I’m releasing my first novel, Losing It in Africa, at 99 cents. It’s erotic romance and New Adult Romantic Suspense with a hot interracial MMF bisexual menage. An untouched BBW interviews with a mysterious older man for her first job…. Yeah, busted, I did not write this book to fill an existing market niche. I wrote it because I wanted it to exist. I’m hoping my fabulous, adventurous readers will love it and spread the word. You can scroll down to read the beginning of the novel. It’s available as an ebook via multiple retailers and I’m working on the paperback edition.
Here’s the book description:
A smart girl burdened by a tragedy. Two lethal hunks with secrets, one of them a billionaire keen on discipline, the other a bodyguard as tender as he is strong. And some real bad guys.
When curvy Ivy interviews for her first job, she takes a huge risk to tempt Weston Drake to fly her to Africa. With thousands of lives in danger, Ivy has to prove herself to West and Kane to earn her place on the team. If she blows the mission, the smugglers will shoot them and deliver fake medicines that kill.
Rated 18+ for language, strong sexual content, BDSM, and brief violence. Trigger warnings for punishment and scary stuff.
This is a complete novel with no cliffhanger. It’s on Amazon, Barnes & Noble Nook, Apple iTunes / iBooks, Kobo, Inktera, also known as Page Foundry, and Tolino, although as of today, not all of the links are live yet. Here’s the Books to Read Universal Link.
Excerpt from Losing It in Africa—no spoilers!
This is the beginning:
People should have to have a license to have a baby, and if they can’t come up with a humane baby name, they should be denied. Ancestor names should be banned, except in the rare case where the ancestors have sexy names.
I got stuck with Ida, and may never forgive my parents. I changed it to Ivy, got a strand of the vine tattooed around my ankle in high school. I don’t think they’ll forgive me, either.
Their lack of taste is why I had to stand in front of my killer-handsome potential new boss and correct him about my name.
“Excuse me, sir, it’s Ivy.”
“What’s Ivy?” His eyes sparkled. I wondered if he was messing with me.
“My name. My name is Ivy.”
He lifted a print-out from his desk and peered at it. Probably did a background check on my social security number. He was hot. Muscular bod filling out his classy charcoal suit, black hair, and eyes so dark they looked black, too, from across his massive teak desk. Big hands with no wedding ring. But was this powerful, hot man a paranoid bastard?
“It says here your name is Ida.”
I took a deep breath and dug my nails into my palms. I’d borrowed a skirt suit and chiffon blouse from my roommate, and stuck my hair up in a French twist in an attempt to look older. I was 19 but lots of people were prejudiced, like you didn’t need a job—or have a right to any freedom or responsibility at my age. The paper he held in his big hands showed my hope to pass myself off as older was as blown as the truth about my name. Ida was someone from a past century, not me.
“That’s a mistake. My parents’ mistake.” I blushed. I made it sound like I was an accident.
He laughed. It transformed him, made his male beauty more human and approachable. I approached.
“Really, sir, it’s so awful, I started calling myself Ivy years ago.” I raised my chin. “I don’t answer to anything else.” I braved rounding the end of his desk and stuck out my foot, displaying my tattoo as proof. It showed through the sheer stockings I bought for the interview and complemented the sexy glossy black patent leather high heels I’d worn to spice up the conservative suit.
He whistled. He was enough older than me that it sounded appreciative, not crass. Maybe he could see my panties in the reflective shoe. Close up, I caught the glints of silver at his temples. He was older than my dad. But hot, so hot. I felt self-conscious standing near him, right in his zone behind his power desk. I could reach out and touch him, or he me. The thought made me turn a brighter shade of red. His head remained bent, as though he were memorizing my tattoo. I kept my ankle raised for his inspection. Years of dance training paid off. I could stand balanced on one high heel for a long time. My breathing sped up, and I felt warm all over.
“Ivy it is, then. Lovely tat.”
I liked his deep, friendly voice. Strange yet good to hear a guy his age say tat. From him it didn’t seem put on, the way some teachers tried to use slang to sound like they understood us, but they didn’t. I put my foot down, moving slow, like a stork in front of a predator. I backed away from him. Something crashed.
I whipped around. A statue of blindfolded Justice with her scales of balance on fine chains lay in a heap on the floor. I bent and gathered it up. I felt his eyes on my ass. I couldn’t help myself. I bent over deeper.
No way I’d get this job on my qualifications. I was willing to get it on the view. I’d never had a job; on my resume, I made the most of my being editor for the college newspaper. So I took my time getting Justice’s scales off the floor, untangling the chains so the metal trays would hang just so. I rose and put it on his desk. After treating him to the sight of my clinging red lace panties, I didn’t feel so insecure.
“Sorry about that.” I smiled. He looked flushed.
He murmured something. I think he said, “I’m not.”
“Come in tomorrow at eight, Ivy.” He said my name with emphasis. I liked how it sounded coming from his mouth. My first boss. Who knew the world of work could be so hot?
He grinned, his face still red. “Not at this time.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see you at eight.” I gave him my best smile and twisted a loose strand of hair around my finger. A deep breath made my blouse gap, showing my matching bra filled to overflowing with my abundant girls. I strode to the door and put extra wiggle in my walk.
He sighed behind me. One thing I could tell about my new boss, he liked my curves.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I hope you enjoy the book and review it.
Among the many exciting facts of self-publishing is that many promoters require a specific number of reviews with a stated star average on Amazon to even consider a book. As much as I appreciate all reviews, most promoters count only reviews on Amazon US toward filling their requirement.
Authors and small publishers depend on reader reviews so we can qualify to pay for ads to reach more readers. I need you.
Bisexual author transplanted from California to Quintana Roo so I can continue writing fiction. Die hard. Coffee addict. Cartoon fan. Prone to bouts of crazy hope interspersed with depression.