Showing posts with label Excerpt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Excerpt. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 9, 2025

Teaser: Consortium of Dragons by Emily Carrington #excerpt #comingsoon #preorder #lgbtq #shapeshifters #rabtbooktours @changelingpress @CarringtonEmily




LGBTQ, Shapeshifters, Polyamorous

Date Published: September 12, 2025



Two dragons are pulled into a murder mystery when their lover is targeted.

 

The blind grandson of the world’s most powerful dragon matriarch wants a male and female dragon in his bed. He’s bold enough to get what he wants. Unfortunately, so is the serial killer hunting his family.

A male-female land dragon couple long for their matriarchal society to be equal across the board. As they fight for their needs, they meet the water dragon who will change their lives.

Now a serial killer has these three in his sights.



EXCERPT

There had been another death, this one of a female dragon Joel had never heard of. She was a distant relative, though, a water dragon who lived in Central America, trying to stay under the radar, as it were, by thriving in the coastal waters of Costa Rica. Or at least she had been thriving. Lady Claudette had called to warn their mother to keep Joel and Jules close. “Rumor has it this monster is on the move north again.”

Joel Junior, whose name was pronounced in the Spanish style, Ho-el, hadn’t actually meant to disregard his grandmother’s orders, but his twin, Jules, was out swimming and Joel didn’t want anything to happen to him. Jules was an impulsive dragon, and he would have probably gone swimming even if he’d been there to hear the phone call.

With Jules most likely already in the water, Joel couldn’t use his sense of smell to find his twin. Instead, because Jules wouldn’t give a crap about a telepathic sending -- wouldn’t bother to reply, in other words -- Joel stripped on the Alaskan shore, shivering slightly even though it was May and the ice here had largely melted. He assumed his scaly form, all eight feet of sapphire-blue scales, and walked into the water. For humans, he understood, this would have been a Polar Swim despite the fifty-degree weather, but for him, it felt like coming home. Eyes open but blind, he submerged completely and used his other sense, the one honed by years of blindness and necessity, and sought his brother’s large presence in the water. It was almost like sonar, but not quite, being a combination of sound and psychic sense.

He encountered a pod of orcas closer in to shore than usual. He knew them to be members of the dolphin family rather than narwhals because of the amount of water they displaced. Orcas were almost twice the typical narwhal’s length. Now using his telepathy because the sea mammals disrupted his ability to “listen” to the water beyond them, he reached beyond them to see what had driven them toward the land. Orcas weren’t afraid of much.

He found his brother and another dragon devouring a school of fish. He swam toward them, giving the pod a wide margin even though he wasn’t a threat to them. Either the orcas could sense the dragons’ magic or they knew something the dragons didn’t know about the deeper water. With the enigmatic and relatively new interlopers into the Alaskan waters, it was hard to tell. Unlike narwhals, which had shifters among their numbers, Joel didn’t know if that was true of any other sea-going mammal.

He approached and recognized the shape of his brother’s mind. He sent out a blast of sound, a snort through his nose, and realized the other dragon, whom he’d taken for their friend Jean Pierre, was a female dragon. His brother wasn’t hunting, then, or not just hunting. Like Joel himself, Jules was bisexual, although he mostly flirted only with female dragons.

Jules snorted back at him and flicked his tail, stunning several fish. These he gobbled up before heading farther out into the bay. The female dragon went with him.

Joel vaguely recognized her as a distant cousin and wondered at his initial assessment. Water dragons weren’t exactly inbred, but they were connected by strong ties that meant they couldn’t lightly date those who might even bear a strand of similar DNA.

Deciding his brother wouldn’t listen just now, and telling himself no dragon had yet been accosted while in the water, he used his sense of the current to lead him back toward land.

Surfacing, he shifted back to human and walked out of the Arctic Ocean. If any human had seen him, doubtless they would have screamed, or run to get him a blanket. But there were no humans here in this part of Alaska. Sparsely populated as the state was, this little cove and the land that touched it was private property, where no one except the sons of Lady Nicole and all the servants played. Joel’s and Jules’s grandmother hadn’t even been here, afraid as she was that whoever was killing members of her family would find their way here.

Joel used to wonder if she thought he and his twin, nearly seventy years old, couldn’t take care of themselves. Yes, they were blind, but, no, that didn’t make them helpless. The two of them hadn’t been permitted to leave the area around the palace for over a dozen years.

He made his way to the large rock where he’d left his white cane. But when he was a stone’s throw from the place he always used to hold his clothes and cane, he sensed someone there. He paused, listening. He heard nothing. He reached out telepathically and found a shielded mind that he didn’t recognize.

“You’re Joel,” the stranger with an American accent said, although he pronounced Joel’s name correctly.

Wary, Joel took a step back. Despite his bravado of a moment ago, he was anxious. This male dragon was a stranger to him.

Male dragon? He processed that knowledge, realizing he’d gained as much from scent as psychic feel. “Who are you?”

“I guess I’m your uncle.”

That didn’t comfort Joel, not in the slightest. “What are you doing here?” Was someone in their family killing other dragons? He’d heard stories of dragons who ate others of their kind.

He tried to calm himself. If this was indeed the one stalking his family, he sounded awfully casual. Not at all like a serial killer, in other words. Although, beyond reading braille books and listening to the television crime shows, how would Joel know what a mass murderer sounded like?

“I’m trying to decide if I’m really the best person to be guarding you and your brother.” He shifted on the rock, the sound of denim scraping against granite making Joel take a second step back.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking out my cell phone. It’s time I let your mother know her defenses were easier to breach than she thinks.”

Joel gained his eight feet of height, putting on his scales. If this was the one who’d been threatening his family, the last thing Joel wanted to do was present him with an easy target. He channeled all his telepathic ability into a single word and sent it to Jules. Danger. Then he settled himself for hand-to-hand fighting.

“Why are you…” The other male dragon sounded flummoxed. “I’m not a threat to you. I’m here to protect you.”

 

About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

 

Author Links

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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

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Tuesday, September 2, 2025

Teaser: Thor (Riptide MC, Book 4) by Anne Kane #motorcycleclubromance #mcromance #romanticsuspense #rabtbooktours @changelingpress @annekane



Riptide MC, Book 4


Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: September 5, 2025




Janet -- Thor is an addiction I can’t seem to overcome. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man, and everything I can never have. They call him Thor for a reason -- he looks like a modern-day Viking with that shaggy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and ropes of muscles covered in intricate tattoos. And in bed the man is definitely a god who grants my every secret desire. I walked away from the marriage my parents tried to force me into, but I’m not naive enough to think they’re going to let me go. They have money. Power. Influence. They know how to bend people to their will. They will make sure I marry someone they approve of, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out they will never approve of Thor.

Thor -- Janet is mine. I know she knows it, too. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, feel it every time we make love. But she refuses to wear my cut and freaks out if I mention anything permanent. I have no idea what the fuck her issue is, but it doesn’t matter. I want her, and I’m going to have her if it takes me the rest of my fucking life to convince her. I want her to come to me willingly. I love her enough not to force her.

Now I just have to stay alive long enough for that to happen, because someone wants me dead.




EXCERPT

 

Thor

Fuck, that woman frustrated the hell out of me! I knew there had to be a reason she balked at making our relationship public, but she just kept evading the issue. I was a hair’s breadth away from having Shadow snoop into her and see what was up. I knew that would cross a line, but I wasn’t sure it was one I cared about. Did she have an ex she didn’t want me to know about? Or one that still had a legal claim on her? Because I could fix that without breaking a sweat.

She didn’t act like someone running from an ex though. It had a different feel to it, and that’s what scared me. More like she didn’t want people to know about me because they thought she could do better. Admittedly, she probably could but that was just too bad. I had her now, and I had no intention of letting her go.

“Cassie, huh?” I looked at Joker.

He shrugged. “Like I said, we met at the tattoo parlor. She was getting a dragonfly on the back of her shoulder. Said it was in honor of her grandmother who’d had a thing for them.”

“And?”

“And we got to talking. You know. Families. Life. Shit like that. Ended up at the steakhouse for dinner, and I invited her to come watch the races with me today.”

I nodded. “So not a long-standing secret affair you’ve kept from the club all this time?”

He smirked. “You mean like you and Janet? Nah. At least not yet. I haven’t told her about Riptide.”

I sighed. Everyone except Janet seemed to be aware of our status.

A ruckus over at the far side of the room caught my attention. Two burly guys were half leading, half dragging a woman toward the back exit, and she was not going willingly. Squirming and letting out muffled screams through the hand one of them had over her mouth.

“Fuck. Looks like she needs a hand. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Need me for backup?”

The two were nearly at the door, one swearing loudly as the woman stomped on his foot. “Two against one? I think I can handle it. Keep Janet amused for me.”

Joker laughed. “No problem. I’ll tell her about the time you thought the monkey crying in the jungle was a kid and just about got yourself killed going to rescue it.”

“Asshole.” I stood and shouldered my way across the floor to the trio. By the time I reached them, they’d manhandled the girl outside and the door was closing behind them.

“Not so fast, guys.” I pushed the door open and stepped outside, ready for a little exercise. I hadn’t been in a decent fight in weeks.

As the door snapped shut behind me, I saw the girl standing alone on the far side of the alley. In the second that it took for my brain to register that, a fist slammed into the side of my head.

Ambush!

Fuck!

Not my first one though, and I ducked low, twisting to the left as a second blow glanced off my shoulder. I brought my fists up to protect my head, and aimed a roundhouse kick at my assailant, connecting with a satisfyingly meaty thud that drove him backward.

The second guy was quick, and he had a knife. Holding it low, he slashed upward.

I jumped back, and the blade traced a shallow path across my abs.

He bared his teeth and came at me again.

I kicked low, hitting his knee and causing him to stumble. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl turn and run, waving to my attackers as she headed out of the alley.

Fucking slut wasn’t waiting around to see the outcome.

The first guy came in from the side, pummeling me with his fists. I ducked to the side, getting my back against the wall so they couldn’t come at me from behind.

Still, two against one, with one of the two brandishing a knife.

Didn’t look good, but I wasn’t going out without a fight. Fuck that. Vikings had coined the term berserker, and they didn’t call me Thor for nothing.

Letting out a furious battle cry, I threw myself at the knife-wielding thug. I got in a few good shots with my fists before a searing pain lanced through me. A quick glance down showed a crimson gash open up on my side.

Ignoring the pain, I grasped his wrist, the one holding the deadly blade, and twisted. The knife arched back, and wussy let out a scream of agony as it bit into his flesh. He dropped to his knees, and I turned to protect myself from his buddy.

The next few minutes stretched out like a slow-motion movie. At this point in my life, hand to hand combat was second nature.

Attack.

Defend.

Kick.

Twist out of reach.

Punch.

Duck under the next blow.

I could do this on autopilot, like a choreographed dance. If not for the wound at my side, I would have made mincemeat out of this clown in minutes.

I was holding my own, but I could feel my strength waning as a crimson trail of blood dripped from the knife wound. Not as shallow as I’d first thought.

My breathing was labored. My hits had less strength behind them. The pain was getting harder to ignore. I wasn’t going to last much longer but damned if I wasn’t going to take this asshole down with me.

Just as the thug came at me yet again, baring his teeth behind a split and swollen lip, the door slammed open, and Joker entered the fray. He might be a medic, dedicated to healing but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fight. Faced with a fresh opponent, and his sidekick lying motionless on the concrete, the coward turned tail and ran.

“What the hell, man?” Joker took a few steps after the asshole to make sure he was gone, then turned back to me. He grabbed my arm, gently lowering me to the ground. “Where’s the girl?”

“Ambush.” I grasped my injured side, wincing. “She bailed somewhere between the first punch and the knife.”

Joker eyed up the assailant lying motionless on the ground. “You had a knife on you?”

I shook my head. “Nah. He brought it. I just turned it back on him.”

 

 

About the Author

Anne Kane lives in the beautiful Okanagan Valley with a bouncy little rescue dog whose breed defies description, a cantankerous Himalayan cat, and too many fish to count. She spent many years trying to fit in and act normal, but finally gave up the effort. She started writing romance in 2008, and her fate was sealed when she won a publishing contract with Red Sage Publishing and just a month later Changeling Press accepted her first submission. Since then she has published more than thirty stories in a variety of sub-genres, all with a happily ever after.

She has two handsome sons and six adorable grandchildren and enjoys spending time with them whenever she can. Her hobbies, when she’s not playing with the characters in her head, include kayaking, hiking, swimming, playing guitar, singing and of course, reading.

 

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Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress



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Monday, September 1, 2025

Teaser: The Patron Saint of Lost Girls by Marueen Aitken #comingsoon #excerpt #preorder #fiction #shortstories #rabtbooktours

 


Literary Fiction / Short Story Collection

Date Published: 09-16-2025

Publisher: Wayne State University Press



In 1970s and '80s Detroit, the city wrestles with an unending economic downturn, increasing violence, and white exodus to the suburbs. Amid all of this is twentysomething Mary who is just trying to grapple with her identity in a world filled with uncertainty.

In this collection of linked stories, we follow Mary as she seeks to cope with and withstand hardship and confront her fears of exploitation, abuse, and death. Along the way, she delves into the complex yet nurturing relationships with her family and friends who teach her to love better, live fuller, and question power. The Patron Saint of Lost Girls presents an unflinching tale of life in the late twentieth-century postindustrial Midwest.



Excerpt


“AUGUST, WHEN the cicadas burned and the lawnmowers sounded like industrial bees, we couldn’t stop. In the bedroom, on the couch, on the floor. Afterward we would lie there, reading the paper or letting the television taunt us like a car salesman. Paul would wiggle his toes against mine, and we’d look at one another for a long time. His face was like a catcher’s mitt, warm and beaten. He reminded me of one of those boys who had moved away when I was little, but Paul had returned a man.”

-“This is Art”

 

About the Author


Maureen Aitken’s short-story collection, The Patron Saint of Lost Girls, received a Kirkus star, the Nilsen Prize, and the Foreword Review INDIE Gold Prize for General Fiction. It will be reissued in September, 2025 by Wayne State University Press. Her stories have earned a Minnesota State Arts Board’s Artist Initiative Grant, a Loft Mentor Award, an award from Ireland’s Fish Short Story Prize, and two Pushcart Prize nominations. It was also nominated for a Minnesota Book Award. Her stories have been published in Prairie Schooner and New Letters, among others. This is her second story featured in The Missouri Review’s Blast section.


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Thursday, August 28, 2025

Teaser: Changing Woman's Hair by Jan D. Payne #teaser #excerpt #comingsoon #suspense #thriller #rabtbooktours

 


Marin Sinclair, Book 2


Suspense Thriller

Date Published: 09/15/2025

Publisher: RabbitHole LLC



When Marin Sinclair discovers teenager Garret Washburn in danger from a deadly conspiracy involving bootlegged alcohol, wolf-witches, an election campaign, murder, and an unknown bomber, she looks to Navajo Nation Police Sergeant Justin Blue Eyes and Federal Agent Cullen MacPherson to help protect Vangie Tso's son from the dark forces at play.



Excerpt


—“It’s likely the same guys,” Franklin whispered. “You need to go for help. Get word to Sergeant Blue Eyes.”

“I can’t go without you,” she said, and Franklin took her hand and pressed it against his side. When she pulled her hand away, it was wet and sticky.

“You’re bleeding!” she said, and Franklin’s nod was dimly visible in the darkness lit only by the fires. “I’ll find something to help,” Marin said, and crawled through the hogan’s entrance, searching by feel until she found several pieces of soft clothing or bedding.

“Hold this over the wound and press,” she said, making a thick pad. She tied the pad around Franklin using a length of bale twine, and he gasped, then sat taking deep breaths.

“Sorry, we need to get the bleeding stopped,” she whispered.

Franklin took another breath and gave a low whistle. A horse broke away from the bunched group and came close to the rails, snorting softly.

“Here is your friend, Otekah,” Franklin said and ducked into the corral. “You must take her and go.”

“Go where?”

Franklin didn’t answer. He took a rope from a corral post and ran the rope behind Otekah’s ears, made a quick turn around the mare’s muzzle, and looped a knot into the side of the make-shift halter. He pushed the end of the rope into Marin’s hands.

“No,” she said. “I can’t leave you. You’re hurt.”

“They’ll soon come looking,” Franklin said. “Trust Otekah to find the way. She’ll be going home.”

“I can’t find my way in the dark!” Marin said.

“She knows the way. There is only one gate to open; our home is near the canyon’s end. You will be able to climb out.”

“No … ” Marin said.

“Climb up to the rim road. Bring back help.”

“Franklin, I can’t climb the canyon wall!”

“There are handholds to guide you,” he said, and he pushed something cold, round, and metallic into her hands … a flashlight.

“I shot one of those Indian kids,” said a man’s deep voice and she and Franklin froze, sinking deeper into the hogan’s shadows. “He ran over here.”

“Lay off. I’m not about to get trampled trying to find him,” a second man answered.

“He’s in here, I know it.”

“He’s not going anywhere. He’s got nowhere to run with this hut built up against the canyon wall.”

“You can either come out or you can bleed to death!” the first man shouted, and there was a sudden blast of gunfire.

Marin yelped, and Otekah reared, yanking the rope from her hands and whirling away. Yuma, his gray coat barely visible, whistled shrilly and kicked against the corral poles until the saplings shuddered.

“I said lay off, you idiot! A pole fence won’t hold half-ton horses! You’ll get us trampled! You don’t even know if the kid’s in there.”

The first man raised his voice. “You hear that, Injun boy? We’re gonna start shooting your horses if you don’t come out!”

“Stow it, Jack! You start shooting and these horses will go crazy. That kid’s not going anywhere. We need to get back to the prisoners.”

“Prisoners,” Marin breathed when the men walked away. “We have to stay and help them.”

“No. You must go, shadi,” Franklin said, making a soft clucking noise until Otekah once more came close, tossing her head as the other horses restlessly circled the corral, stamping and blowing. “My beauty,” Franklin murmured, picking up the trailing rope and looping it around Otekah’s neck.

“This is a bad idea,” Marin said, but she climbed between the corral poles to lean against Otekah’s warmth. The horses were bunched together, pressing hard against the gate poles, anxious to escape, eager to run. Still …

“I’d never forgive myself if you and the others … ”

“You must bring help, tell the Sergeant what has happened.”

There was no one else to go.

When Franklin again pushed the flashlight into her hands, she took it and shoved it into her waistband, then caught Otekah’s mane and rolled onto the mare’s back, catching up the rope in one hand.

Franklin murmured something that sounded like a prayer and slid a pole from the top of the gate. Carefully he lowered one end to the ground, then reached for the next pole and did the same. Even with only two poles down, the horses began to push into the gap, Otekah with them, and Marin clutched the halter rope breathing in the familiar scent of horse—dust, dried grass, musky sweat.

“I’m not sure I can guide her.”

“Just stay on,” Franklin returned.

Marin wrapped the rope tight around her hand and twisted both hands into Otekah’s mane, aware of a familiar rush of excitement, that stomach-clenching tension when Dandy’s muscles had bunched beneath her the second before the rodeo arena gate flew open and they shot forward. She’d done this a hundred times or more, and she bent low to Otekah’s neck, gathering focus.

“Ready … ” Franklin whispered, and he eased the last pole to the ground.

“Franklin, I … ” Marin began, but Franklin stepped back, gave a shrill, yipping yell, and slapped Otekah across the rump, waving his hat as the horses surged forward.—

 

 

About the Author


Drawing from her own life story in the Four Corners area of the Navajo Nation, author Jan D. Payne offers readers a journey into the heart of the American Southwest in a modern-day romantic suspense series. Writing characters who navigate diverse cultural influences to explore the lines between the seen and the unseen, the modern and the traditional, the present and the past—she creates a world where the impossible becomes possible, and mythical legends come to life.

Jan is a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. She and her husband live in northern Minnesota with their three big dogs—Kaibab, Rudi, and Orrin. Visit her website at: jandpayne.com


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Tuesday, August 26, 2025

Book Blitz: The Sweetest Getaway by Sasha Preston #womensfiction #crime #mystery #giveaway #onsale #excerpt #rabtbooktours



Women's Fiction, Crime Caper, Cozy Heist

Date Published: 07-21-2025

Publisher: Heart & Horizon



They’ll need the sweetest getaway ever to escape this mess…


Jennifer used to be a wholesome daydreamer who’d never broken a law in her life.


In a moment of weakness, she lets her roommate, Nari, rope her into a money-making scheme that isn’t exactly…legal.


How could she have known that stealing from bad guys would be so much fun?


Soon, Jennifer is so busy leading a double life that she barely has time to fantasize about the hot, dimpled stranger she met at one of Nari’s parties.


Everything is going smoothly, until someone rats them out to the cops.


Now, Jennifer and Nari need help from a team of seasoned criminals to pull off a heist that’ll either set them up for life…or get them locked up for a very long time.


Can Jennifer find a path to happily ever after that doesn’t include an ugly prison jumpsuit? 
There’s only one way to find out…

The Sweetest Getaway is a no spice, cozy heist novel with laughs, a diverse cast, and the smartest heroines since Ocean’s 8. Perfect for fans of women’s fiction and crime capers. Get it today for a criminally good time.



Excerpt

“All we have to do is confidently walk to the door like we’re supposed to be here,” Nari said under her breath.                                     
She and Jennifer argued in the parking lot of Omaha’s largest mansion as glamorously dressed revelers approached the entrance, arm in arm.                     
“I’ll enter five minutes before you. When they ask for our names, remember that I’m Doris and you’re Béatrice. After that, everything will be easy. No big deal,” Nari explained.           
Right. It was no big deal to Nari because she was endlessly charming, constantly meeting new people, and making loads of cash from random schemes that took her all over the world. Jennifer, on the other hand, was great at petting her neighbors’ dogs and getting lost mid-conversation in daydreams about faraway lands she’d never visited.
Doris Huang and Béatrice Boivin were wealthy business-women who were actually invited to the gala. Jennifer had helped Nari find an Asian and black woman on the guest list that they could impersonate. Doris and Béatrice looked enough like them, although Doris was in her fifties. Luckily, Doris wore glasses, so Nari could hide her youth behind a pair of round black frames that complemented her off-the-shoulder, gold metallic gown.
“Honestly, Nari, I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.” Jennifer tapped her fingers nervously on her arm. “What if Doris and Béatrice are inside already? Why don’t we look for a back entrance to sneak into instead?”
At least there would be fewer witnesses if they got caught at the back entrance. Maybe they could even pretend they were lost, ask for directions, and then decide to scrap the whole mission and return to their cozy apartment. “Oh well, that didn’t work. At least we tried!” Jennifer would say peppily. Nari would shrug. They’d end the night bingeing on popcorn and singing nineties hits into their TV’s karaoke app.                                       
But Nari would never give up that easily. “Nah, we’re early. We’ll have at least an hour before these two fabulous women show up. They’re always late for events like this. Besides, our target is already inside.”
Jennifer groaned. “This is nuts. I’ve got to pretend to be French like Béatrice.” She shook her head. “I can’t even tell the difference between a good macaron and a bad one. They’re all delicious to me. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
“I know why you said yes, mon amie,” Nari said, grinning. “Remember, you’ll be getting twenty-five percent of whatever deal we pull off after today. If I can close this deal, it could be worth half a million dollars.”                             
Jennifer had almost forgotten about the payout. Normally, Nari compensated her for these wild rides with chili cheese fries. She sucked in air through her teeth. “I... I can’t really say no to that,” she said, goosebumps covering her arms.
With that kind of money, maybe she could travel far beyond Omaha’s borders. She’d meet wonderful, surprising people. People who spoke five languages, painted in their spare time, and effortlessly rode their electric scooters through crowded street markets before arriving at home to make love to their beautiful spouses. Maybe she could even quit her job as a marketing analyst.
Nari swept her arm out in front of her, as if she were showing off her kingdom. “Welcome to the business world. There’s tons of cash just waiting for you.”                         
Money came easily to Nari, even though she had the attention span of a gnat. She could have her own massive condo if she wanted to, but she chose to live with Jennifer to feel a sense of home so far away from her family. Jennifer, however, was thirty-six years old and broke. If she didn’t live with Nari, she would have to start a window washing side hustle to be able to afford her student loan payments.              “It’s my favorite business world, the one where we have to sneak into galas to close deals,” Jennifer snorted.
 

About the Author

 

 Sasha Preston writes women’s fiction crime capers that help you to escape your daily reality, feel a sense of excitement, and plan your next adventure – all with some humor and close friendship thrown into the mix.

They say you should write about what you know. While she still hasn’t officially committed a heist, there’s nothing she loves more than going on adventures with girlfriends. You can find her waking up while it’s still dark outside to write, exercise, and explore.

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Preorder Blitz: The Boss by Gale Stanley #preorder #comingsoon #bdsm #erotica #rabtbooktours @changelingpress




BDSM Erotica

Date to be Published: August 29, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press



Maxwell Barnes runs the top law firm in the city, owns a private BDSM club, and has more money than he can spend in a lifetime. He gets everything he wants, and now he wants his paralegal, Aaron Marshall. Mixing work and pleasure is a big no-no, but their mutual attraction is off the charts. The one thing Maxwell isn’t looking for is love, but sometimes fate has a mind of its own.



Praise for The Boss (Roosters)

"I found this to be an interesting and sexy short read... I adored Aaron right from the get-go and found him delightful and really easy to relate to. The chemistry between the two men is delicious, the kink is hot and well written and for a fun and quick read this story certainly fits the bill to my mind."

-- Fern, Long and Short Reviews

 

Excerpt
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Gale Stanley

Fucking traffic. Even at this hour of the day, the streets were as jammed as my calendar. Doesn’t matter what I drive. My Mercedes-Maybach won’t get me to the office any faster than a Prius, but my ride got a lot of looks. It commanded the eye as well as the road. I imagined the other drivers were wondering what VIP was enjoying all this luxury. The thought ignited me. Being the center of attention was a turn-on. It was better than sex.

At last, my building came into view. It was an impressive sight. The Barnes Building was a soaring glass tower, twenty stories high, and one of the most prestigious addresses in the city. I helped design it myself. I demanded a seat at the table with the architects and builders, and my input resulted in a stunning building that met my needs. If you want something done right, do it yourself. ‘Nuff said.

I turned into the parking garage and pulled into my reserved spot, savoring the rewards of success. My car, my building, designer duds, a Rolex, they were all symbols of my wealth and status. None of it was due to luck. I worked damn hard to get where I was, long hours, high-profile court cases, good investments… I was on top of the world. Now I was ready to enjoy myself. For years work had overshadowed everything else in my life. I had made a name for myself and accumulated stuff, but I had neglected the hedonistic pleasures that shaped my life. It was time to focus on the thing that lit me up. BDSM. Erotic play made me feel complete. It energized me. I just needed the right partner. Lately, I had wondered whether the man I wanted even existed. It was a tall order to fill.

I knew who I was and what I wanted -- single, gay Dom looking for a playmate, not a relationship. Nothing serious or exclusive. I wanted a man who was submissive because he loved the way it made him feel, but finding a compatible play partner wasn’t easy. In the past I’d had partners who played at being submissive so they could gain access to me. They were only interested in my prestige and money. I liked a man who was willing to work hard and make it on his own. Someone who was constantly learning and wanted to challenge his limits.

Even with my connections, it was difficult to meet men because my kink was a well-hidden secret. Submissives who were looking for a Dom wouldn’t know how to find me. It had been a long time since my Dominant side got any attention, and it had been frustrating as hell.

Until the day Aaron Marshall showed up. We had instant chemistry. Chemistry counted for a lot, but it wasn’t everything. There had to be more to it than attraction. The big question was, could we build something on that chemistry? This was such an improbable match, I couldn’t believe it was more than a fluke. But what if it wasn’t? I intended to find out because I was used to getting what I wanted, and I wanted this man.

I took the private elevator to the top floor. My suite was bright and modern, a stark contrast to my public office one floor down. There it was all cherry wood and leather, the warm traditional look I presented to the public. But the private penthouse was my home when I was working on an important case so it was all me, a personal office, sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, and a large bath, even a walk-in closet stocked with some of my favorite paddles and floggers.

I listened to my voice mail and found a message from Brett Holiday, my best friend. No need to answer it. I’d be seeing him tonight. I went into the bathroom to check my appearance before taking the back stairs to my office.

Before settling in, I walked out to the front office to greet Aaron, who was now my newest paralegal. My current office manager was teaching him the ropes, a task I planned on taking over shortly. Pun intended.

Aaron always clocked in ahead of everyone, even me. He wanted to make a good impression, and he had. The man was a quick study and very professional, but he had other assets that sparked my interest.

I never forgot our first meeting. I liked his looks immediately -- dark blond hair, hazel eyes, slim build, but his stance was what caught my attention. Aaron stood in front of my desk, his back ramrod straight, arms at his sides, head up, eyes down. His deference was flattering to the point of overkill. I saw it as a tendency to yield to the will of another. He was hard-wired to be a submissive.

We made eye contact and it was hot as hell. I pictured us having wild sex and I sensed he felt the same. The undeniable connection between us was like an out-of-body experience. That mysterious attraction couldn’t be forced. It was what I longed for, but seldom found. Calm down, I told myself. Do not hire this man because you want to fuck him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Marshall.”

“Thank you.”

I decided to test the water. “Thank you, Sir.”

Aaron’s eyes went wide but he responded immediately. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

His reaction was beautiful to behold. Being told what to do excited him. I could tell he wanted me to take control, to dominate him. Anticipation shivered along my spine. I knew an untrained submissive when I saw one. Aaron was struggling to recover his self-command, but his desire and arousal shone like a beacon in a storm. I was intrigued.

 

About the Author

Gale Stanley grew up in Philadelphia PA. She was the kid who always had her nose in a book, her head in the clouds, and her hands on a pad and pencil.
Some things never change.

 

Author Links

Visit Gale’s Website

Gale on Facebook

Follow her on BookBub

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today



RABT Book Tours & PR

Sunday, August 24, 2025

Teaser: Bunny's F*ckfest by Wanda Violet O. #comingsoon #teaser #excerpt #bdsm #erotica #rabtbooktours @changelingpress

 


BDSM Erotica

Date to be published: August 29, 2025

Publisher: ‎ Changeling Press LLC




Warning: This is a Razor’s Edge Daddy Dom BDSM Erotica short story. Expect limited plot and character development, and lots of heat. If you’re looking for a lengthy plot driven erotic romance, this is not it!


Every night with Max is a rush, a storm of sensation and wild, beautiful chaos. But today? Today feels different. From the moment Max wakes me, in the naughtiest of ways, I know something’s about to change. I have a feeling whatever he has in store for me today may break me, unravel me to my very core, only to rebuild me stronger than ever before.


Excerpt
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Wanda Violet O.

I woke up to the feel of Max’s tongue between my thighs, pulling me from sleep with waves of pleasure that made my back arch off the silk sheets.

“Fuck, Max,” I gasped, my fingers tangling in his dark hair as he worked me with that skilled mouth of his. The morning light streaming through the windows of our suite caught the blue of his eyes as he looked up at me, never breaking rhythm. He knew exactly how to make me come undone, his tongue circling and flicking until my orgasm forced a scream from my throat as I trembled beneath him.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured against my skin, his voice rough with desire. “I wanted to give you a treat.” Another swipe with his tongue. Another moan from me. “Before you go to work today.”

“Work?” Oh, boy… I tried to act nonchalant, but I thought I’d failed when Max smirked at me.

“Yep. And, boy, are you going to need your strength today.” The wicked gleam in his eyes never failed to make me wet. That always meant something naughty and fun as fuck was about to follow.

I could barely form words as he continued his assault on my senses, building me higher and higher once more until I shattered with a cry that echoed through the room. My body convulsed as waves of pleasure crashed over me, and Max didn’t stop until I lay panting and boneless beneath him.

He crawled up my body like the predator he was, all muscle and controlled power, before claiming my mouth in a kiss that tasted of me and pure hunger. “You’re insatiable,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“Daddy Jacob said I should put you in a good mood.” The rough timbre of his voice vibrated through my chest. “I’m just following orders.”

A shiver of anticipation raced through me. Daddy Jacob did this often for me and his Kitten -- a game we played. He and Max knew how we loved our “jobs” and they both took great delight in keeping me and Kitten as busy as we wanted to be. I’d come to love this play time. I also loved coming back to our suite and letting Max question me and repeating every single thing I’d done while away from him.

He didn’t push into me. Not yet. Instead he braced his weight above me, his arms caging me in, and bent to kiss me. His kiss, soft, almost reverent, carried the taste of my pussy on his tongue, filthy and sweet. I opened for him, letting him take what he wanted.

Max kissed like he did everything. With full attention, like there was nothing else in the world. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, burying my fingers in his thick hair. He growled low, a vibration that started in his chest and echoed in mine.

When he broke away, his face hovered just above mine, his eyes impossibly blue and focused.

“I need you, Max,” I whispered, my body still on edge despite the two earlier orgasms.

He flashed me a wolfish smile. “You’ll have me, little Bunny.”

Max reached over the edge of the bed, rummaging in the nightstand, a practiced move. Condoms and lube were two staples in this house. With practice ease, Max tore open the packet and rolled the condom down his length with a downward stroke of his hand. For a second, I let myself savor the view, admiring the way his cock jutted from his body, thick and veined and angry red at the tip. I ached for him to fuck me.

Max must have seen the hunger on my face because he gripped my hips tighter, his fingers digging into my soft curves. He lined up, teasing the head along my slit, and the heat of the intimate contact the ultimate tease.

He paused, holding himself at my entrance, his mouth at my ear. “You ready, Bunny?”

 


About the Author

Welcome to Wanda Violet O.'s world of bedtime fantasy, where you'll find a variety of sexy creatures ready to drink their fill. Wanda specializes in extreme kink. Monsters, BDSM role play... she's got it all. Come take a look for yourself!

 

Author Contact Links

Wanda on Facebook

Wanda on Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today


RABT Book Tours & PR

Monday, August 18, 2025

Teaser: The Well-Tempered Violinist by Barbara T. Carlton #excerpt #comingsoon #historical #fiction #rabtbooktours




Book 1 of The Gift

 

Historical Fiction

Date to be Published: November 5, 2025

Publisher: Acorn Publishing


Marthe Adler dreams of making history as a great violinist. But in 1905 Germany, tradition and deep-seated prejudice against women musicians stand in her way. To make matters worse, her beloved father’s sudden death shatters her family’s comfortable life, pushing them to the edge of poverty.

But the violin Marthe’s father left her is a constant reminder of the profound bond between them, and it gives her the strength to begin healing. When the Köln Conservatory offers her an unexpected scholarship, she seizes her chance to reach for excellence.

Under the rigorous tutelage of Professorin Wolff, and subjected to predatory harassment by a fellow student determined to destroy both her self-worth and her chances of success, Marthe quickly learns she will need more than motivation and talent to rise to the top.

Filled with heart, wit, and music, The Well-Tempered Violinist is an enduring coming-of-age tale about an artist striving for greatness against enormous odds.


Excerpt


FEBRUARY 1949, HEIDELBERG

In the very beginning was the sound, bright and rich, with an edge of darkness.

I knew it before birth, my mother said, for whenever my father played, I became still in her womb, as if I were mesmerized.

In the sitting room of our house in Eberlinstrasse, I became the audience, propped with pillows before I could sit up, listening to my father and his friends play string quartets on Saturday nights—for love, he said, not money, for he was a banker, though as a young man he had studied with the famous Schradieck in Hamburg. Later, he told me I never fussed, never had to be removed, but remained transfixed, no matter how rough the music nor how often they repeated it. So perhaps my mother was right.

***

The second beginning was my fourth birthday, when my baby sister Anni stuck her fist into my birthday cake when no one was looking and my grandparents gave me a music box that played “Papageno’s Magic Bells” from The Magic Flute, which I listened to until everyone but me was sick of it. Best of all, my father gave me my own small violin and began to teach me its mysteries. First, the names of the strings and their personalities: A, sensible and even-tempered; D, cheerful and impetuous; down to G, serious and thoughtful; up to E, nervous and temperamental, with a tendency to squeak. How to tune them, how to find the notes and make them pure instead of scratchy. He turned exercises and drills into games and improvised harmony to my children’s songs, something different every time. Alle Meine Entchen, All My Ducklings. Bruder Jakob, a round. Kleines Mädchen, Little Girl—my favorite, because it was about me.

I practiced every afternoon for my evening lesson. Occasionally, with nerves like caterpillars in my stomach, I played for the applause and praise of my father’s friends. I might have thought all children were as docile as myself, if not for Anni. Anni’s temper tantrums, Anni thundering up and down the stairs, Anni meddling with my toys and often breaking them. I couldn’t imagine where my parents had found her, or why. Someday, I thought—preferably soon—she would run off to become a pirate and leave us in peace.

The pirate would surely come to no good. But I dreamed I would become a famous violinist and lead an exotic and sophisticated life on the concert stages of the world.

***

When I outgrew my first violin, Anni inherited it and my father began to teach her—at least, he tried. Anni never practiced and she hated lessons of all kinds. The experiment was short-lived and a spectacular failure.

I felt horribly smug for weeks.

My father and I shared a secret language, a world full of treasures where Anni couldn’t stick in her fat little fist and grab anything and where my mother didn’t care to go. A bond grew between us as between two fibers of the same tree, pure and deep. . .

***

 

MARCH 1906, KÖLN

Both of these beginnings came before the real one, like the prologue in fiction.

The third beginning, the real one, is now: a cold March morning a month past my eighteenth birthday, before the grand front door of one of the grandest houses in Köln. Herr Dietrich keeps a firm grip on my elbow, probably to keep me from running away. In my other hand, I carry my violin in its case. This house, on Leopoldstrasse in the heart of the Lindenthal district, belongs to Herr Ferdinand Kurtz, president of the Bank of Köln. My father’s bank.

Yes. It begins here.

The violin I carry is my father’s, because he is dead.

 

***

 


About the Author


Retired architect Barbara Thornburgh Carlton is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Though not a musician, she remains music-adjacent as a volunteer for the San Diego Opera and the Orcas Island Chamber Music Festival in Washington. The mother of two grown children who are remarkably considerate about keeping in touch, she lives in San Diego, California, with her photographer husband, Barry.

The Well-Tempered Violinist, Book 1 of The Gift series, is her first novel.

 

Contact Links

Facebook: Barbara Thornburgh Carlton, Writer

Instagram: @btcarlton_writer


 

RABT Book Tours & PR

Friday, August 15, 2025

Preorder Blitz: Friar by Harley Wylde #preorder #excerpt #comingsoon #mcromance #romance #Rabtbooktours @changelingpress


 

Reckless Kings MC (#7)


MC Romance / Romantic Suspense

Date to be Published: August 22, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press



One night. One mistake. One baby that changes everything.

Cheri -- I’ve always been the preacher’s perfect niece, the small-town good girl who never stepped out of line. But one reckless night with a gruff, dangerous biker flipped my world upside down. Now I’m eighteen, unexpectedly pregnant, and kicked out of my home for breaking the rules. With nowhere else to turn, I end up on the doorstep of the one man I shouldn’t want. Friar. He’s a rough, older member of an outlaw motorcycle club, and the father of my baby. At least, I think he is. That night is a bit of a blur. He’s also the only one who might protect me from a world that suddenly wants to chew me up and spit me out. Even if he doesn’t love me, I need him… and maybe he needs me too.

Friar -- As a biker, I’ve lived hard and broken more laws than I can count. I’ve never claimed to be a good man. Hell, I don’t even try. But when Cheri shows up at my MC’s door with wide eyes and a baby on the way, something in me shifts. I was never supposed to touch her. She’s too young, too innocent, too off-limits. But I did. And now she’s mine.

They can judge us. Try to tear us apart. But I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my woman and my unborn child. Even if I have to burn down the world to do it.


Excerpt


All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2025 Harley Wylde

Cheri

The wooden crucifix above my bed seemed to watch me with judgment as I lay still, listening to the house settle into silence. Eleven forty-five. Uncle Pete and Aunt June had been in bed for over an hour, their nightly prayers long finished. I’d waited, counting each minute, feeling my heartbeat quicken with every passing second. Tonight was my night. My escape. Even if it was just for a few hours.

I slid out from under the floral quilt Aunt June had made for me when I first came to live with them three years ago. The floor was cold against my bare feet, but I didn’t dare turn on the small lamp. The moonlight filtering through the lace curtains was enough. I moved to my closet, pushing past the modest dresses and high-necked blouses that filled the space. Behind them, hidden in the darkest corner, hung the outfit I’d been saving -- tight jeans and a low-cut top that would have Aunt June clutching her pearls and Uncle Pete quoting Proverbs about the path of sin.

My fingers traced the outline of a framed verse on my nightstand: “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” Proverbs 31:25. How many times had Aunt June reminded me that a godly woman’s worth wasn’t in her appearance? Yet here I was, applying mascara and lip gloss by the dim light of my phone screen, my movements practiced and furtive.

I pulled on my forbidden clothes, the fabric clinging to my body in ways that made me feel alive, dangerous. The girl in the mirror looked like someone else -- someone exciting, someone with secrets. I tucked my hair behind my ears and took a deep breath. It was time.

The hallway stretched before me like a gauntlet. Family photos lined the walls, interspersed with carved wooden crosses and framed Bible verses that seemed to glow in the darkness. I knew every creaky floorboard, every spot that would betray me. I stepped carefully, placing my weight on the edges near the walls where the boards were less likely to complain. The scent of Aunt June’s lavender potpourri hung in the air, cloying and sweet, a constant reminder of her presence even when she wasn’t around.

I froze as I approached their bedroom door. It stood slightly ajar, and the soft sound of Uncle Pete’s snoring drifted out. My heart hammered so hard I was certain they’d hear it. A shaft of light from their bedside lamp sliced through the gap in the door. Aunt June always kept it on -- afraid of the dark or maybe afraid of what lurked in it. I held my breath and pressed my body against the opposite wall, inching past with glacial slowness.

“Peter?” Aunt June’s voice, thick with sleep, stopped me cold. My blood turned to ice, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows.

The snoring paused. “Hmm?”

“Did you lock the back door?”

“Yes, June. Go back to sleep.”

I remained frozen, counting to thirty in my head before daring to move again. The lock. I hadn’t thought about the lock. Would I be able to unlock it without making noise? I’d have to risk it.

The stairs were next -- thirteen of them, each with its own personality and voice. I’d mapped them out over months of late-night kitchen raids: the third one screamed, the seventh groaned, the ninth whispered, and the eleventh threatened to wake the dead. I navigated them like a dance I’d rehearsed a thousand times, my hand barely touching the banister for balance.

The living room was a shrine to their faith. A massive painting of Jesus with lambs hung over the fireplace, His eyes following me accusingly across the room. Bibles sat on every surface, bookmarked and well-worn. A collection of angels watched from the mantel, their porcelain faces frozen in eternal worship. The smell of potpourri was stronger here, mingling with the lingering scent of the pot roast we’d had for dinner.

I made my way to the kitchen, where a needlepoint hung over the sink: “In everything give thanks.” My car keys were in my pocket, heavy and promising. Freedom was just beyond the back door. I reached for the deadbolt, turning it with painful slowness, feeling each click of the mechanism like a gunshot in the silence. When it finally released, I eased the door open just enough to slip through.

The night air hit me like a blessing, cool and free from the suffocating holiness of the house. The porch steps were new and didn’t creak, a small mercy. I stepped onto the damp grass, shoes in hand, moving quickly now toward the driveway where my ancient Honda waited.

I slid into the driver’s seat, my heart still racing. The key went into the ignition, and I said a silent prayer -- the irony not lost on me -- that the engine wouldn’t roar to life with its usual enthusiasm. I turned the key, and the car started with a mercifully subdued rumble. No lights came on in the house. I backed out slowly, not turning on my headlights until I was a safe distance down the road.

In my rearview mirror, the house grew smaller, a dark silhouette against the night sky. I finally allowed myself to breathe. The windows were down, and the wind whipped my hair around my face. I felt wild, untethered. The address of the Reckless Kings clubhouse was burned into my memory from whispered conversations in school bathrooms.

My heart fluttered with nervous excitement. This wasn’t just about breaking curfew or wearing forbidden clothes. This was about stepping into a world so different from the one I’d been trapped in, a world raw and real and alive. The night stretched ahead of me, dark and full of promise, as I drove toward the edge of town where the Reckless Kings waited.

I pressed harder on the gas, leaving behind the weight of expectations and the suffocation of someone else’s righteousness. For tonight, at least, I would be free. For tonight, I would be more than just Uncle Pete and Aunt June’s good Christian niece. I would be Cheri Waite, a girl with fire in her veins and rebellion in her heart.

I parked my Honda at the end of a long line of cars outside the clubhouse, partly to hide my car from anyone who might recognize it, partly because I needed those extra steps to steady my nerves. The Reckless Kings’ domain loomed ahead, a rather fancy looking log-cabin-style building. Music pulsed from inside, a heartbeat I could feel even from this distance. Motorcycles lined the entrance, chrome gleaming under bright lights, their owners somewhere inside doing things my uncle would call sinful and I would call living.

My legs felt weak as I walked toward the building. Each step brought me closer to crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. I’d heard whispers about the Reckless Kings since I’d moved to town -- dangerous men who lived by their own code, who took what they wanted and answered to no one. The kind of men Aunt June prayed for on Sundays, her voice tight with disapproval and fear.

The bikes stood like sentinels guarding the entrance. I ran my fingers over a sleek handlebar as I passed, feeling the cool metal against my skin. I smoothed my hands over my jeans, adjusted my top to show just the right amount of cleavage, and took a deep breath. This was it. No turning back.

I pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. The air was thick with cigarette smoke that hung in blue-gray clouds beneath the ceiling, mingling with the smell of spilled beer, leather, and sweat. The bass from the music vibrated through the soles of my shoes and up into my chest, making my heart sync with its rhythm. Colored lights from neon beer signs cast red and blue shadows across the room, illuminating faces in fragments -- a tattooed arm here, a bearded jaw there, bodies moving through the haze like apparitions.

My eyes stung, adjusting to the smoke and dimness. The floor beneath me was sticky with what I hoped was just beer, pulling at my shoes with each step. Bodies pressed against each other in the center of the room, dancing to music that felt more like a physical force than a sound. Women in tight clothes and high heels leaned against men in leather cuts, their laughter cutting through the din like glass breaking.

Conversations stuttered as I moved deeper into the room. Heads turned, eyes assessed. I felt each gaze like a physical touch -- some curious, some predatory, all intense. A woman with a snake tattoo winding up her neck stared at me with narrowed eyes, her arm tightening around the waist of the man beside her. I kept my chin up, tried to look like I belonged, like I wasn’t counting every rapid beat of my heart.

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at http://changelingPress.com with code RABT15




RABT Book Tours & PR

Monday, August 11, 2025

Teaser Tuesday: One Year in Paris by Susan Horsnell #teasertuesday #giveaway #excerpt #romance #rabtbooktours @susanhorsnell

 


Contemporary Romance

Date Published: 07-25-2025

Publisher: Lipstick Publishing



When Annalise Garner arrives in Paris to study art, she’s chasing quiet—far from her Southern roots, far from expectations. What she doesn’t expect is to meet Jett Hunter, a star American soccer player with green eyes, a bruised past, and a future under a constant spotlight.

Jett lives for the game. Annelise lives for the canvas. But when fate intertwines their worlds on a rain-soaked street in the City of Lights, neither is prepared for the slow-burn connection that follows.

As their hearts tangle between café tables and gallery walls, the intrusion of the press and career choices threaten to pull them apart.

Jett faces pressure to return to New York.

Annalise wrestles with who she is beyond her art.

And just when they start to find their rhythm, a devastating injury changes everything.

Set against the romance of Paris and the quiet beauty of rebuilding a life, One Year in Paris is a tender story of love that endures the noise, finds strength in the silence, and blooms where it’s least expected.


Excerpt

Chapter One


Paris, France.

March.

Paris smelled like warm bread, rain, and the kind of freedom you didn’t realize you were starving for until you tasted it.

Annelise Garner pressed her sketchbook to her chest as she crossed Place du Tertre, her long blond curls pulled into a loose braid and a soft, excited nervousness fluttering in her chest. This wasn’t just a vacation—it was a year away from all expectations. No cotillions, no pageants, no family name to maintain. Just art, sunlight, and the faint promise of something more.

She passed a café tucked between a bookstore and a patisserie, where laughter spilled onto the street. A gust of wind tugged at her scarf, and she caught it just before it flew—only to stumble directly into someone walking briskly around the corner.

Hard chest. Expensive cologne. An arm around her waist, steadying.

“Whoa—pardon,” a deep voice rumbled. American, unmistakably. Rough with surprise. Smooth with heat.

Annelise looked up—and found herself staring into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

The man holding her was tall…Ridiculously tall. His hair was dark and swept back in the kind of effortless way that meant effort had definitely been involved. A few people nearby had slowed down to look. Some pointed.

“Y-you’re American,” she blurted in surprise before she could stop herself.

He smirked. “So are you.”

“Atlanta.”

“New York.”

They paused.

“I’m Annelise.”

“Jett Hunter.”

And as he stepped back, letting her go with a soft brush of his fingers, she noticed the gym bag over his shoulder, scuffed cleats peeking out the side.

That name…Jett Hunter. It tickled something in her brain. A memory from a sports magazine her friend from back home, Abigail, had fawned over.

She blinked.

“You play soccer…”

He gave her a crooked smile. “A little.”

“How long have you been in Paris?”

“Two years…You?”

“Two months…I’m here studying art for a year courtesy of a generous inheritance from my grandpa.”

“My contract ends in seven months.”

Annelise nodded. “I wish I could stay forever, but—” she shrugged.

She didn’t give a reason and Jett didn’t know her well enough to ask.

Jett Hunter didn’t believe in fate. He believed in timing—on the field, in life, in love, if that was even something he still believed in at all.

But when he spotted her again the next morning, crossing Rue des Abbesses with a portfolio twice her size and sunlight catching in her golden hair, he felt something stir.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She was juggling her sketchbook tucked under one arm and what looked like a artists satchel in the other. Same soft curls, same honey-sweet presence…Annelise.

He pushed his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to be sure.

Yep. It was her.

Jett stood up from his table before he thought better of it, dodged a Vespa, and stepped into her path just as she looked up.

She gasped, nearly bumping into him again, and blinked in surprise. “You?”

He gave a crooked grin. “Starting to think you’re following me.”

Her lips parted—then curved. “Or you’re following me.”

“Touché.”

She shifted the satchel and sketchpad awkwardly. “Do you usually begin your mornings by bumping into strangers?”

“I had a need for croissants,” he explained. “And accidental run-ins with beautiful strangers are a bonus,” he added.

Her cheeks colored faintly. It looked good on her. Real. Not rehearsed like the women he usually met who were after him for nothing more than his fame and fortune.

He nodded toward the café behind him. “Sit with me?”

She hesitated for a breath. Then nodded.

They sat under the striped awning, a plate of flaky pastries between them. Two Americans in the heart of Montmartre pretending Paris wasn’t working some strange kind of magic on them.

Annelise told him about her art studies and Georgia summers. She spoke briefly of her political family, being an only child, how she used to sketch horses in the back pasture and dream of painting sunrises in another country.

Jett told her about New York, the endless push of fame, and how Paris had been a necessary escape. He didn’t mention the pressure from the club or the headlines speculating about his focus slipping. Not yet.

“I prefer to keep to myself. I don’t usually do people,” she admitted, stirring her espresso slowly. “They’re too…complicated.”

“Yet here you are sat across from one this morning.”

Annelise looked up. “You’re different. You feel like—” She stopped herself.

“Like what?” he asked softly.

“Like someone real.”

Jett became quiet. It had been a long time since anyone had said that to him. Even longer since it felt true.

When Annelise stood to leave, she gave him a smile that felt like spring.

“Same café tomorrow?” he asked, not wanting to let her slip from his life.

She looked over her shoulder as she walked away. “If the croissants are this good again.”

He watched her go—shoulders relaxed, curls bouncing lightly, sunlight wrapped around her like a promise.

Jett sat back in his chair, let the Paris air fill his lungs, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was running toward the next match or away from himself.

He just felt…here.

And that was enough.


About the Author


I’m an Australian author who writes in a variety of genres, including Western romance, historical romance, Gay Romance, and contemporary romance. I also have a Thriller Murder/Mystery, children’s, non-fiction and young adult.

I have published over 60 books and novellas, many of which feature strong, independent heroines and rugged, alpha male heroes. Some of my popular series include the Outback Australia series and The Carter Brothers series.

My books are known for their well-researched historical details and vivid descriptions of the Australian landscape.

My work has garnered praise from readers and critics alike, and I have won several awards for my writing.

If you're interested in learning more about my books:

Linktree: https://linktr.ee/SusanHorsnell


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