 ![Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00027]](http://www.inkslingerpr.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/casanovanewebook-196x300.jpg) I loved him more than life. He broke me and he didn't even know it. I ran from him. He didn't chase me. He never needed to, because he knew I'd come back. He was right. Death brought me home to him. Brett Walker. Drop dead gorgeous and filthy-mouthed with a smile that turns saints to sinners. A casanova to his core. My ex-best friend. And the bad boy whose reputation precedes him—the same reputation I'm tasked with turning to gold... Or so they think. ADD TO GOODREADS
AMAZON US | AMAZON UK | AMAZON AU | AMAZON CA | B&N | iBooks It was that or she was laughing at me... "I have no idea why I'm laughing," she breathed. Every other word was broken by a terrible attempt at keeping her laughter inside. "But thank you. Whatever you did, I needed that." "Happy to be of service." "I'm sure you are." Slowly, I raised my eyebrows. "Was that an innuendo?" She ran her hand through her hair, pushing it right back from her face, and rested her hand behind her neck. "No, but of course you took it like that." "If it sounds like an innuendo..." "It's proof that you have a dirty mind, Brett Walker. Nothing else." "I don't need the innuendo to prove that." "As evidenced by your obsession with my boots." "Ah," I smiled, "The fuck me boots." Her jaw dropped, but she was kind of smiling too. "Fuck me boots? You call my boots the fuck me boots?" "Shit. Did I say that out loud?" She nodded, desperately fighting a smile, which only made me smile wider. "Loud and clear, I'm afraid." "Look," I said, lighting pulling on a bit of her hair. "If you wear boots that go up to your knees with heels, I can only assume you're inviting me to fuck you, okay? That's why they're fuck me boots." "Okay, now this makes sense." She dropped her hand to her lap and blinked at me. "I wore those boots to our disastrous first meeting. Is that why you're bugging me with the dirty stuff? My boots invited you to fuck me?" "No. I'm 'bugging' you 'with the dirty stuff' because I want to fuck you. The boots are a bonus." "You...want to fuck me." I stared at her flatly. "Yes, Lani. I want to fuck you, and you have no idea how many ways I've imagined it." "Imagined it," she echoed. "You're much less sassy when you're tired. I'm not sure I like it. This conversation would be way more fun if you were tearing me a new one." That snapped her out of what I could only describe as a daze. "All right. Fine. I'm going to bed. Alone," she added as she stood. "Thank you for your sweater. I'll add that to my list of Brett's Gentlemanly Things." I got up and took the sweater from her. "Look, I'll even open the door for you." I stepped around her and clasped the door handle. I slowly turned it and opened the door. "Nice." She'd apparently found her sass again, because the word was injected with a cocky sarcasm. "Goodnight, Brett." "Lani?" She stopped when she was one step inside the door. "Yeah?" I swept my arm around her and spun her against the open front door. My grip on it kept it firmly in place as her back collided with the wood, and she inhaled at the exact same moment. Lust burned through my veins, and I took one step in front of her, pinning her to the door. "What are you doing?" Her voice was breathy, and as I dropped my gaze to her chest, the quickness of her breathing was impossible to miss. Her chest was rising and falling like crazy. I dipped my head so my lips ghosted over her cheek on their way to her ear. "In case you were wondering," I murmured against her earlobe. "Against the door is one of the ways I've imagined fucking you. With your legs around my waist, your nails in my shoulders, and your wet pussy hugging my cock." She exhaled on a shudder. "Asshole," she whispered. I placed my fingertips on her heaving chest, right above her heart. The quick dum-dum-dum of its racing beat told me everything I needed to know--she wanted me as much as she hated me. I stepped back with a smirk curving my lips. "Sweet dreams, kitten."
   By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies - usually wine - and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love. She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life. SIGN UP HERE FOR ALL NEW RELEASE INFO FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE
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  All is well in Holly Woods. My best friend's love triangle is now a happy little circle. My sister-in-law just gave birth to my gorgeous new niece who is the world's best cuddler, and Nonna's not on my back every ten minutes about the fact we're getting married in one month. Supposedly. Until the mayor's niece—our baker for the wedding—commits suicide. At least, that's what the note says. My gut says we're talking a different kind of 'cide.' My gut also says I should stay well away, and in the interest of Drake's sanity, I plan to. But when life throws you an unexpected curveball... Sometimes the best laid plans need tearing up. Even if you don't mean to do it. Happily ever after... If Holly Woods survives this. (Twined Bond is the seventh and final book in the Holly Woods Files series, and picks up roughly)
Amazon US | Amazon UK | Barnes and Noble | iBooks“Tell that to my ovaries.”“I think I did last night when I hugged Casey.” He winks at me. I playfully shove his chest. “It made me think. That's all.” I slide my hand down his stomach and, in a small voice, say, “I think you'd be a great dad.” He smiles, pressing his lips to mine. “And you'll be a great mom. When you figure out how to be an adult.” I hit him again. Much harder this time. He laughs, stepping back and moving to the coffee machine. “Stop getting your panties in a twist over every little detail, okay, babe? Take everything one step at a time and let me help you. Instead of freaking out in your office alone, call me.” “What if you don't answer?” He shrugs, hitting the button on the machine. “Leave me ranty messages and I'll come with cupcakes,” he says over the gurgling of the coffee spitting into his mug. “And just like that, he makes me forget why I was ever worried about marrying him,” I tease. He simply looks over his shoulder, smirks, and throws me a second wink. And an idea flies through my head. A crazy, stupid, ridiculous idea. The moment the coffee machine stops, the kitchen fills with silence. One that makes my idea buzz loudly. “Drake.” “Mhmm?” He turns around, still stirring sugar and cream into his coffee. “What if we did it? Got married. Eloped but kinda didn't.” “You're confusing me now, sweetheart.” I'm confusing myself. But still... “We're registered, right? We both have each other’s rings in the safe in the closet. Why don't we just...do it?” He stills, but his blue eyes swing from his mug to meet my brown gaze. “Are you suggesting we blow off the ceremony, grab our rings, and go see Father Luiz right now?” TWISTED BONDAmazon US | Amazon UK | B&N | iBooksTANGLED BONDAmazon US | Amazon UK | B&N | iBooksTETHERED BOND TIED BONDBURNING BONDAmazon US | Amazon UK | B&N | iBooks
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love. She likes to be busy - unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life. SIGN UP HERE FOR ALL NEW RELEASE INFO FACEBOOK | TWITTER | GOODREADS | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE
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![Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000037_00035]](http://www.inkslingerpr.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/strippeddown3-192x300.jpg)
What do you get when you mix a bottle of tequila, a single mom moonlighting as a stripper, and her sinfully sexy boss with an impulsive side?
w York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies - usually wine - and writes books.
Sometimes the past becomes the present... And he's hot, cocky, and British.
He's so close that my eyes shut, but I force them open again, only because I want to see how green his eyes really are when the sun glances over them. “The British are idiots,” I mumble, unable to form any further words—or any that are more coherent than those. “Truth. If only because I can taste your lips and I haven't touched them yet.” “I think that makes you real—” He cuts me off by doing exactly what he just mentioned—touching my lips with his. It's the exact same as this morning, just fresher, almost. Realer. They're heated from the sun, chilled from the wine we had at the bar around the corner not thirty minutes ago, and...softer. Softer—yeah. Hesitant yet somehow forceful. Unsure yet oddly certain. Mesmerizing. Consuming. I grasp his shirt in my hand, wrapping my fingers in the soft material, as he moves closer to me and his other arm snakes around my body. He pulls me against him, and I slide along the wooden seat, my heart thundering in my chest. I've been here for twenty-four hours. I don't want to stop. I don't want to change this. I don't know what's happening. I can't feel my toes because they're curled so hard. I can't feel my fingers because they're gripping him so tight. I can't feel my lips because I'm kissing him so firmly. I can't feel my heart's beats. It's beating too solidly, too firmly, too quickly, too erratically, for me to get a handle on it. My stomach is flipping and my lungs tightening and I swear to god, I'm consumed. Jase. Twenty-four hours. A guy I've met once before last night. And I'm consumed. I'm scared. I pull back from him, just our mouths, for just a second, before he pulls me right back in. I'm compelled to continue kissing him, and I wish I weren't, but it's as though a year never passed and I'm right back in London with the boy from the coffee shop. I feel the way I did then. Racing heart when he kisses me, tingling skin when he touches me, butterflying stomach when he looks at me... Except this is no coffee shop. This isn't London. A year has passed. And he's not just a guy trying to figure out lyrics. Not anymore. He's a potential international superstar, loved by possibly millions, obsessed over by far more. His lyrics could be written for him. His music produced for him. His schedule organized for him. And I'm just a girl living in the shadows of her famous brothers, happy for a quiet life by the beach, where the loudest scream is that of the ocean crashing against the rocks that dare break the perfection of the sand. 
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