Friday, July 8, 2016

Release Blitz for Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee by Julia Kent




Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancée


Book Blurb:
We skipped right over the whole fiancée thing and went straight from girlfriend to wife.
At least, I think that’s what happened. I woke up after my brother’s Vegas wedding reception with my luscious girlfriend in bed with me. We’re both wearing wedding rings.
So is her coworker, Josh.
And our Vegas chauffeur, Geordi.
Who the hell am I married to?
Unraveling this mystery will be as difficult as figuring out why Amanda and I are having panic attacks over the thought of being husband and wife.
Or, whoever we’re actually married to.
Oh, ^%$#.
It’s true that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, with one exception:
If she’s my wife, we’ll make it work.
If she’s not?
I’ll make it happen.
Get the 9th book in Julia Kent's New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series as Andrew and Amanda sort out their wild Vegas night...and the rest of their lives.


Buy Links:
PLEASE CHOOSE ONLY ONE EXCERPT TO GO WITH YOUR POST
EXCERPT #1:
“We’re not—you don’t really—we can’t be—”
“Married?”
She laughs, but it’s a brittle sound. “Come on. We didn’t actually have a wedding last night.”
“We didn’t? You’re sure?” I perk up. Great. She remembers last night. I squeeze my eyes and try to recall something—anything—that happened after Declan and Shannon said their goodbyes at the reception last night.
“I’m, well, I mean...” Twisting in my arms, she looks at me with those big, wide, trusting eyes, her left hand splayed against my bare chest, digging in where the robe has separated. “You don’t remember what happened?”
My voice drops with uncertainty.
Hers goes up.
“No.”
“Quit joking.”
“Not joking.”
“We both can’t remember any part of last night?”
“When does your memory end?” I ask.
Mascara is streaked along the corner of her eye, and any makeup she wore last night currently resides somewhere on my skin or on the bedsheets. I can only imagine what I look like.
Amanda, though, is gorgeous. In my arms and looking at me with a perplexed expression, biting her lower lip while she flips through the filing cabinets of memory in her mind, and—
“I don’t know.”
I sit up. “You’re the fixer.”
“I know! But I remember saying goodnight to Shannon, hugging Declan, and then—poof! Nothing.”
Poof.
“That’s when my memory ends, too,” I say, my skin beginning to crawl. “I know one thing: we did not have a foursome.”
“And I soooooo did not sleep with Josh. He’s gay. The man can’t handle watching a birth video. A real-life vagina would send him into cardiac arrest.”
“I know my heart pounds whenever I see yours,” I whisper. She gives me a reluctant smile, in spite of her hangover.
“That was baaaaaad,” she groans.
“All signs point to the sex question being put to rest. Worst case, all we did was sleep with each other,” I note.
“Worst case? Buddy, sleeping with me is best case. Best case. Always best.”
That was an unfortunate choice of words on my part. Before I can do damage control, she speaks.
“What if we are?” she hisses.
“Are what?”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“Married.”
EXCERPT #2:
She is sitting on the edge of the tub, crying softly, fingers buried in her hair, the room completely overtaken by steam.
“Hey.”
She sniffs but says nothing.
“It’s not that bad,” I say, bending in front of her.
“Are you insane? It’s not that bad? If this isn’t that bad, how the hell do you define bad?”
I let that sink in.
“Bad,” I finally reply, “is when your brother has to choose between you and your mother.”
She gasps.
“Bad is when your mother thinks the father of her child has killed her in a drunk-driving accident.”
She sobs.
“This? This is a situation, Amanda. This can be managed.”
“You have a very stark way of putting things in perspective.”
“That’s my job.”
“I might be married to one of three men! One of whom faints at the sight of vaginas!”
“I’d like to be very clear that I am not that man,” I say, clearing my throat.
“A fainting goat would have a better chance of remaining conscious than Josh looking at some pink.”
“Or orange.”
She gives me a weak smile. “Ha ha. We have no memory. How do we manage this?”
“One shower at a time.”
Unexpectedly, she reaches down to her left forearm with her right hand and riiiiiiip!
“What are you doing?”
In one smooth move, she grimaces and tears the worn bandage off her left forearm, revealing a network of animal claw scratches. Amanda does the same with her right forearm, leaving me stunned.
“I’m ripping off the Band-aid,” she says, her voice filled with pain.
“You still need to see a doctor.”
“No. I need a shower, a gallon of ibuprofen, more coffee, and you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
We stand and I pull her into my arms, her naked body soft and sticky against my skin and open robe.
“If I have to be married to anyone, I hope it’s you,” I whisper, before kissing her softly. My blood pounds against my skin, my breathing slow, as the scent of her fills me. Her shoulder is so soft against my chin. She relaxes against me, so delicate, yet strong. Less than a week ago, I watched her nearly drown, a part of me dying as seconds ticked by underwater and I couldn’t free her fast enough. Sheer determination got her to the surface in time.
Overriding instinct takes a terrible toll on the body.
And it’s even worse on the heart.
“Considering the options, I’m not sure whether to be flattered or to hit you.”
“Trust me. It’s a compliment. Besides, I’m not sure I can handle any more pain right now.”
Steam surrounds us, making my lungs fill slowly. The warmth helps, but being alone, upright, with her in my arms is the best medicine right now. So much remains unspoken between us. The vocabulary just isn’t there. I wonder if that’s the whole point of committing to one person: you have the rest of your lives to figure out how to say what you feel. You build a language for two. Fluency isn’t optional.
While the rest of the world ticks on, and my workload piles up, I can ignore my mistakes and the puzzling circumstances of our possible marriage if I just kiss her again.
So I do.
And in that kiss, the first dangerous thought of the day slams through me.
Would it be so bad if I am her husband after all?
EXCERPT #3: (Sexy)
Water is my second home. Swimming twice a week keeps me sane. Lap after lap, stroke after stroke, I disappear into the pool at Declan’s place, the one in my apartment building too warm for miles of swimming. You fade into nothing but the differentiated cells of the body when you turn into a machine that reaches, kicks, breathes—and repeats ad infinitum.
Here in the resort's hot spring inside the spa, I reach, I kick, I breathe—and I kiss her until I disappear into the water and Amanda, my own name fading as I become nothing but water and love, tongue and heat, fingertips and pulse. We kiss in the water, my arms steel bands that cage her, our bodies melting in the humid heat of a fake rainforest that contains too much real love.
Releasing her, I wriggle out of my wet pants, kick off my shoes, and swim away, letting the water take me, a simple crawl speeding me to the end of the meandering pool. Designed to look like a naturally-shaped pond, there is no true side, and I misjudge, whacking my hand on the green-painted cement edge.
I can’t do an underwater flip, so I pivot, returning to her, roaring up with a few butterfly strokes designed to cover her with a giant wave of foam.
She’s laughing when I surface, her hair covering her like wet ribbons, her mouth open with joy, eyes wide and amused. I hope her headache’s gone. I hope her hangover has dissolved. I hope we can capture this moment for a few more seconds and laugh together, because it’s the first time in my life that I’ve felt like infinite good exists in the world, and I’m only touching a tiny grain of sand in a vast ocean of it.
“You swim like Michael Phelps!” she gasps.
“Michael Phelps swims like me,” I correct her.
A fit of giggles overcomes her and I watch, cocking my head to catch her at an odd angle, the tiny perspective change an order of magnitude in difference. Luminous and winsome, Amanda’s eyes catch mine, darting between them, as if she’s trying to look at me forever.
I grab her and the brush of her breasts against my bare, wet chest takes my breath away.
“You have the body of a swimmer,” she says, her voice rumbling, making me groan as she nips my earlobe.
“And you have the body of a goddess.” I reach for her and she pulls away, giggling.
“Not here!”
“Why not?”
“We can’t have sex in public!”
I look around. “No one else is here. I own the resort.” I bridge the gap between us and watch her react to my words. Lust and restraint fight for dominance in those lush brown eyes, warm and tempted, her pupils big and open.
“It’s not like we can just lock the door.”
I walk out of the zero-gravity pool and grab the corded phone by the door. Two sentences later, it’s done. A red light on a control panel pops on. Locked.
“Yes,” I say, turning to her with a grin. “We can.”
It’s good to be the king.
I can’t get back to her fast enough, the water welcoming me, the knowledge that we’re alone and will not be disturbed a titillating, erotic secret that makes me so hard, I ache. She’s in my arms and I’m kissing her, bare, wet skin dominating every second, and if I can’t get inside her soon, I’m going to die.
EXCERPT #4:
I finish my lukewarm coffee. Weed through more than a hundred email messages that Gina already triaged. These are the truly urgent ones. I pare them down to eleven that are impossible to solve in my first full day back.
By the time I’m in my spin clothes, my trainer, Vince, has arrived. He’s carrying a glass bottle filled with limp, brown seaweed and a foil packet.
“Here’s your kombucha,” he announces, handing me the seaweed.
“I’m not drinking that shit, Vince.”
“It’s fermented! It’s good for your gut.”
“Beer’s fermented, too.”
He shoves the foil pouch in my hand. Vince has long hair, thick and braided, with a clean-shaven, wide face and a nearly hairless body. In spite of his enormous size, he cycles competitively and does private training for a few CEOs in the area.
He’s also merciless.
Which is why I hired him.
“What’s this? Kelp botanicals in a druid-tear solution?”
“MCT oil.”
“Isn’t that illegal everywhere except Colorado and Washington?”
“It’s medium-chain fatty acids, not marijuana.” Vince begins reciting all the health benefits. It’s easier to eat it than to argue. I rip open the top of the packet and suck it down.
“Ugh.” It tastes like you think. I just drank a quarter-cup of oil.
“Muscle power.”
“If I vomit in the middle of my sprint, it’s on you.”
“Nope. My reflexes are better than yours. You won’t get any on me.”
I snort. He shoves me to the twin spin bikes in the workout room attached to my office. “Put up or shut up.”
I climb on my bike and wait for the music. The same song opens all of our 60-minute spin sessions for warm-up.
Queen’s Fat-Bottomed Girls.
Vince doesn’t start the music, though. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and he’s staring at my midsection.
“The fuck, Andrew?” Unlike everyone else who works for me, Vince doesn’t call me Mr. or Sir.
“What?”
“Something you want to share with the class?”
“What class?”
He yanks my left hand off the handlebars. “You got married?”
“Oh, that.”
“You’re wearing a wedding ring for shits and giggles?”
“No.”
“You gonna explain this to me?”
“No.”
“I have to spin it out of you?”
“Just try.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Burn me to the ground, Vince.”
“Done.”
The music starts.
Five minutes into it and my legs are screaming.
Ten minutes into it and Vince is screaming.
Twenty minutes into it and I’m screaming.
Forty minutes later, the lambs are screaming.
With five minutes to go, Vince’s soundtrack shifts to a song I’ve never heard before.
“You changed the lineup?”
“Sure. Variety is the spice of life.”
“Don’t do that. Stick to the plan.”
“My plan, Andrew. You can’t make me do the same damn shit over and over.”
When I hired Vince, I told him exactly what I wanted. Technique, pacing, playlist, the whole bit. All he had to do was ride with me and hold me accountable.
“Fuck you,” he said that day. “I do what I want because I’m the best. Don’t like it? Don’t hire me.”
I hired him on the spot.
“Changing the music makes me lose my place,” I huff.
“Changing the music forces you to adapt. You’re too rigid.”
“Fuck off, Vince.”
“You only say that when I’m right.”
I don’t have the lung power to answer.
Five minutes later, I’m stretching. Vince is at the blender.
“Smoothie?” I ask, as I feel my pulse in my eyelashes.
“Bulletproof coffee with protein powder.”
“Coffee and whey?” I cringe. I uncringe. How did Vince make my face muscles ache like this? Damn. “Do I look like Little Miss Muffet with a latte?”
“Trust me.”
“I don’t trust someone whose primary diet source is rotten plankton.”
He just grunts, then shoves a pint glass filled with beige cream at me.
“Seriously, Vince, what’s in this?” It looks like a hot latte met an oil slick.
“Try it.”
I do. It tastes like milk blended with coffee and snot. I gag on the first try.
“You’re like a chick giving her first blow job, Andrew.”
“Now I really want to put this in my mouth. You’re so inspirational.”
“Wimp.”
“Asshole.”
“You have too much energy left,” he declares. “Let’s lift.”
Verbal abuse is my second language. I’m fluent in it when talking to other guys.
“I’m not lifting. I’ve got a call with some investors in Turkey.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I run a Fortune 500 company.”
“And you’re wearing a wedding ring you won’t talk about.”
EXCERPT #5: (Sexy)
As she makes a small sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, my thumb migrates, the pad resting lightly on the pulse at her collarbone, seeking to feel the sound. Our hips press into each other, my erection painful in these cramped, tight shorts, and all I want to do is free myself, then be caged within her warm, wet madness.
Losing myself in her is the best form of escape.
Her hands slide up and down, one north to the nape of my neck, one south to the curve of my ass, which tightens at the initiation of her touch. Her hand is insistent, demanding, righteous and full of assumptions.
She acts like she has the right to touch me like this.
I like that.
I break the kiss and bend, thighs screaming, hamstrings ready to defect, put one arm under her knees and the other around her back, palm cupping her breast, and she’s in my arms, then on my desk.
And I’m on my knees.
Ignoring the shaking muscles in my legs, which tremble from strain and, perhaps, desire, I part her legs, finding black silk, lace, and nothing but barrier. It’s beautiful, but this will not do.
“Not here!” she gasps, but her voice isn’t firm, the protest half-hearted, as if she needs to check a box on a list of How To Be Professional qualities she should have in the workplace. She’s turned on and ready, the illicit desk sex and my mouth too much to let her mount another argument, her head lolling back as I dive in, pushing aside the piece of cotton and finding my way to give.
Sunlight glints off the wedding ring on my hand as I reach back, my hand resting on her knee.
It’s the last thing I see until she chokes back a cry from her orgasm, her fingers pulling tightly on my hair, and begs me, “Please. In me. Now.” Normally talkative, Amanda loses access to part of the speech center of her brain as we spiral deeper into lust and passion. It’s a tell.
I love this tell.
EXCERPT #6: 
“The day we met, you were wearing a long, gray pencil skirt that hugged your hips like a treasure map for my palms. The slit up the back was a portal into another world. Red silk shirt under a black blazer, and your lips matched the silk. I wondered if you were wearing a red lace bra underneath.”
She’s spellbound, eyes watching me as if my words hypnotize her. “I was,” she rasps.
I knew it. “You were the epitome of ‘fuckable secretary’ from every fevered fantasy I’ve ever had.”
“You really are a pervert.”
I shrug.
“Hey, if we’re telling the truth...” I pause. “But I don’t have those fantasies about my secretaries.”
“Right.” She’s skeptical.
“I haven’t. Not since the day we met.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You’ve ruined masturbation for me. I can’t even cheat in my mind.”
“You’re such a romantic.”
“I quoted Dickinson to you on our first date!”
She makes a gesture of concession. “Go on.”
“Red silk shell and black blazer. With the black hair and red lips, you had the look down. That day I looked up, expecting to just glance at the client’s staff, shake hands, and sit down for the boring but necessary details before signing the deal. That’s not what happened, though. I did a double take.”
“My breasts made you do that,” she says with a soft laugh.
“No.” I reach for her chin and lift it up until she can’t look away from me. “You did that. You.”
She sighs and smiles, nice and wide.
“Your breasts were just the closer,” I add, flinching, ready for the punch that I know follows.
The kiss surprises me, a welcome substitute for the punch I deserve.
EXCERPT #7: (Sexy)
She has this sound she makes when she’s about to come. We all do. Everyone has a sex tell. If you think you don’t, you’re wrong. Amanda’s tell transmits a signal to my brain that says Congratulations.
Achievement unlocked.
Except it’s not the achievement you think. Not a sex goal. Those are easy. Anyone can do that with the right skill and enough alcohol.
This is love. Complete release and abandon with someone you trust so deeply, you take the leap of faith that they’ll catch you.
You can only catch the tell if you have that kind of love.
“Andrew,” she says in a voice reserved for when we’re between the sheets. “Andrew.” Her hand is threaded in my hair and as I rise up, I taste the silky smoothness of her skin, which unfolds before me like a perfect, lush valley, hills and curves, rolling sweetness and a place of discovery. No woman captivates me like Amanda, and when our eyes meet and I slip into her, the way her head tips back and her throat begs for a kiss makes me offer up my tell.
It’s the sound of gratitude. I’m not grateful for sex. I’m grateful for having her.
The balcony doors are open and a massive breeze pushes the curtains in, the sound of billowing fabric catching my ears as the rush of ocean air chills my back. The sunlight in the room dims suddenly, making the room surreal, as if we’re in the eye of a storm and chaos is about to be unleashed.
Which is apt.
She’s so damn beautiful under me, her hands on my back, my shoulders, my ribs, just touching me with a possession that fires my soul. Her hair tickles her shoulders and it’s thick and tousled, makeup long gone, her lips bright red from long kisses all night. Those impossibly-big eyes peer up at me and make me stop breathing, though I keep moving, making love to her with long strokes like a clock tower bell calling out the hour, the slow, sonorous beat designed to mark time.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Now.
I dip my head down to take one nipple and it tastes like salt and velvet, like my fingerprints and her secrets. She arches up, a simple gesture that asks for more, and I’m grateful again. Fire courses through me, sweat making the slick friction between our skin even easier, the glide of body against body allowing for the insatiable build-up between us sparked by each stroke.
Amanda reaches up, one hand on my ass, her fingertips digging into me, her mouth on mine, tongue searching for more connection. We’re as close as two bodies can get, her hands clinging to me, her breasts smashed against my chest, and I know this tell, too. When she tightens her hold and her touch becomes damn near frantic, she’s about to come, and I pause. Just for a second, just long enough to honor what’s inside me without interrupting what she needs.
Because in that pause, I feel all the emotions at once, thousands of feelings connected to her sighs, our kisses, the strokes and caresses, the push of being in her, the warm softness of being enveloped, the wet moans and worshipful sighs and eager urgency that all rolls into a whirlwind of energy and emotion that is the tornado within.
And then we roar together.
A crack of lightning makes us both startle and jump, the rhythm interrupted, the cacophony of a sudden, explosive rainstorm outside changing the air, ozone and salt on the tip of my tongue, replacing the taste of her from moments ago.
“You timed that, didn’t you?” she says, laughing under me, the push of muscle nearly evacuating me from her body, but we shift, holding closer, and I stay inside her.
The pounding rain makes it hard to hear. She reaches up and pushes the hair from my forehead using the same hand that was in those strands moments ago, urging me.
“Even I can’t orchestrate that,” I say with a laugh, picking up the rhythm, her eyes closing, breath quickening. We’ve lost what we had but we’ll find it again.
That’s the beauty of knowing.
You’ll always find each other again.
My throat tightens as we crest together, caught up in the crazy storm of arousal and climax, of pleasure and desire, of the mix of the squall outside and the tornado within, whirling and whirling until there is no more Amanda, no more Andrew, just a tight clinging to each other that comes from certainty. From trust.
From some feeling deeper than love, threaded together by those thousands of emotions I felt in that single pause.
About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken. She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com
Social Media Links





Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services.

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)