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Wednesday, May 9, 2018

His Pawn is Free on Kindle Unlimited!

The media calls him the "sexy senator."

Cold, wickedly handsome, and too cocky for his own good, he gets what he wants with filthy promises and a smirk.

I had no plan to be that girl.

But that was before he found out my secret.

Before he made me a proposition--one semester. Anything goes. And my problem would go away.

"I'm a politician, Ms. Courtney. Twisting the truth is in my DNA."

I should have left when he said that.

I didn't. Because I couldn't get enough of the way he possessed my body, my heart, my soul.

My name is Elle Courtney, but Graham Delaney--he called me his dove. He should have called me his pawn.

FREE on Kindle Unlimited 

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"I'm not sure I can write about His Pawn without blushing and needing to fan myself, because this romance is deliciously naughty and scorching hot. Graham begins their relationship with an unscrupulous agenda, he's brought to his knees by love, and he's one of the most enthralling and memorable antiheroes that I've ever read." -Mary Dubé, USA Today HEA

"Politics. Sex. And all the angst. I couldn't put it down. Like reality tv but so much hotter!" -#1 NYT Bestseller Rachel Van Dyken

"Emily blow me away with your talent. HIS PAWN is FIVE SCORCHING STARS ALL THE WAY!" -WSJ Bestseller Ilsa Madden-Mills

Monday, April 30, 2018

Ravaged: Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Scooting as far back on the couch as possible, Sienna silently repeats what I just said once more.
You’re mine. For the next ten days, that is.
She closes her eyes for a few seconds. When she opens them, I freeze at the look she offers me. It’s the same that drew me to her to begin with. There’s a hint of apprehension—because, fuck, she’s starting to understand exactly what she got herself into the moment she signed that contract this morning—but underneath that is something else. Desire. I drum my fingertips on the desk and stare back at her. Study that gleam in her eyes like it’s a fucking test until she rips her attention from mine.
She gazes at the shitty abstract art hanging over the desk.
“You don’t have to look at me like…” She’s so breathless, her voice trails off until it’s barely a whisper. Impatiently, I wait for her to continue, hating the way my dick twitches as she licks her lips and a soft flush creeps up her chest. I wonder if she has any idea how sexy that is? Or how many times over the past couple years I’ve pictured her doing that? Blushing because of something I’ve said or done.
I’ve performed in dozens of cities since I met her. Shot plenty of other music videos and met so many wardrobe assistants, their names have started to blur in my brain. But I never forgot Sienna. No matter how goddamn desperate I was to scrub her—and the regret of what had happened between us—from my thoughts, I was always unsuccessful.
Shoving the memories aside, I set my lips in a hard line. She’s still focused on the painting, content to leave whatever she was about to say hanging in the air, but I’m not about to let that happen. As I walk across the room, her eyes widen, and she slowly begins to turn toward me. She doesn’t appear to be breathing by the time I stop in front of her. Still, at least she’s no longer pretending that a watercolor rendering of limp, deconstructed flowers is the most exciting thing she’s ever seen.
Now, we’re eye-to-eye. Hazel and blue. Lucas versus Sienna.
I reach out to her and she draws in a ragged breath. “How am I looking at you?” I ask. My hand is so close to her face that I feel the warmth from her skin, but I don’t touch her. I refuse to let that happen—yet. “Tell me what you were going to say.”
She challenges my gaze for a beat, but then she presses her lips together and sighs. Points out that the look on my face was the same as it was then—two years ago when I swore I would have her. I draw away from her, stuffing both hands in the pockets of my jeans. This is going to be a roadblock. I can already imagine her using everything that went down during the “All Over You” video shoot against me at every turn over the next ten days. Not that I can blame her, but it makes me more determined to make things right. To get what I want. To devour the woman with the red hair and nervous smile and the intense desire to please.
Lifting a shoulder, I tell her she’s wrong even though she’s got me fucking figured out like she’s known me my whole life.
She rolls her eyes.
I tell her that I plan to follow through with making her mine this time.
She stares down at the backs of her hands.
And it’s not until I motion her to me to take her to her room that her confidence wavers again. As she approaches me, with her face lowered to the floor, she grinds her teeth. I’ll never tell her this, but I had this teacher—Mr. Johnson—that had a nasty habit of doing that shit. Gritting his teeth whenever someone pissed him off. Since I was often on the receiving end of that sound, it quickly became an annoyance, but coming from Sienna…
It’s a turn-on.
She works her teeth from the front of the house—where I get her luggage despite her protests—all the way to her bedroom. She stays several paces behind me, but I still hear her teeth clicking together, like she’s right in my ear and doing it on purpose. It makes me want to turn her over my knee. Releasing a low growl, I swing open the door to her room and nod inside. “Welcome home.”
Her lips part as she drags her gaze from the floor. For fucks sake, that took long enough. Fussing with a strand of red hair, she peeks inside, does a double take when she sees it’s the size of her apartment back in Los Angeles, then swallows hard. “Wow, this is incredible. And very…” Her brows tug together and she glares at the gleaming hardwood floor. “Very generous.”
“Hmm.” I don’t bother to inform her it’s also very temporary. I have ten nights with Sienna Jensen. And it will be a fucking fail on my part if she spends more than one in this bedroom while we’re under the same roof.
“And it’s … quiet.”
I also don’t bother to point out that I’ve frequented the music room on the lowest level every night since I’ve been in Nashville. This bedroom has shit for soundproofing and has a front row seat to my guitar and the noise of the Steinway piano. Twisting my lips into a secretive grin, I carry her bags into the room and shove them inside the closet. I glance at the bed then meet her blue stare.
“It’s small,” I drawl.
She cocks an eyebrow and I don’t miss how her focus momentarily drops to my zipper.
I snort. “For fucks sake, Red, you and I both know the word small and my cock don’t even belong in the same sentence.” I gesture to the floral bedspreads. “I was talking about the bed belonging to one of my gracious hosts.”
“That bed is the size of the one in my apartment, so trust me, it’s plenty big.”
“That’s because I’ve never been in it with you, Red.”
Fisting a handful of her black sweater, she closes her eyes and counts to ten under her breath. As soon as she reaches ten, she glowers at me and mutters something under her breath about professionalism. Kylie would be so proud. “If you’re staying in their house, where are they? Whoever they are?”
As I explain to her that Artie—the president of my label—owns the house and that she’s camping out in his daughter’s room, I stretch out on the small sofa at the bottom of the bed. She listens intently, pacing across the room as I talk. When she starts to sit down on the edge of the couch, I move my feet to block her and link my fingers together behind my head. Her mouth falls open in surprise.
“Not a chance. You’ve got work to do, Sienna. No sitting down.” If she wants professionalism, I can give her that. Somewhat. I can’t resist grinning, and her teeth automatically clench together. “And stop grinding your teeth.”
She looks like she wants to argue. I fully expect her to open that mouth of hers and immediately start, but she squares her shoulders. Smooths her expression into something that’s not as murderous and stops grinding her teeth.
“Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”