Rattling Chains by T. Strange

Book 1 in the Bound to the Spirits series

General Release Date: 1st June 2021

Word Count: 71,784
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 294

GENRES:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CRIME
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
PARANORMAL
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Ghosts are popping up where they shouldn’t. Harlan, a ghost janitor for the police, suspects there’s a serial killer on the loose—but no one believes him.

Harlan Brand is a medium who was abandoned by his parents at a school for the psychically gifted. He grew up lonely but safe from the ghosts that terrorized his childhood.

But now, at twenty-one, he’s out in the real world. He works as a ghost janitor for the Toronto Police Service, cleaning up after crimes and hauntings in the Greater Toronto Area. Adding to the anxiety of leaving the ghost-warded safety of his school, the cop assigned as his partner seems to hate him, he’s having confusing feelings for a BDSM club owner who brings out his deepest fantasies and ghosts are popping up where they shouldn’t.

Using the ghosts as clues, Harlan begins to suspect there’s a serial killer loose, but no one believes him. Harlan will stop at nothing to discover who—or what—is preying on his city.

Reader advisory: This book contains mention of implied rape and implied violence, references to murder, torture and body horror.

Excerpt

Harlan stared at the scuffed, dented metal strip across the bottom of the doorway. Behind him was worn linoleum, with a pattern so familiar that he could have drawn it from memory. Ahead was a concrete sidewalk. It was scribbled with cracks, and there were piles of sodden leaves gathered anywhere the wind couldn’t touch them, dark spots where people had spat out their gum, cigarette butts, candy wrappers and so many people.

Inside—order, sameness, routine.

Outside—chaos, change… Excitement.

Harlan wasn’t looking for excitement or change. He wanted very much to turn around, away from the physical and mental threshold the doorway represented and vanish into the building that had housed him since he had been five years old.

“Do you need a push?” Tom asked, gently.

It was still difficult for Harlan to think of him as Tom. He’d known the man since he was eight as ‘Mr. Addison’.

Mr. Addison had called Harlan into his office a few days before. There had been a paper on his desk with an official-looking stamp that Harlan hadn’t been able to identify before the man had covered it with his broad, hairy hand.

‘Am…am I in trouble, Mr. Addison?’

Mr. Addison had laughed and said, ‘No, of course not! Please, call me Tom. You’re an adult now, and I’m no longer your teacher.’

Those words had dropped something heavy and poisonous deep into Harlan’s guts and it had stayed there for the last three days. It had been there while he’d packed his few belongings, while he’d said goodbye to everyone he’d ever known his whole life—everyone who gave any kind of shit about him, anyway.

Harlan shook his head. No, he didn’t need—didn’t want—a push. He wanted that letter to have never arrived. He wanted to stay in the Centre, the only home he could really remember.

After leaving him there, his parents had visited for a few years, and it had been strained for all three of them. Then Harlan’s parents had had a new baby, one without ‘the’ ability. They’d visited once a month, then twice a year—his birthday and Christmas—then just sent cards. And after a few years…nothing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard from them, but it wasn’t a relationship he intended to pursue, in or out of the Centre. They’d made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him—and the feeling was mutual.

He didn’t really consider anyone at the Centre his family, but it was his home, and he was being forced to leave with only his tiny, overstuffed duffle bag. Most of the things inside were just silly little presents the other kids had made him, not even personal items. He was also holding an envelope that Mr. Addison—Tom—had pressed into his hand with great importance, telling him there was three thousand dollars in it.

Harlan had never had to worry about money before. The resident children were given allowances, to spend or save as they chose, and some kids snuck out of the Centre to buy candy—or cigarettes and alcohol when they were older—but Harlan had never been tempted to leave. He’d been given everything he needed there, and they’d kept him safe. A cigarette that smelled bad and made him cough or a beer that made his head swim and made him sick in the morning weren’t worth the risk of stepping beyond the Centre’s encircling walls. He would have been happy to stay forever, maybe even eventually become a teacher like Mr. Addison… Tom. But apparently that wasn’t his decision to make.

“Harlan? Is everything all right?” Tom asked.

No. Everything was not all right. It would never be all right again. “Fine, Mr.— Tom.”

Tom grinned at Harlan—the smile of a man who would, in just a few minutes, be shutting himself back in the safety of the Centre, closing out the rest of the world.

Harlan tried to return the smile, close-mouthed, afraid that if he opened it, he’d throw up.

Looking past Harlan, Tom waved. “Ah! Your ride’s here!”

A sleek, black car with tinted windows drew up beside them. The driver climbed out, circled the car and opened the door closest to Harlan without speaking.

“You’ve got everything?” Tom asked. The too-enthusiastic, bubbly voice that had encouraged Harlan as an eight-year-old didn’t have the same effect at twenty-one.

Harlan shrugged, throwing his bag into the back seat and climbing in after it.

Tom sprawled one elbow on the roof of the car, leaning way down until his face was uncomfortably close to Harlan’s. “Great! And don’t worry—the car’s been specially treated. Didn’t want to stress you out too much on your first day! Give me a call if you need anything.” His voice was positively saccharine, and Harlan wanted to punch it.

Tom slammed the door and rapped on the trunk as though he were dismissing an ambulance.

Harlan didn’t look back.

He closed his eyes when he saw the first ghost. He’d seen plenty, first as a kid, then when his parents finally realized what was going on, in the controlled environment of the Centre. As a child, he hadn’t understood that other people couldn’t see his ‘visitors.’ They’d been excellent playmates, until one wouldn’t go away. Harlan had been too afraid to sleep, jumping at noises no one else could hear, having screaming fits with no apparent cause.

His parents had taken him to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, desperate to deny that their son might be a medium. They’d wanted something medical, something they could cure with pills and therapy. They hadn’t wanted their son to be one of those people.

Answering the doctors’ questions, Harlan realized for the first time that he really was the only one who saw the ‘see-through people’. He’d always thought his parents were just ignoring them.

The psychiatrists tried to convince Harlan—and his parents—that it was just a phase, imaginary, nothing to be afraid of. The ghosts didn’t go away, no matter how hard Harlan tried not to believe in them. Finally, the Centre had called Harlan’s folks. He’d found out later that one of the psychiatrists they’d seen had taken pity on Harlan, contacted the Centre and informed them she had a patient who was potentially a medium. The Centre had invited Harlan and his parents for a tour. His mom and dad certainly didn’t believe in that sort of thing, despite the overwhelming scientific evidence, but they had run out of options and Harlan wouldn’t even go into his bedroom without screaming. He hadn’t slept in days, and the whole family had been desperate.

Young as he’d been, Harlan remembered his first step past the threshold of the Centre. It was…silent. There were no voices here—unlike everywhere else, where they surrounded him like a wall of sound, people he could and couldn’t see clamouring for his attention. There was no one but those he knew were really there—him and his parents. He realized he’d never felt this blissfully alone before. There had always been ghosts. And now they were gone.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in—the silence, the solitude.

He startled when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. A few minutes of peace had been wonderful, but he knew it couldn’t last.

An older man—even older than the grandparents Harlan was no longer allowed to see after he’d frightened them by passing on messages from people who’d died long before he was born—was kneeling in front of him.

“You must be Harlan.”

Not wanting to speak, to shatter this beautiful silence, Harlan nodded.

The man smiled. “Do you like it here, Harlan?”

“Yes! Very much!” Harlan had said. He’d been afraid that if he didn’t speak up, didn’t answer this man’s question, he might have to leave. He’d wanted to stay…as long as possible. Just a few more minutes.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet. If I’m right, she won’t be much of a surprise to you. And if I’m wrong, you can go on home.”

Harlan nodded again, fighting to keep his face blank. He didn’t want to go home, where it was always noisy and crowded with people only he could see or hear, never mind the thing in his bedroom—

The man offered Harlan his hand to shake, just as seriously as he would an adult.

Harlan shook, just as solemnly. The man’s hand was pleasantly cool and dry, and he didn’t squeeze too hard. Harlan wished his own hands weren’t so clammy.

“I’m Dr. Cunningham, the director here at the Centre. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harlan.”

Harlan tensed—just another doctor, more tests to see what kind of crazy he was. And that was a pity, because it was so lovely here. Harlan didn’t think he was crazy, but his parents did, so he must be. They just hadn’t found anyone who could prove it.

Dr. Cunningham laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not… This test will be different than any you’ve done before. I promise.”

Standing, Dr. Cunningham gave Harlan’s parents a reassuring wave before immediately returning his attention to Harlan. “Would you like to come with me?”

Harlan had heard plenty of stories from ghosts about how to tell if someone was dangerous, what would get a person killed and who to trust. Dr. Cunningham felt safe and genuine.

He nodded, allowing Dr. Cunningham to take his hand and lead him deeper into the building. They left his parents behind, but he didn’t mind very much.

This part of the building was different. The front part, where they’d come in and where they’d left Harlan’s parents, had carpets and art on the walls, like a hotel lobby. Here, the floors were bare concrete, the walls plain white with pipes visible overhead.

Dr. Cunningham’s shoes clicked as he walked. The sound, the way the doctor walked with confidence, as though he belonged here and expected everyone to know it, made Harlan feel special. He belonged here, too, and he’d take any test they wanted to prove it.

Maybe reading Harlan’s excitement as nervousness, Dr. Cunningham gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. The dormitories are far more comfortable. This is the lab, and you won’t be spending much time here. That is,” he said, smiling down at Harlan, “if you pass this test, which I very much think you will.”

The doctor winked, and again Harlan felt as though he was being included in a wonderful secret, one not even his parents knew.

“We have a ghost in here.”

Harlan stiffened. He’d never had a grownup talk about a ghost like it was real, and he felt a surge of bitterness when he realized the doctor had just been making fun of him like everyone else did.

Dr. Cunningham gave Harlan a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. She’s quite safe. She won’t hurt you.” He laughed. “She actually used to work here, in the lab. She always talked about becoming a research ghost when she died.” His face turned grim. “She should have had many years ahead of her, but… Well, she still works here, just in a different capacity. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” He was, though—afraid that Dr. Cunningham was teasing him and afraid that he wasn’t. Ever since that horrible woman had taken over his bedroom, ghosts weren’t fun anymore.

“Good lad.” Dr. Cunningham gave Harlan’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “I’ll be right here with you the whole time. When you’re ready, step onto that pad.” He pointed at a metal circle set in the concrete floor. “This whole building is warded against ghosts, except for a few select places like that one. You won’t run into any by accident here…if you choose to stay.”

Harlan bit his lower lip, hard, so he wouldn’t cry. He wanted to stay. He had to pass this test.

“If, at any time, you get scared or you want to stop, just step outside the circle and she’ll disappear again.”

“W-what do I have to do?”

“Just talk to her. Say ‘hi’. It’s only polite. She’ll tell you a special word that will let me know you’ve really seen her.”

“I just have to talk?”

Dr. Cunningham nodded.

Harlan drew in a slow, deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. He could do that. He’d always found it easier to talk to ghosts than to ‘real’ people. He could never tell what the living were thinking or feeling, but ghosts kind of…projected their feelings, whether they meant to or not.

Breath hitching in his chest, Harlan stepped forward onto the pad. He realized he had his eyes closed and had to force them open. His hands were trembling.

She appeared slowly, not just popping into his view the way ghosts sometimes did, and he suspected she’d done it on purpose so she wouldn’t scare him.

“Hello. Are you Harlan?”

He nodded, just a tiny tilt of his head. He’d learned to hide when he was listening to a ghost, and he almost never spoke to them out loud anymore. He glanced back at Dr. Cunningham, but he just gave Harlan an encouraging nod. He didn’t look at all angry or mocking.

“It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Gwen. Are you ready for the word?”

He nodded again, a little more confidently.

“The word is ‘ludicrous’. Ludicrous. You’ll remember?”

“Yes,” he said, shyly.

She waved and started slowly fading.

He stepped out of the circle and turned to face Dr. Cunningham again. “She said…ludicrous.”

Dr. Cunningham beamed. “You passed the test.”

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About the Author

T. Strange

T. Strange didn’t want to learn how to read, but literacy prevailed and she hasn’t stopped reading—or writing—since. She’s been published since 2013, and she writes M/M romance in multiple genres, including paranormal and BDSM. T.’s other interests include cross stitching, gardening, watching terrible horror movies, playing video games, and finding injured pigeons to rescue. Originally from White Rock, BC, she lives on the Canadian prairies, where she shares her home with her wife, cats, guinea pigs and other creatures of all shapes and sizes. She’s very easy to bribe with free food and drinks—especially wine.

Find T. Strange on Instagram.

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T. Strange’s Rattling Chains Giveaway

T. STRANGE IS GIVING AWAY THIS FABULOUS PRIZE TO ONE LUCKY WINNER. ENTER HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A LOVELY GIFT PACKAGE AND GET GET A FREE EBOOK FROM THE AUTHOR! Notice: This competition ends on 15th June 2021 at 5pm GMT. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.

The Shame Game by Hannah Murray

Book 1 in the Perfect Taboo series

General Release Date: 1st June 2021

Word Count: 50,362
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 192

GENRES:

 BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE

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Book Description

A good marriage is built on love, trust and kink…

James and Amanda have been together for fourteen happy, playful kinky years. That’s the way they both like it, and neither feels there’s anything missing, until one day, a typical scene morphs into something atypical—humiliation play.

They’ve never played with this kink before, but it was shockingly hot, and satisfying in a way their more playful scenes aren’t. They’re both excited to try something new after so many years together, but James is leading his beloved wife and submissive into uncharted territory where their comfort zone will be stretched and their bond tested…

It will take all the love and trust they’ve built over fourteen years to survive The Shame Game.

Excerpt

James Douglass walked through the front door of his home and sighed with relief. “Thank Christ that’s over.”

Behind him, his wife let out a snorting laugh and shut the door. “You say that every year.”

“I mean it every year.” He turned to watch her slip out of her coat, the soft faux fur he’d given her for Christmas gleaming under the light of the foyer chandelier. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

Amanda smiled as she hung up her coat, then held out a hand for his. “I like your mother.”

He dropped the bags he held and shrugged out of his overcoat. “It’d just be nice to be able to spend one New Year’s somewhere else.”

“Well, that’s your fault for being born one minute past midnight on January first.” Laughter colored her voice, deepening the Texas accent that still lingered more than a decade after she’d left the Lone Star State. “If you’d stayed put for another week like you were supposed to…”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault for being born early?” He raised an eyebrow, wondering if his wife of twelve years would respond with sass or respect. He figured the odds were about seventy-thirty in favor of sass.

She took his coat with a wink. “Pretty much.”

“Insolent wench,” he muttered, and stifled a grin when she rolled her eyes. Sass it is, then.

“You could always tell your mom no when she invites us,” she pointed out.

He sighed and bent to pick up the bags. “No, I can’t.”

“I know.” She closed the closet with a snap and crossed to him, her bootheels clicking on the tile, and rose on her toes to plant a smacking kiss on his chin. “That’s because you’re a big old softie.”

The eyebrow went up again, almost of its own volition this time. “What was that?”

“Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all, her dimples popping out even as she lowered her eyes respectfully. “You’re a big old softie, sir.”

“Better,” he allowed, fighting a smile of his own. “But you’re lucky my hands are full.”

She glanced down at the bags he still held, then back up at him, her brown eyes dancing. “Oh, yes. Thank goodness for those two duffel bags, otherwise I’d be in so much trouble.”

James gave a bark of laughter. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one tired of being on his best behavior for the last couple of days. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for trouble.”

She walked past him, her dimples still winking. “Well, then it’s a good thing you know better, isn’t it? Besides,” she continued, her voice drifting back to him as she moved toward the curved staircase. “Even if I was, it’s not like you could do anything about it.”

She paused on the first stair, her hand resting lightly on the banister, and looked back at him. They’d been together fourteen years, and still she took his breath away. Soft dark hair, a little tousled from the nap she’d taken on the drive home. Sparkling dark eyes, full of mischief and promise and affection. Her dimples flashed again, pulling his attention to her soft, full lips, curved in the faintest of smiles. That mouth had given him a jolt at their first meeting all those years ago, and its impact hadn’t lessened over time. If anything, it had only grown stronger, because now he knew just what those lush lips were capable of. He knew just how swollen and red they grew from his kisses, how they looked wrapped around his cock. And how she bit them when she was in pain, or in pleasure.

Then those lips spread in an impish grin, bringing him back to the present, and the game she was trying to tempt him into playing. “It’s not like you could chase me up these stairs or catch me even if you did. You’re fifty-one now. An old man.”

He growled because he knew she wanted him to, and with a rollicking laugh, she ran up the stairs.

He stayed where he was, enjoying the view. The yoga pants she’d worn for comfort on the drive home curved over rounded hips and a rounder ass, the soft sweater in misty green—another Christmas gift—covering bouncing breasts. He’d seen her dress that morning in a pretty lacy bra, the kind built for maximum visual effect rather than physical activity, so there was a lot of bounce.

It was pretty fucking hot.

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About the Author

Hannah Murray

Hannah has been reading romance novels since she was young enough to have to hide them from her mother. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband—former Special Forces and an OR nurse who writes sci-fi fantasy and acts as In-House Expert on matters pertaining to weapons, tactics, the military, medical conditions and How Dudes Think—and their daughter, who takes after her father.

Find out more about Hannah at her website and blog.

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HANNAH MURRAY IS GIVING AWAY THIS FABULOUS PRIZE TO ONE LUCKY WINNER. ENTER HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A LOVELY GIFT PACKAGE AND GET GET A FREE EBOOK FROM THE AUTHOR! Notice: This competition ends on 15th June 2021 at 5pm GMT. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.

Bound to Remember by Alexandra Alan

General Release Date: 1st June 2021

Word Count: 15,038
Book Length: NOVELLA
Pages: 63

GENRES:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
COMEDY AND HUMOUR
CONTEMPORARY

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Book Description

Meeting an old flame is about to tie her in knots…

Most first kisses don’t end in stitches.

True, kissing in high school can be far from perfect, but when Annie Carver is finally courageous enough to make out with Nicholas Liu, there should have been stars and trumpets, not broken glasses and a collapsed closet.

Ten years later, Annie still thinks about Nick. Although she’s been through her share of difficult relationships and sexual awakenings, she can’t help but wonder about the sweet boy who blushed as she helped him with homework assignments and whose name she wrote in her notebooks.

A concert is the last place she expects to run into him. It’s easy for them to connect…and even easier for her infatuation to return. In the last ten years, Annie’s changed—she’s discovered how much she enjoys bondage. Her ex saw her kinks as a flaw, but will Nick be willing to push his limits, or is this one relationship that’s bound to remain a memory?

Excerpt

Tonight was a perfect night.

Most summer evenings were so humid that they left a layer of tacky sweat on already heated skin, and mosquitoes targeted any exposed limbs with all the determination of a pack of war generals. Any movement other than a slow walk made sweat bead along temples and armpits, which, of course, further attracted said mosquitoes.

Not this night, though.

There was a crisp chill in the air, just sharp enough to hint at approaching autumn, and a lazy breeze cooled damp skin. Couples milled about under warm streetlamps and shared bites of ice cream. Fireflies dodged frantic children with Mason jars, and the sound of laughter bonded with the smell of tart beer from bars that had opened their doors to let the evening inside.

It was, without a doubt, a perfect night.

Annie Carver couldn’t have cared less about any of it.

A herd of screaming, gyrating people surrounded Annie in a venue where saxophones blared loud enough to destroy the eardrums of the uninitiated.

And she absolutely fucking adored it.

Annie had always loved ska music. She loved the lyrics, the thud of bass, the wild scream of the trumpets, the peppy riffs that—even if the singer belted about the injustices inherent in the political landscape—were done alongside a beat that didn’t so much encourage dancing as mandate it.

Okay—Annie hadn’t always loved ska. That might have been a lie. There had been a time, a good solid thirteen years or so, where she had gone about thinking the best music was the kind in which someone wailed into a microphone about the unfairness of life and the inhumanity of humanity. There had been mention of souls in there, somewhere. Vampires might have made an appearance, too.

Then ska had come along, swooping in and carrying her out of that meaningless pit like any good storybook hero would do, except it hadn’t done so with a sword and a noble steed, but with syncopated guitar riffs and checkered high-top sneakers.

In the tiny venue, buffeted by stale air and the blast of brass, Annie tightened her grip on her plastic cup of cheap beer and raised it above her head as she shouted the lyrics to the song’s whirlwind finale.

One of her friends elbowed her in the side, and Annie started. She had been so involved in the music that she’d forgotten for a moment they were with her tonight.

Lee nudged her again and pointed at the mosh pit. “That looks scary,” he shouted over the riotous cheering. “Who goes in there? Masochists?”

“Sometimes,” she shouted back.

Charlie appeared at her side. “What are we talking about?”

“Mosh pit.” Annie pointed at the swirling flow of thrashing people.

“More spit? Who has more spit??” Lee shouted.

“Mosh pit,” Annie said again, and jabbed her finger in emphasis.

Charlie blinked as someone in the pit shrieked. “What?”

It took a full second, but she managed not to drag her hand down her face in exasperation. She tried to keep in mind that this was her friends’ first show. They hadn’t needed to figure out the technicalities of being in a mosh pit with orthodontia or lie to their parents about where they’d gotten their split lip. Neither Lee nor Charlie had spent enough money on tickets that, if combined, could be a down payment on a comfortable home.

And really, it was quite sweet that they’d wanted to come tonight. This wasn’t exactly a good time for Annie, what with the bad breakup memories of last year, so when she’d mentioned this show, they’d jumped at the chance to join her.

“We’ll keep you company!” Lee, the man who did not appreciate large crowds, had said.

“How different could it be?” Charlie, the man who frequented opera and baroque ensembles, had said.

They seemed to be doing fine, though Lee jumped whenever someone screamed, and Charlie covered his ears with his hands at every opportunity.

Annie leaned in and shouted a few words into Lee’s ear.

“Oooh,” he said in response. “So you just run around and punch people?”

It was too loud for anyone to hear her scandalized gasp, because that was like simplifying all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica into the phrase “Robots doing stuff.”

Annie made a tight spinning motion with her beer cup. “You don’t run in the pit. You skank around violently and with great enthusiasm.”

Lee blinked at her in an unsyncopated way that spoke of the two beers he’d already had tonight, then asked Charlie, “Did you get any of that?”

Charlie turned to Lee. “What?”

The band kicked off another song, the mosh pit roiled once more, and Annie had to hold a hand around her ear so that she could listen to Lee.

“She says they’re not running, they’re being angry sluts,” he said with a drunken giggle.

The yelp he made when Annie elbowed him was loud enough to hear over the blasting notes of the saxophone.

She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the pit. Everyone there was having so much fun. Limbs flailed, heads thrashed, faces turned up to the stage in something nearing rapture. There was one tall dark-haired someone, catching her eye only because of the height of his jumps, who danced as if he were summoning demons of joy with his body. He looked like he was having so much fun.

Annie wanted to have that much fun, and she couldn’t see it happening if she stayed all the way over by the grungy, beer-stained wall.

When they’d arrived, she’d felt obligated to keep away from the most dangerous part of the venue, thinking that if she returned with a black eye, the sight would frighten Charlie and Lee away from ska shows for the rest of eternity.

Despite Charlie’s improvised ear protection and Lee’s general confusion, they were starting to nod in rhythmic appreciation of the band. Lee was even making a minimal effort to dance.

Annie didn’t want to ruin this for them. She watched as Lee pulled one of Charlie’s hands away from his ears and held it tight, then gave his boyfriend a warm smile. It’s good to try new things in a relationship. Wasn’t that what she’d read in a magazine somewhere?

Her stomach flipped in the disappointed, leaden sort of way she’d grown used to whenever she thought about how things had ended a year ago.

She’d tried. Really. She and Trevor had been stagnant for several months, and when Annie had taken the magazine’s advice—try something new, talk about your fantasies, change up the bedroom routine—Trevor had become a lot less stagnant. Really mobile, actually. He’d practically flown out of both her apartment and her life.

Her sigh was lost in the din. She turned to the stage and watched the brass musicians aggressively try to out-blow one another for only a few seconds before Lee tugged at the sleeve of her shirt.

“That girl is wearing the same pants as you!” he shouted, pointing at a woman twenty feet away. “You should sue!”

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About the Author

Alexandra Alan

Alexandra lives in Colorado with her partner and two very strange cats. Her nerdiest experience was when she had a heated discussion about Star Wars during a game of Dungeons & Dragons. Though she’s always on the lookout for more hobbies, some of her favorites are drawing, knitting, archery, rock climbing, brewing mead, and scrimshaw. The most badass she has ever felt was when she took jousting lessons for a year. She has never met a bad pun she hasn’t adored, and loves to read books that make her heart race. Follow Alexandra on Twitter.

Giveaway

Enter to win a fabulous gift package and get a FREE Alexandra Alan romance book!

Alexandra Alan’s Bound to Remember Giveaway

ALEXANDRA ALAN IS GIVING AWAY THIS FABULOUS PRIZE TO ONE LUCKY WINNER. ENTER HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A LOVELY GIFT PACKAGE AND GET GET A FREE EBOOK FROM THE AUTHOR! Notice: This competition ends on 15th June 2021 at 5pm GMT. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.