RAFE (Inked
Brotherhood, #5) COVER REVEAL
New Adult
contemporary (erotic) romance
by Jo Raven
Cover by Jo Raven
Model:
Matt Sallis
Photographer:
Gilles Crofta
RELEASE DATE: End
March/Beginning April 2015
SYNOPSIS:
His
name is Rafaele Vestri, Rafe to his friends.
He’s
tall, strong, handsome. Distant. He often comes to the café where I
work, but we don’t talk much. He looks at me, though. Stares at me,
his gaze heated, and I can’t help but stare back. I want him, I
won’t deny it. I’ve never seen anyone that beautiful, anyone that
powerful, in my life.
But
he’s growing more withdrawn by the day. Something’s up, and he
won’t tell. I know about his past – the murder of his family when
he was fifteen. I can imagine how much it must have cost him. So much
violence contained in that strong body, waiting to be unleashed. What
is he seeking? What is he training so hard for? Why is looking at me
like he’s dying to touch me, but won’t dare?
Even
as I try to stop thinking about him, get interested in other boys, I
realize I can’t. I’m caught, body and soul, just like that. And I
tell myself, Megan, girl… What have you gotten yourself into this
time?
This is book 5 in
the Inked Brotherhood series which started with Asher. It is a
stand-alone work. No cliffhanger.
The expected
publication date is end March/beginning April 2015, on all of your
favorite e-book websites.
EXCERPT:
I’m
staring at Rafe’s hand. Big, strong, callused. A scar runs from his
thumb to the index finger.
He’s
looking at me, waiting. What does he want?
I
lift my hand, place it in his. It fits on his palm, smaller, darker,
thinner. He seems as entranced by the contrast as I am. His fingers
slowly curl, closing around mine. His lips part, but no sound comes
from his mouth, and his gaze remains fixed on our entwined hands,
pale lashes hiding the gold of his eyes.
Now
I’m the one caught, transfixed. His mouth looks soft, vulnerable,
at odds with his strong, angular features and the broad set of his
shoulders. The need to touch his face is overwhelming, and I step
closer, so close I can sense his scent. Not a cologne, but the deep
scent of his skin, like musk and warm metal. I can see the rise and
fall of his chest underneath the black Deathmoth T-shirt he’s
wearing under his open jacket, see the outline of his strong pecs.
We’re
standing so close our breaths mingle, and our bodies touch in places
as we shift, feathery brushes that send fire across my skin, into my
belly, making me ache. He places his hands on my waist and I grip his
thick, sinewy forearms. My stomach drops as if I’m standing at the
edge of a precipice, on the edge of a moment that can change
everything.
What’s
happening? It’s as if in the hollow darkness, the barrier between
us is crumbling, the wall he’s set between himself and the world is
falling.
His
hands tighten on my hipbones and his lashes lift, his gaze moving to
my mouth. His breathing is ragged. He tugs me against him, his
fingertips digging painfully into my flesh, his arms flexing with
barely controlled strength.
His
arousal presses into my stomach, hot and thick, caught sideways in
his jeans.
My
mind fills up with static. Rafe wants me. There’s the solid proof
of his desire. The heated gaze I’ve felt so often on me is
translated into a physical reaction, and it makes me feel so hot I
might burst into flames. He’s so handsome, I can’t help myself. I
want to stroke his square jaw, drag my fingertips over the golden
stubble on his cheeks, kiss those damnable dimples.
I
whimper, the sound coming from deep inside me, and he freezes, goes
so still I’m not even sure he’s breathing.
Then
he jerks back, releases me so fast I’m left reeling.
“Fuck,”
he hisses. He buries his fingers in his short blond hair, pulls, his
mouth now hard like the rest of him, pressed into a flat line. “This
is a mistake.”
A
knot is gathering in my throat, in my chest, cutting off air.
I
want to be mad at him, but his hands are trembling, and his amber
eyes so full of pain I forget my anger before it even forms. He’s
like mist, here and suddenly gone, lost into thin air. I have to
touch him, touch his bare skin, prove he’s real.
“Wait.”
I lift my hand to his face, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin
of his cheekbone. Warm. Satin soft.
A
pang goes through my chest, an ache that feels too much like sorrow,
and I’m not sure if it’s mine or his.
He
jerks away, his eyes wide on his pale face. He reaches up, his hand
hovering over the spot I touched. Then he turns and rushes off into
the crowd.
My
hand is still hovering in midair. I don’t know for how long I stand
there, staring at my splayed fingers, trying to figure out what
happened. Or maybe trying to find another explanation for his
reaction, desperate for him to be different to any other handsome,
arrogant guy. Maybe I imagined the pain in his gaze – or maybe that
pain is real but doesn’t make a difference. Traumatic past or not,
he’s sorry he touched me, sorry he desired me. Big surprise. Why
would he desire me, of all girls? There are so many vying for his
attention. Girls who have witty, sexy things to say, and who don’t
go stiff like cardboard when he touches them.
The
thought of him touching other girls shouldn’t hurt quite as much as
it does. And this is a bad sign. Very bad sign, Megan, I tell myself
and lower my hand that touched him. I feel as if my fingertips are
numb, burnt by the feel of his skin.
AUTHOR BIO:
Jo Raven writes New
Adult erotic contemporary romance. She loves sexy bad boys and
strong-willed heroines, and divides her time between writing and
reading. When not cooking up plots, she putters in her cluttered
kitchen and dreams of traveling to India and Japan.
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