RANSOM: an Erotic, Suspenseful MC Romance Novella by Logan and Jacob Chance

Release Banner for Ransom, by Logan and Jacob Chance



Logan Chance & Jacob Chance

Release Date: March 23rd

Series: Aces & Eights Motorcycle Club, Book 1

Hosted by: Chance Promotions


Amazon: http://amzn.to/2n8bxhQ


Blood by birth – Brothers by choice

Aces & Eights Motorcycle Club is all they’ve known for the past twelve years. They live hard, bound by the code of brotherhood.

Liam Fox: Vice President of Aces & Eights

Height: six foot one inch

Hair color: dark brown

Eye color: brown

Alias: Lo


Rory Fox: Sergeant at Arms of Aces & Eights

Height: six foot one inch

Hair color: dark brown

Eye color: hazel

Alias: Knuckles


The ladies know them as Dominant males to submissive females, erotic, dirty talking, alpha male, bad boy, lumberjacks of all trades with no known accidental pregnancies or babies with the last name Fox.

Just kidding…

What they’re really known for is riding, fighting, whiskey and women. With the brotherhood, they never have to stand alone.

Aces & Eights is about to face their toughest enemy and play out the Dead Man’s hand.


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My Review of Ransom…

Ransom ( Aces & Eights Motorcycle Club Book 1)Ransom by Logan Chance
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If you enjoy raw, gritty, down-and-very-dirty MC romance with a healthy dose of suspense, lots of action and a breakneck-paced storyline, check out Ransom, the first standalone in a new series by brothers Logan and Jacob Chance. It’s a quick, adrenaline-packed read, entirely appropriate to the short, novella format typical of these two authors. Ransom is their first collaboration, and it’s virtually seamless, even if you’re well-acquainted with the brothers’ individual writing voices.

The authors use alternating POV, narrated primarily by Rory and Liam, two of the six Fox brothers at the center of its conflicts. Another brother, Finn, voices the epilogue, setting the stage for what I hope is the next story in the series.

While the book reflects many of the common themes of MC fiction — rival gangs, gang-on-gang violence, strip clubs, “willingly wanton” women, and forbidden attraction –, it’s not stereotypical. The deep relationship between the brothers, plus a few unique twists and turns, ratchets up the stakes, and therefore the suspense when the inevitable clash of the clubs reaches its peak.

Ransom has a generous dose of erotic, consensual sex that doesn’t disappoint. Let’s say that despite the violence, virtually everyone gets a happy-ever-after, one way or another — including the reader. I look forward to more of the Fox brothers when Logan and Jacob treat us to another story from the Aces & Eights MC collection.

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Surprise Announcement & Giveaway: Provocative, #1 of a new duet by Lisa Renee Jones, coming soon!

Promo Banner for Provocative by Lisa Renee Jones

Provocative (White Lies Book One) by Lisa Renee Jones
Release Date:  April 18th
Genre: Contemporary Romance

A Note from the Author:

Hi everyone!

I am BEYOND excited to introduce my WHITE LIES DUET! This is a sexy, intense, psychological thriller, that is provocative in every way, thus why I named book one: PROVOCATIVE. And since this series takes me back to my indie roots, the pricing is lower than my New York titles, and the release dates are close together.

Here are the details on the series:

  • PROVOCATIVE, book one, will be out on April 18, 2017 and priced at $2.99 – includes the free novella – REBECCA’S FORGOTTEN JOURNALS – for readers who purchase during release week or pre-order where pre-order is available.
  • SHAMELESS, book two, will be out on July 11, 2017 and priced at $3.99
  • BOTH books will be full-length!
  • I’m also giving away prizes on my blog every day in April to celebrate! Entry is super easy. Just comment! The link to my blog is HERE so be sure to subscribe!

And now, without further ado, the covers for the duet, blurb for book one, and CHAPTER ONE of PROVOCATIVE! I can’t wait for you to meet the dirty talking alpha, Nick “Tiger” Rogers. I hope you enjoy him as much as I enjoyed writing him!

Provocative Final Border


Book One in the sexy and intense new White Lies duet by Lisa Renee Jones!

There are those moments in life that are provocative in their very existences, that embed in our minds forever, and sometimes our very souls. They change us, mold us, maybe even save us. But some are darker, dangerous. If we allow them to, they control us. Seduce us. Quite possibly even destroy us.

The moment I walked into Sonoma’s Reid Winter Winery and Vineyard and made eye contact with Faith Winter for the first time was one of those moments. Provocative because I know at least one of her secrets, of which, I suspect she has many. Provocative because she believes I was a stranger to her when we met, but I am not. Provocative because I sought her out, with no intention of touching her. But now I have. Now I want her. Now I have to have her. But that changes nothing. It doesn’t change why I came for her.

Pre-Order PROVOCATIVE Today!

Special $2.99 pre-order price – will increase after release!

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Read Chapter One Now:



  1. causing annoyance, anger, or another strong reaction, especially deliberately.
  2. arousing sexual desire or interest, especially deliberately.

Chapter One

There are those moments in life that are provocative in their very existences, that embed in our minds forever, and sometimes our very souls. They change us, mold us, maybe even save us. But some are darker, dangerous. If we allow them to, they control us. Seduce us. Quite possibly even destroy us.

The moment I stepped into the mansion that is the centerpiece of the Reid Winter Vineyards and Winery wasn’t one of those moments. Nor were any of the moments I spent weaving through a crowd of suits and dresses cluttering the circle that is the grand foyer of the 1800’s mansion, fancy tiles etched with vines beneath my feet. Nor the ones spent declining three different waiters offering me glasses of various wines from one of the most established vineyards in Sonoma, meant to entice me to buy their bottles and donate money to the charity hosting the gathering. Not even the instant that I spotted the stunning blonde in a snug black dress that hugged her many lush curves proved to be one of those moments, but I would call it a damn interesting one. The moment I decided the blonde silk of her long hair belonged in my hands and on my stomach was also a damn interesting one. And not because she’s fuckable. There are plenty of fuckable women in my life, a number of whom understand that I enjoy demands for pleasure, which I will definitely provide, and nothing more. This woman is too prim and proper to ever agree to such an arrangement, and yet, knowing this, as she and her heart-shaped backside disappear into the congestion of bodies, I find myself pursuing her, looking for more than an interesting moment. I want that provocative one.

I follow her path formed by huddles of two, three, or more people, left and right, to clear a portion of the crowd, scanning to find my beauty standing several feet away, her back to me, with two men in blue suits in front of her. And while they might appear to blend with the rest of the suits in the room, they hold themselves like the parasites I meet too often in the courtroom, those who most often call themselves my opposing counsel. My blonde beauty folds her arms in front of her chest, her spine stiff, and if I read her right–and I read most people right–I am certain that she’s found trouble. But lucky for her, trouble doesn’t like me near as much as I like it.

Closing the space between me and them, I near their little triangle just in time to hear her say, “Are we really doing this here and now?”

“Yes, Ms. Winter,” one of the men replies. “We are.”

“Actually,” I say, stepping to Ms. Winter’s side, her floral scent almost as sweet as the challenge of conquering her opponents that are now mine, “we are not doing this here or now.”

All attention shifts to me, Ms. Winter giving me a sharp stare that I feel rather than see, my focus remaining on the men I want to leave, not the woman I want to make come. “And you would be who?” the suit directly in front of me demands.

I size him up as barely out of his twenty-something diapers, without experience, the glint in his eye telling me he doesn’t realize that flaw, which makes him about as smooth as a six-dollar glass of wine everyone in this place would spit the fuck out. A point driven home by the fact that he’s wearing a three hundred-dollar Italian silk tie, and a hundred-dollar suit, no doubt hoping the tie makes the suit look expensive, and him important. He’s wrong.

“I said, who are you?” he repeats when I apparently haven’t replied quickly enough, his impatience becoming my virtue as my role as cat in this game of cat and mouse is too easily established.

Unwilling to waste words on a predictable, expected question that I’d never ask, I simply reach into the pocket of my three-thousand-dollar light gray suit, which I earned by beating opponents with ten times his experience and negotiation skills, and finger the unimportant prick my card.

He snaps it from my hand, gives it a look that confirms my name and the firm I started a decade ago now, after daring to leave behind a certain partnership in a high-powered firm. “Nick Rogers?” he asks. “Is there another name on the card?” I ask, because, I’m also a fearless smartass every chance I get.

He stares at me for several beats, seeming to calculate his words, before asking, “How many Mr. Rogers sweater jokes do you get?”

I arch a brow at the misguided joke that only serves to poke the Tiger. Suit Number Two, who I age closer to my thirty-six years, pales visibly, then snatches the card from the other man’s hand, giving it a quick inspection before his gaze then jerks to mine. “The Nick Rogers?”

“I don’t remember my mother putting the word ‘the’ in front of my name,” I reply dryly, but then again, I think, she didn’t ask my father, to change my last name either. She just hated him that much.

“Tiger,” he says, and it’s not a question, but rather a statement of “oh shit” fact.

“That’s right,” I say, enjoying the fruits of my labor that created the nickname, not one given to me by my friends.

“Who, or what, the fuck is Tiger all about?” Suit Number One asks.

“Shut up,” Suit Number Two grunts, refocusing on me to ask, “You’re representing Ms. Winter?”

“What I am,” I say, “is standing right here by her side, telling you that it’s in your best interests to leave.”

“Since when do you handle small-time foreclosures?” he demands, exposing the crux of Ms. Winter’s situation.

“I handle whatever the fuck I want to handle,” I say, my tone even, my lips curving as I add, “Including the process of having you both escorted off the property by security.”

“That,” Suit Number One dares to retort, “would garner Ms. Winter unwanted attention in the middle of a busy event. Not that Ms. Winter even has security to call.”

“Fortunately, I have a phone that dials 911 and the ability to call it without asking her.”

If she’s your client,” Suit Number One says, clearly inferring that she’s not, “you’re obligated to operate with her best interests in mind.”

“My decisions,” I reply, without missing a beat, and without claiming Ms. Winter as a client, “are always about winning. And I assure you that I can think of many ways to spin your story to the press that ensures I win, while also benefiting Ms. Winter.”

“This isn’t my story,” Suit Number One indicates.

“It will be when I’m finished with the press,” I assure him, amused at how easily I’ve led him down the path I want him to travel.

“This is a small community with little to talk about but her,” he says. “She doesn’t want her foreclosure to become the front page story.”

My lips quirk. “If you don’t know how easily I can get the wrong attention for you here, and the right attention for Ms. Winter, you’ll find out.”

“We’ll leave,” Suite Number Two interjects quickly, and just when I think that he’s smart enough to see the way trouble has turned from Ms. Winter to them, he looks at her and says, “We’ll be in touch,” with a not so subtle threat in his tone, before he elbows Suit Number One. “Let’s go.”

Suit Number One doesn’t move, visibly fuming, his face red, that white ring thickening around his lips. I arch a brow at Suit Number Two, who adds, “Now, Jordan.” Jordan, formerly known as Suit Number One, clenches his teeth and turns away, while Suit Two follows.

Ms. Winter faces me, and holy fuck, when her pale green eyes meet mine, any questions I have about this woman and the many I suspect she now has of me, are muted by an unexpected, potentially problematic, palpable electric charge between us. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, feminine, a rasp in its depths that hints at emotion not effortlessly contained. “Please enjoy anything you like tonight on the house,” she adds, the rasp gone now, her control returned. Until I take it, I think, but no sooner than I’ve had the thought, she is turning and walking away, the absence of further interaction coloring me both stunned and intrigued, two things that, for me, are ranked with about as much frequency as snow in Sonoma, which would be next to never.

Ms. Winter maneuvers into the crowd, out of my line of sight, and while I am not certain I’d label her a mouse at this point, or ever for that matter, considering what I know of her, I am most definitely on the prowl. I stride purposely forward, weaving through the crowd, seeking that next provocative moment, scanning for her left, right, in the clusters of mingling guests, until I clear the crowd.

Now standing in front of a wide, wooden stairwell, my gaze follows its path upward to a second level, but I still find no sign of Ms. Winter. A cool breeze whips through the air, and I turn to find the source is a high arched doorway, the recently opened glass doors to what I know to be the “Winter Gardens,” a focal point of the property, and a tourist draw for decades, settling back into place. Certain this represents her escape, I walk that direction, and press open the doors, stepping onto a patio that has a stone floor and concrete benches framed by rose bushes. No less than four winding paths greet me as destination choices, the hunt for this woman now a provocation of its own.

I’ve just decided to wait where I am for Ms. Winter’s return when the wind lifts, the floral scent of many varieties of flowers for which the garden is famous touching my nostrils, with one extra scent decidedly of the female variety.

Lips curving with the certainty that my prey will soon to be my prize, I follow the clue that guides my feet to the path on my right, a narrow, winding, lighted walkway, framed by neatly cut yellow flower bushes, which continues past a white wooden gazebo I have no intention of passing. Not when Ms. Winter stands inside it, her back to me, elbows resting on the wooden rail, her gaze casting across the silhouette of what would reveal itself to be a rolling mountainside in daybreak. The way I intend for her to reveal herself.

I close the distance between us, and the moment before I’m upon her, she faces me, hands on the railing behind her, her breasts thrust forward, every one of her lush curves tempting my eyes, my hands. My mouth. “Did those men know you?” she demands, clearly ready and waiting for this interaction. “Did you know them?”

“No and no.”

“And yet they knew the nickname Tiger.”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“I’ll take the bait,” she says. “What reputation?”

“They say I’ll rip my opponent’s throat out if given the chance.”

“Will you?” she asks, without so much as a blanch or blink.

“Yes,” I reply, a simple answer, for a simple question.

“Without any concern for who you hurt,” she states.

I arch a brow. “Is that a question?”

“Should it be?”


“It’s not,” she says. “You didn’t get that nickname by being nice.”

“Nice guys don’t win.”

“Then I’m warned,” she says. “You aren’t a nice guy.”

“Is nice a quality you’re looking for in a man? Because as your evening counsel, Ms. Winter, I’ll advise you that nice is overrated.”

She stares at me for several beats before turning away to face the mountains again, elbows on the railing, in what I could see as a silent invitation to leave. I choose to see it as an invitation to join her. I claim the spot next to her, close, but not nearly as close as I will be soon. “You didn’t answer the question,” I point out.

“You wrongly assume I am looking for a man, which I’m not,” she says, glancing over at me. “But if I was, then no. Nice would be on my list but it would not top my list, however, nowhere on that list would be the ability, and willingness, to rip out someone’s throat.”

“I can assure you, Ms. Winter, that a man with a bite is as underrated as a nice guy is overrated. And I not only know how, and when, to use mine, but if I so choose to biteyou, and I might, it’ll be all about pleasure, not pain.”

Her cheeks flush and she turns away. “My name is Faith.” She glances over at me again. “Should I call you Nick, Tiger, or just plain arrogant?”

“Anything but Mr. Rogers,” I say, enjoying our banter far more than I would have expected when I came here tonight looking for her.

She laughs now too, and it’s a delicate, sweet sound, but it’s awkward, as if it’s not only unexpected, but unwelcome, and an instant later she’s withdrawing, pushing off the railing, arms folding protectively in front of her body, before we’re rotating to face each other. “I need to go check on the visitors.” She attempts to move away.

I gently catch her arm, her gaze rocketing to mine, and in the process her hair flutters in a sudden breeze, a strand of blonde silk catching on the whiskers of my one-day stubble. She sucks in a breath, and when she would reach up to remedy the situation, I’m already there, catching the soft silk and stroking it behind her ear.

“Why are you touching me?” she asks, but she doesn’t pull away, that charge between us minutes ago now ten times more provocative with me touching her, thinking about all the places I might touch next.

“It’s considerably better than not touching you,” I say.

“My bad luck might bleed into you.”

“Bleed,” I repeat, that word reminding me once again of why I’m here, why I really want to fuck this woman. “That’s an extreme, and rather interesting choice of words.”

“Most bad luck is extreme, though not interesting to anyone but the Tigers of the world, creating it. You’re still touching me.”

“Everyone needs a Tiger in their corner. Maybe my good luck will bleed into you.”

“Does good luck bleed?” she asks.

“Many people will do anything for good luck, even bleed.”

“Yes,” she says, lowering her lashes, but not before I’ve seen the shadows in her eyes. “I suppose they would.”

“What would you do for good luck?”

Her lashes lift, her stare meeting mine again. “What have you done for good luck?”

“I came here tonight,” I say.

She narrows her eyes on me, as if some part of her senses, the far-reaching implications of my reply that she can’t possibly understand, and yet still, the inescapable heat between us radiates and burns. “You’re still touching me,” she points out, and this time there’s a hint of reprimand.

“Holding onto that luck,” I say.

“It feels like you’re holding onto mine.”

With that observation that hits too close to the truth, I have no interest in revealing just yet, I drag my hand slowly down hers, allowing my fingers to find hers before they fall away. Her lips, lush, tempting, impossibly perfect for someone I know to be imperfect, part with the loss of my touch, and yet there is a hint of relief in her eyes that tells me she both wants me and fears me.

A most provocative moment, indeed.

“Have a drink with me,” I say.

“No,” she replies, her tone absolute, and while I don’t like this decision, I appreciate a person who’s decisive.


“Good luck and bad luck don’t mix.”

“They might just create good luck.”

“Or bad,” she says. “I’m not in a place where I can take the risk for more bad luck.” She inclines her chin. “Enjoy the rest of your visit.” She pauses and adds, “Tiger.”

I don’t react, but for just a moment, I consider the way she used my nickname as an indicator that she knows who I am, and why I’m here. I quickly dismiss that idea. I’d have seen it in those pale green eyes, and I did not. But as she turns and walks away, and I watch her depart, tracking her steps as she disappears down the path, I wonder at her quick departure, and the fear I’d seen in her eyes. Was the root of that fear her guilt?

That idea should be enough to ice the fire in me that this woman has stirred, but it stokes it instead. Everything male in me wants to pursue her again, and not because I’m here for a reason that existed before I ever met her, when it should be that and nothing more. It is more. I’m aroused and I’m intrigued by this woman. She got to me when no one gets to me. Not a good place to be, considering I came here to prove she killed my father, and maybe even her own mother.


Book two: SHAMELESS will be out on July 11th!

Pre-Order notification:http://bit.ly/2nocwgZ

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34602828-shameless

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About the Author:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT series. Suzanne Todd (producer of Alice in Wonderland) on the INSIDE OUT series: Lisa has created a beautiful, complicated, and sensual world that is filled with intrigue and suspense. Sara’s character is strong, flawed, complex, and sexy – a modern girl we all can identify with.

In addition to the success of Lisa’s INSIDE OUT series, Lisa has published many successful titles. The TALL, DARK AND DEADLY series and THE SECRET LIFE OF AMY BENSEN series, both spent several months on a combination of the New York Times and USA Today bestselling lists. Lisa is presently working on a dark, edgy new series, Dirty Money, for St. Martin’s Press.

Prior to publishing Lisa owned multi-state staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by the Dallas Women’s Magazine. In 1998 Lisa was listed as the #7 growing women owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.

Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at www.lisareneejones.com and she is active on Twitter and Facebook daily.


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Website: http://lisareneejones.com



For 100 Nights: A Sexy NEW Billionaire Romance Novel from NYT Bestselling Author Lara Adrian

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Today I’m featuring the book tour for For 100 Nights, book 2 of the 100 Trilogy by Lara Adrian! Check out this fantastic new read and be sure to grab your copy now!!  

Front Cover of For 100 Nights, by Lara Adrian

About For 100 Nights:

Avery Ross is living a dream. After struggling all of her life to make ends meet, a chance meeting with a powerful, darkly handsome man has catapulted her into a dazzling new world of penthouse luxury, elegant parties, and a wild, consuming passion with her billionaire lover, Dominic Baine. Nothing is out of his reach in business or in pleasure, yet the only woman he wants is her. Nick sweeps her to sensual heights she has never dared explore, commanding her body the same way he commands her heart. Yet Avery knows the fantasy she’s living cannot last.

With dark secrets and a dangerous enemy haunting her past, Avery must find a way to trust Nick with the truth before it destroys everything they share. But Nick is harboring secrets of his own as well. And when they come to light, Avery will be forced to decide if the love she feels for Nick is strong enough to endure a betrayal she may never be able to forgive.

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An Excerpt from For 100 Nights

The warm summer weather is so nice when I leave Vendange, I decide to walk instead of hailing a taxi or riding the subway back to the Upper East Side. Hundreds of other people apparently have the same idea. Rather than fall in line with the corporate types and other Manhattanites who rush past me on Madison Avenue, I take my time, strolling along the broad sidewalk with the crowds of meandering tourists and window shoppers.

Up and down this bustling stretch of asphalt, concrete, and towering steel, exclusive boutiques stand side-by-side with national brands of all kinds, as well as upscale designer stores, and financial institutions. I’m not in the market for anything specific, but as I approach a luxe lingerie shop, I can’t help myself from pausing at the brass-framed windows to admire all of the lacy, satiny things secreted inside.

It isn’t hard to imagine how hot Nick’s gaze would smolder if he saw me in one of those sexy undergarments . . . or how quickly his strong hands would work to peel it off me in his need to get inside me.

My nipples tighten at the thought. A flush of heat races through me, warmth I feel most intensely between my bare thighs, which now tremble a bit beneath my light linen skirt.

Curiosity, and the desire to drive Nick even a fraction as crazy as he makes me, finally gets the better of me. With a smile curving my lips, I open the glass doors and step inside.

Soft classical music and delicate perfume drift on the comfortably cool air of the boutique. I nod in greeting to one of the half-dozen elegantly outfitted saleswomen who are all busy with other customers. Glad for the privacy to browse on my own, I head toward the section in the back of the shop where the prettiest items are on display in mirrored glass alcoves and stacked glass drawers.

I’m immediately drawn to one of the bra and panty sets I saw in the window. Both comprised of delicate champagne lace and see-through mesh, each piece is embroidered with burgundy satin roses and dainty ribbon trim. The effect is sweetly innocent, yet decadently sexy.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

I turn to find one of the sales attendants approaching. The pretty black woman who smiled at me when I came in. She walks toward me with the fluid grace of a runway model, her stylish, slender figure, high cheekbones, and arresting light green eyes completing the effect.

I nod as she comes to stand beside me at the display. “It’s perfect.”

“Would you like to try them on? I’m Evelyn. I’ll be happy to help you find your sizes and show you to a fitting room.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I tell her what I wear, then, after retrieving my sizes from within a pair of locked drawers, she brings me into a serene private dressing area that’s practically the size of my old studio apartment in Brooklyn.

Evelyn carefully places the bra and panties on a glass vanity table. Next to it is a taupe velvet upholstered bench seat sitting atop a soft rug woven in a feminine pattern of soothing neutrals. Large mirrors and soft, boudoir lighting ensure every angle is presented in the most complimentary fashion.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Evelyn says.

I sit down on the cushioned bench and skate my fingers over the barely-there translucent lace cups of the bra, shivering at the thought of Nick doing the same while I’m wearing it. He’ll love this, I’m sure. And I’m excited at the idea of watching him unwrap me later tonight and discovering my surprise.

Excited, that is, until I see the price.

Nearly a thousand dollars for the two pieces.

If Evelyn catches my disappointed look, her expression never falters. “You have excellent taste. This set is part of our signature collection. It’s a classic that will look beautiful on you for years to come.” When I only nod in response, she smiles kindly and gestures toward the front of the boutique. “If you don’t feel this one suits you, we have something similar in our everyday collection that you might like too. Just let me know if you’d like to take a look.”

“Thank you.” At that same moment, my phone chimes with an incoming call. Nick’s ringtone. I reach into my purse to retrieve it. “Sorry.”

“Take your time,” Evelyn says. She gestures to a brass hand bell sitting on the vanity. “If you need anything, just ring for me.”

She walks away, closing the dressing room door behind her as I swipe the screen on my phone and answer Nick’s call. “Hi.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning.”

Just the sound of his deep, raspy voice makes my pulse kick into a faster tempo. I glance at the decadent lacy underthings in front of me and smile wistfully. “I’m thinking about you too.”

He makes a low, approving noise in the back of his throat. “Tell me more. Are you touching yourself while you’re thinking of me?”

I laugh softly, a flush warming my cheeks. “Not at the moment. I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

“You know how I feel about being appropriate,” he murmurs, and I can picture the wry twist of his mouth as he speaks. “Where are you?”

“On my way back from Vendange. I popped in on Tasha for a little while.”

“I hear music in the background.”

“I’m in a boutique on Madison.”

“Which one?”


“Nice,” he says after a brief pause. “Find anything you like?”

I try to ignore the fact that he seems so readily familiar with the store. I know he’s had a sex life before me, but the idea of him buying any of these things for another woman puts a pang of jealousy in my breast.



“You said you’re shopping for lingerie and thinking of me. Christ, I’m already hard just picturing that.” His voice lowers to that silken tone that always leaves me weak in the knees. “Indulge me before I have to head into another damn meeting. What sexy little things are you looking at? Better yet, try something on for me and let me see you in it. We can switch to video chat and see where things go.”

Now the heat that had flushed my face travels down my neck and straight to my core. “I can’t do that,” I whisper, squirming a bit on the velvet bench seat. “Someone might see.”

“The dressing rooms are completely private,” he says with more certainty than I care to acknowledge. “Get into one, Avery.”

“I already am.”

“Then we’re halfway there.” He chuckles, but there’s more heat than humor in his voice. “Are you already undressed too?”

“No. I brought in a bra and panties to try on, but I’ve changed my mind about them. I was going to put them back before you called.”


I shrug, and even though he can’t see me, he seems to home in on my discomfiture.

“Put them on for me. I’ll call you back on video in two minutes.”

He ends the call on that demand, and I exhale a sigh as I glance at the beautiful lingerie I have no business pretending I can afford. But I know Nick was serious that he expects me to show him what I selected, and there is a part of me that’s hungry for his reaction. Hungry to see his desire for me, especially when he’s busy with work, yet making time to play naughty games with me.

Stepping out of my sandals, I take off my silk tank top and linen skirt, then slip out of my pastel peach department store bra. The first wisp of expensive champagne lace and burgundy satin against my bare breasts feels like a caress. I fasten the front closure and adjust the delicate ribbon straps, then scoop my breasts so they’re sitting high and plump in the pretty balconette cups.

Because I won’t be buying the lingerie, I leave the three-hundred-dollar panties on the vanity table and walk over to the mirrors to see how I look before Nick calls. I thought my lace-edged peach thong had been cute enough when I left the penthouse, but seeing it next to the stunning bra makes it look as mundane as a pair of cotton briefs. On a frustrated huff, I reach down to take it off, just as my phone chimes with Nick’s incoming call.

As promised, he’s calling from a video app. His handsome face fills the screen, making my breath catch even though I’ve had the privilege of seeing those dark-lashed cerulean eyes and brutally sensual features practically every day and night for the past four months.

“That wasn’t two minutes.”

He smirks. “I didn’t have the patience to wait that long.”

He’s not at his desk, but seated on the pale gray leather sofa in the conversation area of his large office. Behind him, a broad wall of gleaming silver granite soars easily fifteen feet from the floor to the ceiling. The wall serves as a backdrop for a single work of art—a Jackson Pollock original painted in black enamel. The tangle of chaotic lines and bold splashes are a stark contrast to the steady, in-control titan of business seated in front of the masterwork.

Settled back against the clean lines of the sofa, Nick grips his phone in one hand as he loosens his tie with the other. His mouth quirks at one corner as he holds my gaze from inside his corporate headquarters across town. “Let me see you, baby.”

I slowly extend my arm, giving him a view of the gorgeous bra. His low exhalation and thickly uttered curse tells me he approves.

“More,” he commands over the lowered volume of the speaker. “Let me see all of you.”

“I’m not wearing the panties.”

“Show me.”

I shake my head. “I’d have to try them on over my own underwear unless I intend to buy them.”

Nick doesn’t seem to care about my explanation. His eyes are blazing hot on me. He leans forward as if he wants to crawl through the phone. “Let me see your pussy, baby.”

Pressing my lips together, I angle the camera so he can see all of me.

“Holy fuck.” There is a fevered edge to his voice, a raw current of need that ignites the same in me. “You’re so damn beautiful. You get me hot just thinking about you. I’m hard as fucking steel over here.”

My body responds to his carnal praise as if he’s here in the room with me, looking at me . . . caressing me. Wanting me.

“Touch yourself. I want to see you stroke that pretty little clit.”

“Nick,” I whisper, worried that we’ll get interrupted, yet astonished that it doesn’t stop me from obeying him.

With my free hand, I slide my fingers down over the trimmed patch of curls between my legs, then into the wet cleft of my body. I’m drenched already, my sex aching for him. I can’t hold back my moan.

His breath leaves him on a deep groan. “Jesus Christ, what you do to me.”

I angle the phone so I can see him too. His jaw is clenched, his brows lowered over the intensity of his stare. I see him shift on the sofa, the camera’s focus jostling with his movements. I hear the soft metallic jangle of his belt buckle, followed by the quiet rasp of the zipper on his suit pants.

The thought of him taking his cock in hand while I stroke myself several blocks away is almost too much to take. I want him so badly, I can hardly stand it. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep the cry from spilling off my tongue.

Nick hisses a sharp curse. “Fuck this. I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?” My voice is thick, my blood roaring in my ears as I draw my fingers away from my throbbing flesh.

“I’m going to send Patrick to pick you up. I want you in my office. Right now.”

“But your meeting—”

“Can wait,” he says. “I, however, cannot. Look for the car in ten minutes. Bring the bra and panties with you.”

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Meet Lara Adrian 


LARA ADRIAN is a New York Times and #1 internationally best-selling author, with nearly 4 million books in print worldwide and translations licensed to more than 20 countries. Her books regularly appear in the top spots of all the major bestseller lists including the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Indiebound, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. Reviewers have called Lara’s books “addictively readable” (Chicago Tribune), “extraordinary” (Fresh Fiction), and “one of the best on the market” (Romantic Times).

Writing as TINA ST. JOHN, her historical romances have won numerous awards including the National Readers Choice; Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice; Booksellers Best; and many others. She was twice named a Finalist in Romance Writers of America’s RITA Awards, for Best Historical Romance (White Lion’s Lady) and Best Paranormal Romance (Heart of the Hunter). More recently, the German translation of Heart of the Hunter debuted on Der Spiegel bestseller list.

With an ancestry stretching back to the Mayflower and the court of King Henry VIII, the author lives with her husband in New England.

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