Ever and Cade, Sorry I vanished like I did. I'm not sure I can even explain things. I don't know when I'll be back. IF I'll be back. I'm not sure of anything, except that I love you, Ever. You're my twin, my best friend, and leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done. I know you don't understand. Maybe you never will. I hope you don't, honestly. It would be easier that way. That's cowardly, I'm sure. Cade, take care of her. Love her, the way she deserves. The way you always have, for forever and always. If I could ask you anything, it's that you remember me as I was, and forget me as I am. I'm sorry, and goodbye, and I love you. Eden**

I wasn’t always in love with Nell Hawthorne; I was in love with a girl named India before I ever met Nell. India? She was my first love, the girl who made me want to be better than my past, better than the blood and violence. Live by the sword, die by the sword, that’s what they say, right? It should have been me, that day. But it was’t. It was her. And that changed me. Sent me down an even darker path than I’d been on before. Until I met her. Nell Hawthorne. The girl who changed everything. You know that story. But what you don’t know is everything that led up to that rainy day under a tree, at a funeral.**

I see us in a million montages—you and me, Ava, in a million vignettes. Visions of us.  You are beneath me. You stare up at me. You gaze, lovingly, into my eyes, and you do not look away as you come apart. I see this moment, over and over and over again… You whisper something, as the shudders wrack you, yet the words you whisper are lost to me. I want those words—they mean everything.  What is it you whisper in the moment of our most intimate completion?  My name, surely. What is it you whisper, Ava? Please, tell me. Whisper those sounds to me again, even just once, I beg you.  Come to me, and come for me, and come with me: I will hear those sweet, dulcet syllables blooming from your lips and I will know myself, and I will know I am home. *   * Memory is a harsh mistress: she embellishes the beautiful and serene, yet she also sharpens the edges of pain. All I have left of my husband, Christian, is memory. Everything else is gone. Our son, Henry, conceived and cherished and born and grown in the fertile soil of our love…he is dead. He molders six feet under the black loam of a Florida cemetery. The home we created for ourselves, in Ft. Lauderdale, is a pile of rubble, demolished by a hurricane. That home, and everything in it, is utterly gone. Even the rubble, by now, is likely cleared away. And all I know is, right now…I’m scared of letting myself grieve for Henry.  I’m scared I’ll never find Christian. And if I never find Christian, what will I do?  Who will I be?  **

Nicholas Harris is a professional badass. Ex-Army Ranger, former personal security for the one and only Valentine Roth, mercenary, assassin, pilot, and my lover. After Roth and Kyrie holed up in their island fortress estate in the Caribbean, Nick started a private security contracting company: Alpha One Security. He hired the best of the best, the scariest, nastiest, toughest—and sexiest—security experts in the business. And now he has the mission of a lifetime: the three year old daughter of two A-list celebrities has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. The twist? The mercenary and Russian mafioso who snatched the sweet, innocent little girl is a vicious, evil, sadistic thug with a grudge against Nick. And the fallout from this mission will be jet fuel on the flames of that grudge, pulling everyone around Nick into the vortex of violence and vengeance. Good thing we have the seven deadliest and most badass men on the planet on our team… And oh yeah, there’s little ol’ me: Layla Campari, mercenary-in-training.**

I'm nobody. I'm an orphan. A janitor. A college student. A virgin. And him? He's a god. One of the hottest action stars to ever grace the silver screen, huge and muscular and gorgeous and famous. He could have anyone in the world. Yet, despite the chasm separating my world from his, I find myself in his hotel room, and he's acting like I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. I'm not. He's everything every woman could ever want, and I'm just...me. She doesn't know how sexy she is, and that's it's own kind of beauty. But for real, she's gorgeous. I've met some of the hottest women in Hollywood, and none of them can hold a candle to this girl. I want her. And the fact that she's closed off and impossible to figure out only makes the pursuit that much more intriguing. The last thing I expect is for one night of pleasure to turn into something I'm unable to forget, even after she's gone her way and I've gone mine. I can't forget her, no matter how I try. And the next time we run into each other, I know there's no way I can let her go again. No matter what it takes. ***This is a full length, stand-alone contemporary romance, set in the world of STRIPPED***

You go into combat, you fear death. It's what keeps you careful, keeps you alive. I've faced death more times than I can count. I've taken bullets. I've taken lives. But nothing can prepare me for the soul-crushing terror of being captured. *** I married a Marine. I knew the risks. Every time my husband shipped out, I knew there was a chance he wouldn't come back. But Thomas always did. Always. Then one day two officers in full dress uniform knocked on my door and shattered my world. How do you keep going when you lose what made life worth living?

I showed up in backwater little Yazoo City Mississippi expecting to find solitude and a fresh start. I just left my wealthy, neglectful husband--with a couple million dollars belonging to him, I might add. When I got to Yazoo, though, I didn't find any solitude, that's for sure. I ended up in the arms of an oh so sexy young man named Tre McNabb. The problem? Tre is the preacher's son. This is an explicit, erotic novella for adults only! Contains super hot, one on one sex between two great characters.

I see us in a million montages—you and me, Ava, in a million vignettes. Visions of us.  You are beneath me. You stare up at me. You gaze, lovingly, into my eyes, and you do not look away as you come apart. I see this moment, over and over and over again… You whisper something, as the shudders wrack you, yet the words you whisper are lost to me. I want those words—they mean everything.  What is it you whisper in the moment of our most intimate completion?  My name, surely. What is it you whisper, Ava? Please, tell me. Whisper those sounds to me again, even just once, I beg you.  Come to me, and come for me, and come with me: I will hear those sweet, dulcet syllables blooming from your lips and I will know myself, and I will know I am home. *   * Memory is a harsh mistress: she embellishes the beautiful and serene, yet she also sharpens the edges of pain. All I have left of my husband, Christian, is memory. Everything else is gone. Our son, Henry, conceived and cherished and born and grown in the fertile soil of our love…he is dead. He molders six feet under the black loam of a Florida cemetery. The home we created for ourselves, in Ft. Lauderdale, is a pile of rubble, demolished by a hurricane. That home, and everything in it, is utterly gone. Even the rubble, by now, is likely cleared away. And all I know is, right now…I’m scared of letting myself grieve for Henry.  I’m scared I’ll never find Christian. And if I never find Christian, what will I do?  Who will I be?  **