My next book, due out May 10th is going to KNOCK YOU OUT!
UPDATE of my Upcoming release (mid-May).
In two weeks, the erotic romance book world will once again be turned on its ear.
Well, someone is coming back.
Someone who loves to fuck, fight, drink, swear, and have dinner at home with his momma.
Whaaaaat? You ask. Who might this be?
Well, have a look at this PROLOGUE.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is all you get. No first four chapters. Not of this one. You’re just going to have to wait until the teasers are posted for some more.
This one is fast-paced. Filthy dirty.
It has the best heroine ever.
Just don’t piss her off.
Or her trainer. He’s been known to have a temper.
This is a STAND-ALONE Erotic Romance. But. You need to be prepared for a book like HUNG, told from a woman’s POV. This one is a GREAT story, but OMG does it have a sexually active couple.
And action galore.
Cheerios. Ten or so of them floating in a bowl of milk. That’s my earliest memory. I don’t know how old I was at the time, but I was less than two years old, because the next vivid recollection I have is of my second birthday. I don’t recall the gifts I received, but I’m sure I was two. Either that, or my father could only afford two candles. There was frosting. Lots of frosting. And wrapping paper.
At some point there was loud music. Kisses. Fizzy drinks. The blue car with multi-color cloth interior. A mustache. The house with no trees. Rain. It rained forever. The house with nothing but trees. And bunkbeds. I never understood the bunkbeds, but then again, I never asked.
And then, nothing until I was seven. Second grade with Emily Barton. We got in a fight in the hallway over something so unimportant I couldn’t recall it a week later, and damned sure can’t remember now. I’ll never forget how much it hurt to have my hair pulled, though.
Elementary and middle school must have been uneventful, because I really don’t remember much between Emily pulling my hair and the first day of high school. High school brought with it football and house parties. Bobby Breyton talked me into giving him head in the back of Toby Wilson’s truck when I was a freshman. It was cold and his dick was the size of my wrist. And long. Really long. He told everyone what a slut I was. At first, I denied it. I later learned admitting to it made me more marketable, so I proudly laid claim to the house party truck bed blowjob.
An overabundance of sexual opportunities soon followed, and my sophomore through senior year was a blur of boys, beer, blowjobs, and being backhanded by my father. I learned that I was a product of my environment, and my father’s anger soon turned into mine. As the fights with my father continued, fighting at school became second nature for me.
I left home when I was eighteen. Eighteen and angry.
It was May 21st.
The day after I graduated high school.
Depending on what one’s definition of a great distance is, I didn’t get far. It was 1,057 miles from my home in Omaha, Nebraska to Corpus Christi, Texas, and Corpus Christi was my final destination. I made it as far as Austin, Texas.
It was a far cry from the Gulf of Mexico, but at the time, I saw it as the beginning to what was sure to be a perfect life.
When we met, I was 18 and Preston was 31. We both liked coffee. And wild sex. He was going out when I was going in. We collided. It was the first time someone told me I was beautiful that I believed them. He was handsome, rich, treated me well, and fucked me even better. At least at first. A year quickly passed. Every day it seemed things got better. Not that they were ever bad. In fact, they were great. And from there things got better than great.
Yes. Life at the age of 19 was spectacular.
And then the wheels fell off. Things went to shit. Not over a period of time, or after a sequence of events, but immediately. One day he decided he’d had enough. And just like that.
My life was over.
He kicked me to the curb, and not a metaphorical curb kicking. He actually kicked me to the curb.
With a backpack filled with my personal items and a little money he gave me to get on my feet, I went from the comfort of his million-dollar home to living on the streets.
I didn’t live there for long. Two years and six months later, I had the world by the balls.
I hit a girl in the mouth for talking a mad line of shit to me in the parking lot of a Starbucks. Before she had a chance to wipe the blood from her lips, I met a man who volunteered to train me as a professional fighter. And, at his gym, I met another man. The man I fell in love with.
My name’s Beth, but no one ever calls me by my name.
They call me Jaz.
It’s short for Jasmine.
And the trainer who noticed my raw talent?
His name’s Mike. Michael actually.
But no one calls him by his name.
They call him Ripp.
This is my story. It’s intense, fast-paced, often violent, full of crazy sex, and hard to believe at times…
But it’s true.