Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Claimed by the Bad Boy

Claimed by the Bad Boy
Series: Bad Boy Fever (Book 2)
Author: London Saint James

Publisher: Decadent Publishing
Release Date: August 11, 2015
Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance, BDSM, Multiple Partners, Suspense
Heat level: 5
Word count – 53k
Cover art by Mina Carter

Something always brings him back to her....
Ryker Cage is a rough guy, with very particular tastes when it comes to sex. Rough, hard, and dirty is the extent of his repertoire. Never soft. He doesn’t have a clue about connecting with his sensitive side in the bedroom, or that find-your-inner-femininity bullshit. He fears nothing, except—his feelings for the sweet and innocent Molly Monroe.
The bad boy who lived next door claimed Molly’s heart long ago. Crazy, or not, she loves him. Always has. No matter what he does to push her away, nor how far he runs, Ryker is the one man she’ll never stop loving.
When Ryker finally finds his way back home, will he find the courage to claim what's always been his? Or, will he be destined for heartache when someone threatens to take everything away?

Ryker had lost his ever-loving mind. Why couldn’t he let Molly Monroe go? Why the hell did she have to be the one woman who made him consider wanting something he couldn’t ever give her?
Ticked, he drove around Denver for hours. Aimless. Stopped to get gas and a coffee, trying to talk himself out of going back by her place, but caved, and drove by Molly’s hoping to see when she came home. He was insane. No doubt.
“Shit,” he grumbled.
The girl she had been and the woman she’d become always unraveled him and tested his control. Molly was his kryptonite, turning him into one huge, heaping pile of crazed mess. A tsunami of possessiveness had pulled him under when he saw that douche-nozzle who dared touch her, help her into his car and pull away earlier. Now, here he was, doing another drive-by at three thirty-eight in the morning, instead of being sane and home tucked away in his bed, sleeping soundly and dreaming of…well, anything but her.
When the headlights coming up behind him shifted into Molly’s drive, he went around the block. By the time he came around again and parked his Viper across the street, the BMW was leaving. And there she was, waving at the black-as-night car, while standing in her open door, backlit from the light in her foyer, looking sweet and angelic.
His driver’s side door was open and his Reef flip-flops hit the pavement, right about the moment she shut her front door. Ryker wanted to slam his fists into something, yet held back the urge. He turned and walked with determination across the street, up the sidewalk, jogging the five steps up to her porch, and knocked. No. He pounded.
When the door swung open, she uttered, “Ryke—”
That’s all he allowed her to get out, because he grabbed Molly up. Her intake of surprised breath happened when he kicked the front door shut behind them and slammed his mouth down over hers.
Their tongues tangled in fiery heat—his cock, hard and throbbing for her. His need to claim and possess riding him as he backed her up until her shoulders hit the wall. In one move, he had her arms above her head, both of her delicate wrists manacled by one of his large hands, body pressed tight against her, his knee between her legs—devouring her moans. God damn it. He owned those moans. They were his, and he wanted to swallow down every last one of them.
“Wait,” she said in a mutter into his mouth, tugging her arms, meeting the resistance of his hold.
He bit at the side of her neck, reveling in her corresponding shudder.
“Ryker. Hang on.” She tried to wiggle—the action futile. “Wait.”
Some semblance of rational thought bounced around in his mind, and he loosened his grip.
“Let my wrists go.”
“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled.
He let her go. Had he scared her?
She lowered her arms and pressed her palms on his collarbone. He put some space between them, hands going to either side of her head, knuckles on the wall, caging her in.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Molls. I think we both know what I’m doing.”
Her long lashes fluttered, before she met his gaze. “But why? You’ve been gone without a word until last night. And the last time we were—”
“I came by earlier and saw you leaving with that walking corn nut,” he said in a harsh manner.
Her brows knitted together, gray-green eyes crackling feminine pique. “What?”
He met her gaze, stare-for-stare, giving her his own scowl. When it came to the staring contest, she wasn’t, nor had ever been, a match for him. “I. Saw. You,” he said, enunciating each word. “With the guy in the BMW.”
“And your point is?”
“I didn’t like it,” he snapped.
“That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes,” he said, voice filling with venom.
“Let me get this straight,” said Molly. “This caveman routine is because you saw me with Jack and you decided you ‘didn’t like it’?”
He snarled, “Jack is his name?”

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London Saint James has lived in many places, but never felt “at home” until she met the real-life man of her dreams and settled down in the beautiful Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. London lives with her husband and their fat cat who thinks he owns them.
As an award-winning, bestselling, multi-published author, London is living her childhood dream. She knew all the scribbling she did, that big imagination of hers, and all those clamoring characters running around in her head would pay off someday.

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(From Aug 11th  to Aug 31st )
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