After everything blew up on Christmas, Liz walked
away from me, and I let her. She said she needed space and a chance to pursue
her dreams. But we both knew she was running from the mess she made. Now the
political campaign she used as an ex- cuse to leave is bringing us back
together and I’m proving to her what she really needs—not just the hot nights,
greedy hands, and undeniable physical chemistry. What she really needs is
something real. What she really needs…is me.
SOMETHING RECKLESS (#1) is on sale for .99 cents until March 14th!
Reckless and Real #1
Release: December 2014
He talks dirty to me, but I don’t know his
name. He wants to tie me up, but I don’t know his face. He turns me on, but I couldn’t point him out in a crowd. I’ve fallen for an anonymous stranger, and tonight the anonymity ends. Tonight
I want more than typed secrets and texted promises. I want something reckless.
Heat. Passion. The thrill of being entirely possessed. Because I suspect this anonymous stranger isn’t a stranger at all.
Lizzy Thompson met riverrat69 online through
Something Real, a service promising to deliver meaningful relationships by
forbidding its users to share names or photos until they’ve reached a certain
benchmark. She was looking for love. He was researching an investment. They hit
it off. Talked and flirted, hid behind screen names and cartoon avatars. Now they’re breaking the rules and meeting in person. But Liz is prepared.
She’s picked up hints and followed clues. She’s ninety-percent convinced she’s discovered the identity of her
dirty-talking online friend. She wonders if her ex-lover Sam Bradshaw knows her identity too. When she rolls the dice on one reckless night, her chance at something real
could crumble.
Once a college English professor, I now write full
time. I live in rural Indiana, where, when I’m not writing, I get to hang out
with my husband and two kids--a six-year-old boy and a two-year-old hellion, er, girl. Not surprisingly,
reading and writing remain my favorite activities, though both come in bits and
pieces these days, not the big hunks of time I en- joyed before I had children.
When I’m feeling virtuous, I like to go running (I use that word liberally. I’m
really, really slow) or do yoga. Don’t worry, I’m always careful to balance out
such activities with a hearty serving of ice cream or a chocolate martini.
I sent him off to be a star, to chase his dreams.
I placed mine on hold so he could have his.
He kissed me, made love to me, and promised he’d come back.
He lied…
The original plan was to show up and steal him back.
But in the process, I inadvertently fell hard for another rocker.
Now, I’m in deep with both of them.
I love one with my heart.
I love the other with my soul.
I’m selfish.
I’m greedy.
I want to keep them both.
They want me to choose.
How dare they. How dare they ask me to choose.
If I give my heart up, I’ll lose my soul.
If I give my soul up, I'll lose my heart.
Yet I’m terrified if I don’t make a decision, I’ll lose them both.
I’ll lose.
Ice
Steam is up for pre-order for 0.99 on Amazon, and will change to 2.99
when the book goes live next Tuesday.
UK US
ICE
STEAM
Excerpt.
Obsessive
Pimpettes Blog Tour
The
door was matte-black. A gold embossed 409 situated at eye-level. A “Do Not
Disturb” door-hanger swayed ever so slightly from the handle.
I
could hear a familiar rhythm, stifled by carpets, curtains, bed sheets, wood
and concrete, coming from the other side of the door. Massive Attack’s Angel.
The
same base, drumbeat, guitar strum, and soft voice I lost my virginity to.
I
pressed my forehead below the 409, pressed my palms flat against the
matte-black wood, letting the muffled music seep through the wood and into my
pores as the memories of that night floated around my head in lazy swirls, like
spice-scented smoke from an illegal Cuban cigar.
My
heart ached. Then it smiled. Then it ached some more.
The
song ended then started all over again like it was set on repeat. I
straightened up, curled my fingers into a hook, and made two gentle taps on the
door. Possibly too gentle to be heard over the magical creation of Angel.
The
music volume dimmed, and a few seconds later the door soundlessly opened.
Eyes
of blue skies and cirrus clouds stared at me with evident conflict, as though
he wasn’t quite sure whether he was glad I came, or wish I’d obeyed the capitalized
‘DON’T’ in his message.
With
a five o’ clock shadow on chiseled jaw, his sturdy physique was clad in a
dark-gray sweater and denims, white socks, no shoes.
Releasing
the door handle, he took small steps backward into the room.
I
walked in, closed the door and leaned back against it.
Black
Doc Martens were kicked off haphazardly by the bedside, a chocolate-brown
duffel bag vomiting clothes out onto the bed.
Instead
he was here, in a hotel room, staring at me, keeping his distance like I was an
apparition, fists clenched tight.
I let
my handbag fall to the floor, my hands left dangling at my sides like a puppet,
letting the blood flow freely so I could think clearly.
“I
begged you not to come,” were his first words.
“I’m
not Jesus,” I replied, voice quiet, “I don’t answer prayers.”
Pushing
away from the door, I took a step towards him, but he stepped back. “What are
we doing, Ally?”
“Picking
up where we left off.”
Review
“Love is wild and
frenzied.It sees with blind eyes.Flies with broken wings.It is out and about.Around us.Inside of us.Fitting in and out.
Who knew love was this
much? This wide? This galactic?
Why must I believe I
can only love once?
Why then must I accept
I can only love ONE?”
That above it just a taste of the prologue and OH MY, it
instantly gave me chills and I was glued to my kindle from start to finish of
Ice Stream.Heed the warning the author
puts at the beginning of the book.Do I think
this book is for everyone…No, but if you’re like me and like your books with
tons of feels and angst to the max and you can handle love triangles then yes,
you will LOVE this one! I will also mention that Ice Stream can be read as a
standalone, but there are interconnecting characters from the Loving All Wrong
series, and I think you really should read all the books simply because they
are amazing plus you’ll have a better understanding of all the characters.I
LOVED Ice Stream! 4.5 stars.
S. Ann Cole is one of those authors that I feel few know
about, but everyone who likes drama and angst should read, I just can’t gush
enough about her writing abilities and her abilities to make you “feel”.Ice
Stream has it all….hurt, hope, love, and laughs…it’s just one of those books
that is an emotional rollercoaster ride and is meant to entertain, and that it
most certainly does. I can’t wait for the next book!
*Reviewed by Brandi
S. Ann
Cole is a passionate writer and reader, and a lover of anything that distracts
her from the real world. Reader first and second a writer, S. Ann
Cole is an exaggerator, a laugher, sometimes overly chatty, sometimes
overly shy. She’s afraid of cats, dogs, snakes—heck, she’s only tolerable to
gold fishes in a tank. Because if they do jump out and try to attack her, the
suckers will surely die…
She hates
chocolate, schmaltz and arrogance.
She
loves carbs, Chris Brown and humility.
She
lives nowhere and everywhere.
Jokey
people are her favorite people, as laughter is the way to her heart.
Never
mind her foul-mouth (she’s working hard on changing that!), she loves GOD.
Fiercely. And believes prayer is the essence of all good, great, wonderful and
miraculous things, and the most powerful privilege given unto man.
Ann
hopes that one day, the right day, when it’s her time (because nothing happens
before its time), her hard work will be noticed and appreciated, and she’ll
become a “NYT Bestselling Author”…
Uh-uh.
Yeah. That’s what she said.
When
Ann’s not abusing her computer keyboard, you can find her nosing a novel,
watching anything on television that makes her laugh until she breaks into
hiccups (loves Disney & TBS!) studying the Bible, or guzzling booze.
Author: New York Times best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills
Introductory price of $2.99 on release day for 24 hours only!
A beautiful violinist who lives next door…The obsessed rock star who watches her... And the one night she bares it all.
Description:
Vital Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his YouTube music video would go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did. After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a matter of time before his stars aligned.
But life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.
After being cheated on, Sebastian’s only rule to falling in love is simple: Keep Calm and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new neighbor with binoculars seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an erotic game between two very unlikely people.
Twenty-year-old Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist who's lost her mojo on stage. She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to find her way through her twisted past in order to make her future.
He’s the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his autograph. She’s the introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who he is.
When they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off. Yet, giving his heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who craves attention isn’t Violet’s.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes the best things in life are VERY TWISTED THINGS.
Prologue
Violet
“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
Boom!
I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the NewYork Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone off.
Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left.
Would the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.
Chapter 1
Sebastian
Two years later
“She was music with skin.” —Sebastian Tate
I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved around. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was she doing?
Could she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.
Her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me.
The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.
Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
And then …
Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
Author Bio
New York Times and USA Today best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
She’s addicted to dystopian and all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroines. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she’s a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master’s in Education.
When she’s not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
