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:

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

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


Chapter 1

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.
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.
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


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



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.


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:


Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8





Friday, June 17, 2016

***Cover Reveal and Giveaway*** Punk 57 by Penelope Douglas

Title: Punk 57
Genre: New Adult
Author: Penelope Douglas
Release Date: September 20, 2016

"We were perfect together. Until we met."
I can’t help but smile at the words in her letter. She misses me.
In fifth grade, my teacher set us up with pen pals from a different school. Thinking I was a girl, with a name like Misha, the other teacher paired me up with her student, Ryen. My teacher, believing Ryen was a boy like me, agreed.
It didn’t take long for us to figure out the mistake. And in no time at all, we were arguing about everything. The best take-out pizza. Android vs. iPhone. Whether or not Eminem is the greatest rapper ever…
And that was the start. For the next seven years, it was us.
Her letters are always on black paper with silver writing. Sometimes there’s one a week or three in a day, but I need them. She’s the only one who keeps me on track, talks me down, and accepts everything I am.
We only had three rules. No social media, no phone numbers, no pictures. We had a good thing going. Why ruin it?
Until I run across a photo of a girl online. Name’s Ryen, loves Gallo’s pizza, and worships her iPhone. What are the chances?
F*ck it. I need to meet her.
I just don’t expect to hate what I find.

He hasn’t written in three months. Something’s wrong. Did he die? Get arrested? Knowing Misha, neither would be a stretch.
Without him around, I’m going crazy. I need to know someone is listening. It’s my own fault. I should've gotten his number or picture or something.
He could be gone forever.
Or right under my nose, and I wouldn’t even know it.

About The Author:
Penelope Douglas is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. She dresses for autumn year round, loves anything lemon flavored, and shops at Target almost daily.
Her books include the Fall Away Series (Bully, Until You, Rival, Falling Away, and Aflame), as well as, Corrupt and Misconduct. Please look for Punk 57, coming September 2016 and Next to Never (A Fall Away Novella), coming January 2017.
She lives in Las Vegas with her husband and their daughter.

Follow Her Here:
Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Instagram, Pinterest

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

***Blog Tour Stop*** Seven by Amy Marie

We’re all born with it. Navigating through life as though power, privilege, and money don’t rule the world. I’m guilty of it. I walked around, ignorantly thinking that the PITCREW, the most popular guys in high school, was where you wanted to be or who you wanted to date. They could have any girl they wanted, but they needed a challenge. They needed something to do to make their miserable existence exciting.
That’s where I came in.
How was I to know that the one night I willingly gave away my innocence would set off a chain of events, turning my world upside down?
Now, ten years later, it’s my turn to use sex, money, and lies to take from them all that they took from me . . . and more.
But the road to retribution has its twists and turns and I don’t want to make the innocent mistake of crashing.

Purchase Links:



“Am I going to get your name tonight, beautiful?”
I laugh. 
“Not interested,” I state, trying not to let the seduction in his voice fool me.
“Not interested? I’ve never heard anyone with that name,” he tries to joke, but I don’t laugh. 
This is the kind of shit he uses to pick up women? 
“What can I getcha?” Damien asks.
I point at my glass, requesting another drink, and motion towards Casen, “On his tab.”
“Budweiser for me.” Casen tells him before returning his full attention back to me. “If I’m going to buy you a drink, then it’s only fair you tell me your name.” His leg brushes against mine, lifting my skirt and exposing more of my thigh. Goosebumps spread across my skin like wild fire and I will them down.
Stay focused, Em.
My fingers come up to play with my necklace, and I relent, “Embyr.” I pick my gaze up and stare directly into his eyes. I drag them down his body, noticing the long-sleeved, black Henley he’s wearing and faded jeans. His shoes are black, as well, and they look like they hold massive feet. I peek at his hands, seeing exactly what Trinity meant. They are huge.
A moment passes before he says, “Don’t you want to know my name?”
I already know your name. Casen Parker. Fire fighter. Lived with your friends, my other high school bullies, Ian and Reece, up until two months ago, when you all ventured off and got your own places. Homecoming King in high school and graduated with honors in fire science. 
But, I don’t say all that.
 “Okay, then.” I roll my eyes as if the idea is beneath me. “So, what’s your name?”
He stares for a moment before widening his smile. “Casen.”
His cockiness pulls me in and I can’t bring myself to turn away. His heated tone breaks through my barrier and a flood of emotions take over. Even though it’s been ten years, he still looks the same and I feel a spark of not only hatred but attraction. I didn’t expect that and it makes all of the high school memories come screaming back at me. They consume me. My chest tightens while I feel my face burning. I can’t control the tremble of my hands as I pick up my glass trying to keep this panic attack under control. 
I haven’t had one of these since high school. 
I take deep breaths, gasping for air, hoping I don’t pass out. It’s not working. The memories continue to suffocate me. I feel constricted. 
I can’t fucking breathe.
A gentle touch glides over my back and I jump at the contact. “You okay?” Casen asks concern evident in his voice.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 
I’m finally able to lift my head and slide off of the stool, grasping my purse to my chest. “Yes. I just…” I stumble. “I need a moment.”
I race to the bathroom, knowing full well I am fucking this up. I’ve managed to screw Patrick and Thad over no problem. So what is so different that, just speaking to Casen twice in the past week, has me turned inside out? The bathroom door slams against the tiled wall when I barge in and lock myself inside. My forehead meets the cold metal of the door as I chastise myself. 
Get your shit together, Embyr. 
You hate him.
He didn’t stop them.
He repulses you.
I repeat this over and over until I believe what I’m saying. It takes a few minutes, but I gather myself and hold my head up high as I stride back to the bar, shoulders straight, like I didn’t just fall apart in front of my prey. When I turn the corner, I see Casen looking down at his phone typing furiously, and I pray I didn’t lose him. I’ll be pissed if I screwed it all up by letting his good looks and charm suck me in at a vulnerable moment.


After reading the blurb of Seven, I knew I had to read the book! I mean, who wouldn’t want to read about someone getting revenge on her tormentors?!?

One by one, Annie was ticking their names off her list. Everything was going exactly as planned and she couldn’t have been more pleased. That is, until she began to feel guilt.

When this all began, her only thoughts were making the PITCREW pay for how they treated her while in high school. She didn’t take into account anything else. The actions of these Seven guys changed everything about her life. Her friends abandoned her. Her dad, even though he was a cop, had his hands tied. After school, she moved away and changed her physical appearance along with her name. Embyr was a new person with a future.

I enjoyed the heck out of this story! I have no idea how she was able to play Embyr but remain Annie inside. Unfortunately, she started to get in way over her head. The only boy she ever liked in school, Casen, is the same man she is falling in love with now! But it’s supposed to be the other way around. He’s supposed to fall in love with her, then shatter his heart into a million pieces. Just like he did, all those years ago.

The entire book is a wild ride and wilder emotions. I can honestly say that Seven was a 5 star read for me…up until the last few chapters.  This is where I stop. Seven is still at 4 stars, for me. I absolutely encourage you to read it and I’m interested to know your thoughts as well. 

About Amy Marie

Amy-Marie was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago and now resides in Virginia Beach with her fantastically crazy husband and two kids.

As an avid reader, she never dreamed of writing her own novel until the characters started haunting her at night and in the shower.  Wanting to get it down on paper she set off on the journey that is more than she could have ever dreamed.

When not writing she can be found carting her kids around, breaking up their fights, cleaning up messes, teaching Zumba, or reading.

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