The SLOW BURN Blog Tour is in full gear….head here to enter an epic giveaway for a $500 gift card: a Rafflecopter giveaway
To see the blog tour schedule head HERE
Eep! Today two highly anticipated books will be live on your e-readers and to celebrate the joint release of these book-babies, S.C. Stephens and I have joined in book boyfriend camaraderie to give you a giveaway. Here’s your chance to hold both Kellan and Becks in your pretty little hands (how you organize yourself in the man candy is up to you ☺️)!
We will pick a total of (5) lucky winners to get (1) signed paperback of THOUGHTFUL and (1) signed paperback of SLOW BURN.
To enter, go here: a Rafflecopter giveaway
*Please note that this contest is open to US and International residents. Winners will be alerted via email after the contest ends on February 25, 2015*
Lots of people worried that they missed their chance to order signed copies of #SlowBurn (when they saw me signing pictures of them at Mysterious Galaxy today) or you live in the UK and the shipping charged was too much. Well there is another option I am offering…if you go to buy your paperback on Amazon, you can send it to my PO Box and then I’ll sign and send it back to you.
Note the arrow below to see where to change the shipping:
Step 1: My shipping address is:
PO BOX 933
San Diego, CA 91903-0933
Step 2: You need to paypal me the funds for return shipping costs. My paypal address is firstname.lastname@example.org and you need to do a few things. (1) In the notes section you need to put your name (i.e. the name on the Amazon account that shipped me the book so I can match up funds with the names of the shipments). (2) you need to put the address where to send the signed copy to, (3) you need to tell me who you want the book dedicated to, (4) you need to send me $4.45 if you are US for shipping or $26.50 USD if you are international.
I hope that helps those of you that were worried they missed the book orders at Mysterious Galaxy.
**Please note that you can still order signed copies of The Driven Trilogy and other books from me up under the novels/signed copies tab … this pertains only to Slow Burn right now**
Since my silly video yesterday (see Facebook) where I blushed like crazy when I read a certain line in that excerpt, some more questions have come up in regards to Slow Burn so here are your answers:
1. Where can I physically purchase Slow Burn paperbacks?
A: Barnes and Noble, Books A Million, Indiebound, Powell’s = paperback (I’m not sure of Meijers…They don’t have them here in my part of the country so I’m not sure).
2. Why is the UK paperback a little more in cost?
A: The UK does NOT have what is considered a ‘mass market’ paperback. The UK version will be more like the US Trade Paperback size (think the size of Driven/Fueled/Crashed).
3. Can I get the special scene that’s in the paperback if I don’t buy the paperback?
A: No. Penguin placed the special scene in the paperback only for whatever reason and I don’t have the right to paste it elsewhere.
4. I pre-ordered but lost my confirmation # or bought off of iBooks or an Audio book and don’t have everything to fill out the google.doc to get the first (2) chapters of Sweet Ache. HELP!
A: Fill out the Google.doc to the best of your ability. I will honor it. The Google.doc is HERE.
5. I got my paperback in the mail. WOOHOO!
A: YAY! Now I’m nervous! lol. Post a selfie of yourself with Slow Burn and let everyone know it’s finally HERE! YAY! Seriously though, I truly hope you enjoy it. And after the emotion of the book hits you when you read ‘THE END’ I’d love if you thought enough of the book to leave a review.
6. Can I order a signed copy of Slow Burn?
A: Last change to order your signed paperbacks from Mystery Galaxy! A copy of Slow Burn and some swag with your purchase. I’m going in Sunday morning to sign the books so make sure your order is in! Go HERE to order.
7. Is the Driven Series going to be a movie?
A: While it’s is fun to think ‘what if,’ this is most likely not a possibility. If you want to have fun thinking about it, head on over to the IF LIST and pick who you would want to star in the ‘pretend version’ – click HERE for that.
8. Where can I submit a question to ask Becks in that Piatkus Q&A thing? (<—technical term there)
A: Submit there HERE.
9. Why does the release date say March 3rd?
A: The original date of publication was March 3rd. Penguin then pushed the date earlier to February 24th. Some outlets still say March 3rd but that’s just a ‘paperwork error’ because the book will go live on 2/24!
I think that’s all of the questions. If you have more, please ask…I’ll be happy to answer them!
Fellow author Kennedy Ryan (author of The Bennet Series) approached me a few months ago about an article she was writing for USA Today. The article was to focus on the scarcity of alpha males in the romance genre who have been abused. She asked me if it was okay to include Colton in her article…and of course I told her yes.
The article published today and if you want to read it, you can do so right HERE
So a while back I released an exclusive scene between Rylee and Colton to readers that are a part of my monthly newsletter…I happened to come across it today, did a quick reread of the scene, and figured the rest of you might want to read it too. So just in case you were missing Ace and Ryles, here is a new scene between them…
The house smells like a goddamn bakery, flour and vanilla, but the sight right before me is anything but a damn cookie. More like a dessert good enough to knock this grown man to his knees. Curves swaying in tight jeans, a tank top that I’d bet my ass on has no bra underneath, hair pulled up so curls tickle her neck, and her voice humming along to some seductive ass song about riding something.
Sweet Jesus, I’ll ride her. No doubt there. There may be a bag of sugar sitting on the counter beside her but I sure as shit would take the sweetness between her thighs any fucking day of the week.
And that any fucking day is going to start about right now. A long day at the track is one thing but ending it like this? Talk about getting to claim a checkered flag when I’m just testing out the car.
I lean against the doorjamb and just watch her. How can I not? Shit, a year ago I would’ve called myself a pussy if I even remotely thought watching a woman bake Christmas cookies was a turn on but damn, that was before I knew Rylee.
There’s something so goddamn sexy about the way she moves to the music, and I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t know I’m here so she’s letting loose or it’s because my fingertips have memorized ever inch of skin beneath those fine as fuck jeans, but shit, it’s worth taking a moment to appreciate it.
But I think I need to appreciate it a little closer. Like with my fingers and mouth because I need all hands on deck when it comes to Ryles.
I walk forward, take note of the counters of my kitchen lined with cookies, some frosted, some not. It’s a strange sight in my bachelor pad, but it makes me smile for some weird reason. It makes me think of the real meaning of the word ‘home’ and how fucking lucky I am that she actually said ‘I do’ a few weeks ago.
We’re married. Talk about a fucking crazy thought.
“Arrgh!” she yelps as I slip my arms around her waist, tug her back against me, and press a kiss to the addictive curve of her neck.
“Hmm, you smell better than the cookies,” I murmur, lips against her skin, dick pressed against the swell of her ass, and my head already filled with the things I want to do to her.
“Good day at the track?” She asks tilting her head to the side so it presses against mine. And there’s something about that motion that just pulls on those dark parts remaining inside of me and tells them, “See, I can be loved.” It’s fucking stupid – fighting the damn demons still – but old habits die hard and hell if it doesn’t feel good.
“Yeah. Car feels good. Needs a few tweaks yet, but it’ll be ready to go.” I rest my chin on her shoulder as I watch her take the paint brush and dip it in the icing before spreading it over the unfrosted cookie. “What’s all this?” I ask as if my covered counters aren’t obvious enough.
“I’m playing Betty Crocker.” She finishes painting a Christmas tree green and holds it up, “See?”
“Can you play her in just an apron and heels and nothing else?” Hmm the thought alone has me groaning. Heels and ruffles bent over the kitchen table. Bring it on, baby.
“And who, kind sir, are you going to be?” She teases, and the smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“A baseball player.” She bursts out laughing at our long running joke that takes me back to that first date, cotton candy, and Ferris wheels. And then more cotton candy mixed with the taste of Rylee on my tongue. Fuck. What is it with this woman and sugar that makes me want to bury myself balls deep in her without a second thought? “Wanna see my stick?”
She wiggles her ass against where my dick’s pressing into her softness and I swear to God she loves to test my restraint in every way possible. “Hm, I can feel your stick all right. Too bad you’re only getting to first base until I finish frosting these cookies.”
Fuck that. Like she doesn’t know she just issued me a challenge I’ll more than gladly win. Sure as shit, I’ll be sliding into home in no time, frosting and all. “We’ll see about that,” I chuckle into her ear, lips brushing her neck like I know she likes. Her body tenses momentarily and goose bumps chase over her skin. This is going to be a piece of cake.
Or I guess I should say a piece of cookie since they’re about to be cleared to floor so that I can play out my dining room table fantasy.
“Mm-hm,” she murmurs as I reach out to dip a finger in the icing. She bats my hand away. “Hands off, Ace.”
“My hands are going to be anywhere that they want,” I tell her and place them perfectly over her boobs. Her hands stop mid-motion as my thumbs brush over the hard tips of her nipples and that sigh that turns me hard as rock falls from her lips. “And you’ll like it.”
“I will, will I?” She asks as she turns around to face me, the paintbrush in her hands covered in frosting hits my chin with the natural motion of the action. And the startled gasp from her lips and the desire clouding her eyes tells me it was purely accidental.
Her eyes flicker down to the green frosting I’m sure is coating my chin and then back to my eyes. She fights the smile on her lips when I raise my eyebrows at her. “You want to play dirty now, do you?”
She looks up at me with mirth in her eyes and the battle to hide her smirk is lost. Her beestung lips spread into a full blown smile as she leans into me, eyes still locked on mine, and licks the frosting off my chin. I swear to God the tip of her tongue is like an open ended livewire because fuck if an electric shock doesn’t mainline straight down to my dick and then back up to jumpstart my heart.
She finishes by sucking gently on my skin and then licking my bottom lip. “There was some right there,” she murmurs against my lips. “I’m just trying to play clean.”
I laugh softly, my cock now hard and ready against the V of her thighs. Images of wiping the counter clear behind her in one fell swoop so that I can have my way with her fill my head again. If she keeps this shit up, it’s going to be more than just an image.
“Sweetheart, that right there was playing dirty…” She starts to argue with me but I cut the words off with my own lips. Fuckin’ A. The frosting on her tongue and the taste of her sears my goddamn memory and what feels like my balls from the ache it creates there. Just when I have here where I want her – sinking against me, lips taking, and tongue demanding – I pull back and reach out to take the paintbrush covered in frosting.
“What?” She says, eyes asking the same thing those pursed lips of hers are that are making the perfect O shape. And hell if my dick isn’t begging to put that space between them to good use, right now.
Before she can comprehend what I’m doing I have the neckline of her cami-tank pulled down, and I’m rewarded for my patience because I was right, she isn’t wearing a bra beneath. Every part of my body begs to take her hard and fast at the sight of her perfect pink nipples. I love the shocked gasp that falls from her mouth when I reach the paintbrush out and paint more frosting around her the hardened peak.
I lean back and admire my handiwork before flicking my eyes back up to hers to find them wide and hazy with need. “See, you’re dirty now too.” I smirk. “Makes it a hell of a lot easier to slide into home plate when you don’t mind a mess.”
“Is that your master plan, huh? This woman has cookies that will burn if —oh Colton…” she moans as my lips close over her nipple and suck gently on it, the frosting a nice add to her already addictive flavor. She part moans, part sighs as I suck a little harder, her hands finding their way to weave into my hair.
I look up to her and the suction of my mouth makes a popping sound when I release her nipple before grazing it softly with my teeth. “Let them burn,” I tell her and fuck if her immediate nod of her head isn’t more of a turn on than her peak in my mouth. The fact that she wants me just as bad as I do her is an oddly fulfilling and arousing notion.
I paint the other side, and I love her watching me as I do it. I make a production of it this time as my dick tells me to hurry the fuck up, but hell, Christmas cookies only come once a year, I might as well make the most of it.
I set the brush down and push her breast up with my hand as I lean forward to tease her again. I love the feeling of her fingers gripping my hair, demanding and needy all at the same time. I swirl the tip of my tongue around the frosting, not wanting to let her go just yet.
The banging on the front door startles the hell out of the both of us.
“What the fuck?” I bark. Rylee’s fingers try to pull me back to her, to ignore the distraction and fuck, I’m all for it. No one’s going to stop me from hitting this homerun. I lean in and press my lips to hers, tongues meeting, her bare chest pressed against my shirt, and her desire addictive as fuck.
The pounding starts again. “Go away!” I shout in frustration as Rylee releases my hair and causes me to groan, “Nooo,” a silent plea for her to ignore whoever it is too.
“Dude, why’s your door fucking locked?”
Rylee and I lock eyes when Becks’s muted voice hits our ears. “Go away, Daniels. I’m trying to get laid!”
Rylee laughs and pushes me away. I object and she grabs my shirt, pulls me into her, and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “See what he needs and then you better get your big stick ready because I’m expecting a grand slam, rookie.” She releases me and raises her eyebrows, suggestion in her eyes and a sexy smile on her lips.
And normally I’d take offense to her rookie comment but the mixture of the look in her eyes and her hands stuffing her tits back in her tank are enough to shut my mouth. She can call me whatever the fuck she wants as long as she’s moaning my name later.
“Yes ma’am,” I say, adjusting my dick in my pants as I walk toward the door. I fling the door open to my oldest friend. “Dude, you really know how to kill a boner don’t you? You better make this quick because we’re playing baseball here.”
Becks looks at me completely confused and the quick moment allows me to realize that something’s wrong. His usual smirk and smart mouth are nonexistent.
“You look like shit. What woman has your panties in a bunch this time, you pansy-ass motherfucker?” I have to tease him. This is our thing. Guys don’t talk about shit like this like women do. We rib and fuck with each other instead of talking about feelings and the kumbaya type crap.
So why do I get the sense that whoever the cryptic someone is that knocked Daniels on his ass while we were on our honeymoon – the woman he won’t talk about – is not his typical run-of-the-mill?
He glances over my shoulder and nods his head at Rylee. He doesn’t give her his usual smile and joke. Something’s definitely up. Fuck. The best friend in me wants to invite him in and the selfish, horny bastard in me doesn’t want to. I glance over my shoulder where Rylee’s wet and frosted and waiting for me. She meets my eyes, and I can see the concern in hers over Becks as well as a trace of green frosting on her collar bone. Fuckin’ A. I groan aloud, fully knowing the homerun I’m about to delay.
I turn from her to face Becks, and step back, waving him into the house. I slap him on the back as he passes by me, put my arm around his neck in greeting, and walk toward the family room. “So what gives, man? Who’s the woman who’s fucking you up?” I ask, never expecting in a million years the answer.
If you HAVE pre-ordered, make sure to fill out this Google doc. to receive (2) chapters of Sweet Ache after Slow Burn is released. You’re going to want to meet Hawkin Play… I assure you…Fill out the form: HERE
A few weeks ago I was contacted by Romance at Random to answer a few questions about the erotic romance genre and how I feel it has affected women today. Want to read my thoughts as well as several other of your favorite authors’? Check out the article: CLICK HERE
And then his voice comes through the speakers as a single spotlight lights up the empty stage. A frenzy ensues all around us as women begin shrieking in epic decibels so that I can’t hear his voice but can feel it somehow. The crowd must feel the same way because the shrieks calm just in time for him to hit the first chorus.
You killed my heart.
You snuffed it out.
You stole my hope.
He sings the notes to their biggest hit, Stolen, and even though the fangirls are on an ecstatic high, the power of his voice a capella silences them. Goose bumps chase over my skin despite the stifling heat of the arena. I’ve heard the song a hundred times on the radio and yet the raw emotion when he sings, like he’s scraping the words from his core, captivates me.
The lights flood the stage in a blaze of brightness, and Hawkin stands there, head down, foot tapping, a striking profile dressed in dark clothing against all of the light. He slowly lifts his head to end the chorus and the guys kick in with their instruments.
And I’m lost.
I know he’s entertaining thousands and has no clue I’m even here and yet I feel like as he peers into what I’m sure is a mass of blinding light on his end that he’s looking straight into me.
©2015 NAL Penguin and K. Bromberg, All rights reserved.
Hmmm Hawkin…. Can’t wait till you ladies get your hands on him too!
A couple of weeks back, I told you all I had a guest post in the German magazine, Love-Letter, to coincide with the release of DRIVEN in Germany on January 15th. Since then, several of you have asked what my article was about and if I could share it. The answer to question number one is that they asked me to write an article explaining why I felt readers would love a race car driver. The answer to number two is the article itself. Here you go:
Picture a man walking along an asphalt stretch, race suit unzipped so that the arms hang loose, shirt beneath fits tight, and an arrogant smirk turns up one corner of his mouth. He walks with the ghosts of a nightmarish childhood always over his shoulder, always haunting him, a constant reminder of the things he never wants, the things he’ll never allow himself to have. He is in the only place he can find solace and outrun his demons, even if just for a moment, the racetrack. He suits up, straps in the car, and drops the hammer as he exits pit row.
Adrenaline rushes through him, blood thunders in his ears, his head is clear for the first time in days, and his hands grip the wheel to give him complete control. It’s just him and the track. His actions and reactions, racer against racer, man against machine, and the ghosts of his past left in his dust as he hits two hundred miles per hour. The concrete wall beside him and the finish line ahead of him, both can make or break him, but neither can define him.
This is his peace. This is who he is, no apologies, no regrets. His need for speed is his salvation and his damnation all at the same time.
We all love our romance heroes in whatever career that makes them who they are – a businessman, a firefighter, a military hero, a boxer, a rock star – but something about a racecar driver called to me. Of course like all literary heroes, we expect him to be a little troubled and a lot good looking, but the question I asked myself was will women be drawn to read a story where the main character has a profession with an inherently male following?
Colton Donavan had been in my head – his story, his denial of worth, his drive to find redemption – and as hard as I tried to fit him in the three piece suit genre that was popular at the time I wrote Driven, that just wasn’t him. All I could see him as, the only career he could have, was a racecar driver.
Of course the career choice and symbolism of it plays perfectly into the plotline with the heroine, a woman recovering from her own ghosts, who spends her life helping damaged boys, but something about Colton’s career stood out to me and made me want to delve further. When women think of a racecar driver, they think Tom Cruise in Days of Thunder or Chris Hemsworth in Rush, so what was it that made me think women would want to read about mine?
First of all, there is something inherently sexy about a man drawn to speed, one who chooses to live his life on that razor thin edge between control and recklessness, life and death. The notion begs the reader to question if he pushes the limits in all aspects of his life. On the track the hero has the ability to control his moves – slow, fast, risky, safe – but off the track does he exert as much control over his lover and the unpredictability that love holds? Can he let go his dominating need for control and let someone in?
The athlete aspect of an alpha male character has always been a draw to readers. The need for the hero to be physically fit is something that is expected in a romance novel, and a racecar driver is no exception. A driver must be in exceptional shape to withstand hours on end in a car, to overcome the fatigue of fighting a steering wheel against the g-force they battle on the track, and to deal with the extreme temperatures they face inside of a helmet and race suit.
But here’s the thing, Colton’s career as a racecar driver helps him cope with his past, but its not what defines him. As with all male heroes in romance novels, it is what’s beneath the surface that captures our hearts. It is the rough exterior with the hints of vulnerability that tugs on our heartstrings and allows us as a reader to see past the actions that infuriate us because they hurt the heroine we’re rooting for. It is watching the female character delve deep enough with patience and obstinance to prove that she’s not going to hurt him like others have. As the reader we love to watch her try to unravel the tight hold the hero has on his control and succeed in unlocking the padlock protecting his heart for the very first time. We root for them when they struggle, blush from their combustible sexual chemistry, and swoon when the hero finally allows himself the chance at love.
The career may help distinguish the man, yes, but it’s the pieces of the little boy mixed with hardened man that wins our hearts in the end. Three-piece suit, military uniform, boxing shorts, baseball uniform – none of them matter because when the hero says “I love you” for the first time, it’s the transformation of the man that has won over our hearts. We can all identify with his profession, but we fall in love with the good guy the heroine has helped him become.
Will readers like Colton the race car driver? Definitely. He paints a striking picture in his fire suit with metal surrounding him, and adrenaline coursing through his veins like a necessity to survive. Will readers love Colton once they get a glimpse of the man beneath, who is struggling with his past and how he can overcome it, and find love with Rylee? There’s not a doubt in my mind.