Showing results by narrator "Tristan Josiah" in All Categories

What could make things worse for me? One name. Weslee freakin' Jackson. The worst of the worst. The one I'm told by EVERYONE to stay away from. Which should be easy, right? NOPE. He's everywhere I go. Stalking me? Maybe. Dark brooding eyes trying to devour me? All the time.

I’m a baseball player with a habit of sleeping with the wrong women. I just never thought my best friend’s assistant would be one of them. Giving shy, inexperienced Naomi Silva the best orgasm of her life hadn’t been on my agenda. But fixing my own screwed up love life is. Unfortunately, my one night with Naomi has convinced her that I can be her bedroom guide - a dating guru to show her the ropes. I decide I’m game...as long as we keep our little arrangement a secret.

I’ve stayed hidden for years on this unstable alien planet. Humans are being abducted left and right, forced into breeding, and kept in cages like pets. I didn’t survive a career as a paramedic in violent downtown Chicago to be stuffed into a cage, thanks. I’ve already been abducted once, and I’ll die before it happens again. I’m a masked healer now, with the only apothecary on Tevron. I’ve got a bigger secret than being human… and it’s one every skin trader in the universe would kill to find out. I have to keep my secret safe… and I was doing fine until the alien cop detained me. Tempted me.

It’s Christmas in Salem, and Winter Allen isn’t just playing the Ghost of Christmas Past in the community theater’s production of A Christmas Carol, she’s actually seeing them. And this spirit is worried that the people responsible for her murder are now after her daughter. Somehow the ghost knows Winter is a witch, and her ice magic may be the key to saving the ghost’s daughter. Jackson Walker is a PI in Salem, but he’s also a werewolf, and his heightened senses give him an edge. When a witch from the Coven of Light contacts him asking for help in finding a missing woman, he’s quick to agree.

I own the runway. Until my nipple pops out of my dress during New York Fashion Week and it suddenly owns me. Being called a worthless gutter slut by a fuming designer is the least of my problems. My career is swirling around the toilet like the other models’ lunches. Until smoking hot Tate Decker steps in with a crazy idea about how his magazine can maybe salvage my livelihood.