Claw by Ellen Mint

Book 1 in the Coven of Desire series

General Release Date: 16th March 2021

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
PARANORMAL
REVERSE HAREM

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Book Description

He’s not your typical werewolf-next-door.

Layla hadn’t counted on a sex demon appearing in her living room. Nor did she expect to find she’s a witch, tasked with protecting the mortal realm. And now her friend, fellow nursing student and impossible crush could be a potential killer?

She’s silently lusted after Cal for a year, knowing a guy that hot, sweet and kind wouldn’t look twice at her. All their flirting was innocent and went nowhere, until Ink—the incubus bound to her—ran into her life and bed. Next thing she knows, Cal’s growling at her while Ink flirts, and women are being ripped apart by wild animals. Couldn’t the murder monster mystery wait until after finals?

She wanted to be a nurse, not a paranormal investigator, but Layla has no choice. Apparently only witches can stop these creatures that she didn’t even know existed a month ago. But the deeper she digs, the more it looks like Cal’s deep in the middle of it all. How can she save her friend from the claws of a cult, keep her sex-craved demon happy and find a way to let both into her heart and bed?

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, peril, near death, blood and gore, and on-page death. There are references to a cult and inadequate parenting.

Author’s note: Everyone who buys a copy of Claw will receive the short story Retail Hell free. Set between the events of Ink and Claw in the Coven of Desire series, Layla’s workday from hell is interrupted by her personal sex demon. 

Excerpt

An edge exists between the living and the dead, the celestial plane and the mortal realm, reality and its reflection. Upon that sliver of existence is where the witch—

“Damn it!” I gasped, nearly sending the book flying from the rash of tickles prickling across my stomach. “Ink…”

Breath hotter than brimstone twisted against the back of my ear as two hands caressed down my sides. I bit my lip, the ticklish nerves transforming to a different tremble. He pressed the full breadth of his palm to my jittery belly, working his way under the Bellpeppers uniform top.

Two weeks ago, I would have returned from work, tossed away my pants and fallen to the floor to dig into my nursing homework without a second’s pause. Having a personal incubus forever lurking at my elbow was going to take some getting used to, however. Ink’s attentions grew in fervor, the man slipping his fingers under my panties. He brushed back my hair with his other hand so he could place a kiss to my neck.

“I thought I was supposed to be studying,” I said even while losing to his demonic sway.

He grazed his teeth along my throat. “That’s not what you truly desire.”

Coming off a ten-hour night shift hauling cargo for the Friendliest Big Box store in the Midwest, I’d thought I’d only desired a quick meal and sleep. But my attempt at microwaving ramen had been foiled by the spell book left sitting on the kitchen table. It had demanded my attention like an obstinate cat about to break a vase if it didn’t get what it wanted.

A yawn rounded around my mouth, aching for its release, when Ink dove his coy fingers right to my clit. Holy shit! My body was wide awake now.

“Why don’t you sleep on me?” he said, tipping back onto the living room floor and splaying me on top of him.

All the while, he continued tantalizing my clit with a speed usually reserved for a ‘neck massager.’ I ramped up to orgasm in record time, Ink arching his hips against my lower back to press his monolith erection on me.

Breath sputtered from my lips, my exhausted body springing to life as I ground against him. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me witchcraft?”

“Interesting,” Ink mused in his melodic baritone. “You desire me in a tweed jacket and…carrying a yardstick?”

The flittering thought of Ink as the strict professor having to punish his one student crashed into a pool of guilt. I kept forgetting he could read my every desire, no matter how minute, the second it popped into my head. And he was more than happy to lean into the depravity.

“Tell me, Ms. Leeland.” He startled me from my inner turmoil. “What is the counter-ward for the acidic saliva of a manticore?”

“A…a pentagram with—”

“Wrong!” Ink shouted and slapped my inner thigh. It wasn’t hard, but loud enough that I jumped in shock. Ink didn’t remove his palm, but strained my leg to the breaking point while he caressed and threatened another slap up and down my inner thigh.

“What is the plant that ensures the dead stay six feet under?”

My brain sputtered smoke. I had read something about plants. But then there were all the pharmaceutical questions I’d studied for my real job. Witch hazel? Belladonna? Quinine? Foxglove? Pacific Yew?

“We need an answer, Ms. Leeland,” Ink ordered, his voice crackling with a growl as he traced his nails up and down my skin.

“Periwinkle?”

He cupped my chin in his hand, twisting it until I caught his eyes. Flames danced in his irises, and his lips nearly pressed to my cheek. “Nice try, but very wrong.”

“Holy fuck!”

With demonic speed, he parted my legs using just his knees and thrust his cock inside me. With one hand, he pinned my hip back against his body so I could feel every thrust from his pelvis cradling my ass. Roughing out of my hair, Ink reached up to grab my hand and pinned me by my wrist.

“Shall we play a new game?” he asked. My body strained at the breaking point, balanced upon the demon dick inside me. Thunderous energy pounded in waves from my heart up to my throat, leaving me clenching my bare toes into the rug while Ink pressed on both of my thighs.

“What…what game?” I gulped, the blood pooling in my head and nether regions with alarming speed. If this lasted any longer, I was liable to pass out…or worse.

Ink brushed the length of his sharp nose from the hollow of my jaw up to my ear. “For every answer you get right, you receive a thrust of eternal bliss.”

Fuck. I squirmed in anticipation, flexing my fingers inside his grip. But the fact that I’d barely had two seconds to do more than crack open my spell book in days cooled my blood. “And if I get it wrong?”

He released a rumble loud enough to be heard at the end of days. “You shall see,” was Ink’s response and he drew a single nail across my thigh. “What is—?”

The first five bars of White Wolves of Winter blared from behind me. Without a second’s thought, I snaked my hand from Ink’s fading grip and grabbed my phone. It took a moment for me to read it, fuzz blanketing my brain.

Dana was calling.

“Oh shit!” I shouted. In one deft move, I rolled off Ink to my knees. “I completely forgot.” I kept narrating while cramming back on my shitty dark gray jeans. What else did I need? Book bag? Did I load it last night before work?

Of course I didn’t. I never plan ahead.

While shoving my mass of books worth the cost of a used car into a flimsy messenger bag, I glanced at the man left lying on my rug. Black hair thicker than a bear’s lay in curly waves surrounding his head. A treasure trove of the same caressed down the dangerous muscles of his body, but parted at the monstrous erection prodding free.

Ink wore nothing but a smile when he wandered around my place, no doubt much to the delight of the random saleslady who’d dropped her catalogs for seventy-dollar micro-cloths and run for the hills when he answered the door.

Tearing my eyes off the man ready to pound me to heaven wasn’t easy. “I have a study date… With Dana and Fariah.”

Curling a hand under his high cheekbone, Ink twisted onto his side to watch me. I kept dashing about the apartment, trying to not glance at his ass. Do not give in to the bubble, Layla. This is important.

“We have a test coming up,” I kept explaining as if Ink was my keeper, but he wafted a hand through the air like a Roman emperor dismissing a servant.

“Yes, yes, go on to your university issue.”

I clung white-knuckled to my backpack. Despite him being an incubus, a literal sex demon that gained energy by fucking, the second I needed to get away he let me go. No questions. No complaints.

If I had any lingering doubts that he could be a human, the sight of him with a giant erection—nearly at the point of no return—and not a single challenge to my exit proved that was impossible. Fisting my keys between my fingers out of habit, I turned to the door.

“What will you do?” I began, my gut boiling as I spun back to the man with a sequoia in his lack-of-pants. “While I’m gone, I mean?”

That delectable and devious smile returned. Ink hopped to his feet, his hands grazing the carpet before he rose to stand before me. The flames had doused in his eyes, leaving only the amber shine behind. “I will wait for you.”

A blush burned on my cheeks and I felt like a teenager who just had the hottest guy in school look at her from across the cafeteria. Why did I even think that he’d…? Never mind. Shaking my head, I undid the lock on my apartment and moved to slip out without anyone peeking in.

“My bond,” Ink called to me. He stared me straight in the eye and curled a hand around his cock. “When you return, the game will resume.”

Fuck! Blushing so hard that my black hair turned red, I ran from my apartment and the incubus contained within.

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About the Author

Ellen Mint

Ellen Mint adores the adorkable heroes who charm with their shy smiles and heroines that pack a punch. She recently won the Top Ten Handmaid’s Challenge on Wattpad where hers was chosen by Margaret Atwood. Her books, Undercover Siren and Fever are available at Amazon as well as a short story in the Lucky Between The Sheets anthology. Married, she lives in Nebraska with her dog named after Granny Weatherwax. Her hobbies include gaming, painting, and halloween prop making. The basement is full of skeletons because they ran out of room in the closets.

You can find Ellen at her website here and also on Bookbub..

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Critical Density
Desiree Holt

General Release Date: 9th March 2021

Word Count: 74,658
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 276

Genres: 

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Running for her life, saved by a hunky former SEAL, she never expected the sex to be as hot as the danger zone.

Hannah Modell thought she had life by the tail—a great job as a drone engineer at top-notch Lowden Tactical with one successful project after another…until it all blew up in her face. Literally.

Now she’s on the run. If she hadn’t met the sexy stranger, she has no idea what would have happened. But former SEAL Matt ‘Viper’ Roman turned out to be both an answer to a prayer and the sexiest man alive.

As the men of the mysterious Galaxy agency race against time to prove her innocence and find the real culprit, things heat to the boiling point between Hannah and Viper.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, death, murder, inprisonment, and political corruption.

Excerpt

How fucking long can they keep me here?

Hannah Modell looked out of the window of her hotel suite to the esthetic view of…the parking lot. Beyond it, she could see other buildings in downtown Houston, accented by the sparkle of the evening lights just coming on. Traffic filled the streets as people came and went, punctuated by the impatient honking of horns. She’d be happy to be in that irritated crowd. She’d be happy to be anyplace except this hotel. Scratch that. Anyplace except for Houston.

How in hell had this happened? One minute, she’d been doing her dream job. The next, she’d been one step away from being arrested and tried for murder. Or whatever they decided to call it.

Fourteen days since it happened, and she was still shocked by the whole thing. She and the rest of her GO-Team had been in a remote location, delivering explosives via drone to take out a key terrorist figure. They’d been told the man was hiding out in a house on Chesapeake Bay. The word was that he’d planned a strike on a major United States city and their assignment was to take him out first.

Her GO-Team had been flown to an isolated location to launch the drone, which had been outfitted with special equipment because of the explosives and had a long-range capacity. This was a black ops assignment, so only the top brass at Lowden and Hannah and her team had the details. It was only the third time she’d been tasked with doing something this enormous and she’d spent hours checking and double checking everything to make sure nothing would go wrong. She knew she’d probably driven her team nuts, but she didn’t care. There was no room for error in a situation like this.

She’d been stunned when the helicopter carrying Greg Kingsley, Lowden’s executive vice president, had shown up at their site. He never came out to remotes. Jumping out of the chopper, he’d told them they had to shut down the job. Right. Now. Right that minute. Finish packing everything up so they could get the hell out of there.

For a moment, she’d just stood there, shocked.

“But—why?”

“There’s a situation, Hannah. Something went wrong big time with the drone delivery. A fuckup and we have a tragedy on our hands.”

“A tragedy?” She’d stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

“Worse than that. A disaster of epic proportions. No, bigger than epic.”

Fingers of panic had curled in her stomach. “Greg. Please, please tell me what happened. You know how carefully I check everything before we even leave the campus.”

“Okay, but right now we have to get everyone out of here while we sort this out. Especially you.”

“But—”

“No buts, Hannah.” His voice had had a hard edge to it. “Lowden needs to see you ASAP, since this is your baby. He’ll go over everything with you. I’m just the delivery guy.”

What the hell?

On the flight back, she’d pestered him for details, but he’d had little to say beyond what he’d already told her. He’d just kept repeating that she should wait until they were back at Lowden. She’d been baffled at how this had happened. Misdirect a drone to dump its payload in a different place? Me? Hell, no. She was committed to her job, her country, her patriotism. That was why working for a paramilitary company that—among other things—did black jobs for the government had been so satisfying. Because she got to serve her country in a way a lot of people never could. She didn’t even have friends outside of the job, and those she could only categorize as acquaintances. How disgusting was that?

The moment they’d landed at the complex, Kingsley had hustled her right to Eric Lowden’s office, where he’d told her she was off the job until the situation was resolved.

“Situation?” She’d repeated the word. This was a hell of a lot more than that.

“Your drone flew off course.” Lowden hadn’t minced any words with her. “I don’t know if the programming got screwed up or something else did. The fact remains that somehow, instead of taking out the terrorist, which was your assignment, that drone ended up at Senator Mark Hegman’s summer house and blew it all to shit. Including the senator. We’re just damn lucky his wife wasn’t there at the time.”

“What?” Her stomach had cramped and a chill had slithered down her spine. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”

“That’s what we have to find out. Right now. There’s a shitstorm you wouldn’t believe.”

“But I double and triple checked all my settings,” she’d assured him, “and we tested it several times before leaving the campus. I always do. You know that.”

“Like I said, we’re being bombarded with questions,” he’d told her. “From all sides, including the fucking government that contracted this. We can’t let them near you until we have answers. I’m doing my best at the moment to avoid everyone, including the media, and juggle everything else. I managed to get the story out that the drone veered off course, which is how this terrible tragedy occurred.”

“But we have to figure out what really happened,” she’d kept insisting. “I want to know what happened. I should be involved.”

“We’ll do that, of course, Hannah,” he’d assured her, “but we have to keep you tucked away.”

“Do you think it was my fault?” she’d demanded. “Mr. Lowden, you know my work. It’s always impeccable.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter to the outside world. And for the sake of Lowden Tactical, I have to get answers without you in the middle of a media frenzy.”

At least they weren’t throwing her to the wolves. She supposed she should be grateful for that.

“We’ll probably have eighteen kinds of federal agencies crawling up our butts,” he’d continued. “It’s important for you not to be available to them while we manage this.”

“But—”

Lowden had shaken his head. “We can’t chance it that somehow they’ll trap you. It’s for your own good as well as ours. Better it be the story that the drone malfunctioned than that you made a mistake or someone sabotaged the flight. That works the best.”

The word sabotage had made her feel physically ill. Was it even possible?

“But it didn’t,” she’d insisted again. “It was programmed perfectly. I want to know what happened, too.” She could hear her voice in her head now, edged with desperation.

“I understand you, but listen to what I’m saying. I’m trying to keep everyone off your ass. That’s why you’re on leave for the moment. With you being the pilot and engineer, they’ll look to you first. And nothing you say will mean a thing to them. That drone killed the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, for Christ’s sake. We have to keep you out of sight.”

She remembered the feeling of nausea choking her as he’d continued talking to her in a low voice, but underneath his quiet tone was hard anger at what a disaster this was for Lowden Tactical. Of course. To him, that came first.

“Eric’s on top of it,” Greg had assured her. “He just told you that. But to make this work, we need to keep you away from the media. Nothing good can come of you being interviewed.”

She’d certainly agreed with that. And now, as she stood in her hotel room, his words kept replaying in her head.

‘Don’t worry, Hannah. We’re planning to keep you hidden away for your own good, until we get a public relations handle on this. And get some answers. We’ve got nice accommodations ready for you, Hannah. You’ll be very comfortable while we sort this out. We just need to keep you away from the media while we figure out how it went wrong. You understand. If you’re not guilty, you have nothing to worry about. Besides, you might not be safe at home.’

Not safe? Who would she be in danger from? Did they know? Or was the evidence not that conclusive? It was, after all, as Lowden had pointed out, her drone, her controls that had supposedly misdirected the drone to dump its payload on the vacationing chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

Now, as she paced the living room of the suite, she went over it again and again in her mind, trying to make sense of it. The stated target was supposed to have been an ISIS leader. That was what they had been told. The government had received word that he was hiding out on the estate of a known sympathizer, plotting an attack of some kind on the United States. Lowden had been tasked with delivering the payload because the government was afraid of leaks in its own system.

Mistake! This has to be a mistake.

Except…she’d never made a mistake. Ever. The drones were her life. Was it something with the equipment? Something she’d somehow missed? Except that was verified and calibrated regularly. And all the questions. So many questions. And cooped up in this hotel, that was all she’d been able to think of.

They knew her. They had to know someone else had done this, had committed what could actually be classified as espionage. Espionage. Just the word made her sick to her stomach, as she had been almost every day she’d been tucked away in this upscale jail.

‘You’ll be safe. We have people guarding you.’

Guarding. Right. Private security sitting outside her door at all times. She snorted. Bodyguard, my ass. Despite what they said, they were more like jailers, and the comfortable suite, the cable television with streaming channel and anything she wanted from room service, didn’t make up for the fact that she knew she was a prisoner. The windows might have drapes on them instead of bars, but the result was the same.

She wondered what Lowden had even told the rest of its employees, and what they thought. Had he brought up the espionage possibility with them? She considered them her friends, sort of, but would they buy into it or swear she couldn’t have done it? It occurred to her that she didn’t have any kind of social life beyond Lowden, but until now that hadn’t bothered her…but it meant there was no one to deny the charges or defend her.

When they’d taken her to her apartment to pack up what she’d need for what they’d called ‘a possible extended stay’ elsewhere, she’d loaded everything she could. Of course, her unsmiling guards had checked everything including her undies before letting her fill her suitcases. What the hell did they think I was hiding in them? Secret plans? A payoff? If she’d taken one, for the love of god, she’d have it in a secret offshore bank account where no one could find it.

Wait…that—that wasn’t what they thought, was it? That someone had been paid to drop the load on a non-target and she was the most likely candidate? Supposedly she wasn’t under suspicion. If she hadn’t done this—big if—then she was possibly in danger from whoever the guilty person was. Or persons. Oh, yeah? She guessed that was why they were hesitant to dump her in a jail cell. If everything pointing to her didn’t stick, Lowden could be in for a huge lawsuit. Maybe the company would be shut down.

And no one seemed to want to give her any information. Three times a day, when one of the ‘guards’ wheeled in her food, she badgered them with questions, but they might as well have been mute for all the info she got from them. She asked to please meet with Greg Kingsley, and each time was told he was busy doing damage control. What about the damage to me?

With each passing day, she became more nervous. More desperate. More convinced she was being set up to take the blame for everything.

Her life, like the movement of the planets, had reached critical density. What had she read when studying the mathematics of space? If the expansion of your life has suddenly contracted and movement has halted or turned, you have reached your critical density. Yeah, that was her all right. Stuck in time with no answers and no way forward.

She turned from the window and paced the room, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. How in the everlovin’ hell did this even happen?

She had been so excited to get the job interview with Lowden Tactical and it had gone well. She knew she had an unusually high aptitude for spatial awareness and action that made her an expert in the field of drones. Eric Lowden had seemed impressed with her and soon, from the air-conditioned comfort of her control room, she’d been able to kick butt all over the world.

When Lowden had assigned her to one of their GO-Teams, she’d hardly been able to contain her excitement and pride. These were the highly trained covert teams that took drones into enemy territory to surveil or deliver payloads in places where the government politically could not. Positions on the teams were considered highly restricted. She’d made it through the rigorous training and managed to earn the respect of the others. She was one of only two women assigned to the teams and she wore the selection like a badge of honor. She would never do anything to bring shame on it. Ever.

Someone had done this and manipulated things to place the blame on her. Someone who was going to make a lot of money for getting the payload dumped on a different target. She was discovering in a most painful way there was a big difference between having brains and being smart.

One thing she did figure out was how precarious her situation really was. After all the hours she’d spent taking everything apart bit by bit, starting with when she’d been hired by Lowden, she’d come to some frightening conclusions. They’d wanted her brain and her skills, which were the best in the company. They had planned this well in advance. And they could not afford to let her talk to anyone. She had no idea why they hadn’t just gotten rid of her to begin with, but she figured they had some use for her. After that, she was now convinced not even her body would be found.

The story of Hegman’s death was front and center on the news every day. She’d watched for a while on television, but she reached a point where she couldn’t stand it anymore. Although her name had not been mentioned specifically, reporters continued to refer to “a member of the Lowden GO-Team responsible for the drone.”

She had to get out of here and try to figure things out, but how? She was never allowed out of the suite and both doors were guarded twenty-four-seven. All her food came from room service, the trays minutely examined before she was allowed to receive them, and even then, one of her keepers wheeled in the table. The waiters weren’t allowed to enter. When housekeeping came to clean the rooms, one of the men dogged her every footstep. She was surprised they didn’t follow her into the bathroom, for god’s sake.

She had her laptop, but she wasn’t allowed an internet connection. No cell phone, and the desk had been told not to accept any phone calls from this room. She was completely shut off from the outside world. And she had become so immersed in her job that the only people in her life were those on her GO-Team and others at Lowden. How sad is that? And frightening. No one would be banging on doors asking where she was and what was going on.

She stopped pacing for a moment to look out of the window again. It was darker now, the outside lights brighter, more people moving in the area filled with hotels and restaurants and shops. She might try to climb out of a window, except the windows were sealed and she was on the fifteenth floor. But there had to be a way out of here. No one was going to try to prove her innocence except her. Can I just catch a break here, please?

A knock sounded on the door, breaking into her train of thought, not that it was much of a train.

“It’s Santos. Your dinner is here.”

She opened the door, something that was just a formality. She was told—ordered—not to put the chain on the door in case she had a problem and they needed immediate access. It was for her safety.

Right. She’d almost snorted when they told her that. It wasn’t her safety they were worried about. They just wanted to make sure she couldn’t disappear on them.

She opened the door and found Paul Santos standing there with the room service table bearing her meal.

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping back from the door,” he told her in the even, measured voice she’d gotten used to, “I’ll just wheel this into the room.”

Step back. In other words, don’t try to make a run for it. Everything they did made her feel more and more like a criminal and gave the situation an increasingly hopeless slant. She had to figure this out. She couldn’t just wait here in this hotel while incorrect evidence was gathered about her to frame her and the person who was really behind this got away with it.

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About the Author

Desiree Holt

A multi-published, award winning, Amazon and USA Today best-selling author, Desiree Holt has produced more than 200 titles and won many awards. She has received an EPIC E-Book Award, the Holt Medallion and many others including Author After Dark’s Author of the Year. She has been featured on CBS Sunday Morning and in The Village Voice, The Daily Beast, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The London Daily Mail. She lives in Florida with her cats who insist they help her write her books, and is addicted to football.

You can follow Desiree on Facebook and Twitter and check out her Blog.

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Desiree Holt’s Critical Density Giveaway

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Electra Rex
April C. Griffith

General Release Date: 9th March 2021

Word Count:  68,269
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 269

Genres:

ACTION AND ADVENTURE
COMEDY AND HUMOUR
EROTIC ROMANCE
FUTURISTIC
FUTURISTIC AND SCIENCE FICTION
GLBTQI
MULTICULTURAL
TRANSGENDER

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Book Description

Electra Rex, self-appointed ‘galaxy’s greatest starship captain’ and last known human, is going to save humanity or get rich trying!

Electra Rex, the last human in known space, is broke—worse than broke, deeply in debt and out of options. After a desperate, drunken attempt to fix her faltering life, she finds herself in a deeper hole after stealing the most stylish starship she’s ever seen, but it comes with a massive lien.

She’s left with a fast ship, a nearly indestructible debt-enforcement robot named Letterman watching her every move and a lead on a lucrative job with the mysterious organization known as Bi-MARP, which is set to rebuild Earth on the two-thousand-year anniversary of its destruction.

Across two galaxies, she struggles to stay one step ahead of space pirates and creditors, all while trying to catch the eye of a beautiful, vivacious bisexual clone named Treasure, who was recently rescued from a top-secret university lab run by academic squids.

She succeeds in seducing Treasure—or perhaps it’s the other way around—while they run scams to find earthling relics like the original formula for Coca-Cola, a 1968 Volkswagen Beatle, a mostly complete Monopoly board game and a largely accurate, if not small and green, clone of an elephant. All the while, Electra has to hide the fact that Treasure is actually the most valuable item on the Bi-MARP list—a fertile human female.

When the truth of humanity’s demise and the goals of Bi-MARP are uncovered, Electra, the galaxy’s foremost transgender hero, decides that the riches and fame aren’t worth the sacrifices, and she turns on her former employer to rescue Treasure a third time, completing her search for money, what it means to be human without the rest of humanity and, most of all, love.

Excerpt

“I am the last of my kind, and I suck,” Electra mumbled to herself, throwing back another drink. On the first night of a planetary holiday, Electra Rex was drunk, scorned and looking to buy a gun. She couldn’t recall exactly which holiday it was, though, since there were so many. The planet took time off constantly to celebrate a googolplex of different accomplishments, important figures and momentous occasions across hundreds of alien species. It was a wonder anyone did anything but observe holidays. She sat in a window booth, watching ships both large and small land at the valet pad while she waited.

Little of her Embarker pedigree remained after years away from the flotilla. Endless toil and nomadic life marked her people’s existence, even if it didn’t describe her life. She’d lived in an apartment in Authrillia’s largest northern city for more than a year, which should have made her itchy to get back to spacefaring, but she wasn’t. In fact, she wasn’t much of anything. Apathy had settled heavily over her and it had made her careless—at least, more careless than she’d already known herself to be. To pay the bills, she engaged in the least Embarker type of work she could find—being a professional party guest. ‘Come see the last known human woman, drink with her, maybe even…’ But that was over. She’d frittered away too much money on fleeting things, another Embarker no-no. A job meant to replenish her account at the last moment and save her apartment, her precious creature comforts and allow her reckless lifestyle to continue for another month hadn’t paid out. Now she had only the clothes on her back and the cash in her pocket. Enough to buy a gun, she hoped.

She’d given the DJ of the club a copy of Margaritaville, promising a transcendent experience. Jimmy Buffet sang while a dozen different species of aliens attempted to dance on the multi-tiered dance floor to the ancient Earthling music. Electra’s dad had loved Jimmy Buffet. ‘The finest music in the galaxy,’ he’d said. Even with great effort and a good deal of booze in her system, she couldn’t hear what he’d heard. She must not have inherited his ear for classical music. What the hell is a flip-flop anyway?

Normally leering over spacecraft cheered her up, which was why she’d selected a window booth near the landing pad. She wasn’t into the functional caravan freighters that comprised Embarker fleets. She liked the chic, silky, beautiful spaceships that focused on form over function. The bleak, unrepentantly crappy mood that had clung to her throughout the day lightened an iota at the arrival of her dream ship in the valet station directly below her window. An oval saucer body, three hundred feet long, sleek and stylish, with three classic fins off the back, it was—it had to be—a Cadillux 1959 Dorado edition. And it was pink, the brightest, most beautiful pearlescent pink trimmed in the shiniest of chrome. Electra stood on her knees on the booth’s bench and pressed her face drunkenly against the glass. She wanted to lick it. She didn’t care that the thought was absurd. That ship was so gorgeous that it deserved to be licked.

The transparent arrival tube extended to the ventral port while a valet-bot lowered onto the dorsal spine above the cockpit that sat directly in the middle of the oval. Electra wanted to see what wondrous creature possessed such a magnificent spaceship. After several agonizing moments, the owner of the ship passed from beneath the edge within the arrival tube and Electra’s elation turned to fury—Weisella. Fucking Weisella. Her need to buy a gun redoubled, not to begin a life of mercenary work—which was the Embarker way after going bust—but for murder, satisfying revenge on the woman who had thoroughly screwed her. The fact that such a heinous, underhanded creature could own such a glorious ship was a crime on par with regicide in Electra’s inebriated mind.

Weisella was a Panaeus, a vaguely humanoid alien species with advanced telekinetic and telepathic powers. She was only a little taller than Electra’s five-and-a-half feet. Her heart-shaped face had two enormous black, almond-shaped eyes, no nose or mouth. Frilled spines replaced what could be called hair. A cluster of five ephemeral tentacles stood in the place of an arm on each side, and instead of legs, she had what looked like a jumbo, curved shrimp tail. Indeed, the only attractive features Electra saw in Weisella were her money and her strangely perfect breasts—three of them across the center of her chest, prominently displayed since Panaeus didn’t wear clothes. Weisella liked jewelry, though, and she was sporting a shiny new metal ring on her tail that was probably just brimming with expensive tech.

Electra’s memory of the night before was fragmented at best. She’d been hired to attend Weisella’s gala for the Panaeus New Year, partially as the spectacle of having a human in attendance and partially as Weisella’s date. Electra didn’t mind the escort portion of the work. Weisella was rich, enchanting, well-traveled and she’d paid extra for the pleasure. Except she hadn’t actually paid. The transfer had bounced back in the morning when Electra had tried to use the money to get the foreclosure lock off her apartment door. The timer on her lien had expired and everything in her apartment had gotten incinerated while she watched through the little glass window on the door. Everything her parents had ever given her, every keepsake from Transition Island, every souvenir she’d collected in her travels was gone in a flash of white fire and a quickly ventilated puff of smoke, all because Weisella had ripped her off.

Electra had done her part. She’d danced, charmed and been better than presentable in her skin-tight Utopalex pants, knee-high go-go boots and a black corset that made the most of what she had. The Panaeus guests had loved her. Weisella had loved her. By every measurement, Electra had performed perfectly. They’d retired to Weisella’s bedroom at the end of the night to continue the festivities. Things hadn’t gone as smoothly behind closed doors. Electra had been intoxicated from drinks, a few drugs she wasn’t familiar with and the high oxygen environment created in the penthouse, plus she’d never slept with a Panaeus before. The swell of Weisella’s backside, what looked like a delightfully curvaceous butt? Nope, that was a nose and ‘Please stop fondling it.’ Okay, the breasts were breasts, right? Close enough. Fondle those, lick them and fall asleep face-first in them. Was that why Weisella had bounced back the payment? Failure to consummate? It was explicitly stated in Electra’s contract that sex was not a guaranteed part of any escort arrangement. It was her prerogative. Besides, she’d tried. There simply weren’t obvious sex organs on a Panaeus—at least none Electra could find in her sloppy groping.

The valet-bot guided the Cadillux away after Weisella entered the club a couple of floors beneath Electra’s booth. The little bot was flying the beautiful ship toward the stacks. Not the stacks! That was where someone parked a junker that nobody would want to steal. The stacks were for heaps with so many scratches and dents that a few more might go completely unnoticed. The Cadillux could be scraped, dinged, stolen or breathed on wrong in the stacks. Only the worst kind of philistine would park such a beautiful vessel in the holding pen for pig ships!

“That tight little butt could only belong to the Electra Rex,” a gravelly voice sounded behind her.

Electra sat back down and glared at Fizan. Her underworld contact was a Gromphra, essentially an eight-foot-tall cockroach in every despicable sense. Fizan was too large and inflexible to actually sit in the booth, so she stood at the end of the table, inspecting Electra with her dead bug eyes. It wasn’t that Fizan was a particularly vile example of the species—all Gromphra were lecherous and blunt. It was considered a badge of honor to gross out other species—at least, that was what Fizan claimed.

The seemingly transparent shell on the front of Fizan’s torso opened up like a flasher’s raincoat. It was clothing and body armor mixed and wasn’t actually transparent. Within the shell, guns, knives and a dozen other nefarious items were concealed behind the projected image of her chitinous trunk.

“See anything you like?” Fizan asked.

Electra had enough cash on hand to afford a decent gun. A carbine worked best for mercenary work, although a small pistol would be ideal to assassinate Weisella on a crowded dance floor. Shooting anyone or anything wasn’t really her style, and the reality of what she was doing rolled over her in an unpleasant manner, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Electra scrunched her nose while she considered the weapons until she spied something entirely different.

“How much for the ID-clone?”

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About the Author

April C. Griffith

April Griffith is a lesbian, a rogue academic, and a giant nerd. She’s from Oregon, but calls San Diego her home. Her passions include LGBTQ+ political activism, creating safe places for women in Dungeons & Dragons, and writing the books she wanted to read when she was a kid. April worked on the Amazon Gladiator series (Anaxilea: Amazon Princess and Anaxilea: Gladiatrix) under a pen name.

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One Motion More
L.A. Tavares

General Release Date: 9th March 2021

Word Count: 83,762
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 314

GENRES:

CELEBRITIES
CHICK LIT
ROMANCE
SWEET ROMANCE

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Book Description

Actions speak louder than words.

Long-haired bad-boy guitarist Xander has skeletons in his closest that refuse to stay dead. After a series of setbacks, Xander hits new lows, almost costing himself his reputation and career. While trying to take steps in the right direction toward better decisions and good choices, he meets Natalie, and for the first time—maybe ever—Xander sees past himself and past the music his rock band is famous for.

Their relationship is an unlikely one, with outside factors creating obstacles the two would have to tackle to make their love work.

He is reckless while she responsible.

He thrives in the spotlight while she will do anything to avoid it.

He speaks fluent profanity while she doesn’t speak at all.

He works to win her heart, despite having to overcome the communication barrier, while she tries to look past the intensity of the spotlight they find themselves in.

Excerpt

The locked, guarded door and shiny new mark on my already scarred record are laughable penalties. The real punishment is the smell in these small quarters—body odors, stale alcohol. One thing is for sure… There are no VIP suites in New York police stations.

More like a bench than a bed, the slab of flat ceramic I lay on is uncomfortable and determined to punish me with back problems that will last longer than this overnight hold.

My eyes snap shut each time I try to open them—an involuntary response to block out the outdated fluorescent light overhead. I press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets and run my fingers through my overgrown hair. Sure, the lights don’t help my already throbbing head and the sleeping arrangement is a far cry from comfortable, but the atmosphere is ‘welcoming’. I purposely bent the rules just far enough to win myself a one-night, all-inclusive stay at the nearest precinct.

Quiet. No crowds. No screaming fans. Nowhere for me to be, no way for me to screw up. Most people would find the locked doors, silence and lack of company alarming. Not me. For me, it’s tranquil. A vacation. Maybe that’s why I frequent the sin-bin so often.

“Hey there, sunshine,” a plump guard says, opening the thick-paned glass door so it swings into the hallway. He leans into the metal door frame, holding a large stick of beef jerky in one hand, tearing off a chunk between his teeth and chewing so I can hear it.

“The doors are a nice upgrade,” I say through a yawn as I knock on the glass. “They were bars when I was here last.”

He gnaws on the dried meat, unamused. “There’s someone here to pick you up,” he says as he chews, spewing small chunks of meat and saliva as he speaks.

“Aw, so soon?” I bring myself to my feet and stretch—every muscle protests. “Guess I’m not twenty-one anymore, eh?” I ask.

“Maybe you should stop trying to be,” he says. His stone expression remains as such.

“Noted,” I add, and salute him as I step away from the cell, turn around and head toward the station’s lobby to retrieve my sunglasses and cell phone before heading out of the doors.

Blake—my bass guitarist and lifelong best friend—leans against a car I’ve never seen before, opens the back door and gets in without waiting for me to approach him. He slides to the opposite side of the hired car and I slide in next to him, closing the door as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“How bad this time?” I ask, one side of my mouth lifting at the corner.

“You really don’t remember?” he asks.

“No. That was the whole point.” I drop my phone into the breast pocket of my shirt and place my sunglasses over my eyes.

Blake tilts back the top of a box of Marlboro Reds, a flagrant disregard of the No Smoking sticker adhered to the car’s dash. The lingering tobacco smell of the car tells me he’s already broken that rule.

“Never fear,” I say, elbowing him in the arm. “Social media and the news will remind me, I’m sure.”

“If Cooper doesn’t kill you first,” Blake adds, cracking the window and fishing for a Bic in his breast pocket. His words come out draped in a mix of his slightly faded South African accent and the dialect he has picked up during his years in the States.

Blake moved into my house at a time when his mother couldn’t provide for him anymore—right as we started tenth grade and, truthfully, his appearance hasn’t changed much since I met him in junior high. He looks almost the same way now as he did then, down to his stupid blond-tipped faux hawk and slightly spaced teeth. Only now, the tall, slender physique he boasted back then has morphed into a ‘definitely enjoys beer’-type body. Though, the same could be said for me.

The car arrives back at the venue where we are set to have our second show in a back-to-back schedule.

We enter the building and Blake walks ahead of me by about five strides. I am in no condition to keep up. He turns a corner, disappearing from view. As I turn the same corner, Cooper, our band’s manager, is standing there waiting for me. Startled, I jump out of my boots and my stomach takes a drop it can barely handle. I swallow back whatever threatens to make a reappearance.

“Jeez—” I start, but he has no intention of letting me talk.

“Leave,” he says, his eyes an even deeper brown than they usually are, enhanced by the dark bags beneath them. “Go find food, water and a shower. Whatever it is you need to do to clean up and be ready for today.”

“I’ll be ready, Coop. I always am.”

“You should be grateful we have a show today because I can tell you—no, I can promise you—if I didn’t need you today, you would still be sitting in that cell.” Cooper paces the width of the hallway, pausing every few moments to make a hand gesture my direction, as if he can’t walk and shake his fist all at the same time. “You’re lucky the cops here are fans of yours, you know. There will come a day where just being Xander Varro doesn’t get you what you want. Your status won’t get you out of everything forever. The sooner you understand that the better.”

“I had a few drinks. I was having a good time—”

“Drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest.” Cooper starts listing off, using his fingers to keep track of all the misdemeanors. “This band can’t keep a publicist because they’re tired of covering for you. You can’t keep yourself out of the negativity and the spotlight. You’re dependent on drama. You’re going to be a father, for crying out loud. When do you plan to grow up, Xander? When is enough, enough?”

He’s right, but I’m too proud to admit it. Cooper’s growl shifts to a hushed pause, allowing me to say my piece or apologize, but I don’t do either, so he continues, filling the silent void.

“This isn’t just about you, you know. Your band counts on you. Your fans count on you. I count on you. Someday your kid will count on you, and you are becoming the kind of guy who can’t be counted on.” His pacing comes to a halt and his eyes soften. His voice quiets, falling so calm that I would almost prefer the yelling. “You have it all, Xander. Everything. Stop trying to throw it all away.”

I nod, a silent response, even though I know Cooper wants more from me. It’s all I have to offer.

“Just go, Xander,” he says. “Come back when you’re ready to be on that stage and not a second sooner.”

“Can you send a car to take me back to the hotel?”

“You can walk.”

I laugh at his joke, but the sound becomes a scoff when I realize he’s serious. I nod without enthusiasm and turn toward the door, slamming my bodyweight into the metal push bar though the signs clearly indicate Emergency Exit Only.

The hotel is only just over a mile away, but I’m still annoyed. These boots definitely were not made for walking. My feet are throbbing by the time I arrive at the lavish hotel doors. The lock clicks as I hold the key card to the door of the hotel room that I was supposed to be long-checked-out of. I lay on the bed longer than I should, ignoring the clothes and other items strewn across it. A red light blinks at the base of the landline phone the hotel provides, most likely a wakeup call ordered by Cooper or a message about the late fees incurred as a result of the ignored check-out. I almost delete it without listening, figuring whatever message it holds is either now irrelevant or I just don’t care what it has to say.

But I click it, and my girlfriend’s voice is on the other end. I smile at first, listening to her words.

“Hey, it’s Mariah.”

But the smile fades to a flatline. Why would she call the hotel and not my cell phone?

“I have something to tell you.”

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About the Author

L. A. Tavares

When it comes to romance, L A doesn’t have a type. Sometimes it’s dark and devastating, sometimes it’s soft and simple – truly, it just depends what her imaginary friends are doing at the time she starts writing about them.

L A has moved to various parts of the country over the last ten years but her heart has never left Boston.

And no, the “A” does not stand for Anne.

Follow LA on Facebook and Twitter.

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L.A. Tavares’ One Motion More Giveaway

L.A. TAVARES IS GIVING AWAY THIS FABULOUS PRIZE TO ONE LUCKY WINNER. ENTER HERE FOR YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A LOVELY GIFT PACKAGE AND GET A FIRST FOR ROMANCE GIFT CARD! Notice: This competition ends on 23rd March 2021 at 5pm GMT. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.