Boudoir News - June 12
Have you read Break My Chains? It is on sale!
I am super excited about a BIG BIG sale I have going on until Saturday. BREAK MY CHAINS was one of my first books and I hold it extremely dear.
After writing the Russo Saga and all the mobsters I longed to get back to a simpler story of a boy and a girl, a narrow space, and a TON of attraction, and I wanted to revisit the feel of 'Break My Chains' when I wrote 'Commanding Casey'.
Escaped convict meets girl with secrets darker even than his own. No one is who they seem to be. Never judge a book... you know.
A snowstorm. A convict on the run. Three heavy knocks. Would you have opened the door?
“Why didn't I read this one earlier?? What was I thinking?? Scratch that, I clearly wasn't at all!! Because I know Nicolina Martin. I know her stories. And They Are Hot! Break My Chains is no exception, I can tell you that!"
"If you love Alpha males and sweet young women with even sweeter big soppy dogs, angst and mystery, with quite a bit of back and forth love/hate relationships, you really need to read this book."
She knows who I am. What I am. And she knows I won’t hesitate to hurt her if she doesn’t obey.
What she can’t possibly know is how much I want her. How much I ache to feel her soft skin beneath my fingers, to claim her body in every brutal, violent way only a man like me can imagine.
Breaking My Chains is only 99c until
Friday night - get your copy!
She thinks she can be my salvation. But I’m well beyond redemption…
The moment the door opens, I see it in her eyes. Recognition. Horror.
Fear.
She knows who I am. What I am. And she knows I won’t hesitate to hurt her if she doesn’t obey.
What she can’t possibly know is how much I want her. How much I ache to feel her soft skin beneath my fingers, to claim her body in every brutal, violent way only a man like me can imagine.
But no matter how beautiful she is, all tied up and helpless, no matter that her pleas for mercy tug at the heart she doesn’t believe I have, giving her even a second of tenderness is a liability. A weakness I can’t afford.
Because I’m a wanted man… and I will die before I let them drag me back to that hell they call prison.
Need a fun little excerpt to help you #Oneclick?
I fall asleep with tears streaming down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. And then the nightmares come back, hitting me with full force. Everything I fled from. Mom’s death, my dad’s despair, my little brothers who needed me. My cowardice.
“Mia.”
I jerk awake from hearing my name, and to the wonderful smell of coffee. For the first time I’m thankful for his presence, pulling me out of my sleep. I rub my eyes and immediately realize I’m not tied up. I sit and look around me, confused. The killer sits in the armchair, studying me. I hold up my hands questioningly and he shrugs. Not that I want to be tied up, I’m just surprised.
“Didn’t know if I should wake you up, or not, but you’ve slept for eight hours and you really need to eat. I suck at taking a hostage.”
I nod. “Yeah, sorry to say, but you really do.”
He laughs.
“Is this for me?” I gesture at the cup in front of me. He nods.
I take a sip. “Thank you. Can I...?” I tilt my head toward the bathroom.
“Yeah. Go.”
My legs shake when I rise and I stumble. Martin shoots up and steadies me with a hand on my elbow.
I clutch at my forehead. “I don’t think I feel very well.”
“You haven’t eaten. It’s natural. Come here.”
He holds me as I make my way to the bathroom. I’m weak for real. I misjudge my footing and sway as I walk.
“Fuck, Mia. I’ll fix something.”
He lets me go and aims for the kitchen, then he turns on the spot.
“Actually—” He grabs the heavy door that’s leaning against the wall next to the doorway and hooks it back on its hinges as if it weighs nothing. He shoves a hand through his hair and gives me an embarrassed look. “All right—” Then, without another word, he leaves for the kitchen.
Man! He’s giving me a whiplash with his mood swings. Mild and caring or murderous and violent. A girl can’t wish for better company.
A door, though. Nice. I grab it and regard it before I experimentally pull it shut. A broken door, but at least it closes. As I study myself in the mirror, I recoil. I look absolutely horrible, washed-out, hollow and, oh my God, my hair is a nest of pink. Birds could have their offspring in it, raise happy little bird babies there, and then recommend it to their bird-friends. I look for a brush but give up before I even try, then groan and pull it up in a bun on top of my head instead. If it gets too fucked up I’ll make dreadlocks out of it.
I peek out into the living room but can’t see my unwanted guest anywhere. It’s quiet. Jack is lying by the front door and stares demandingly at me. I walk up to him, a little steadier than before, and bump into the killer just as he exits the kitchen. He manages to not drop the tray he’s carrying and sets it down on the table. There’s toast, baked beans, and a fried egg.
He gestures at the food and gives me a half-shrug. “I’ll let Jack out,” he mumbles.
I start wolfing down the contents on the plate. It’s the most delicious thing I can remember eating. “Thank you,” I say in between chews.
Martin closes the door behind my dog and pushes a hand through his hair. He falls down on the chair next to me and clears his throat.
“I’m truly sorry for last night. I’m a fucking ass. I’ve lived in Hell for so long that I’ve forgotten how to treat people on the outside. It’s not an excuse—” He rubs his beard and exhales. “—but it’s what I’ve got.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my heart suddenly in my throat again from his closeness.
“No, it’s not. I’m not going to touch you again. I promise.”
I give out a short bitter laugh, but at the same time something akin to disappointment shoots through me. I’m not right in the head.
“You don’t trust my promises any more than I trust yours.”
I nod. “Something like that.”
He stands abruptly and looks me over. “Guess you’re right not to.”
Falling on the couch, he turns on the TV. He doesn’t look at it; instead he closes his eyes and throws an arm over his face. It gives me a chance to study him again. The muscles in his arms and legs, both in motion and when he’s still, are a rippling, testosterone-filled masterpiece. That six-pack, hard as steel, his well-shaped calves, his long, strong fingers… I’m crazy, I know. He is such a beautiful man. I guess beautiful is a word you don’t use for men, but he is. My artistic mind flares to life again as I follow the hard planes of his body. God, I’d love to have him pose for me.
Beautiful. And lethal.
Image-wise that would be fantastic. I could play with that in so many ways. In real life it’s a nightmare.
My attention flips to the TV. Martin is on the news again. For fuck’s sake. I can’t get a break. I glance at the killer, but he doesn’t react. Maybe he fell asleep? I look back at the screen. I shouldn’t, it won’t do me any good, but I really, really want to know more. All I’ve seen so far are a few headlines, and they’ve been gruesome enough, but I must know. To them it’s history, a sensation, but in the past and something that happened far, far away. Me, I’m living it. I stand and sneak closer, then I cross my legs and sit down on the floor right in front of the TV. Martin still doesn’t move, so I snatch the remote from the table and raise the volume a little, just enough so I can hear what they say.
I blanch as I listen to the reporter and watch the macabre images from the murder scenes. Six women of various ages, all in a small town in Alaska. Excited as they are to make news of his escape, they bring on everything they’ve got and I sit through pictures of wax-like faces with unseeing eyes, filled with terror even in death, knife wounds—torso, stomach, vagina. I slap a hand over my mouth and nearly puke. Every detail is far worse than I had imagined. They had been suffocated slowly while cut, ejaculated on, raped with objects. The psychologists spoke of unimaginable rage, of hatred toward women.
My back tingles with the acute awareness that this nightmare of a man is right behind me. It’s like my skin shrinks. I swallow and try to control my breathing, but I can’t. My mind tilts and I begin to hyperventilate. I stumble to my feet and when I turn he’s sitting up, looking at me with a dangerously dark gaze.
I shake my head and back, then I dart to the front door, but I don’t get more than two steps before he’s on me.
He says I belong to him, and I'm too afraid to argue.
When I track down the last person to see my mother alive, I'm not prepared for the arrogant, grumpy, hot-as-sin asshole who answers the door.
So I do what any red-blooded woman in my position would do.
I pretend I'm here to polish his enormous…clock.
My plan was to go undercover just long enough to find the evidence I need for the police to reopen my mother's case.
Days later, I'm still trapped in this house of lies.
Maybe it's the fact that he's a billionaire, or that a single glance from his dark eyes sets my ovaries on fire, but I keep finding an excuse to stay.
Even when he starts stalking me in his own house.
Watching me sleep.
And making me do things I don't want to.
I should have left when I had the chance.
Before he started calling me 'toy' and using his belt to punish me.
Now I'm losing my mind... and it's too late to escape.
Declan Gilroy is the leader of the largest syndicate on US soil. The Irish Mafia.
Come along while he and the rest of his men find the women of their dreams.
Of course, these men aren't just regular boyfriends. They're possessive, jealous, over the top protective, stubborn, filthy, and sometimes they prefer to be called Daddy.
