Blog Tour – Loving Amber by Roya Carmen

New Second Chance standalone from Roya Carmen.

Torn by tragedy. Reunited by love.



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beautiful fantasy woman with long fluttering hair


Torn by tragedy. Reunited by love.

Two years ago, I lost my husband and my brother to the same tragedy. To this day, I hold only one person responsible—Aiden Rogers, the beautiful boy I’ve known forever, the misfit I’ve both loved and hated, the one who always got to me. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the only one to blame.

Now he wants to be part of my life again—when I can finally see a future for my son and myself. I’ve found the perfect man in David, someone I can start over with, a man who will be the perfect father figure for Trevor. I have a plan. At last, I see the light, and I know I can make this work.

I will not let Aiden Rogers drag me back into the darkness.

Author’s note: contains sexual scenes and some coarse language.

This is the first book of the Riverstone Estate Series and can be enjoyed as a standalone read.

The Riverstone Series: A beautiful estate. Three unforgettable love stories.

Following the sudden passing of their father, Amber, Ruby, and Flynn Riverstone inherit the family estate and find themselves facing new challenges, growing closer, and discovering love along the way.



“The dress will need to come off,” I tell her with a playful smile—I want her to feel at ease.

She turns to the side and unzips herself, reaches for the skirt of her dress, and pulls it over her head. She’s wearing a sexy pink lace bra and matching thong. I wonder if she slipped those on thinking of me. Or David? I wonder how long it would take me to rip it all off. She peeks at me through her lashes, still shy but aroused. Her gaze finally reaches mine, and it’s pleading, begging me to come to her.

I kneel in front of her. I desperately want to kiss her—she’s just so beautiful. But I know that if I kiss her, I’ll get lost in her and I’ll want to make love to her. She and I together is a very bad plan. Too much history there, and even after all we’ve been through, I can only see her as Paul’s girl. But right now, she’s just a woman who desperately needs to touched, and I’m the man who desperately wants to touch her. I trace the lacy edges of her bra with my finger. She’s breathing so hard her chest is heaving. I pull the fabric with a finger and tuck it under, revealing her breast. Wow. Her nipple is pink, hard, and begging to be licked, but if I go there, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know myself too well.

She closes her eyes again, and I take her in—her soft stomach, her sexy legs. I eagerly make my way down. I stroke her thighs gently again, and she opens her legs for me. She’s arousing me so much it’s painful. I trail my hand between her thighs where she’s wet—the soft fabric, what little there is of it, is soaked.

She throws her head back, her mouth open—she’s gasping for air. Finding her wet like this and wanting to be inside her so badly, is so fucking hard on me. I try to remind myself that this isn’t about me; it’s about her. As bad as I want to do all the things to her I shouldn’t be doing, I know I can’t. I’m on a mission.

I reach for the string of her thong and tug down. I’d planned to be soft with her, but I find myself being hard. She props her rear up and her hands press against the mattress, tangled in the sheets. As I struggle with the fabric, she reaches for it and pulls the thong down with me. It’s clear that she wants it off. In that moment, I forget all about myself. All I want to do is please her and make her come.

I’ve never seen her like this. I steal a moment to savour the sight of her small patch of neatly trimmed hair and tempting pink lips. I’m so hard as I slip my finger along her wetness, slowly teasing her. I explore further, up along her sex to her sweet spot.

“Your body is yours, Amber.” I know her. I know a big chunk of guilt is probably lingering at the back of her mind, and I just want her to let go of that and enjoy the moment. “No one has a hold on it but you. It’s yours. All I want to do is to make you feel good like this. It doesn’t have to be anything more. Do you want this? If you don’t, tell me to stop, and I will.”

She lets out a cry and squirms as I pull my hand away for a second. She doesn’t need to say a single word. It’s crystal clear—she desperately wants me to make her come.

Filthy images play in my mind as I imagine all the things I would love to do to her. I’d love her legs wrapped around my head. I’d drive her wild, taking her to the edge and swiftly pulling back only to wrench her hard against me again. I’d sink into her and get completely lost in her. But I can’t do all those things, as much as I would love to. I can’t take this too far.

I’ve been cruel long enough. I’ve teased her plenty. It’s just so amazing to finally touch her. I reach for her sweet spot and feel her hard clit on the tips of my fingers. She wails and spreads her legs wider. I’ll take her over the edge in a few seconds, but I selfishly want this moment to last forever. Watching her like this—panting, a perfect breast hanging out of her delicate bra, legs spread wide for me—it’s the most gorgeous sight. I pull away from her, greedy as fuck. I want to hear her cry, to hear her beg. She winces as I pull my hand away. She opens her beautiful eyes, silently asking me why I’m being such a tease.

“Close your eyes,” I order, and she does. I don’t want her to see what I’m about to do. I close my eyes as I bring my finger to my nose and inhale her scent. It’s just as I always imagined. Then I draw my wet fingers to my mouth and taste her—so, so sweet.

“Please,” she begs. “Don’t stop.”

It’s just what I need to hear. With just another sweep or two of my fingers along her slick sex, she arches her back off the bed, opens her beautiful eyes to look at me again, and I finally make her come.

Seeing Amber, who is always so contained, so put-together, so perfect, get lost under my touch is unbelievable. The sight of her tiny hands grasping my mattress, her beautiful mouth wide open, the sweet sound of her cries bouncing off my walls—it’s almost too much. I’ve dreamed about this scenario dozens of times, and the real thing is even better than it ever was in my imagination.


About the Author:


Busy mom, naughty writer, comic-addict, artist & designer, book-aholic, nature lover, and hopeless romantic.

When I’m not writing, I can usually be found hanging with my family, reading, camping and travelling, painting, yoga-ing (very ungracefully), shooting pool, or at my favourite bookstore café with my book friends.

A Northern French-Canadian gal, I now live just near Toronto where it’s much, much warmer!

For all the latest updates, sign-up for my newsletter at or friend me on Facebook or Twitter!

Facebook Author Page:…

Twitter: @royacarmen

Wattpad: @royastories



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Blog Tour – Jackson Stiles: Road to Redemption by Jo Richardson

A lost soul and a seeker of truth
travel down the road to redemption 
and discover more than they bargained for.


Road to Redemption #1
Jo Richardson
Released Sept 21st, 2016
Jackson Stiles is used to having bad days, but they’ve been especially bad since a certain tabloid reporter seems to have it out for him.
Emma Green doesn’t mean any harm. She simply sees it as her duty to report the misdeeds of certain Private Detectives who charge too much in a society where people need more superheroes and less villains; something even Jackson has convinced himself he deserves to be called, deep in his gut.
When the two of them realize they’re investigating the same suspicious circumstances, Emma makes Jackson an offer he only wishes he could refuse. But can the man who trusts no one allow the one woman he can’t stand help him get to the bottom of a murder he feels responsible for?
Exposed and unsure, these two unexpected allies come together to unmask the mysteries cloaked in plain sight while uncovering secrets within each other. A lost soul and a seeker of truth travel down the road to redemption and discover more than they bargained for.




“Morning, Stiles.” The five-and-a-half-foot brunette that likes to make my life miserable is easily five-eight, maybe even five-nine, in the heels she’s got on today. Combined with the dark blue power suit she’s wearing, she comes off as all business despite the fact that she doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s too busy scrolling through a bunch of bullshit on her smartphone.

I growl a response so it comes out as more of a warning than a greeting. Is it a bit much for this time of day? Maybe. Considering our history, I’m not exactly worried about her impression of me, though.

Emma Green is the latest and greatest “crime” reporter for our friendly neighborhood tabloid. And I use the term “reporter” loosely, by the way. Very loosely.

Doesn’t care about getting the story right in certain cases, if ya know what I mean, loosely.

Her name’s been on nearly every article the Redemption Chronicle has put out since she arrived from somewhere down in Florida. She shows up at most crime scenes, from burglaries to homicides, and has very much become a royal pain in my…

“You’re late, by the way. They were just talking about you.” She mutters and points, blindly, down the hall as she steps into the elevator. Which is my cue to get the fuck out.

My one and only cigarette calls to me from the front pocket of my button down. Thank God I remembered it. But quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to pull it out. Not that I wouldn’t get arrested if I did, but . . .

“And you look like hell.” She’s full of compliments today, I see.

“Fuck you very much, Green.” Not that I’m complaining. It makes it easy to respond to her in like fashion. And bonus: I’m feeling pretty good about getting the last word in on this battle of the banter, as the doors close but then they open again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay up so late playing around with your buddies over at the police department.” I look back to see her foot blocking the sensors that would normally allow the doors to close. She still can’t be bothered to look up. She’s too busy burying her nose into the iPhone.

Let’s be real here. Flirting is not her forte.

“I appreciate that enlightening bit of useless advice, Green.” Despite my attempt to be nice sarcasm spills out of every word. It’s only when she pulls her foot all the way in and the doors are halfway shut that I ask myself─ how did she know I was downtown last night?

Emerald eyes peer up at me as the question enters my mind. And I swear, she’s fucking smirking.

Between the pleasant smile and the way her expression lights up like she’s about to pounce, I’m not sure what the hell to think. I haven’t seen her smile like that since the day I briefly met her on the scene of a break-in I was hired to investigate. First thing I noticed was her smile. She seemed…new.

The next thing I noticed was her eyes.

Deep green. The grab-a-hold-of-you-and-don’t-let-go kind that make you wanna know everything that’s going on behind them.

And don’t even get me started on her ass. It begs for mercy because she, no doubt, runs it every day, then follows up with a pint of fat free yogurt and a jug of water.

Not that I’ve thought about it.

But I digress.

She was polite enough. Or so I thought. Asked me if I had any insider’s information on what had gone down that day. It’s not like I was rude or anything. All I did was tell her I wasn’t doing her fucking job for her.

I paid the price for that comment in the article she ran the next day. The headline read, “Local P.I. steals more from family than burglar.” I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say, the article was less about the break-in and more about what an asshole I am.

I mean, what the fuck?

I can assure anyone who has the balls to ask, I charge less than ninety percent of the dicks working the tri-state area. Just ask the bill collectors.

The asshole thing is still up for debate…in most circles.

Lesson learned here? Never trust a woman with eyes that stunning or an ass that tight.

Basically, I fucking hate her.


A movie fanatic, a writer of stories, a lover of life.
I grew up in Maryland with four siblings, three parents and an endless number of cousins
within the vicinity – but it was too cold up North for this thin blooded girl. So today, I live in Florida with my two girls and a husband that shares my same sense of humor and basic take on life as we know it. 
Life is too short to put dreams on the back burner.
I write both contemporary and paranormal stories that include mystery, suspense, humor,
action, romance, and anything else I can think up.


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Blog Blitz – Lyric & Lingerie by Tracy Wolff & Katie Graykowski



Release Date: September 27, 2016


From New York Times Bestselling author Tracy Wolff and International Bestselling author Katie Graykowski comes a sexy tale of love, laughter and lingerie …

Lyric Wright is an off-beat astrophysicist whose life is falling apart around her. After losing her fiancé to a hula dancing astrologer and losing her dress to an ill-fated leap of faith, she’s sure there’s nowhere for her life to go but up. At least until she sits down on a trans-Pacific flight next to the one man she never wanted to see again—the boy she’d lost her heart and her virginity too back before she’d learned that friendship and football don’t equal true love.

Broken down quarterback Heath Montgomery is on a plane ride to nowhere. Dodging the phone call he’s certain will end his professional football career for good, he might be Texas bound, but he knows there’s nowhere for him to go but down. But that’s before his childhood best friend and confidante plops back into his life wearing nothing but duct tape and a bad attitude. Determined not to lose her again (especially since he isn’t sure why he lost her the first time) and desperate to outrun his own shadowy future, Heath sets out to take Lyric on the ride of her life. Too bad she only dates men who actually know what her butterfly nebula is … and can find it without the help of a star chart.

Add in one passive-aggressive flight attendant with delusions of couture, a cherry red car with a crush on Neil Diamond, an over-protective sister with a black belt in Krav Maga, two parents determined to marry their spinster daughter off to the hometown hero no matter the cost, and a whole lot of lingerie popping up in all the right places at all the wrong times and you’ve got an unforgettable love story that fans of Susan Elizabeth Phillips and Rachel Gibson won’t want to miss!




“But how are you going to—” He watched her disappear into the women’s bathroom. “—get out of that dress?”

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that she was going to be right back out. She might not have been thinking about the mechanics of stripping off that damn dress, but he’d spent entirely too much of his adult life getting women out of their clothes to know that it was going to be a problem. A serious problem.

He glanced around, saw a small station of plastic flatware a few feet away near the restaurants. He wasn’t sure what good a plastic knife was going to do against tightly wrapped duct tape, but he was willing to give it the old Wrangler try. But when he got up to the institutional silverware holder, the only things left were a bunch of sporks and one sorry looking plastic knife. He grabbed them all, along with a couple of straws and a handful of mayonnaise packets for lubrication. He decided to leave the mustard where it was.

He made it back to the bathroom just as Lyric limped out, a look of crestfallen agony on her beautiful face. With a smile, he held up his plundered booty. “I’ve got you covered.”

She stared at the mismatched selection he’d picked up, then rolled her eyes. “I’m not a cheeseburger, Heath.”

“Yeah, well, the selection was limited. I did the best I could.” He crouched down next her. “Let’s get you out of this dress.”

She glanced around wildly. “Not here.”

“Why not here? I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”

“I’m not wearing anything under this duct tape.”

He froze, even as his heartbeat went wild. “Nothing?” She’d said so earlier, but he’d thought she was kidding. He swallowed. All that lovely white skin, and the only thing between it and him was a thin veneer of tape. There wasn’t a man alive who hadn’t had that dream a time or two.

“My dress ripped, remember?” She shuffled from foot to foot.

Lyric hummed the chorus of Beyonce’s “Put a Ring on It.” Huh? “Yeah, but what about your underwear?”

“The dress was too tight. I didn’t want a panty line.” She sucked in air like it was going out of style.

“Lyric Wright, are you telling me you weren’t lying when you told me you were traveling halfway across the Pacific in nothing but duct tape?” He might have a heart attack himself, especially now that he was picturing all the bare skin just beneath his hands.

“Well, it wasn’t by choice. Believe me.”

Standing up, he propelled her back through the bathroom entrance. They were already attracting a fair amount of attention, and there was no way in hell he was stripping Lyric down in front of half the men in the Austin airport.

“Heath. This is the ladies’ room.” She sounded scandalized.

“Would you rather go into the men’s room and do this?” Over his dead body, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Well, no. But you’ll get in trouble.” She looked around like she was waiting for some sort of bathroom bouncer to appear and toss him out.

“By who? The bathroom police?” He laughed. “Sweetheart, we’re in the Lone Star State now. Short of losing the Super Bowl or wearing 49ers colors, there’s not much I can do in this state that will get me into trouble.”

“Seriously?” She eyed him with disgust.

“This is the great state of Texas. When people talk about the Holy Trinity, they’re talking about Jesus, the NRA, and the Fort Worth Wranglers. So yeah, you and I could drop down right here on this surprisingly clean tile and go for it, and the only comments people would make would be to offer suggestions … to you. And they’d still want me to sign their tits.”

“You know this from experience?” She glanced at the floor, and he could just see that huge brain of hers filing away the facts. Despite the potty dance she was doing, it was really an example of Lyric at her finest. Never judgmental, simply interested in gathering information.

At least, until she said, “Well, just so you know. If it gets to that, I’m taking the top. And if you hurry and get this dress off, I just might be willing to give it a shot.”

It was the wrong thing for her to say. Now his mind was filled with all kinds of inappropriate images, namely of Lyric and her double Ds above him as she followed the advice of T-shirts everywhere: Save a horse. Ride a Cowboy.

But he could tell things were getting critical, and he really didn’t want her to have an accident, so he ushered her to the large handicap stall at the back of the restroom. As he locked the door behind them, one of the women who’d  been primping at the mirror called, “When’s my turn, Deuce?”

“One at a time, ma’am. The line forms to the right,” he called over the stall door.

He turned to Lyric. “All right,” he said, laying out his improvised tools on the ledge created by the toilet paper holder like a nurse preparing a tray of sterile implements. “Let’s get to work.”

Examining the duct tape like it was a medium-rare New York strip, Heath grabbed the spork in his left hand and took the knife in his right. Then he stepped back and spent a moment taking stock. Did he start at the top and work down or at the bottom and work up? Both had appeal.

Lyric danced from side to side, humming Beyoncé louder. “Do. Something.”

He hadn’t remembered her ever humming before. He knelt in front of her—genuflecting to Mistress Duct Tape—and pain shot through his bad knee at the awkward position. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it and sawed lightly at the dress’s hem. The pathetic plastic knife bent and twisted under his hand with each slice, but he didn’t want to hurt her so he kept the pressure light.

“Hurry.” She clamped her thighs together.

Christ, the way she said that word—like he was inside her and she couldn’t come fast enough—turned him on. Great, now he had a bum knee and a hard-on from hell to deal with. Instead of focusing on the pain, he concentrated on freeing her bare bottom. Her round, lush, sexy-as-hell bare bottom. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he shifted, determined to concentrate on the problem at hand.

“Open your legs.” It came out a little short, but seriously, if he had a nickel for every time he’d said that, he’d have a shitload of nickels. “Sit on the toilet.” Now that was a new one.

Lyric looked at him in horror, then leaned over and pulled several handfuls of toilet paper from the holder before she began arranging them as a seat cushion.

Heath scooted closer to her. “Jesus, I thought you were in a hurry.” “I am, but there are rules. A lady squats but never sits on a public toilet. Did you know the average public toilet has two million bacteria per square inch?” She piled more toilet paper into what could only be called a wreath arrangement on the seat.

Was it a centerpiece or a toilet? He was getting confused. Especially when his old pal Lyric referred to herself as a lady. He’d never thought of her like that before. Then again, now that he’d been this close to her luscious thighs, he’d probably never be able to think of her as anything but. He rubbed his knee. “I’ll file that little tidbit under Lyric’s Fun Facts. Right up there with the one in twenty shot of a meteorite striking a plane.”

“Okay.” She half sat, half dropped onto the seat. “I’m ready.”

Heath didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of her fluffy seat cushion had landed on the floor.

“Here,” she inched her legs apart, “whatever you’ve got planned—GO FASTER.”

“Usually when I’m going at a woman from this angle I like to take my time. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.” With all the force he could allow, he stabbed at the tape. The knife broke in half. “Damn.”

Lyric’s legs started to vibrate. “What’s taking so long? Prisoners with the intelligence of spider monkeys are able to dig out of Alcatraz with nothing but a spoon, but you can’t break me out of this dress?”

He shook his head. “There’s never a convict with a shiv around when you need one.”

He had two Super Bowl rings, a Heisman Trophy, and more wins than he could count. There was no way in hell a few strips of duct tape were going to break his winning streak. With all the murderous intent of Norman Bates’s mother with a butcher knife, Heath rammed the spork at the tape. The spork cracked down the middle and bit into his palm.

He stared at it for a second, then decided fuck it. It was past time to go old school. “Hold on honey, I’m going in.”

Licking his lips, he stuck his head between her thighs and clamped his teeth down on the tape. But the second his jaw scraped against her inner thighs, Lyric shrieked.

Her surprisingly strong thighs—who knew an astrophysicist could be so toned—clamped down on his ears and she giggled. “What are you doing? That tickles.” Lyric wiggled against him.

“My dad always taught me to use the tools at hand, and right now these are all I’ve got left.” Heath bit through the bottom edge of the dress, then spit out a chunk of tape and went for the next layer. It wasn’t the first dress he’d chewed through, but it was the first one that had stuck to his teeth.




About the Authors

Tracy Wolff


Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense.

And for all of those who want the unedited version:

Tracy Wolff lives with four men, teaches writing to local college students and spends as much time as she can manage immersed in worlds of her own creation. Married to the alpha hero of her dreams for twelve years, she is the mother of three young sons who spend most of their time trying to make her as crazy as possible.

You can find Tracy also on Twitter, and

Tracy Wolff also writes as Tessa Adams

Katie Graykowski


I write romantic comedy with lots of heart. I like scuba diving, Mexican food, chocolate cream cheese frosting, movies where lots of stuff gets blown up, and sparkly things. I have a husband, a daughter, and three K-9 kids. I’d love to hear from you. Shoot me an email at