July 2, 2016

Leah and Jagger are Back! An Excerpt From Wrapped Around My Finger

Finally! The follow-up to No Strings Attached is coming. I heard all of you, wanting more Leah and Jagger. I agreed. The response to NSA has been overwhelming, and I love all the messages I've received about these two. I wanted to give my male escort and my divorced mom of a teenager someone they each could come home to.

In Wrapped Around My Finger, they're making a go of it as a couple. But nothing good comes easy.

Wrapped Half Size Cover

Jagger’s broken all of his rules to be with Leah. There’s no way he can keep working as a male escort now that he’s fallen in love. And if he wants to keep her, he needs to stop making excuses and prove he’s more than just amazing in bed.

Everyone warns Leah that it will never work with Jagger. A guy like him isn’t cut out for a real relationship. She’s spent her life taking care of everybody else, and now it’s her turn to get what she wants.

Leah knows that Jagger’s raw artistic talent is exactly what her new restoration show needs to be a success. But when a scandal threatens to ruin everything she’s worked so hard for, Jagger wonders if he’s made a mistake thinking he can be anything but an escort.

Money can buy love, but no one can have it all.

Preorder now!
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/29462Np
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/294PCRg
Amazon AU: http://amzn.to/29c6RDl
Amazon CA: http://amzn.to/29rbIyd
iBooks: http://apple.co/29rbSFH
Kobo: http://bit.ly/296XH8W

Here's a sneak peek!

“Should we dress up?” I asked once the wine was poured. Salsa seemed like something that shouldn't be done in jeans and socks.
Jagger shook his head. “How do you listen to music? Do you have an iPod dock?”
“I do some epic karaoke when I drive, but I usually don't listen to it in the house.” It hurt my heart to admit that.
“Really? You don't listen to music when you work? I'm way more creative if I have something in the background.”
“I never tried it.” All I had was my laptop. The sound quality sucked, but it didn't matter. “I miss my boom box and my towers of tapes and CDs. Music used to be an event, and now I've kind of forgotten about it.”
“Make it an event again.” Jagger pulled his laptop out of his bag. I watched over his shoulder as he put together a playlist from his collection. The image of him listening to Salsa music on a hot Miami night as he worked on his photos made everything inside me throb. Every time I thought this man couldn't get any sexier, he proved me wrong. “I'll load these songs on your computer if you promise you'll think of me when you listen to them.”
I wished I could keep him in Washington with me. Jagger had a life in Miami, and just as I wasn't willing to start over, it wasn't fair for me to ask him to. But a girl could dream.
“I'll do more than that. But you've got to teach me how to move to them first. So I can practice.” I got up when the horns started playing and held my hand out to him.
Jagger took it, lacing his fingers in mine, and put his other hand on my back. “Everything is an eight count. If I step forward, you step back. Start with your right foot.”
One foot in front of the other. It should've been easy. But between counting, anticipating the next move, and being completely distracted by Jagger, I kept stepping on his feet.
“Relax.” Jagger laughed, and I tried not to let my frustration show. I needed more wine. “I know you can move. Pretend we're in bed.”
I pressed my lips together. “Like I can think of anything else.”
“Me neither,” he said against my ear, and I missed another step. “But we're not fucking until you get this.”
My jaw dropped. “You're punishing me for having two left feet?”
“More like rewarding you for good behavior. Think of it that way.”
I had the Tipsy White Lady at the Bar dance nailed. Why was this so hard? I gripped his hand, steeling myself to start again. This time, Jagger counted the steps out loud, and I could concentrate on the way our bodies moved together. He wasn't satisfied until I made it through a whole song without stepping on him.
“That can't be it.” It was too easy. “What about the hip stuff?”
“Nail the feet first, then add the hips,” he said. This was going to take all night. “Ready for the next step?”
Jagger taught me how to twirl and cross over. The next steps came easier; they weren't so backward from what he was doing. I started anticipating his next move, following him until we circled the living room.
His body moved effortlessly, like it was part of the song.
“I'm ready for the hip stuff now,” I said when he spun me into his chest. It was kind of a crash landing; I didn't have everything perfect yet.
“So am I.” Jagger's hands fell to my hips. Our gazes locked, and no one had to tell me to roll my hips. His hands guided the motion. I rolled them like I did in bed. I had no idea if this was proper Salsa protocol. My partner didn't complain.
Our lips gravitated to one another, the rhythm of the kiss complementing the movement of my hips. Jagger moved with me, just like the dance. Forward. Back. Round and round. His tongue a firm guide, just like his hands. We'd moved like this many times before, but we usually weren't dressed, or standing.
“I'm ready for something else.” He stopped dancing. The room still spun around me. “I think you learned your lesson.”