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Blog Tour Review: MADAME X by JASINDA WILDER

October 9, 2015

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Madame X_Cover

My name is Madame X.
I’m the best at what I do.
And you’d do well to follow my rules…
 
Hired to transform the uncultured, inept sons of the wealthy and powerful into decisive, confident men, Madame X is a master of the art of control. With a single glance she can cut you down to nothing, or make you feel like a king.
 
But there is only one man who can claim her body—and her soul.
 
Undone time and again by his exquisite dominance, X craves and fears his desire in equal measure. And while she longs for a different path, X has never known anything or anyone else—until now…

 

Review:

WOW!! Spellbinding, engrossing and sensual, Madame X is a richly detailed story that is filled with mystery and suspense. Very adult and incredibly sexy, this story completely took me by surprise and I can’t recommend it highly enough!

The blurb to this book is really just a small part of this story, and it is interesting that none of the main characters are mentioned by name in the synopsis. I had not read any reviews on this one going in so I am going to keep this short. If you are looking for a very adult, very sensual read, then Madame X is for you. I was on the edge of my seat for most of the book and I absolutely fell in love with the male protagonists (yes, plural) and cannot WAIT for the next book!

“Your sexuality belongs to me, X. No one else may even so much as fucking smell you, do you understand me? You. Are. Mine.”

There is a touch of BDSM in this book but I believe that more will be revealed on that front in the next story. There are themes of dominance and control here but I was thrown off guard several times by the direction that this story took.

We are introduced to both Caleb and Logan in this story and while one might seem cruel, controlling and calculating, I do not believe that all is at seems and that Logan, who we meet later in the story, will also have many, many layers to him. I don’t think there are any real villains or heroes in this book (I think?! I could be very wrong!) and that is the genius of this story.

Sexy, explicit, fast-paced and very, very creative, Madame X thrilled me on many levels. I couldn’t put it down!

(ARC provided by the publisher in return for an honest review.)

 

Excerpt:

Hands blaze over my bared skin and ignite my desire against my will. I know all too well the heat of this touch, the fires of climax, the moments of afterglow when dark eyes drowse and powerful hands are stilled and I am allowed to let my guard down. I stand still, knees shaking, as lips scour and slide over trembling skin. My thighs are nosed open, and lightning strikes with the touch of a tongue to my slick skin.


I gasp, but a single look silences me.


“Don’t breathe, don’t speak, don’t make a sound.” I feel the whisper on my hip, feel the vibrations in my bones, and I nod my assent. “Don’t come until I tell you.”


I have no choice but to stand and accept silently the assault on my senses: down-soft hair against my belly, stubble on my thighs, hands cupping my backside, fury blooming within me. I hold it back, keep it tamped down, bite my tongue to silence the moans, fist my hands at my sides, because I haven’t been given permission to touch.


“Good. Let go now, X. Give me your voice.” A finger pierces me, curls, finds my need and sets it free, and I loose my voice, let moans and whimpers escape. “Good, very good. So beautiful, so sexy. Now show me your room.”


I lead the way to my bedroom, push open the door to reveal the white bedspread, plumped black pillows, all tucked and arranged, as required. I lie down, setting aside pillows, and wait. Eyes rake over my nude form, examine me, assess me.


“I think an extra twenty minutes in the gym would do you well.” This criticism is delivered clinically, meant to remind me of my place. “Trim down, just a touch.”


I hide the clutch in my gut, the ache in my heart, the burn in my eyes. Hide it, bury it, because it is not allowed. I blink, nod. “Of course, Caleb.”


“You are lovely, X. Don’t mistake me.”


“I know. And thank you.”


“It’s just that our clients expect perfection.” A lifted eyebrow indicates that I should finish the statement.


“And so do you.”


“Exactly. And you, X, I know you can deliver. You are perfect, or very nearly, at least.” A smile now, blazing and brilliant and blinding, excruciatingly beautiful, meant to soothe. A finger touches my lips and then traces favorite locations on my anatomy: lips, throat, breasts, hips. “Roll over.”


I move to my stomach.


“On your knees.”


I draw my knees beneath my stomach.


“Give me your hands.”


I reach back with both hands, and my wrists are pinioned in one large, brutally powerful hand. My shoulder blades touch each other as my arms are drawn together, and my face is pressed into the mattress. I swallow hard, brace, breathe.


Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I’m penetrated. I’m rocked forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.


I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice but let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to cry, want to cry.

But I don’t.
Not yet.


I let myself go when I’m told to do so: “Come for me, X.”


And then it’s over, and I’m turned to lie on my back, gasping, and whispers bathe over me. “So good, X. So beautiful.” A finger to my chin, lifting my gaze. “Did you enjoy that?”


“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely, at least.


Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically, aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless. Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.


Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.


But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do not. I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of schools.


And so it is child’s play to let my body drape loosely in the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from discarded slacks demands attention.


“I have to take this.” A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on a cell phone screen. “This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of course. No, don’t let him in until I get there.”


A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder to hip to foot. “I have to go.”


“All right.” I don’t ask when to expect a return, because I don’t want to know, and because I wouldn’t get an answer.


“Will you miss me?”


“Of course.” This is a lie, and we both know it.


“Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he’s the heir to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner.”


“Should I expect as much trouble with William as with Jonathan?”


A quirk of a smile, amusement. “No, I should think not. William is a much different animal, from what I’ve observed.” A pause, and a speculative glance at me. “But, X?”


“Yes, Caleb?”


“Watch yourself with William. He’s got a mean streak.”


“Thank you for the warning.”


“He needs to learn to control it, so you’ll have to draw it out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful.”
Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping bear. Risk injury. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. Hopefully I won’t need medical attention like I did last time. That’s not covered in the contract, of course, but it’s understood: Never, ever harm the property of Caleb Indigo; it’s just not smart business.


When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.


And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once again, I am Madame X.

About the author:

Jasinda Wilder is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and international bestselling author. She is a Michigan native and currently lives there with her family. Visit her official website at jasindawilder.com.

 

 

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Categories : 4.5 Stars, Blog Tour, Contemporary Erotic Romance, Giveaway Tagged : Excerpt, Jasinda Wilder, Madame X

Book Promo & Giveaway: BIG LOVE ABROAD (Big Girls Do It #7) by JASINDA WILDER

April 26, 2015

Title: BIG LOVE ABROAD
(Big Girls Do It #7)
Author: Jasinda Wilder
Add to  Goodreads

I was finally fulfilling my life-long dream of studying at Oxford University in England. I had a thesis. I had an apartment. The one thing I didn’t have was time for a man. Especially not one as sexy and intriguing and distracting as Ian Stirling. Okay, I mean, maybe I did have a little time for a man. After all, it’s not every day a ripped British sex-god sweeps you off your feet and does dirty, delicious things to you. 
Again and again. And again.
For days. 
The problem is, Ian was just supposed to be a hunky distraction, but now my heart is craving him like my mouth craves cupcakes.

Buy from: Amazon US | Amazon UK | Paperback | B&N | iBooks | Kobo 
I let him pull my hips backward yet more, so now I was bent at the waist, leaning forward, my ass presented to Ian. I wasn’t quite breathing, taking short, shallow, sharp gasps of anticipation. 
“Close your eyes.”
I shut them. “Okay.”
“Tell me what you want me to do right now.” His voice was a low murmur in my ear, his erection nestled between the globes of my ass. 
I pushed back against his ass; the words fuck me on the tip of my tongue. But then I realized I didn’t want that, just yet. I wanted something else.
So I asked for it. A simple thing, but with an acquiescence new to me. 
“Spank me, Ian.” 
SMACK! “You like that, do you?”
I lurched forward when his hand cracked across the left globe of my ass, leaving it tremoring and stinging. “Yeah, I do.” 
“Has anyone ever spanked you before, Nina?”
“No. Only you, Ian.”
SMACK! The right cheek, now. And then his fingers slid between my thighs, speared gently into my wet cleft and scissored within me. I gasped, and my knees buckled. Another loud slap to my left ass cheek, timed to a press of his fingers against my clit, and I fell forward so my forehead thunked against the door.
I cried out in ecstasy, ready for the next smack to my right cheek. But when it came, it was on the same side, and was followed by a soft, gently smoothing circle of his palm, soothing the stinging flesh, and I let out a moan. Which was quickly turned into a shriek as Ian scissored his fingers deep inside me and slapped me on the right side, quick, hard, and unexpected. Again. A third time on the same side, and now my flesh there was really starting to smart and I was on the verge of asking him to stop, but then he gave me a third smack and drove his fingertips in and curled them, slid them in and out, creating wet suction sounds, and I felt like I was being ripped in two, sliced open by a sudden rush of clenching heat made all the more delicious somehow for the sweet slight sting of pain on my rear. I let out a breathless moan and Ian switched to the other side, smacking my left globe and finger-fucking me in time with the SMACK—SMACK—SMACK of his big hard hand against my stinging, trembling skin.
An orgasm of continental proportions tore through me, ripping a scream from my lungs, and as I came—knees buckling, breasts swaying and nipples tight, taut, and achingly hard—Ian plunged his cock into me and I lost my breath, lost my capacity to even scream.

BLA1
Big Girls/Rock Stars Do It series reading order: 

 1: Big Girls Do It Better Book 
2: Big Girls Do It Wetter Book 
3: Big Girls Do It Wilder Book 
4: Big Girls Do It On Top Book 
5: Big Girls Do It Married Book 
6: Big Girls Do It On Christmas Book 
7: Rock Stars Do It Harder Book 
8: Rock Stars Do It Dirty Book 
9 Rock Stars Do It Forever Book 
10: Big Girls Do It Pregnant Book 
11: Big Love Abroad
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or reading. 
​Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liliana Hart and Bella Andre. 
She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York City and Toledo, Ohio. 
You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a cupcake. 
Jasinda is represented by Kristin Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.
GR | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Amazon



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Categories : Contemporary Romance, Giveaway Tagged : Big Girls Do It Series, Big Love Abroad, Excerpt, Jasinda Wilder

THE EVER TRILOGY by JASINDA WILDER – EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

December 18, 2013

 Forever & Always  and After Forever
(The Ever Trilogy)
Jasinda Wilder
Expected Release: Dec. 20th, 2013
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Ever,
These letters are often all that get me through week to week. Even if it’s just random stuff, nothing important, they’re important to me. Gramps is great, and I love working on the ranch. But…I’m lonely. I feel disconnected, like I’m no one, like I don’t belong anywhere. Like I’m just here until something else happens. I don’t even know what I want with my future. But your letters, they make me feel connected to something, to someone. I had a crush on you, when we first met. I thought you were beautiful. So beautiful. It was hard to think of anything else. Then camp ended and we never got together, and now all I have of you is these letters. S**t. I just told you I have a crush on you. HAD. Had a crush. Not sure what is anymore. A letter-crush? A literary love? That’s stupid. Sorry. I just have this rule with myself that I never throw away what I write and I always send it, so hopefully this doesn’t weird you out too much. I had a dream about you too. Same kind of thing. Us, in the darkness, together. Just us. And it was like you said, a memory turned into a dream, but a memory of something that’s never happened, but in the dream it felt so real, and it was more, I don’t even know, more RIGHT than anything I’ve ever felt, in life or in dreams. I wonder what it means that we both had the same dream about each other. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You tell me.
Cade
~ ~ ~ ~
Cade,
We’re pen pals. Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. I don’t know. If we met IRL (in real life, in case you’re not familiar with the term) what would happen? And just FYI, the term you used, a literary love? It was beautiful. So beautiful. That term means something, between us now. We are literary loves. Lovers? I do love you, in some strange way. Knowing about you, in these letters, knowing your hurt and your joys, it means something so important to me, that I just can’t describe. I need your art, and your letters, and your literary love. If we never have anything else between us, I need this. I do. Maybe this letter will only complicate things, but like you I have a rule that I never erase or throw away what I’ve written and I always send it, no matter what I write in the letter. 
Your literary love,
Ever
CHAPTER ONE 

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

~ EVER ~
My twin sister Eden rode in the seat next to me, listening to music, the volume turned up so loud I could make out the lyrics, tinny and distant but totally audible. In the front seat, Dad was chattering into his cell phone as he drove, discussing whatever a Chrysler senior executive discussed at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Something more important than his daughters, clearly. 
Not that I would have wanted to talk to him, even if he’d been off the phone. Well, that wasn’t completely true; I would have wanted to, but I wouldn’t have known what to say to him if he’d been willing to hang up the phone for ten seconds. He’d always been a workaholic, always on the phone or on his laptop, in his office at home or at the Chrysler headquarters. But up until last year, he’d spent time on the weekends with us. He’d taken us to dinner or to the mall. Movie night once a month, Sunday evening, on the big home theater screen in the basement. 
And now? 
It was understandable, I reasoned. He’d lost her too. None of us had been prepared—no way to prepare for a freak car accident. But after we’d buried Mom, Dad had thrown himself into work more obsessively than ever. 
Which left Eden and me to fend for ourselves. Of course, he’d done the parentally responsible thing and gotten the three of us individual therapy sessions twice a month, but I had quit going after a few weeks. There hadn’t been a point. Mom was gone, and no amount of talking about the stages of grief would bring her back. 
I had found my own way of dealing with the loss: I’d found art. Photography, drawing, painting, anything hands-on that let me shut down my mind and my heart and just do. Currently, I was into oils on canvas, thick glops of vivid colors on the matte white surface, spread around with a bristly brush or bare hands. It was cathartic. The reds would smear like blood, the yellows would blot like sunshine through a window; greens were delicate and crusted like sap-sticky pine needles, blues like cloudless skies and deepest ocean and oranges like sunsets and tangerines. Color—and the creation of something beautiful from emptiness. 
In my more philosophical moments, I thought maybe painting appealed to me because it represented hope. I was a blank canvas, no thoughts, no emotions, no needs or desires, just a square of white floating through a loud, chaotic world, and life would paint me with color and substance, smear and spread and colorize me. 
I found myself needing more tactile sensations, though. Just before I’d packed for this three-week summer camp up at Interlochen, I’d spread newspapers on the floor of my art room over the garage, laid a huge twenty-by-twenty canvas over them, and tossed mammoth blobs of paint down. I’d used my hands to spread it around it arcs and whorls and streaking lines, then added another color and another, mixing and daubing, smashing gouts together with my palms and tracing delicate lines with my fingertips and aggressive sunburst rays with my palms. 
I didn’t know or care if I was any good on an objective level. It wasn’t about art or expression or any of that. It was avoidance at best, if Dr. Allerton’s therapy speak could be believed. Apparently the staff at Interlochen thought I was something special, because they’d been enthusiastic about having me in the program for the summer.
As long as I had plenty of time to paint, I didn’t really care what they wanted from me, or for me.
Lost in my thoughts, I tuned out Dad’s incessant chatter and Eden’s sullen, plea-for-attention silence, wondering if I’d get a chance to try ceramics or sculpture at Interlochen. My junior high’s art program had been pathetic at best. I may have been only fourteen—fifteen as of yesterday—but I knew what I liked, and handfuls of cracked old watercolor paints and hopelessly mixed-up oil paints weren’t it. They didn’t even have access to clay, much less a kiln. I couldn’t even get lessons on stretching my own canvases. 
Being more mature than your age kind of sucked, I reflected. People either overestimated you and didn’t give you any room to be a kid, or they ignored what you were really capable of and treated you like a child. I’d begged to go to a private arts academy for high school, but so far Daddy was putting his foot down, insisting Eden and I go to the same school, and Eden was set on going to the local high school because their strings program was one of the best in the state, and apparently Eden was some kind of cello virtuoso. Whatever.
I’d demand private lessons, then. Or an art tutor. For now, Interlochen would have to do.
After an interminable drive, Daddy pulled the Mercedes SUV to a gentle stop in front of rows of rustic cabins, finally ending his phone call with a touch to his earpiece. 
Eden cast a glance out the window and snickered. “That’s where you’re going to stay for three weeks?”
I followed my twin’s gaze to the cabins. They were tiny…nothing but little wooden huts in the forest. Did they even have indoor plumbing? Electricity? I shuddered, and then stuffed it down, putting on a game face. “Apparently so. It could be worse,” I said. “I could be stuck at home all summer, doing nothing.”
“I’m not doing nothing, Ever,” Eden snapped. “I’m taking private lessons with Mr. Wu and fitness training with Michael.”
“Like I said, stuck at home.” I tried to hold on to the hauteur, even though I didn’t entirely feel it. I was going to miss my sister, and I knew I’d be homesick within days. But I couldn’t say any of that. Talking about one’s emotions wasn’t the Eliot way, not before Mom’s death, and certainly not after. 
“At least I’ll have plumbing, and cell service.” 
“And no life—”
“Ever. Enough.” Dad’s voice, raised in irritation, silenced us both. He hit the button to pop open the hatch. 
Eden’s gaze reflected her own conflict. She wanted to hold on to the argument, because it was easier to snipe and bicker than to admit how scared she was. I could see that in her and feel it in myself. Our identical green eyes met, and understanding was achieved. Nothing was said out loud, but after a moment, I hugged Eden and we both sniffled. We’d never been apart before, not more than an hour or two a day in our entire lives. 
“You better not let Michael make you skinnier than me,” I said.
“Like that’ll ever happen.” She groaned. “He’s gonna try to kill me, not that it’ll make a difference.”
Eden was slightly heavier than I was, not by much pounds-wise, but enough so that it resulted in a much curvier shape, and she was sensitive about it. Being mercilessly teased all of eighth grade hadn’t helped much, so she was determined to get fit over the summer and show everyone in ninth grade how different she was. I had argued that the other girls were just jealous because Eden had tits and ass and they didn’t, but it had fallen on deaf ears. She’d convinced our father to hire her a personal trainer for the summer. Never mind that she was only fourteen and far too young to worry about bullshit like slimming down, but neither Dad nor I had been able to change Eden’s mind.
It was part of Eden’s grief, I knew. I painted and drew and took pictures, Eden played the cello. But it was deeper than that for Eden. We were nearly identical images of our mother, dark hair, green eyes, fair skin, fine features, beautiful. I was closer to looking like Mom, slim and willowy, while Eden had gotten more of Daddy’s genetics—he was short and stocky, naturally muscular. Eden wanted to remember Mom, to be more like her. She’d even taken to bleaching her hair, the way Mom had. 
“We’ll miss you, Ev,” Dad said, twisting in the seat to meet my eyes. “It’ll be too quiet around the house without you.”
Like you’d notice, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “I’ll miss you too, Dad.”
“Don’t be a hooligan,” Eden said, an inside joke of ours, referring to our maternal grandfather’s favorite phrase.
“You either. And seriously, don’t go too crazy with this Michael dude. You’re not—”
Eden stuck her fingers in her ears. “LA-LA-LA-LA…I’m not listening!” she sing-songed. Removing her fingers, she said, “And seriously yourself, don’t start.”
I sighed. “Fine. Love you, ass-head.”
“You too, butt-face.”
Dad frowned at us. “Really? Are you two teenage girls or teenage boys?”
We both rolled our eyes, and then embraced one more time. I leaned forward and hugged Dad from between the seats, smelling the coffee on his breath. Then I was out of the car and opening the trunk hatch and trying to juggle my purse and suitcase while closing the hatch. With a final backward wave, Dad and Eden were gone and I was alone, completely alone for the first time in my life.
A few feet away, a boy my own age was standing in the swirling, left-behind dust. He had a huge black duffel slung over one shoulder, and he was standing with his spine as straight as the pine tree trunks rising all around. One hand was shoved into his hip pocket, and he was toying with the strap of his bag with the other hand. One boot-clad toe was digging in the dirt, twisting and scuffing as he peered at the rows of cabins. 
I couldn’t help sneaking a second look at him. He wasn’t like any boy I’d ever seen before. He looked to be about my own age, fourteen or fifteen, but he was tall, already almost six feet, and he was muscled more like an adult than a teenager. He had shaggy black hair that needed cutting, and the fuzzy scruff of a teenage boy hoping to grow a beard. 
Until that moment, I’d never really had a crush before. Eden talked about boys all the time, and our friends were always going on about this boy or that boy, gushing about first kisses and first dates, but I had never really gotten too into all of that. I noticed cute boys at school, of course, because I wasn’t dead or blind. But painting took up most of my time. Or, more accurately, waking up each day and not missing Mom took up most of my time, and painting helped that. I didn’t have much brain space left for thinking about boys. 
But this boy, the one standing six feet away from me, looking as nervous and out of place as I felt. There was something different about him. 
Before I knew what was happening, my traitorous legs had carried me over to stand in front of him, and my traitorous voice was saying, “Hi…I’m Ever Eliot.”
He turned his eyes to mine, and I almost gasped out loud. His eyes were pure amber, rich and complex and piercing. “Um. Hi. Caden Monroe.” His voice was deep, although it broke on the last syllable. “Ever? That’s your name?”
“Yeah.” I’d never been self-conscious about my name before, but I wanted Caden to like my name as much as I liked his. 
“It’s a cool name. I’ve never known anyone with a name like that before.”
“Yeah, it’s unique, I guess. Caden is cool too.”
“It’s Irish. My dad’s name is Aidan, and my Gramps’s name is Connor, and Great-Gramps’s name was Paddy. Patrick. Irish names all the way back to my more-greats-than-I-can-remember Gramps, Daniel.”
“Was he, like, an immigrant?” I flinched at the way I had unconsciously used “like” as a filler. So much for sounding smart.
“Well, all of our families were immigrants at some point, right? Unless you’re Indian, that is. Native American, I mean.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and his cheeks flushed red. Which was sinfully adorable. “But yeah, Daniel Monroe was the first Monroe to come to America. He came over in 1841.”
I racked my brain for the significance of that date. I’d learned about it in my World History class last year. “Wasn’t there this big thing in the 1840s? With Irish people coming to America?”
Caden set his duffel on the ground. “I think it was something about potatoes. A famine, or something.” 
“Yeah.” 
A long, awkward silence stretched out between us.
Caden broke it first. “So. Ever. What do you…do?”
“Do?” 
He shrugged, then waved at the cabins and the campus in general. “Art-wise, I mean. Are you a musician, or…?”
“Oh. No, I’m an artist. I guess they’d call it a visual artist. Painting, mostly. For now, at least. I like all sorts of stuff. I want to get into sculpture. What about you?”
“Same, although I draw more than anything.”
“What do you draw? Comic books?” I regretted that last part as soon as it came out of my mouth. It sounded judgmental, and he didn’t seem like the comic book type. “I mean, or—animals?” That was even worse. I felt myself blushing and wishing I could start over.
Caden just looked confused. “What? No, I don’t draw any one thing. I mean, I do, just…it’s whatever I’m working on. Right now I’m trying to figure out hands. I can’t seem to draw hands right. Before that it was eyes, but I got those down.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m an idiot sometimes, I just—” I was only making it worse now. I grabbed my suitcase by the handle and lugged it around, facing away from him. “I should go. Find my cabin.”
A sun-browned hand took the suitcase from me and lifted it easily, which was ridiculous, since it weighed at least fifty pounds and I could barely move it. He had his duffel bag on his shoulder and my suitcase in one hand. “What number are you?”
I reached into my purse and unfolded my registration printout, even though I knew the cabin number by heart already; I didn’t want to seem too eager. “Number ten.”
Caden glanced at the numbers on the nearest cabins. “This way, then,” he said. “I’m in twenty, and these are four, five, and six.”
I cut my eyes to the side, watching the way his bicep tensed as he walked with the heavy suitcase. “Isn’t my suitcase heavy?”
He shrugged, which made his duffel bag slip, and he hiked it higher. “A little. Not too bad.” 
After a too-short walk, we came to cabin number ten. I couldn’t figure out how to delay him without sounding clingy or desperate, so I let him set my suitcase just inside the squeaky screen door, then waved as he shouldered his bag and strode off, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that made his bicep stand out.
I watched him go, and then realized several girls were clustered around the screen door as well, ogling him. “He’s hot!” one of them said. They asked me who he was.
I wondered if the strangely possessive feeling in my gut was jealousy, and what I was supposed to do about it. “His name is Caden.”
For the first time in a long time, my mind was occupied with something other than painting. 
That afternoon there was a get-to-know-you thing, which was stupid, and then dinner and some free time, all of which passed in a blur. I didn’t see Caden again that day, and as I slid into the thin, uncomfortable bunk bed, I wondered if he was thinking about me like I was him. 
Somewhere out there, maybe a boy was thinking about me. I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean, but it felt nice to imagine. 
Follow the Promo Tour tomorrow to read Chapter Two
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or reading. 
Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liliana Hart and Bella Andre. 
She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York City and Toledo, Ohio. 
You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a cupcake. 
Jasinda is represented by Kristin Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.

GR | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Amazon

GET JASINDA’S OTHER BOOKS

Falling Into You (Special Price $1.99)


Falling Into Us (Special Price $1.99)

Stripped ($1.99)


Wounded (Special Price $1.99)


Big Girls Do It (Free)

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Categories : Book Blitz, Contemporary Romance, Giveaway Tagged : Excerpt, Jasinda Wilder, The Ever Trilogy

BLOG TOUR, REVIEW and GIVEAWAY: STRIPPED by JASINDA WILDER

August 15, 2013

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SYNOPSIS:

So how did I get myself into this situation, you ask? Simple: desperation. When you’re faced with being homeless and hungry or taking off your clothes for money, the choice is easier than you’d imagine. That doesn’t make it easy, though. Oh no. I hate it, in fact. There’s nothing I’d like more than to quit and never go into another bar again, never hear the techno beat pulsing in my ears again, never feel the lecherous gazes of horny men again.

Then, one day, I meet a man. He’s in my club, front and center. He watches me do my routine, and his gaze is full of hunger. Not the kind of desire I’m used to though. It’s something different. Something hotter, deeper, and more possessive. I know who he is; of course I do. Everyone knows who Dawson Kellor is. He’s People Magazine’s Sexiest Man alive. He’s the hottest actor in Hollywood. He’s the man hand-picked for the role of Rhett Butler in the long-awaited remake of Gone With the Wind. 

He’s the kind of man who can have any woman in the entire world with a mere crook of his finger. So what’s he doing looking at me like he has to have me? And how do I resist him when he looks at me with those intoxicating, changeable, quicksilver eyes? 

I’m a virgin, and he’s an American icon of male sexuality. I’m a stripper, and he’s a man used to getting anything and everything he wants. And he wants me. I know I should say no, I know he’s the worst kind of player…but what my mind knows, my body and my heart may not.

And then things get complicated.

Release date August 16, 2013

REVIEW:

Grey suddenly finds herself in a situation where she needs to do anything in order to survive. She is young, far from her home in Georgia, at college in California with no way to pay her tuition or living expenses. She has been alienated from her father, a very strict pastor who would definitely NOT approve of the choices she is forced to make.

The first part of the book started out a little slow for me but then WOW! When Grey (as “Gracie”, her stage name) meets famous actor Dawson Kellor at the dance club, the book really takes off. He is immediately drawn to Grey’s kind nature and goodness.

“Dawson doesn’t answer, but this isn’t a pause— this is the silence of a man who knows nothing he says will make it okay, so he doesn’t say anything. It’s perfect. After a long moment, he tugs me closer and murmurs, “Let me hold you.” I’m still, totally tensed now. “Hold me?” “Yeah. Just hold you. No pressure. It’s not going anywhere. Just be in the moment with me.”

Dawson is a world-weary Hollywood actor, and it turns out that Grey is actually his new assistant on his current movie. Despite her innocence and inexperience, she and Dawson fall for each other.

I enjoyed the Hollywood behind-the-scenes aspect of the storyline. The writing in Stripped is excellent, fast-paced and VERY sexy. Grey and Dawson really heat up the pages! They have an undeniable chemistry.

I also liked that Dawson really doesn’t play games with Grey. He is very open and honest about his feelings for Grey, and he really treats her with love and care:

“Then, something odd happens: Dawson presses a soft kiss to my temple. It’s. . . tender. It’s a kiss designed to soothe, to comfort. Not to ignite desire or passion. It confuses me, and it makes me feel. . .loved. Cared for.”

I love what the title of the book stands for, it’s not what you think! Ms. Wilder has written characters that I actually cared about, and has written some super-steamy scenes. Stripped is a very sexy story, that totally surprised me with its storyline and characters. Enjoy!

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AUTHOR BIO:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. When she’s not writing, she’s probably shopping, baking, or reading.

​Some of her favorite authors include Nora Roberts, JR Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Liliana Hart and Bella Andre.

She loves to travel and some of her favorite vacations spots are Las Vegas, New York City and Toledo, Ohio.

You can often find Jasinda drinking sweet red wine with frozen berries and eating a cupcake.
 
Jasinda is represented by Kristin Nelson of the Nelson Literary Agency.

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Grand Prize ~ $100 Amazon Gift Card
First Prize ~ Signed Paperback of Stripped

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Categories : 4 Stars, Blog Tour, Contemporary Romance, Giveaway, Young Adult-New Adult Tagged : 4 stars, Blog Tour, contemporary romance, Giveaway, Jasinda Wilder, Stripped

Wounded by Jasinda Wilder

March 17, 2013

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Synopsis:

War has taken everything from me. My family. My home. My innocence. In a country blasted by war and wracked by economic hardship, a young orphan girl like me has very few options when it comes to survival. Thus, I do what I must to live, to eat, and I try very hard to not consider the cost to my soul. My heart is empty, and my existence brutal.

The one impossibility in my life is love.

And then I meet HIM.

~ * ~ * ~

War is hell. It takes a chunk out of a man’s very soul to do the kinds of things war demands of you. You live with fear, you live with guilt, and you live with nightmares. If you haven’t been through it, there’s no understanding it. War leaves no room for love, no room for tenderness or softness. You gotta be hard, closed off, and ready to fight every moment of every day. Lose focus for a split second, and you’re dead.

Now the only thing that can save me is HER.

Review:

Please don’t shy away from this book due to the war-time setting. Wounded is an emotional, satisfying story of two souls brought together by the harsh realities of war.

Rania is a beautiful Iraqi woman who had to resort to prostitution at a very young age in order to simply survive. She is shut down emotionally until by chance she meets Hunter, an American fighting in Iraq. They cannot communicate at first due to the language barrier but learn to communicate in other ways.

“He is asleep. So handsome. I do not understand what is happening to me. From the first moment I saw him, something in him called to my blood and made it sing.” – Rania

Ms. Wilder delivers some very lush and explicit sex scenes between Rania and Hunter which were an unexpected surprise.

“Rania. Her name is music. Her eyes are veiled pools of expression. She hides behind anger, behind toughness. It’s all an act. I see the pain. See the fear. See the need. She’s lonely. She hates what she does. ” – Hunter

The author is a gifted writer with a a sensitive voice. Wounded is not filled with light-hearted scenes, but it is ultimately a story of love and understanding that will leave you fulfilled at the end.


Categories : 5 Stars, Alpha- hero, Contemporary Romance Tagged : 5 stars, alpha-hero, contemporary romance, Jasinda Wilder, Wounded

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