Boudoir News - July 13
I Am Eve is on sale for the first time in at least 4 years!
You know how last month I had a BIG BIG sale on Break My Chains? I sold hundreds of books and I was SO excited to get it into the hands of fans! So…I am doing it to I Am Eve! Is it my intention to put books on sale back to back, absolutely not. But I am taking this as a sign that readers really want to read my older books so I can’t help myself.
Besides, when was the last time Eve was on sale? I honestly can’t remember but it’s been a very long time. At least since the new cover was revealed in 2020, so don’t wait!
The queen of freaks. The king of outcasts.
A blind sculptor rejected by everyone.
A dark outcast trying to survive.
Hope stopped growing here.
"Nicolina Martin weaves a dark and visually stunning romance of two scarred people who find love, against the background of an apocalyptic world that threatens to burn anything beautiful to ashes." ~ Sophie Kisker, USA TODAY Bestselling Author
"Survival. Heartbreak. Grittiness. Beauty. This book threw me into an apocalyptic world so vivid and real. I loved the journey! This fed my dystopian-loving soul." ~ Alta Hensley, USA TODAY Bestselling Author
“Who are you, Eve?”
His voice fondles my ear, and when he wraps long, wiry arms around my chest and pulls me to him, the fire returns.
“I just sculpt,” I whisper
I AM EVE is only 99c until Tuesday
Get your copy!
I survived the fall of civilization, but I didn’t live… until I met him.
Adam is not a good man. He’s a criminal. A warlord. Someone who takes without asking. He is guarded and cold.
But that’s not all he is. He’s also a father. A leader. A battered soul who refuses to stop fighting.
I’m blind, but I see the real man behind the wounded, world-weary façade, and I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. His touch sets my skin ablaze. He fills my house with laughter and light, and then leaves me with a gift that might bring life to a dying world.
It seems our love can save… everything.
Need a fun little excerpt to help you #Oneclick?
There is one way to get to know him.
My way.
Picking up the huge lump before me, I put it down on the wheel. I won’t be spinning it, but it will work fine as a work surface. I have never done this before – sculpted someone as they sit with me. My stomach is in knots, but my fingers itch to begin.
“You’re not gonna poke me with these, are you?” There’s a rattle of metal and wood and I know he’s fingering my tools.
I smile. “No, silly. They’re for the clay. You’re already perfect.”
He exhales in a light sigh that ends in a snort. “I’m far from perfect.”
Lifting my arms, I hold up my hands before him and tense my fingers, waiting for his final approval. “You’re a creature of God. Why would you not be perfect?” When he doesn't object, I let my hands descend and trace the shape of his head. My mind builds the size, the oval that is ridged over his forehead and a little flattened on the backside beneath a thick mane of hair that I need to think away. I won’t be recreating hair.
Adam is silent as I create. I’m wrapped in his scent of oil, anger, and child. A scent that mixes with the earthy clay as I work my way across his scalp.
He shifts, and I immediately lose focus. “Don’t move.”
Hands land on my knees, soft, hesitant and still demanding. His warmth transfers through the fabric of my dress.
“I want to touch you back,” he says.
His voice is different from before. Ragged. Little edges to the words. Shaky like the rickety wooden chair I put away after grandmother had sat in it for the last time.
It’s as if all my nerve endings rush to the spot where he touches me. I’m hyper aware of his every move. I move my feet, spread my thighs. For him. I’m not sure why. It’s as if a force I can’t control takes hold of my muscles. Adam lets out a soft moan that makes the hair stand on my arms. My hands tremble.
“Be still,” I say as I memorize his temples and move down along his cheeks. There are slight indentations in his skin, and some bumps. Scars. His stubble is longer than this morning.
My hands fly between the clay and his face. I use little spatulas to dig out the shapes of his eyes and lips, I mold his high cheekbones, his strong, slightly crooked nose. The corners of his mouth end in a slight upward angle that I find particularly appealing. A tremor runs through him when I caress along the sides of his face. It’s a barely there cry for tenderness, a need for a touch that doesn’t demand anything in return. He wants forgiveness.
“I can’t be still when you touch me like that,” he says softly.
She's going to call me daddy. I'm going to call her mine.
When I threw Riley Murphy over my shoulder and carried her off after killing the bastard who dared to touch her, I swore to myself that I was only bringing her home with me to keep her safe.
She's an eighteen-year-old orphan who deserves a man who'll tell her she's his good girl.
Not a ruthless Bratva boss who'll make her scream for him before he's even inside her.
But the moment I pulled her cute little panties down for a much-needed spanking and found her soaking wet, I knew I'd be taking her innocence in the same bed I tucked her into last night.
And that she'll be calling me daddy.
They’re flawed.
They’re scarred.
They have skeletons in their closet.
And if it weren't for the passionate desire slamming these characters together like a car wreck, they would rip each other to shreds. They still might.
But in the end, "I need" will become "I want" and the pages of this charitable anthology will be set on fire.
