One of the most exciting events for an author is finally getting a peek at the cover to their latest work! Sometimes, the artist gets it dead on, and it’s Snoopy Dance time!
The cover for Manhandled is one of those times!!! Yay! Take a look at this sumptuous cover by the uber-talented Georgia Woods!
Twelve years after taking Sarita’s virginity on prom night, Rolan discovers he has a son. Sarita’s struggles for independence is finally successful and she won’t allow anyone to control her life. Not even the father of her son. Can dominant Rolan compromise?
Sarita wants Rolan, but she wants her independence. Determined to master Sarita, Rolan slaps on the manacles—and the trip to Monaco turns into a decadent pleasure cruise.
And because it’s Monday and I’m actually almost, almost up-to-date (Oh Lawd, I know I just jinxed my up-to-datedness)—here’s an excerpt from Manhancled, which releases in December, 2015!
Manhandled – Excerpt:
Rolan Anthony Paxton’s dawn fantasy had him in a state of rapture.
Stifling an automatic wince, he lifted one eyelid and looked at the blonde servicing him. Cindy-something, great boobs and a god-awful, high-pitched, nails-on-the-blackboard voice. He should have picked the other one.
The yacht’s engines hummed to life, and the boat vibrated and rocked. An open porthole let Mediterranean brine into the room, along with an unexpected morning chill. Monte Carlo’s perpetual traffic buzzed in the background.
At least she hadn’t stopped using those wonderful hands, but that happy thought evaporated with the dig of a nail.
“Ouch,” he winced and glanced down. “Watch the nails, babe.”
“Oops, sorry.” She cupped a hand over her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.
A barrage of firm knocks hit the cabin door, and he cut to the sound, mood souring and lips curling.
Figured—it took him longer and longer these days, and the slightest mishap turned him off. Age, it had to be, since he was thirty-one and tired of the same old, same old.
Money, fame, success—he had it all and nothing counted anymore.
He knew he should be grateful. How many athletes made it to the championship, not once, not twice, but three times?
Startled out of his brooding by a repeat of rapping on the burnished mahogany door, he shot a look at the blonde and ordered, “Cover up.”
In a louder tone, he called, “Come in.”
Without looking up, he snagged the cover sheet and began drawing it over his calves. He stopped when an audibly gasped “Oh, no” penetrated the silence.
His head snapped up, and a stunned paralysis claimed his limbs.
He’d never forgotten those eyes, the color of liquid caramel, that wild hair, every shade of a fiery sunset, and a bottom lip so plump, so inviting that one night he hadn’t been able to resist nibbling on it for hours.
Sarita Khan, the nose-in-a-book classmate he’d been forced to serve four Saturdays of detention with during his last year in high school. The girl whose virginity he’d taken on prom night after breaking up with the captain of the cheerleading team. Those sweet elfin features haunted his dreams intermittently over the last twelve years. Adrenalin surged in his veins, and his heartbeat accelerated.
Sarita, his Sarita.
That bronze-dusted complexion paled beneath his scrutiny and she swayed. The breakfast tray balanced on her forearms listed back and forth. She swallowed, slapped a palm onto the table cemented to the left, and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you okay?” He hopped out of the bed, oblivious to his nudity, and stalked forward. “Here, let me take that.”
For a few seconds she gripped the tray tighter, but she didn’t lift her lids. Then her hold slackened.
He tugged the tray away and set it on the table. Eyes Krazy Glued to her delicate, heart-shaped face, raking a quick assessment of the changes over the last twelve years, he forgot Cindy, the boat, the injuries plaguing his career—everything save Sarita and sweet memories. The compulsion to trace the soft curve of her cheek, cup her face, and suck that lower lip was defeated only by a nervous giggle in the background. Rolan stifled an internal groan, and he fisted his hands.
Sarita’s jaw clenched, and the pulse at her throat beat like a cartoon character’s heart, thump, thump, in time to the rise and fall of her chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured, still refusing to meet his gaze.
And the memory of that low throaty voice during their lovemaking cascaded like a waterfall, showering chill bumps on the back of his neck. Enthralled, stun-gunned, he didn’t react when she twirled, marched to the door, exited, and slammed it so hard it reverberated.
Cindy-something, the woman in his bed, began a torrent of idle chitchat. It never penetrated his mind and became an irritating background buzz. Rolan slumped into the chair and stared unseeing at the laden breakfast tray.
“Rolan, sweetie. You’re not eating. The food’s gonna get cold,” whined Cindy-something, breaking into his reminisces.
He stifled another groan as he took in the clothes strewn across the burgundy Persian rug, the rumpled bed sheets.
What had Sarita seen?
Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the scene she’d interrupted. He choked back a howl. What a disastrous way to reunite with the girl who’d haunted his dreams for the last twelve years. Shame had him stumbling back to the bed.
His knees collapsed and his butt slammed onto the mattress.
When had it happened? When had he gone from shiny and idealistic to contemptuous, egotistic, and unscrupulous? At least where women were concerned.
Elbows jammed onto his thighs, forehead propped in his palms, he closed his eyes against the mortifying ignominy burning his flesh. Sarita had once adored him, but now she must despise and scorn him.
Great way to start this Merry Monday, right?