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Tuesday, July 26, 2016

***Cover Reveal*** Born Sinner (Se7en Sinners Series) by S.L. Jennings

We're excited to bring you the cover and blurb for S.L. Jenning's 10th novel, Born Sinner!
Title: Born Sinner
Series: Se7en Sinners Series
Cover Design: Hang Le of By Hang Le 
Release Date: Summer 2016



Twenty-two years ago, I was cut from a cold, sodden womb, and cradled in the filth and poverty of Chicago’s concrete arms. Statistically, I wasn’t supposed to survive these streets past the age of eighteen. Fate had a different plan. I was bred for one purpose and one purpose only: to unleash death and destruction on my world. My thoughts are power. My words are weapons. Evil created me then grace tried to save me. 

But first… they tried to kill me. They call themselves the Se7en. They are sin and salvation, and everything we’ve feared from the beginning of time. And their leader is the deadliest of them all. He doesn’t lose. He doesn’t compromise. And most importantly, he doesn’t distract himself with mortal weakness. Not until me. Kill one to save a million. That’s what he told me when he took me as his prisoner. Kill one to save a million. That’s what he’s been trying to tell himself ever since he took me into his arms.
Born Sinner S.L. Jennings Goodreads
Add BORN SINNER

Meet S.L. Jennings   S.L. Jennings    
S.L. Jennings is a proud military wife to her high school sweetheart, a mom of 3 rowdy boys, and a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance. When she’s not obsessing over book boyfriends, you can find her hanging out with a few epic fictional loves at independent bookstores or sipping Bloody Marys at her favorite brunch haunts in Spokane, Washington. She’s a self-proclaimed food snob, makeup junkie and lover of all things shiny, sparkly and kitschy.

Website / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Goodreads / Subscribe To My Newsletter

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

***Blog Tour Stop and Giveaway*** Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills



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A smokin’ hot British player…
A jilted girl…
One night of mistaken identity…


★★ NOW LIVE★★


*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*


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Blurb


Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.


She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.


She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.


Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled passion in London.


But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…


One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.


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Excerpt


Without much thought except for comfort, instinctively I pressed myself against him, fitting into his arms as easy as breathing. He leaned against the brick wall of the neighboring building and wrapped me up, sensing my need to be grounded.
I don’t know how long we stood like that—maybe a minute, maybe five—but soon our breaths were in sync; the rise and fall of his chest in perfect accord with mine.
One of his hands traced down my spine and then up. He outlined my shoulder blades with his fingertips. His hands drifted to my hips then caressed back up to my hair, massaging my scalp.
But what had started as an innocent hug changed.
Fire licked my skin everywhere he touched. Of their own accord, my hands slid down to his waist and teased the line where his jeans rested on his hips. I went further, my fingers toying with the V at his hip until I felt him harden against me.
Lips brushed the top of my hair. “Remi . . . look at me,” he said, his voice raspy.
If you look up, you’re going to kiss him . . .
I tilted my head up and his mouth fused with mine in an instant.
Insistent. Wild. Hot. Yes! This is what I needed.
I groaned, and my hands rushed to his shoulders and dug in.
He was wrong—terribly wrong—for me, but it felt so right.
I felt wonderfully alive, revved up, as if I could crush a car with my bare hands, or push Dax against the wall and fuck him senseless. I recognized the feeling for what it was—an I almost-died-and-now-I-want-to-experience-life feeling.
“Wait,” he breathed as I ran my hand under his shirt. “It’s adrenaline. You’ve been through a trauma. You don’t really want this—”
“Shhh.” I lifted his shirt and kissed his chest, my tongue flicking over his nipple. “You taste like every good thing I’ve ever wanted.”

His taut restraint snapped, and he swayed into me. “God, I can’t tell you no.”


Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills from Bibliophile Productions on Vimeo.

Sandy B's Review

I WANT TO GET FILTHY WITH DAX & YOU WILL TOO!
4.5 STARS

Though not necessary, I highly suggest you read or re-read Dirty English (Elizabeth & Declan’s story) before diving into Filthy English.  Ok – now onto this bit of filthy deliciousness that is English Book #2.

Remi is living the dream.  Her wedding day to her dream guy is almost here but the best laid plans can sometimes be for naught.  Two weeks before the big day her fiancé (Hartford) dumps her like a bad habit.  What’s a girl to do?  Well, grab a little something to make her forget, taker her bestie (Lulu) and go on her honeymoon anyway.  After all London is paid for already so why waste the trip.  A last hurrah before starting her senior year at college. 

Dax is in London hanging out with his cousin (Spider) who also happens to be a rock star with an addiction.  He’s looking forward to one last hurrah too before going back to school.  What we don’t know is that Dax is Remi’s first love that broke her heart.  Soon enough these two “find” each other at a masquerade party.  The next morning they wake up in bed together, naked with matching tattoos.  Just like that and rewind!  It’s like the 3 years since that fateful weekend have never passed.  The fireworks are in full effect and though they want to remain just friends – that’s not going to be easy.

It is difficult to resist the urge to gush and go on and on about Filthy English – the thing is that I want you to pick up this book with an open mind.  Experience Ilsa’s characters like it’s your taste of an amazing piece of chocolate.  Feel the romance intertwined deeply in the exchanges between Remi and Dax.  The it’s not me it’s you was frustrating at times but these are young people, who are learning life by making mistakes.  You want heat?  A hot guy with a sexy accent?  You want angst with a dose of secrets?  You want a read that will keep you turning the pages and hanging on the words?  Let’s not forget the feels!  It’s all here boys and girls.

In case you couldn’t tell – I LOVED IT!



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Catch up on Dirty English
A scarred fighter.
A girl with rules.
One night of unbridled passion.


Dirty English (English #1)
NOW ONLY $0.99



About the Author
ilsa madden -millsa.jpg
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 all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, dark chocolate, 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.

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:


You can stalk her on her website as well as get signed books: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com






Twitter: https://twitter.com/ilsamaddenmills

Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:


VERY BAD THINGS


VERY WICKED BEGINNINGS
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8


VERY WICKED THINGS


VERY TWISTED THINGS

GIVEAWAY
Signed Paperback of Dirty & Filthy English
$50 Amazon Gift Card (One Winner)


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Wednesday, June 29, 2016

***Cover Makeover*** The Pretty Series by M. Leighton





The Pretty Series books by M. Leighton have pretty new faces and a pretty new price!  From June 29-July 6, each of the Pretty Series ebooks are on sale for ONLY 99 pennies!  Get your copies here:

Amazon:
1) All The Pretty Lies: http://amzn.to/292T4Q3
2) All The Pretty Poses: http://amzn.to/293Bckh
3) All Things Pretty: http://amzn.to/295WscG

iBooks: 
Kobo: Waiting for sale to post

She has also opened her store for the week, so you can get SIGNED PAPERBACKS with the new covers!

Thursday, June 23, 2016

***Excerpt Reveal*** Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills




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Chapter 1

Remi
Plain and simple, this night sucked.
Sadly, it was my honeymoon.
I sighed heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an intimately lit London nightclub where everyone wore black domino masks, some elaborate and some plain, to hide their identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing with long, loose cloaks. Not me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little number and three-inch heels, putting my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the giant in the blue dress, towering over every girl and some guys at the bar.
My top teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the smoky club, my eyes bouncing off random faces. Even in a room full of party people, music, and strobe lights, I was lonely.
My groom was missing.
That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at Whitman University in North Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.
And now here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed with my best friend Lulu who’d decided to skip her beach vacation and come with me at the last minute.
She poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy wooden bar of the club. “Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your eyes and order a drink already. I’m thirsty.” She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her black tutu, eyes scoping out the club. “Dang, the men in here are hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch,” she said in her honeyed southern drawl.
I half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on scanning the bottles behind the bar. “I want tequila,” I murmured. “A whole bottle.”
Her face snapped back to me and her green eyes widened. “Uh-uh. No way. I know what happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or you wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed tush.”
True. I did love a tight muscular ass.
But I wouldn’t get one tonight.
A short laugh burst out of me, one of those I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to- be-okay-laughs that I’d been doing a lot of lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated between a sobbing mess and an angry woman who became so incensed that “fuck” was the only word that seemed appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office to mail he dumped me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding venue and not getting the ten thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was homeless fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck. Listening to my mother tell me it was my fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I sucked the tequila down while Lulu watched me warily. It tasted like bad decisions and gasoline, but tonight was about forgetting. The sooner the better.
A few minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British guy she’d been making eyes at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling with my diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing it like rosary beads. I needed to forget Hartford, and according to Lulu, that meant hooking up with someone.
Was she right?
Fate answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy with a backside so delectable and muscular my mouth plopped open.
I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the annoying feathery plumes on the sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to check him out, not wanting to appear obvious. He slid into the seat next to me, tall and broad with rippling shoulders and a massive frame.
I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally analyzing the odds of a girl like me snagging a hottie like him.
Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two—okay, maybe three—things going for me in the looks department. My shiny, golden-brown hair that hung down in waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu described them, and lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my two front teeth which were otherwise white and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went with it.
He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne swirled in the air, the smell of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to create a heady, slightly dangerous scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. The spicy whiff triggered a distant memory just out of reach.
As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom. Like me he wore a black mask, although his was more masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline. His lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than the top with a slight indentation in the middle. As I watched, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top teeth biting it as if he were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his dark, longish messy hair, held it suspended above his head for a few seconds and then released it, letting it swish back into its tousled yet perfect place.
I tore my eyes away.
Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every atom of my body.
Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.
But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black shirt and sculpted chest that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right down to an arm that looked like it could snap a board in half—or me.
Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.
The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue and orange dragonfly tattoo displayed on his left arm. It was larger than my hand and took up most of his bicep. My eyes traced the contours of the design from the papery wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold black color outlined the insect, giving it a masculine feel.
Gorgeous.
True Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a pair of black Converse without socks, giving him a boyish quality that was in direct contrast to the crazy-sexy-bad-boy vibe he had going on.
Him tonight?
Maybe. He was the polar opposite of Hartford who was blond, lean, and tattoo-free.
I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice little ol' me?
Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up to his stool, bold as brass, wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely covered her booty. She brought with her the smell of sweet, cloying perfume, the kind I always got spritzed with at the mall.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her finger down his arm and struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out her well-developed chest.
He smiled back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body language telling me he was confident when it came to women. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his face, but whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear because a few ticks later, she crossed her arms, glared at me, and stalked away.
I blinked. What had I done?
Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.
Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a claustrophobic mask on.
But wait…
Was he crazy?
Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a shot.
I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing and sexy hair flicking. I didn’t know a thing about applying fake eyelashes. I didn’t know how to make my breasts sit up that high. I looked away from him and took another shot, feeling anxious and strangely off-kilter.
Mr. Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his British accent smooth as silk as it washed over me. I froze. I almost knew that voice—deep with soft rounded vowels that made you tingle in your lady parts.
What was it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot for him?
Hello, tequila, my inner voice said. But it was more than that.
Getting brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr. Beautiful’s eyes on me once more, searching my face. As if he too recognized the pull between us.
My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin prickled. I shivered.
Did I know him?
It clicked.
Dax Blay?
It was his voice, the same deep quality, the kind of voice that made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.
My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my one mistake, the time I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid plans aside and went with my instincts, only to have them tossed back in my face.
But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.
Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.
Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.
Yet…
Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a tattoo?
Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same club on the same night in a country where neither of us lived?
I tore my eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender for more limes, but somehow my tennis bracelet snagged on the bodice of my dress, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet dishrag in a most inappropriate place.
I wiggled my arm.
Jiggled it.
Even went so far as to jerk, but it wouldn’t separate.
Sweat popped out on my forehead. Holding my breath, I twisted and tugged the bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to stretch beyond normal limits.
“Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.
Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at Whitman.
Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe malfunctions.
I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and completely oblivious. I resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t notice. Dammit.
I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.
But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the stool to keep my balance. `
I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.
I had to get out of here before someone noticed what an idiot I was.
Trying to be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get my beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my right that I used most of the time, I got off balance and stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward the dance floor, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.
Filthy English (unedited excerpt)
Copyright Ilsa Madden-Mills


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The British are HERE!  
Are you ready for Filthy English?
Add to your TBR for a July 11th release here: http://bit.ly/28MpTlk



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Blurb


A smokin’ hot British player…
A jilted girl…
One night of mistaken identity…

Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.

She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.

She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.

Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled passion in London.

But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…

One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.

*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*


Filthy English Teaser for Blogs 1.jpg


About the Author
ilsa madden -millsa.jpg
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 all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, dark chocolate, 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.


SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:

You can stalk her on her website as well as get signed books: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorilsamaddenmills?pnref=lhc

IG: https://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/

Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills


Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:

VERY BAD THINGS

VERY WICKED BEGINNINGS
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8

VERY WICKED THINGS

VERY TWISTED THINGS


THANK YOU!

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