Cover Reveal Super Book Blast for Stone, At Your Service - Carolina Bad Boys, #1 by Rie Warren, with a giveaway

Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series–a breakthrough trilogy that crosses traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command.

A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.

You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website.   She is represented by Saritza Hernandez, Corvisiero Literary Agency.

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BLURB:

One bad boy mechanic, one sexy romance writer, and an impossible situation. Hell on wheels? More like hell in high heels.

Bad boy mechanic Josh Stone likes to get his hands dirty any way he can—the filthier, the better. Ever since his wife walked out on him and their young son, he’s only had room in his heart for two loves: the kid and cars.

Roped into playing his best buddy’s gay boyfriend during a romance writers convention, the player meets the girl who’s gonna rock his world. Leelee Songchild. Shy, bashful, beautiful Leelee who blushes at the drop of a hat yet writes hardcore smut to rival Josh’s backlist of Penthouse Forum.

The only problem is his hands are tied. Josh can’t stab his old friend/fake lover in the back even though all he wants to do is take luscious Leelee to bed, and maybe, love her. When the truth comes out, all hell breaks loose. Too bad romance is just for books.

WARNING: Uncompromisingly hot sex, hilarious hijinks, and heartfelt romance—STONE is a triple threat.




You can buy it from Amazon.

Excerpt:

As soon as the venue grew crowded and the noise became a deafening roar, the already dim lights lowered even more and three spots hit center stage. Strutting from the darkness beyond, a man with slicked back black hair and painted on leathers—I dare-fuckin’-say they were tighter than the pair I’d trashed last night—threw his arms wide.

Women erupted from their seats, leaped onto tables, started throwing panties, money, wads of paper with phone numbers. Janice pounded the table, a small smile flirted on Leelee’s lips, and Jacqueline blew a man-hungry whistle through her teeth.

Nicky smirked at me.

“Welcome to ’Lanta, y’all! When we heard there was a group of beautiful,” he thrust his hips once, “talented,” twice, “freaky group of sexy romance writers in town?” The MC gave Jules Gem a run for her money, rolling his pelvis obscenely while he licked his lips and the ladies threatened to stampede the stage. His voice dropped, “Well, we just had to put on a special show for y’all!” Stepping back, he raised his arms again, shouting, “Welcome to the all-male revue, Magic Mike Night . . . erm . . . make that Noon!”

From every corner of the room, men appeared. Lots of men. Almost naked men. No worse than what I’d gotten up to last night, but then Leelee had been focused solely on me. Now she wasn’t. Her mouth dropped open, her cheeks flushed in that pretty shade of pink the way it did when she was on the brink of orgasm. Threading through the audience of bloodthirsty demons, aka dick lovin’ babes, the strippers eventually made it onstage in one piece, without their negligible outfits being torn off their bodies.

A few kisses were probably stolen and asses squeezed, I knew, because I’d been on the receiving end of that before.

I sat, glowering.

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