Greetings from Shelter-In-Place San Francisco! I hope you and your families are healthy and hanging in there during this global pandemic. My family has remained healthy so far, and we are all working from home and/or attending online school. I recently hosted an author on my personal blog and wanted to share her stories with you on this blog, too. So, here's a spotlight for you on Lea Bronsen, author of thrillers, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.
Title: Shade Addiction Ex-boxer Mike Logan struggles to put a brutal past behind and make ends meet as a bus driver. When a young runaway settles for an all-night ride, he seizes the chance to do a good deed—get her home safely. But first, they’ll drive around and talk. What he doesn’t anticipate is that this broken night angel is also a sexy little minx needing a lot more…and not just the gentle kind. **This is an expanded edition of the story previously featured in the anthology Passion, Pleasure, Pain in 2019** #Dark #Erotic #Romance
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Title: Carnivora Fight evil with evil.
TOMOR
LUZ
DAVID The cops are in over their heads with “Project Carnivora” … Perhaps the only one who can help bust the pedophile predators is an equally vicious devil: Tomor, the country’s most hunted criminal. Amazon US | Amazon UK | B&N | Kobo | iBooks | Smashwords | GoodReads | Trailer
Excerpt: Carnivora, Book 1
“Time to change your bandage again,” the nurse mutters, voice cool, and pulls my orange-colored sleeve up to the elbow.
She unrolls the long strip of bandage from my wrist and tugs at one corner of the gauze plastered on my wound. It sticks as if glued to the freshly grown skin, and instead of removing the gauze carefully, she tears if off hard, discharging pain through my arm, wrist-to-shoulder. I open my eyes and lift my head off the pillow. “What the fuck are ya doing, trying to reopen the wound or something?” “Like you care.” She stops pulling and glares, gauze between her fingers. “I can see who you are inside. You’re playing tough, aren’t you, bad guy? But you can’t fool me.” “Shut up.” I lay down again, huffing, and stare at the white ceiling above me with its rows of long neon lights. “You’re a good man.” I glance back. “I said, shut the fuck up.” Her eyes shine. She rips off the remaining gauze, ignoring my grunt of pain, and throws it in a bin. “Look.” No fuck. “Look at it,” she insists, voice low and demanding. No. I know what I’ve done, and I can imagine what it looks like. A six centimeter-long deep, reddish, scratched-up ridge along my artery. Layers of skin, fat, meat, and whatnot must be visible and sweating a pinkish liquid from the reborn pores. I don’t need to see it. I guess the girl wants me to be so horrified, I’ll never attempt suicide again. That’s right. She wants to shock me into acceptance. You gotta be fucking kidding me, little thing. She shakes her head. “I don’t understand why they gave you the life sentence.” “You mean they shoulda given me the chair?” Instead of responding to my sarcasm, she pivots to look up at the clock and widens her eyes as if realizing she forgot an appointment. Face tense, she returns to her work, applies some cool, gel-like liquid on the wound, and bandages it with quick routine moves. What’s up with her? In my three days in this woman’s company, I’ve noted the things that make her tick. Maybe she’s upset because I’m leaving the infirmary soon. Earlier, she said she didn’t know when I’d be ready to go back to my cell. She probably knows now, but doesn’t want to tell me. The door opens. She jumps. A uniformed guard pokes his head in, checks the small room, and exits. She seems frozen in place, features tense. Staring ahead and taking deep breaths as if trying to regain composure. I cock my head a little. “What’s going on? They gonna transfer me?” She visibly swallows and fixes her gaze on some point on the wall. I snicker. “Are you sad ‘cause I’m leaving?” Ha, I can be so ugly, when the girl clearly likes me. As she sits there avoiding me, I take the time to check out her tits, and drink in the amazing sight of their pressing against her green blouse with each breath. She doesn’t have a name tag. Come to think of it, none of the personnel do. Evidently, so the inmates can’t identify their ‘caretakers’, and should they by some miracle leave the premises, track them down. I nod to her blouse. “What’s your name?” She twists back to me, brows raised, before shaking her head. “I can’t tell you that.” “C’mon, I’ll never see you again.” I grin, then add with an ironic snicker, teasing her, “They’ll never let me slash my wrists, or hang myself.” She looks away and busies herself collecting the medical stuff, throwing a quick, almost invisible glance to the door. What the hell is making her so nervous? Coldness fills my chest. Something’s up. “Come on, Babe,” I coax with my most gentle, sensual voice, wanting to buy time. “Tell me your name.” “Why?” she whispers, fidgeting with the roll of bandage. “’Cause I want a name to your pretty face when I jack off in my cell.”
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Title: A Thorned Rose in the Sand When life in a big U.S. city becomes too much, Stevie Jones decides to live her wildest dream – compete against the tough guys in a motorcycle rally across Morocco. But the real excitement is found away from the race track, in the shifting sands of the desert. After his studies in London, Ragab has returned to the nomadic lifestyle of his Bedouin family and the majestic silence of the Sahara. He dreams of the perfect wife, until a beautiful but feisty biker stuck in a sand dune turns his quiet world upside down.
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Excerpt: A Thorned Rose in the Sand
The girl screamed behind him. “Eeeeee!”
Too hard to resist. Until now, Ragab had had a difficult time respecting her privacy, but surely, a scream called for attention. What kind of a gentleman would he be if he didn’t check on a woman in distress? He spun and found her kneeling on her jacket, nude and wet, arms outstretched in shock. He bit down a laugh. Yes, the deep well water was cold, but one got used to it, and in the extreme heat of the desert, it was a blessing. She turned, caught him staring, and even though he couldn’t see anything inappropriate, she hurried to cover her breasts and pubic area. “Look away!” she shouted, voice panicky. The laugh bubbled inside him, but he obediently turned back to the motorcycle—then stood in such a way he could see her reflection in one of the side mirrors. Oh, it was like watching a porn scene. Her long, red curls hung wild over her back and round, white butt cheeks. Every time she moved, a portion of her breasts appeared in the space between her ribs and arms. Such perfect feminine curves, all over. Imagine if he saw the front… Blood rushed to his groin. Stiffening, bothered, he tore from the sight, walked over to the well, and leaned against its waist-high wall, hoping the hardness of the bricks and coolness from the water below would temper his arousal before it became a full-blown erection. So silent… He strained to hear. Splashes. Muffled squeals. More splashes. He turned slowly and stole a glance from the corner of his eye. She washed her panties and black top in the bucket and leaned forward to spread them in the sun. […] Ooh! Shocked to his core, he turned back and groaned low […]. He closed his eyes, drew long, slow breaths to calm the painful throbbing and counted minutes, trying to think of something else. His dromedary, for example. It would be cool to show her how to ride it. What if he rode another one, and they both galloped on the dunes together, she laughing, ecstatic… Then they’d roll in the sand, and he would tease her thighs apart and […]. Oh, yes. She called, “Ready?” He risked a glance in her direction. Wearing one of his sisters’ dresses and looking divine with her red curls floating behind her—and her face white and clean—she strolled to the motorcycle, carrying a bag and her clothes. She stuffed everything on top of the fuel tanks, got up, lifted the dress to her knees, and started the motor. Not once looking at him.
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About Lea BronsenLea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance. Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Amazon | Pinterest | BookBub | Instagram | GoodReads
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Have a great May, Dear Readers, and I'll see you back here on May 30th with some more books for your summer reading list, and a look at my new series. :-)
xo,
Celia
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