Showing posts with label Annika Martin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Annika Martin. Show all posts

January 29, 2018

Book Blitz + Giveaway: Hostage by Annika Martin & Skye Warren


 

Hostage
Author: Annika Martin & Skye Warren

Genre: New Adult Romance
Publication Date: January 30, 2018

Description:

I NEVER KNEW WHEN HE’D COME TO ME. ONLY THAT HE WOULD.

I’d never even kissed a boy the night I met Stone. The night I saw him kill. The night he spared my life. That was only the beginning.

He turns up in my car again and again, dangerous and full of raw power. “Drive,” he tells me, and I have no choice. He’s a criminal with burning green eyes, invading my life and my dreams.

The police say he’s dangerously obsessed with me, but I’m the one who can’t stop thinking about him. Maybe it’s wrong to let him touch me. Maybe it’s wrong to touch him back. Maybe these twisted dates need to stop. Except he feels like the only real thing in my world of designer labels and mansions.

So I drive us under threat, until it’s hard to remember I don’t want to be there.

Until it’s too late to turn back.

HOSTAGE is a dangerous standalone romance by New York Times bestselling authors Skye Warren and Annika Martin. It’s set in the same world as PRISONER, but can read separately!


A calm comes over me. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

“So far, you haven’t shown you can follow orders very well, have you?”

“I won’t tell on you,” I blurt out.

He snorts.

We’re heading west, out of the city. The party seems like a million years ago. They’ll be sitting down for dinner now. Wondering where I am. Will they think I left?

The man’s face is in shadows. Streetlamps flash over his face as the van moves along, revealing a nose carved out of granite and a strong jaw. I wouldn’t call him handsome. He’s too rough-hewn for that, like someone forgot to sand over the angles.

“Please—”

“Be quiet.” His soft menace is directed at me this time. I shrink in my seat.

We’re going into a run-down suburb, Westdale or Ferndale or something, a place with a lot of little tiny box homes. It’s a place I never go. We wind through the streets, deeper and deeper.

It’s hard to even look at him. That means acknowledging what’s happening to me. This is real. I may never make it out of this alive. That’s what I think when I turn my head to the side, glance at him from beneath low lashes. Which makes his gray Henley and dark-wash jeans seem way too ordinary. If this were the day I was going to die, wouldn’t he be wearing something more dramatic?

But that’s just wishful thinking from my panicked mind. He can hurt me wearing anything. I’m so deep in danger it’s hard to breathe.

He slows on a far block and turns. The van headlights hit overgrown weeds and the charred remains of a house. The place burned at one time, long ago.

He circles around and goes into the alley behind it. He shoves it into park and does something to the wires that make it shut off. He turns to me. “I’m gonna get out and deal with this guy. If you move out of this seat, I’ll kill you. And if, by some miracle, you manage to get away, I’m going to kill everybody you called on this phone in the last month. Can you guess how? I’ll give you a hint. A meat hook is involved.”

I suck in a breath. He doesn’t bother to wait for my answer. He gets out, yanks open the back door, and drags the man out—I can tell by the thuds. More punching sounds come from behind the van. The groans and garbled pleas sound worse and worse.

I huddle in my seat, listening to a man get beaten to death.

Bile rises up in my throat. I have only a few seconds to decide what to do—throw up in the van or throw up outside. He’s told me not to leave. He’s threatened my life, threatened to snap my neck. But I have an entire lifetime of my mother’s voice in my head. I have sixteen years of decorum forcing me to fumble for the door handle and push my way out.

I make it two feet away before dropping to my hands and knees and throwing up in the weeds behind the place. For all I know, he’ll kill me for this. For all I know, he’d have killed me for doing this in the van. He’s insane.

There’s not much that lands on the ground. A bottle of smartwater and some strawberries don’t leave a lot to vomit, but my stomach still heaves again and again until I’m sore, until I’m choking on bile, wrung dry.

I sit back on my feet, wiping my face, panting, one hand on the rough concrete, head down. The sounds back there have changed. There’s this grunting and a grinding sound, then a crack. It makes me want to throw up all over again.

If he’s going to kill me, I’d rather not see it coming. I guess I hope he does it fast. That’s what they always say in movies.

I hear a thump in the back of the van and then the sound of the door shutting. Footsteps coming toward me.

I force my breathing to slow. He’s behind me. I stay still.

“You’ve never seen shit like this, have you?” he asks, his voice almost conversational.

It makes me shiver, how he can sound so normal after killing a man.

My voice is low. “No.”

“You’ve only seen—what? Parties? Fancy shit?”

There’s judgment in his voice and something else. Curiosity? I can use that. I have to use that, because it’s the only tool I have. I sit back on my knees, brushing my hands against each other to wipe off the gravel. My white and pink dress is stained with blood and dirt. My cell phone is in his pocket. If I want to survive this, I need to persuade him to let me go.

“Parties,” I force myself to say in agreement. Make him see you as a person. “Tonight was my birthday party.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I look up at him. His face is cast in shadows by the moon. Demonic. Unforgiving. I wonder how I look to him, down on the ground in a dirty alley.

“Please just let me go back there,” I whisper. “Nobody has to know.”

He lowers to his haunches and brushes a strand of slick hair from my face. His thumb lingers on my cheek, brushing over my skin. “You’re right,” he says, voice musing. “No one saw me take you. No one even knew I was there. No one has to know.”

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

He stands, sucking in a ragged breath. My heart pounds as his eyes move over me.

I’ve never felt so helpless, so alone. I’m a sacrifice, kneeling at the feet of a beautiful, brutal demon.


Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance. For those new to her work, consider the following bestselling series...

★ Experience the dark glamour and forbidden love of the Stripped series. The mafia romance prequel TOUGH LOVE is free!

★ Meet the gritty and dangerous men of Chicago Underground... start reading for free with book one, ROUGH.

★ Fall in love with the sexy modern fairy tale the Beauty series, starting with Beauty Touched the Beast.

“This is the story I’ve been dying for, and it’s a story I never expected. Beautifully layered, romantic and sexy, Skye Warren delivers a complex story of fierce loyalty, absolution, and endless love. The writing in this book is as breathtaking as the story is unforgettable. I absolutely loved it. ” – Angie and Jessica’s Dreamy Reads

Don't miss a release! Sign up for the newsletter to find out about new releases and sales:
www.skyewarren.com/newsletter

Annika Martin:
I’m a NYT bestselling author, lover of sexy stories, hot heroes, and big drama. I live in Minnesota with my husband and two cats. I’ve been writing all my life while working various jobs, from waitress at a zillion different restaurants to advertising writer. I’m into running and yoga and helping animals, and coveting other people’s gardens. I also write as RITA award-winning author Carolyn Crane.
 

Newsletter: www.annikamartinbooks.com/newsletter



 
XBTBanner1






October 23, 2014

Book Blitz + Giveaway: Prisoner by Annika Martin & Skye Warren



Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)
Author: Annika Martin & Skye Warren
Genre: New Adult Romance
Release Date: October 23, 2014
 
Description:

He seethes with raw power the first time I see him—pure menace and rippling muscles in shackles. He’s dangerous. He’s wild. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

So I hide behind my prim glasses and my book like I always do, because I have secrets too. Then he shows up in the prison writing class I have to teach, and he blows me away with his honesty. He tells me secrets in his stories, and it’s getting harder to hide mine. I shiver when he gets too close, with only the cuffs and the bars and the guards holding him back. At night I can’t stop thinking about him in his cell.

But that’s the thing about an animal in a cage—you never know when he’ll bite. He might use you to escape. He might even pull you into a forest and hold a hand over your mouth so you can’t call for the cops. He might make you come so hard, you can’t think.

And you might crave him more than your next breath.

"Sexy, dark and thrilling. I loved every second of it!" – New York Times bestselling author Katie Reus 


https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23303963-prisoner?ac=1

I’m coughing, wheezing. I had asthma as a kid, and that’s what it feels like now as the pepper spray stings me all the way down. “Get off!” I gasp. “You’re too heavy—I can’t—get air.”

“It’s the spray you hit me with,” he says. “Breathe normal.”

I gasp for air, panicking. “I can’t!” Is this how I die? Suffocation?

“Pretend,” he says, letting up his knee. He shifts so that he’s straddling my back. He grips my wrists now, pressing them above my head, and I feel his boots locked over my thighs. His weight is off my back. “It’s something every thug like me knows, how to not breathe in the fucking Mace.”

I choke and cough. I still can’t breathe. He’s going to let me die. He’s going to sit on me and watch me die.

“Relax,” he says softly. “You’re making it worse by panicking.”

Hoarsely, I try to get air. The sounds scare me. I really can’t breathe. I suck faster as the panic rises.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Shhh.” He brings his head near mine, breath tickling the back of my neck. “Pepper spray is an inflammatory agent, okay? It swells your throat and sinuses, but it doesn’t shut them.”

I gasp.

He continues to speak in his calm, strangely soothing voice. Why is he soothing me? I can feel him rattling against my defenses with every word. “You’re still getting air, okay? Focus on that, Ms. Winslow. That little passage of air you can still breathe through. Slow it down now, got it?” I can’t slow it down. It’s like I don’t know how to breathe anymore, and I’m shaking.

And suddenly he’s stretching his big body over me, on top of me. His weight isn’t entirely on me, or else I’d be squished; it’s more of a dull weight, as though he’s holding himself against me, warming me, pressing me to the forest floor. Into my ear he whispers, “Breathe with me.”

I suck in a faint breath. “Get off me, you caveman!” Why is he even trying to help me?

“You’re okay, baby,” he says. “Match my breath.”

I feel his chest expand against my shoulder blades. He’s like a big, warm animal on me. I twist, but there’s no moving. He presses down harder, and something about his weight soothes me. I hate that he’s actually calming me, helping me. I don’t want him to make me feel good—he’s my enemy.

I wheeze lightly.

He breathes on, hot and slow against me. A bird calls in the distance. I can hear the hum of the highway, the drone of a helicopter. My eyes tear, and my limbs feel floppy and warm, and suddenly I’m doing it—I’m breathing. I take an almost regular breath.

“There you go,” he whispers.

“Fuck you. I don’t want your help.” I gasp in another breath.

His whisper caresses my cheek. “Nice and slow, Ms. Winslow.” There’s something sensual in the way he says it. “Nice and slow.”

He breathes again, as if to demonstrate. On the next breath I match him. Soon we’re breathing together. It’s strangely intimate, like we’re two wounded creatures under the forest canopy. It’s almost like dancing.

Almost like having sex.

I crane my head around just enough to see that he still has his eyes shut tight, dark eyelashes wet with tears from the irritation of the spray. Did I hurt him? Did I burn his eyes?

“Stop moving around,” he growls. “Lie still.”

Like I have any choice with him pinning me. My heart pounds under his weight.

Breathe in, breathe out.

It’s as if we’re in some kind of time-out, a no-man’s-land with the two of us fucked up and lying on the forest floor on a bed of pine needles that actually feels sort of soft and nice. The moments stretch on and on. I wonder how long it will take him to recover.

Maybe I really injured his eyes. Could I have hurt his eyes permanently?

He shifts, and I think maybe he’s getting up. But he doesn’t.

In a weird way I’m glad. If he got off me, that would end this strange, relaxing time out. It would bring back the harsh reality of who we are to each other.

For now, there’s nothing I can do with him lying on my back, and I let my limbs go soft, let my breathing calm, giving myself permission to relax. I feel like jelly suddenly, spread underneath him, spine flattened out. Us breathing together.

My eyes drift closed. The warm patch on my neck feels lit up every time he breathes out, and I imagine his lips hovering just over my skin.

I imagine him kissing me there, and a wave of forbidden feeling swells through my core.

My eyes fly open. There is no way I’m turned on.

Except I am.

My heart races. My breath gets fitful again.

“Hey,” he says. And then more softly. “You’re okay.”

I become aware of a hardness against my thigh. An erection. A melty sensation pulses through my pelvis. I’m trembling deep down, and it’s not just fear; it’s excitement.

Horrified, I try to shake him off, and he tightens his legs and arms around me. I feel his weight and warmth keenly now. “You don’t want to give me any more trouble, do you?”

“No,” I whisper huskily.

The energy of sex runs wild between us, and I don’t know how to stop it. Does he know? I flash back on him in the prison waiting room, the way he looked at me, and all that power and beauty barely contained in shackles. How stupid I was to think he was beautiful.

“No, you don’t want to give me trouble,” he affirms. “So we’re going to stay just like this until my eyes can recover.”

“So you can kill me?”

“If I was going to kill you,” he says, warm and tickly beneath my earlobe, “don’t you think you’d be dead?” There’s something about the way he says this that makes my belly quiver, and I can’t stop focusing on his erection. His big, strong heart beats against my back, beating my heart like we’re conjoined in some primitive way.

His breath feels soft on the side of my neck, and heaven help me, I want to feel more of him. I imagine his skin on my skin. Dimly I’m aware that my breath is changing, speeding, shallowing.

I stiffen as he presses his lips to the warm spot; it’s a kind of kiss. Or is it? And then he whispers, “Penny for your thoughts, Ms. Winslow.”

Oh God, he knows. This man who’s going to kill me, this man I’ve been breathing with, he knows.
Annika
I’m a NYT bestselling author living a stone’s throw away from the Mississippi with my awesome husband and two cats in a home full of plants, sunshine and books. I'm heavy into writing love stories about criminals--some of them are dirty and fun (my Kinky bank robbers!) others are dark and intense (Prisoner!)

I also write gritty romantic suspense as the RITA-award winning author Carolyn Crane.

Author Links:

Skye
(No author photo)
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely tender. For those new to her work, consider the bestseller Wanderlust or Don't Let Go.

Author Links:
Buy Link: Amazon 


Giveaway: (1) ebook copy of 

On the Way Home by Skye Warren + (1) ebook copy of The Kinky Bank Robbers boxed set by Annika Martin. Open INTL!