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Friday, July 21, 2017

#ReleaseBlitz: Jacked Off by Cory Cyr; #NowAvailable, #OutNow, #Live, #99Pennies



★‿¸.•*´´*•.¸(*•.¸¸.•*)¸.•*´´*•.¸‿★
        Jacked Off by Cory Cyr
                 Is LIVE!!
        Only 99¢/Free KU!!
       FOR A LIMITED TIME!!
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Blurb:

Remmy Winters has survived a brutal divorce, the grueling heat of Las Vegas, and being judged on her physical assets instead of her brains. Now, as the CEO of the largest health foundation in the world, getting Dr. Jackson Oriell to fall in line should be effortless. That is until she sees him. Tall, young, and due to inherit billions, he’s nothing more than a modern Neanderthal in a man bun. Regardless of her first impression, she finds herself strangely captivated by this hot mess. She’s never had a problem attracting men, but Jackson isn’t going to come easily or literally. He’s sure to be the challenge of a lifetime.

Jackson Oriell was born in Africa, educated in England, and is now exiled to Texas to spend time with his terminally ill father. After practicing medicine for the last six years in the jungle, he has returned out of love and duty. His main objectives are securing the funds to continue his research and getting back to Jabari. That is until he meets Remmy. Their first meeting is tempestuous and awkward at best. His father’s new CEO is sexy as hell, and everything about the petite spitfire sends his moral compass spinning.

Suddenly, everything he wants includes her. But he’s been holding on to a dark secret for years,  universe, destroying any future relationship with her as well as the reputation of the Oriell Foundation.


Get Yours Here ➡

Amazon US ➡ http://amzn.to/2uhcWI1
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Paperback ➡ http://amzn.to/2ufb6pu


Join Cory’s release party for Jacked Off here ➡



Dog Eared Publicity Presents: This Is A Bust by Ed Lin; #BookTour, #ComingSoon, #PreOrder






Set in New York’s Chinatown in 1976, this sharp and gritty novel is a mystery set against the backdrop of a city in turmoil
Robert Chow is a Vietnam vet and an alcoholic. He’s also the only Chinese American cop on the Chinatown beat, and the only police officer who can speak Cantonese. But he’s basically treated like a token, trotted out for ribbon cuttings and community events.
So he shouldn’t be surprised when his superiors are indifferent to his suspicions that an old Chinese woman’s death may have actually been a murder. But he sure is angry. With little more than his own demons to fuel him, Chow must take matters into his own hands.
Rich with the details of its time and place, this homage to noir will appeal to fans of S.J. Rozan and Michael Connelly.










January 20, 1976. The Hong Kong-biased newspaper ran an editorial about how the Chinese who had just come over were lucky to get jobs washing dishes and waiting tables in Chinatown. Their protest was making all Chinese people look bad. If the waiters didn’t like their wages, they should go ask the communists for jobs and see what happens.

Here in America, democracy was going to turn 200 years old in July. But the Chinese waiters who wanted to organize a union were going directly against the principles of freedom that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln had fought for.

Those waiters were also disrespecting the previous generations of Chinese who had come over and worked so hard for so little. If it weren’t for our elders, the editorial said, today we would be lumped in with the lazy blacks and Spanish people on welfare.

I folded the newspaper, sank lower in my chair, and crossed my arms. I banged my heels against the floor.

“Just a minute, you’re next! Don’t be so impatient!” grunted Law, one of the barbers. A cigarette wiggled in his mouth as he snipped away on a somber-looking Chinese guy’s head. When he had one hand free, he took his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray built into the arm cushion of his customer’s chair.

He reached into the skyline of bottles against the mirror for some baby powder. Law sprinkled it onto his hand and worked it into the back of the somber guy’s neck while pulling the sheet off from inside his collar. Clumps of black hair scampered to the floor as he shook off the sheet.

The customer paid. Law pulled his drawer out as far as it would go and tucked the bills into the back. Then he came over to me.

Law had been cutting my hair since I was old enough to want it cut. He was in his early 60s and had a head topped with neatly sculpted snow. His face was still soft and supple, but he had a big mole on the lower side of his left cheek.

You couldn’t help but stare at it when he had his back turned because it stood out in profile, wiggling in sync with his cigarette.

He looked at the newspaper on my lap.

“We should give all those pro-union waiters guns and send them to Vietnam!” Law grunted. “They’ll be begging to come back and bus tables.”

“They wouldn’t be able to take the humidity,” I said.

“That’s right, they’re not tough like you! You were a brave soldier! OK, come over here. I’m ready for you now,” Law said, wiping off the seat. I saw hair stuck in the foam under the ripped vinyl cover, but I sat down anyway. Hair could only make the seat softer.

“I don’t mean to bring it up, but you know it’s a real shame what happened. The Americans shouldn’t have bothered to send in soldiers, they should have just dropped the big one on them. You know, the A-bomb.”

“Then China would have dropped an A-bomb on the United States,” I said.

“Just let them! Commie weapons probably don’t even work!” Law shouted into my right ear as he tied a sheet around my neck.

“They work good enough,” I said.

When Chou En Lai had died two weeks before, the Greater China Association had celebrated with a ton of firecrackers in the street in front of its Mulberry Street offices and handed out candy to the obligatory crowd. The association had also displayed a barrel of fireworks they were going to set off when Mao kicked, which was going to be soon, they promised. Apparently, the old boy was senile and bedridden. 

“Short on the sides, short on top,” I said.

“That’s how you have to have it, right? Short all around, right?” Law asked.

“That’s the only way it’s ever been cut.”

If you didn’t tell Law how you wanted your hair, even if you were a regular, he’d give you a Beefsteak Charlie’s haircut, with a part right down the center combed out with a Chinese version of VO5. I was going to see my mother in a few days, and I didn’t want to look that bad.

“Scissors only, right? You don’t like the electric clipper, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. When I hear buzzing by my ears, I want to swat everything within reach. Law’s old scissors creaked through my hair. Sometimes I had to stick my jaw out and blow clippings out of my eyes.

The barbershop’s two huge plate glass windows cut into each other at an acute angle in the same shape as the street. Out one window was the sunny half of Doyers Street. The other was in the shade. How many times had I heard that this street was the site of tong battles at the turn of the century? How many times had I heard tour guides say that the barbershop was built on the “Bloody Angle”?

The barbershop windows were probably the original ones, old enough so they were thicker at the bottom than at the top. They distorted images of people from the outside, shrinking heads and bloating asses. In the winters, steam from the hot shampoo sink covered the top halves of the windows like lacy curtains in an abandoned house.

In back of me, a bulky overhead hair dryer whined like a dentist’s drill on top of a frowning woman with thick glasses getting a perm.

The barbers had to shout to hear each other. The news station on the radio was nearly drowned out. The only time you could hear it was when they played the xylophone between segments or made the dripping-sink sounds.

If you knew how to listen for it, you could sometimes hear the little bell tied to the broken arm of the pneumatic pump on the door. The bell hung from a frayed loop of red plastic tie from a bakery box. When the bell went off, one or two barbers would yell out in recognition of an old head.

The bell went off, and Law yelled right by my ear.

“Hey!” he yelled. Two delayed “Hey”s went off to my left and right. The chilly January air swept through the barbershop. A thin man in a worn wool coat heaved the door closed behind him and twisted off his felt hat. His hands were brown, gnarled, and incredibly tiny, like walnut shells. He fingered the brim of his hat and shifted uneasily from foot to foot, but made no motion to take off his coat or drop into one of the four empty folding chairs by the shadow side of Doyers. He swept his white hair back, revealing a forehead that looked like a mango gone bad.

“My wife just died,” he said. If his lungs hadn’t been beat up and dusty like old vacuum-cleaner bags, it would have been a shout. “My wife died,” he said again, as if he had to hear it to believe it. The hairdryer shut down.

“Oh,” said Law. “I’m sorry.” He went on with my hair. No one else said anything. Someone coughed. Law gave a half-grin grimace and kept his head down, the typical stance for a Chinese man stuck in an awkward situation. The radio babbled on.

The barbers just wanted to cut hair and have some light conversation about old classmates and blackjack. Why come here to announce that your wife had died? The guy might as well have gone to the Off Track Betting joint on Bowery around the corner. No one was giving him any sympathy here.

Death was bad luck. Talking about death was bad luck. Listening to someone talk about death was bad luck. Who in Chinatown needed more bad luck?

“What should I do?” the thin man asked. He wasn’t crying, but his legs were shaking. I could see his pant cuffs sweep the laces of his polished wing tips. “What should I do?” he asked again. The xylophone on the radio went off.

I stood up and swept the clippings out of my hair. The bangs were longer on one side of my head. I slipped the sheet off from around my neck and coiled it onto the warmth of the now-vacant seat. Law opened a drawer, dropped in his scissors, and shut it with his knee. He leaned against his desk and fumbled for a cigarette in his shirt pocket.

I blew off the hair from my shield and brushed my legs off. I pushed my hat onto my head.

“Let’s go,” I told the thin man.





Ed Lin, a native New Yorker of Taiwanese and Chinese descent, is the first author to win three Asian American Literary Awards and is an all-around standup kinda guy. His books include Waylaid, and a trilogy set in New York’s Chinatown in the 70s: This Is a Bust, Snakes Can’t Run and One Red Bastard. Ghost Month, published by Soho Crime in July 2014, is a Taipei-based mystery, and Incensed, published October 2016, continues that series.
Lin lives in Brooklyn with his wife, actress Cindy Cheung, and son.

Connect with Ed at http://www.edlinforpresident.com or on social media at:






Monday, July 17

Book featured at Cheryl's Book Nook

Book featured at Chill and Read

Guest blogging at Mythical Books


Tuesday, July 18

Interviewed at I'm Shelf-ish

Book featured at Elise's Audiobook Digest

Book featured at Books, Dreams, Life


Wednesday, July 19

Guest blogging at Must Read Faster

Book featured at Diana's Book Reviews

Interviewed at Harmonious Publicity


Thursday, July 20

Book featured at The Writers' Life

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Interviewed at As the Page Turns


Friday, July 21

Book featured at Lynn's Romance Enthusiasm

Guest blogging at Thoughts in Progress


Sunday, July 23

Book featured at T's Stuff

Interviewed at The Literary Nook


Monday, July 24

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Tuesday, July 25

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Wednesday, July 26

Book featured at Don't Judge, Read

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Thursday, July 27

Book featured at The Dark Phantom


Friday, July 28

Book featured at A Book Lover

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InkSlinger PR Presents: Skirt Chaser by Stacey Kennedy; #TeaserReveal, #ComingSoon, #PreOrder, #Giveaway


Today we have the gorgeous teaser reveal for Skirt Chaser by Stacey Kennedy! Check it out and preorder your copy now!

Title: Skirt Chaser
Author: Stacey Kennedy
Release Date: August 8th
Genre: Contemporary Romance

About Skirt Chaser:

Love gets filthy in this new erotic romance by USA Today bestselling author, Stacey Kennedy.

Greyson Crawford works hard by day and plays even harder at night. And he understands and obeys the rules of the game. One, don’t mix business and pleasure. Two, employees are off-limits. So, he’s been eagerly counting down the days until interior designer, Evie Richards is no longer under contract with his Seattle architecture firm. But when that day comes, he realizes there are more obstacles in his way. The biggest…Evie herself.

Until Evie gets asked to be the maid-of-honor in her best friend’s destination wedding, and Evie needs a date. The circumstances are perfect for Greyson to set his plan of seduction into motion. He will happily play the boyfriend for the weeklong wedding event, if Evie will surrender to his every command and play in his bed.

For Evie, it’s all fun and games until Greyson’s first touch; then she begins to question what’s real. She knows better than to fall for a guy like Greyson—a skirt chasing ladies’ man—but with every slow caress and kinky adventure, she realizes that Greyson knows what he wants, and it isn’t just her body surrendering to him…it’s her heart.

Preorder Today:


KINDLE | NOOK | IBOOKS | KOBO

Exclusive Excerpt:


Intent and careful to take his time not to scare any other employees in the restroom, Grey entered the simple and modern bathroom with the five stalls. Only one door was closed, and there was no one at the sink, so he moved toward the vanity and leaned against it. Hands shoved into his pockets, he stared at the closed door, giving Evie the time she needed. That’s when he heard her soft cries, and with those pained noises, something inside of him tensed.

It was a sensation strong enough to make him question what it was about this woman that drew him in so intently. She’d gotten a grip on his mind and body so tightly that he pondered her situation, and his, and what he could do about both. He’d become so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize she’d opened the door until she was leaving the stall and striding out.

Head down, she hadn’t noticed him yet, so he called out to her, “Evie.”

Her head snapped up, a scream ripping from her throat, hands pressing against her chest. “Holy shit!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” His amusement washed away when he took a good look at her face. There was so much pain there. He didn’t like it.

The shock from her face slowly faded. “Why are you in here?” she asked.

“To return your phone to you.” He moved to her, watching her following his every step. The heat in her eyes was instant, and that’d always been the problem. She wanted him. Christ, did she want him, he could tell. But she was smart and clever, never one to cross the professional line either. She was also a good girl, who likely needed love before sex. Maybe that was the real reason she didn’t ever cross the line. Maybe it was less about the job and more about protecting her heart from a guy that screamed danger. He could understand why.

Though he never was a man who took the easy road, and he sure as shit liked a challenge. He stared into her gorgeous eyes, and a plan formed. One that got him what he wanted, and yet would benefit her, too. He’d never been a sly or shady guy, but he was a good businessman. And that meant using a situation to his advantage.

“So, that’s it. You got out the good cry you needed to,” he said to her, and he liked the way her lips parted when he leaned in toward her; it showed him just how much she yearned for his kiss. “Your ex is marrying your best friend,” he added. “He’s an asshole. She’s a bitch. This is happening, but it’s how you deal with it that truly matters.”

“He’s not an asshole,” she said softly, shaking her head. “And she’s not a bitch. I’ve helped plan their wedding for the last year, and I’m happy for them. I think…maybe it hadn’t sunk in or something.” She drew in a deep breath, releasing it out her nose and added with a soft smile, “But I’m better now. I’m sorry I fell apart out there.”

“One, I disagree with you,” he retorted sternly. “I’m not convinced these aren’t terrible people. And two, do not apologize that their selfishness hurt you. In fact, I’d say it’s time to get revenge.”

The side of her mouth arched slightly. He noted her long exhale, and he knew that had nothing to do with emotions. That it was this push and pull thing going on between them. Call it chemistry, intensity, whatever, it was as addictive as it was captivating. “How exactly do I do that?” She grabbed a paper towel, got it a bit wet with cold water, and then began wiping off her makeup, adding, “Murder them?” She gave him her sexy smile that pooled heat in his groin.

Grey chuckled, leaning his hip against the counter. “Perhaps that’s a bit extreme. Murder means jail time, and you going away is definitely not what I want.”

She slowly glanced at him then, cheeks flushing pink, and the dilation of her pupils was obvious. That look had snagged him the very first day after his COO hired her to design the lobby of the interior of their latest multi-million-dollar high-rise.

Now, the look intensified, hardening his cock, centering his mind on all the wicked things he’d like to do to her. He stepped toward her, as she spun around, leaning against the counter, wide eyes on him. There was something about her, maybe her innocence, maybe this unexplainable connection that had only grown since he worked alongside her, but it captured him in an unbreakable spell.

In the seconds that passed, the desire practically wafted off her, scented so sweet his cock went hard just that easily. As it always did, the space between them felt charged with electricity, but he’d never gotten this close to her before. He never let her feel the extent of how he wanted her. Now, he held nothing back.

“I have a better idea than jail time,” he told her, giving her enough distance that if she wanted to move and leave the bathroom, she could. When she stayed put, he added, “Show these bastards up. Take me with you, and make them both ragingly jealous.”

Her eyes searched his, then she broke out in loud laughter. “Yeah, right. Hilarious.”

She might have said one thing, but the only thing he noticed was that she wasn’t moving, eyes locked on him. “I’m not kidding,” he said, erasing the distance between them, placing both hands on either side of her, trapping her between him and the counter.

“You’re not kidding,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

Grey glanced from her bottom lip she nibbled to her flushed cheeks to her smoldering eyes… Christ, what he’d do to this woman. It would be indecent. “I would never joke about something that so clearly upsets you,” he told her seriously. “I can only imagine you want to one-up them. I know I would. Use me to do it.”

“She’s my best friend,” she said softly. “I don’t need to one-up her.”

He let his gaze roam over her pretty face before looking into her smoldering eyes again. “Tell me it’s never crossed your mind what it would feel like to walk in there not like a sad third wheel but like a woman who owns the world.”

“And how would that ever happen?’

“You’ll have me on your arm.”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“Angel, I am never the third wheel of anything,” he told her, dead serious. “I’m the engine, the accelerator, and the whole damn car.”

She swallowed deeply and studied him, hard. “All right,” she eventually said, “say I’m game and actually agree to this crazy plan, what do you get out of it?”

“I get you.” He brought his mouth close enough to tease her. She wanted his kiss, angling her head backward, parting her lips. He dragged his nose across hers, and added, “I get to have you in all the ways you know I want you. Beneath me, over me, against a wall, on your knees, screaming my name, whatever I want. Completely under my control.” And to ensure there were no misunderstandings, he sternly added, “My game. My rules. Your surrender, until we’re back in Seattle.”

In a breathy voice, she asked, “Tell me why any sane woman would do this?”

He grinned at her—a sly smile that worked its charm on many women but seemed to have an even greater effect on her. He watched the way the heat rippled through her, and her breath grew rough and raspy, and fuck, did he want to make her moan.

“First, and most importantly,” he answered, staying on point, “you will do this because we both know you’ve been looking for a good reason to say yes to a little guilt-free, no-strings-attached with me. So, here it is. I’m giving you the perfect scenario for us to make that happen. The rules are clear. There can be no misunderstandings.”

She hadn’t blinked. “And second?”

“Secondly,” he said, moving his nose to her neck, inhaling her scent of sugar and spice while he slid back up her smooth skin to her ear, feeling her shuddering under his touch. “I’m that guy that every woman, including your bitch of a best friend, will want.” He lifted his head, staring into her lust-filled eyes. “I’m the perfect guy to show your shithead ex-boyfriend you’ve moved up in the world.”

She finally blinked. “When exactly would this arrangement start?”

“Tonight. My house. Eight o’clock. Bring your suitcase.” He paused, considered his next steps. “Send your flight and resort details to my email so I can get that squared away.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He took her chin, tilting her eyes to lock onto his. “The proper reply is: ‘Yes, Grey, I agree to your terms.’”

Silence fell.

A slowly seductive, delicious darkness slid over her eyes with her grin. “Yes, Grey, I agree to your terms.”


About the Author:

USA Today bestselling author Stacey Kennedy has written more than 30 romances, including titles in her wildly hot Club Sin, Dirty Little Secrets, and Filthy Dirty Love series. Her books are about real people with real-life problems, searching for that special thing we call love…in a very sexy way. When she’s not burning up the pages and setting e-readers ablaze, she’s living her happily ever after with her husband and two young children in southwestern Ontario. She’s a firm believer that wine, chocolate, and sinfully sexy books can cure all of life’s problems. To keep in touch with Stacey, get updates right to your inbox at staceykennedy.com/newsletter/.

Stacey’s Website | Newsletter | Twitter | Facebook Author Page | Instagram | Pinterest | Goodreads


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InkSlinger PR Presents: Drunk Dial by Penelope Ward; #CoverReveal, #ComingSoon, #PreOrder

We are excited to bring you the upcoming standalone from New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Wall Street Journal Bestselling author Penelope Ward.

DRUNK DIAL will release on AUGUST 21!



Cover designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA designs
Cover Model: Vadim Ivanov
Cover Photography: Kevin Roldan



From New York Times bestselling author Penelope Ward, comes a new, sexy standalone novel.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Look up Landon Roderick, that boy from childhood whom I’d never been able to forget—even though he so easily forgot about me—and call him.

Then again, anything sounds like a good idea when you’ve had a little too much wine before bed, right? It was supposed to be just a quick, meaningless, prank call. Instead, I went off on him—unloading thirteen years of pent-up emotions.

I didn’t think he’d call me back.

I certainly could never have anticipated the weeks of sexually tense phone conversations that followed as I got to know the man he’d become.

Turned out, Landon had never really forgotten me, either. That special connection we had was still there. I opened up to him, but there were also things about me he didn’t know. And he had his own secrets.

Over the countless hours we talked on the phone, I wondered what would happen if we actually saw each other. One night, I did something impulsive again. Only this time, I went to the airport and booked a ticket to California. We were about to find out if one phone call could bring two lost souls together or if my drunk dial really was all just a big mistake.

A complete STANDALONE.




(No Amazon e-book preorder. Will go live on/around release day.)






Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Wall Street Journal Bestselling author of thirteen novels. With over a million books sold, her titles have placed on the New York Times Bestseller list sixteen times. She is the proud mother of a beautiful 12-year-old girl with autism (the inspiration for the character Callie in Gemini) and a 10-year-old boy. Penelope, her husband, and kids reside in Rhode Island.


Connect with Penelope Ward:



Other standalones from Penelope Ward:

Mack Daddy:


Neighbor Dearest:


Stepbrother Dearest:


RoomHate:



Mister Moneybags: (co-written with Vi Keeland)


Playboy Pilot: (co-written with Vi Keeland)


Stuck-Up Suit: (co-written with Vi Keeland)


Cocky Bastard: (co-written with Vi Keeland)



Sins of Sevin:


Jake Undone (Jake #1):


Jake Understood (Jake #2):


My Skylar:


Gemini:


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