tortuously igniting a new passion within. She quivered and stumbled, falling onto the chaise behind her.
He started toward her hungrily, but she shook her head.
“No?” he asked with a questioning grin.
“No.” She shook her head again. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured this. You make me too damn nervous.” She pointed toward the bathroom. “Can you please give me two minutes?”
He bent, securing her to the hide with his thigh between her legs, possessing her mouth with long, intimate licks of his tongue. “I’ll give you three,” he assured, releasing her from his kiss and sauntering into the bathroom.
JC leapt to her feet, pacing in circles in nothing more than her white cheeky panties. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Stopping midstride, she shook out her trembling limbs. “You can do this! Pull yourself together.”
She took a few deep breaths, trying to ward off the tension looming close the surface of her thoughts. Her limbs felt weighted and encumbering, restricting her body from its natural rhythmic flow of sensual language. He’s just a man. I’ve kissed dozens of men! You’ve already had sex with him. Don’t be chicken!
She bent over, tousling her hair through her fingers and flipped her head back, letting the long caramel layers cascade down her back in sexy loose pieces.
JC plopped onto the chaise, strumming her fingers on the hide. Yeah, but damn what a man!
Nestling back into the hide, she draped her hands above her head. Unable to find the right position, she fidgeted awkwardly. “This is not comfortable,” she grumbled. “Oh, my God. What is wrong with me?”
Irritated by her own anxiety and gracelessness, she flopped to the opposite end of the chaise. Her long legs and feet dangled over the arched back and her head hung over the foot of the lounge.
Sunbeams pushing through the glass door swept across her body. Her eyes drifted shut and she drew in a deep, full breath of air and then another. The scent of his skin lingered with the warmth of the sun, caressing her senses and calming her nerves.
She startled when Reed gently placed his hand on the outside of her thigh. His naked hip brushed against her skin when he sat beside her. Her eyes remained closed as the coolness from his hand slid along her waist to her breast, resting on top of her heart.
“I know…” she panted breathily. JC placed her hand over his. “Just feel you in here.”
“That’s right, darlin’”
“I don’t know why you make me so nervous.”
“Just relax.”
Feeling his avid stare burning through closed lids and the weight of his hand dip to her breast, she slipped her tongue across her lips sensually.
“You make me nervous too,”—his breath fractured—“JC.”
Her eyes opened when he called her by name.
“We’ll figure it out together.”
Feelings of passion and adoration flourished, stringing tightly around her heart. She nodded.
“Goddess,” he hummed, wiggling his brow. The back of his hand traced lazily over her jaw and earlobe. He leaned closer, nearly kissing her before halting. “You’re beautiful. Inside and out.”
Author Information
#1 Bestselling Author, Beverly Preston has been a stay at home mom for 21 years, although she prefers the title Domestic Engineer. Along the way, Beverly worked side by side with her husband Don, the love of her life, designing, building and selling custom homes. As her children begin to venture out on their own, she’s left to shed a tear—for a minute—wonder what’s next in life, and embrace the feeling of empowerment that surely must’ve been wrapped in a present she received on her fortieth birthday.
If Beverly isn’t at home riding her spin bike, you’ll find her spinning richly emotional and sinfully sexy romance stories.
My name is Cale Kinley and I’m a fucking Virgin…Well, with the exception of my tongue. The countless things I can do with my tongue are bound to leave you breathless and begging for more, but more… is something that I can’t give. It’s a choice. My choice.There’s a reason for that. A very good reason, and that reason is her.Riley.She’s the only woman that I want to bury myself deep in. The one woman I have wanted since I was old enough to fuck.I never got my chance though, because she left. She had no choice and it stung like hell. But I couldn’t let her leave without telling her how I felt. I wanted her to be my first and I didn’t give a shit how long I’d have to wait.It’s been six years and now she’s back and sexier than all hell. Just the sight of her stops my damn heart from beating. I want her and for more than just having her as my first.I’m determined to have her in every way possible. She thinks this is still a game; that I’ve already given myself to countless women. What she doesn’t know is that I have a lot of willpower.When I want something as badly as I want her, I don’t let shit stand in my way. I’m going to prove that to her. There’s just one little problem I need to take care of…Him.
Victoria Ashley grew up in Rockford, IL and has had a passion for reading for as long as she can remember. After finding a reading app where it allowed readers to upload their own stories, she gave it a shot and writing became her passion.
She lives for a good romance book with tattooed bad boys that are just highly misunderstood and is not afraid to be caught crying during a good read. When she’s not reading or writing about bad boys, you can find her watching her favorites shows such as Sons Of Anarchy, Dexter and True Blood.
She is the author of Wake Up Call, This Regret, Slade, Hemy, and Get Off on the Pain. Victoria is currently working on more releases for 2015.
What happens when you continually run from your demons?When Mia watched Ethan walk out of her life, she did what she did best—she ran—ran from the only person who ever made her feel safe; home.They work even harder to try and find you.He was her everything and she let him slip away.And when they do … they’ll come at you full force, guns blazing.Hitting rock bottom forced Mia to stop. Now she needed to dig herself out. Figuring out how to do that required help, maybe a plan. She had to face those demons. Not an easy task when she spent her entire life running from them.Would Ethan still be there for Mia after all was said and done? Or would she find that he had moved on? Or would he still be into her?
Excerpt
Mia literally wiped his mind of any intelligence he ever had with her disrobing. Ethan couldn’t think. Well that wasn’t entirely true. All he kept seeing was his hand sliding up and under her skirt, feeling the heat he knew would be there.When he finally broke through her spell, he threw on his shirt, put on his shoes, and helped her fold up the blanket.Grabbing the bag with one hand and her wrist with the other, Ethan stalked off towards their parking spot. He eventually slid his hand down and entwined his fingers with hers. In response she gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. She knew exactly how he felt. He could only hope it was because she felt the same, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. They made it to the car. He unlocked it and threw the bag in the backseat when what he really wanted to do was to throw her back there and fuck the smile right off her face.He needed to calm himself down or he’d take her with no finesse. “I want you, Mia. Here and now.”“And this is a problem how?” she asked innocently.Grrr …“Get in the car,” he ordered.“Seriously?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement.“No way, Mia,” he answered. God, her obvious want just increased the desire to throw her in the car and fuck her right there.He eyed the front seat, a silent order for her to get in. Mia scrambled and got herself in the car. Closing her door, Ethan then hurriedly got in himself. When he finally pulled in the alley, Ethan let himself breathe. He opened the garage and pulled her car inside. Shifting the car to park, he turned off the engine.“We’re here,” he announced.“We are,” she said calmly as she undid her seatbelt. Then all hell broke loose.Fuck finesse.
About The Author
During the day, Ryleigh is an analyst, but even then, she’s writing, sneakily crafting scenes on post-it notes. She's been told she's a bit of a geek...some say nerd. She'll agree to it all. She loves music. It's been a force in her life for as long as she can remember. Her love of Star Wars and superheroes has probably been going on just as long...see, this is where the geek/nerd thing comes into play. But, most of all, Ryleigh loves the written word. She's been writing for a long time. Her first story came to her during one of her history classes. She wrote it in the margins of her notebook in teeny tiny letters so no one knew that she was writing a book instead of taking notes on 16th Century Europe. She currently lives in Chicago, Illinois, with her husband and son, along with her Siberian Husky, Mick Jagger, and her cat, Winston Churchill.
A beautiful violinist who lives next door…The obsessed rock star who watches her... And the one night she bares it all. Description:
Vital Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his YouTube music video would go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did. After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a matter of time before his stars aligned.
But life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.
After being cheated on, Sebastian’s only rule to falling in love is simple: Keep Calm and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new neighbor with binoculars seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an erotic game between two very unlikely people.
Twenty-year-old Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist who's lost her mojo on stage. She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to find her way through her twisted past in order to make her future.
He’s the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his autograph. She’s the introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who he is.
When they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off. Yet, giving his heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who craves attention isn’t Violet’s.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes the best things in life are VERY TWISTED THINGS.
Prologue
Violet
“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
Boom!
I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the NewYork Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone off.
Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left.
Would the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.
Chapter 1
Sebastian
Two years later
“She was music with skin.” —Sebastian Tate
I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved around. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was she doing?
Could she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.
Her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me.
The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.
Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
And then …
Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
Author Bio
New York Times and USA Today best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
She’s addicted to dystopian and all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroines. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she’s a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master’s in Education.
When she’s not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
