Cooper Cruz knows what it means to be surrounded and bound by family.
Loyalty, brotherhood, and protection are all learned, earned, and respected by him and the Ravage Motorcycle Club family he grew up in. At the same, he’s a man, having fun and living the life he has always envisioned, until a trip to Florida spins his world on his axis.
Bristyl Daniels knows what it means to be smothered and bound by family.
Bonds run deep with her father and all the members of the Sinister Sons Motorcycle Club she has grown up in. But now she’s all woman and wishes they would see she isn’t a little girl anymore. Then one phone call gives her a chance meeting with a biker like no other. One she can’t get off her mind.
When her favorite band comes to play at a motorcycle rally in her hometown, Bristyl decides it’s worth the risk to sneak off for a little fun. When a situation gets heated, Cooper and the Ravage MC step in, setting off a chain of events, both good and bad in both their lives.
As the dust settles, Bristyl will have to come to some very hard decisions. Meanwhile, Cooper knows exactly what he wants and now needs to convince his woman it’s worth the risk.
Ryan Michele is the Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling author of over 40 romantic suspense novels. She found her passion bringing fictional characters to life, being in an imaginative world where anything is possible. Her knack for the unexpected twists and turns will have you on the edge of your seat with each page. She is best known for her alpha, bad boy bikers and strong, independent heroines who refuse to back down. When she’s not writing, you can find her on her swing, watching the water ripple in the pond and plotting her next book.
Gwen Parks writes compelling romance stories that make the hero and heroine a little desperate. She enjoys reading angsty romances in her spare time and listening to her carefully curated playlists. Second chance romance is her favorite trope to read. She loves when the hero fights for his leading lady and having the heroine a little headstrong. She loves spending her summers in the sun and out playing with her three dogs.
Join Master Kingsley and his pet Tate at rock bottom, where their true love story can finally begin. The beautiful and the ugly, the tears and the laughter…and the introduction of a man’s first foray into kink as a submissive Daddy.
We screwed up, Master.
It wasn’t until I stood there alone in the ashes, raw, naked, enraged, and in more pain than I could handle that I realized we’d been wrong from the beginning. I saw our history in the rubble—all our memories, the pictures filled with devotion and laughter, my wholehearted submission to him. And we had to rewrite the ending. We had to. Kingsley and I couldn’t be over. I missed him so much that it hurt to breathe. But we had burned out.
We will burn again, baby.
Our biggest mistake had been to put an expiration date on a love destined for eternity. We’d been blinded by our kinks not lining up perfectly. We’d let fears and insecurities rule in silence, and it was time to confront them head on. We were going to expose ourselves, push every limit, and reignite. Because Tate and I belonged in the fire. We played hard and loved even harder. I wouldn’t allow the unknown to terrify us, to restrict us, even if our new path was…unconventional. Even if we brought in someone else to light the match for us.
By the time pizza got here, I was painfully aware of Lee’s presence. I’d heard his low chuckle a couple times from where he sat on Lucian and KC’s porch. The cabins were maybe twenty or thirty feet away from the edge of the patio, yet it felt like Lee was standing right behind me.
It was a good thing I had my back to them. Otherwise, I would’ve glued my stare to him.
The one glimpse I’d gotten wasn’t nearly enough. Shay had been right. Lee did look as bad as me, which gave me conflicting emotions. It hurt me to see him hurt, at the same time as I found comfort in that he was struggling too. Did that make me a bad person?
I wanted to see him again. Unlike me, he’d never given much thought to what he wore; he was a jeans and T-shirt guy. Or a hoodie now that the weather was turning for the colder. And I kinda loved that about him. His style, or lack of it, represented comfort and familiarity to me. I didn’t know how many times I’d put on one of his hoodies when I had to spend an evening without him, if he was on call or something. He was wearing one of his old Navy hoodies right now, one of my favorites.
I could just picture him sitting over there, casually, one foot resting on his knee, the foot always bouncing a little, probably a smoke between his fingers… And he often ran a hand through his hair. Hair that tended to fall into his eyes. Hair that I’d always liked to tuck behind his ear. Which sometimes annoyed him in a cute way. Like, “Get your paws outta my face, pet.” And he’d narrow his eyes at me before he nipped at my cheek and—
Oh my God. I couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t keep playing these scenarios in my head; I got so swept away by them, to the point where I could almost smell his hoodie, feel his lips on my neck, hear his warm voice…
A rushing sound invaded my ears. My heart started pounding, and my vision blurred and became unfocused. The grief gripped me so tightly that I didn’t know what to do with myself, but a second later, my flight instincts kicked in. I shot up from my seat and sent the chair flying backward, and then I was running inside. Jesus fuck, my chest hurt. It felt like it was about to cave in.
I heard both Ivy and Shay call my name, but I kept running. Through the club area, out into the lobby, where I took the stairs. I was just fucking done. Done with the depression, done with the pain, done with feeling like my future had just been stolen from me.
I made it to the third floor, and I was a goddamn mess. Fingers trembling, breathing erratic, I unlocked the door to my guest room and all but stumbled inside. A beat later, panic swallowed me whole.
Shit. I couldn’t breathe. I bent over and planted my hands on my knees, and I choked for air. My skin prickled and went numb in waves, my heart wouldn’t stop slamming against my ribcage, and then dizziness washed over me.
I can’t deal anymore. I give up. Send me to the fucking psych ward.
I heard a strangled groan, or maybe a gasp, and knew it came from within. Black spots filled my vision.
I’m often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there’s so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex.
There’s a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly.
Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve.
I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.
Wait…this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.
I’m a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, cooking, baking, and geeking. There’s time for hockey and family, too. But mostly, I just love to write.
