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It’s time to howl at the moon and let loose the beast!
It’s time to howl at the moon and let loose the beast!
Bears, wolves and lions, oh my! This 21 BOOK Excite Spice MEGA Bundle lets you sink your teeth into all the hot, sexy shifters you could ever dream up! Over 375,000 words of paranormal prose with powerful, protective alphas looking for their fated mates.
Twenty-one great erotica and erotic romance authors will take you back to the wild, where raw passion rules, and primitive need dominates all. From lions, to tigers, to bears, these shifters will bring out the animal in you.
It’s time to howl at the moon and let loose the beast!
This EXCITE SPICE bundle is on sale for a LIMITED TIME.
K!NDLE UNL!MITED MEMBERS – DOWNLOAD THIS BOOK F*R*E*E!
Check out the start of several of the stories.
Lucky by Ryanne Hawk
The tattoo parlor reminded Cecelia Marks of a Goth den, full of black walls, red furniture, and low lighting with patchouli floating on the air, along with the unmistakable scent of ink. She’d wanted a new piece for a few months but had to save the money and find the right design to remind her of her new life. And everything she’d left behind.
She walked over to the long modern sofa and sat on the hard cushion. Why does beautiful furniture have to be so uncomfortable? she thought. So people don’t mill around and stay where they aren’t wanted? Why have them at all, then? Cecelia huffed out an exaggerated sigh and crossed her legs as she perused the shop. A kickass bass beat pumped through hidden speakers. She recognized the band and smiled, and the urge to stand up and get down made her jam on the couch with her arms and head.
She’d learned over the past few horrible years to take joy whenever she found it.
On the walls, black picture frames were scattered in geometric patterns featuring custom tattoo work. She heard faint voices echo from the back, though she couldn’t make out the words.
A male and female were arguing, that much she knew.
A few moments later and the scuff of footsteps made its way toward the front of the shop where she waited in front of the full wall of windows, tapping her foot on the cement floor, irritated that her artist was a few minutes late for her scheduled appointment.
Cecelia believed in punctuality.
The man who turned the corner and headed straight for her made her sit up straighter in her seat and take notice of more than just his body art. He had thick, almost black hair, shorn close to the sides but longer on top, sort of old school 1950s deco. Think of Grease. God, she loved that movie. He had deep—set eyes, a thick brow, and full lips. Not feminine plump, but sensual, taking her to a place where silken sheets and sexy laughter rang through the night. He had full sleeve artwork, mostly in bright colors, but a few black and white pieces adorned his arms as well.
She blinked and wiped her palms on her leggings before she stood as he approached. He held his hand out and said, “I’m Luke Miller, your artist. Did you bring your design with you?”
Cecelia stumbled over her name for a moment, remembering who she was now, as she said, “I’m Cecilia,” and handed him her printed design. He reached out and his finger touched hers as he took the paper. A jolt like static electricity ran through her body from the mere second of contact. He didn’t move, just stared deep into her eyes for half a breath.
What the Werepanther Dragged In by Stikki Minaj
Sun Salutations
Morning comes early when you own a coffee shop.
I’d barely had time to flip the door sign from “Time to Switch to Booze” to “Trouble’s Brewin’!” when Anton burst through the door.
“Good lord, what are you doing up at this hour?” My best bud since elementary school, he just let himself behind the bar and poured himself a mug of black coffee before claiming the stool at the end.
He smiled at me over the top of the mug, “Who says I’m just getting up? Girl, I have not been to sleep yet.” He sipped smugly. “Some of us have lives.”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“Ouch. You are mean in the morning. You should get more sleep.”
His real name is Anthony, but he thinks Anton sounds French. We’ve been best friends since fifth grade when I was able to protect him from the mean kids because I was tall. He was the shortest kid in class, I was the tallest. He was dark as cast iron, I had milky white skin that could get a sunburn from a photo of the beach. Now he’s well over six feet tall and I’m still the 5’8” I hit in sixth grade. Our races stayed the same, though.
Our backgrounds were different too——he’s an only child and I have eight sisters;his parents were doctors and recent immigrants from Ethiopia, my mom is a witch and my dad disappeared when I was two, under mysterious circumstances that may or may not have involved trolls——but when we discovered our shared love of show tunes and Animaniacs, we were inseparable. I kept him from getting beat up until he was big enough to fend for himself and he told me when it was time to stop wearing hair scrunchies.
I’m Kateri Surreal, eldest of the simmering cauldron of crazy that is the Surreal sisters. I’m “the responsible one,” which is just as sexy as it sounds, but it was that or “the one with no tits” or “the one with the coffee shop.” My sisters are off having adventures and shit and I wake up at 5 am every day to open Witch’s Brew and caffeinate my little corner of Brooklyn. I live in the weeny little apartment above the shop with my cat, Gomez.
Oh, and yes, my mom is actually a witch. So am I, although I’m far less eye—of—newt Olde Schoole than she is. My brewing is mostly limited to coffee and mild hexes on people who double park in front of the shop. I also sell occult jewelry to the goth girls that want to look Wiccan and freak out their parents. You know, pentagrams with crystal centers, snake rings with jeweled eyes. None of it is charmed, though, just ugly. My rack of candles and sage smudge bundles bring in the New Agey old ladies in flowing linen and jangly bracelets. The usual crowd that want to believe that magic is real.
I mean, magic is real, of course, but you can’t just buy the right supplies and suddenly you can do it. It’s magic, not arts and crafts.
Thanks for reading excerpts from Paws and Claws, hope you enjoyed,
Anita
Twenty-one great erotica and erotic romance authors will take you back to the wild, where raw passion rules, and primitive need dominates all. From lions, to tigers, to bears, these shifters will bring out the animal in you.
It’s time to howl at the moon and let loose the beast!
This EXCITE SPICE bundle is on sale for a LIMITED TIME.
K!NDLE UNL!MITED MEMBERS – DOWNLOAD THIS BOOK F*R*E*E!
Check out the start of several of the stories.
Lucky by Ryanne Hawk
The tattoo parlor reminded Cecelia Marks of a Goth den, full of black walls, red furniture, and low lighting with patchouli floating on the air, along with the unmistakable scent of ink. She’d wanted a new piece for a few months but had to save the money and find the right design to remind her of her new life. And everything she’d left behind.
She walked over to the long modern sofa and sat on the hard cushion. Why does beautiful furniture have to be so uncomfortable? she thought. So people don’t mill around and stay where they aren’t wanted? Why have them at all, then? Cecelia huffed out an exaggerated sigh and crossed her legs as she perused the shop. A kickass bass beat pumped through hidden speakers. She recognized the band and smiled, and the urge to stand up and get down made her jam on the couch with her arms and head.
She’d learned over the past few horrible years to take joy whenever she found it.
On the walls, black picture frames were scattered in geometric patterns featuring custom tattoo work. She heard faint voices echo from the back, though she couldn’t make out the words.
A male and female were arguing, that much she knew.
A few moments later and the scuff of footsteps made its way toward the front of the shop where she waited in front of the full wall of windows, tapping her foot on the cement floor, irritated that her artist was a few minutes late for her scheduled appointment.
Cecelia believed in punctuality.
The man who turned the corner and headed straight for her made her sit up straighter in her seat and take notice of more than just his body art. He had thick, almost black hair, shorn close to the sides but longer on top, sort of old school 1950s deco. Think of Grease. God, she loved that movie. He had deep—set eyes, a thick brow, and full lips. Not feminine plump, but sensual, taking her to a place where silken sheets and sexy laughter rang through the night. He had full sleeve artwork, mostly in bright colors, but a few black and white pieces adorned his arms as well.
She blinked and wiped her palms on her leggings before she stood as he approached. He held his hand out and said, “I’m Luke Miller, your artist. Did you bring your design with you?”
Cecelia stumbled over her name for a moment, remembering who she was now, as she said, “I’m Cecilia,” and handed him her printed design. He reached out and his finger touched hers as he took the paper. A jolt like static electricity ran through her body from the mere second of contact. He didn’t move, just stared deep into her eyes for half a breath.
What the Werepanther Dragged In by Stikki Minaj
Sun Salutations
Morning comes early when you own a coffee shop.
I’d barely had time to flip the door sign from “Time to Switch to Booze” to “Trouble’s Brewin’!” when Anton burst through the door.
“Good lord, what are you doing up at this hour?” My best bud since elementary school, he just let himself behind the bar and poured himself a mug of black coffee before claiming the stool at the end.
He smiled at me over the top of the mug, “Who says I’m just getting up? Girl, I have not been to sleep yet.” He sipped smugly. “Some of us have lives.”
“Some of us have jobs.”
“Ouch. You are mean in the morning. You should get more sleep.”
His real name is Anthony, but he thinks Anton sounds French. We’ve been best friends since fifth grade when I was able to protect him from the mean kids because I was tall. He was the shortest kid in class, I was the tallest. He was dark as cast iron, I had milky white skin that could get a sunburn from a photo of the beach. Now he’s well over six feet tall and I’m still the 5’8” I hit in sixth grade. Our races stayed the same, though.
Our backgrounds were different too——he’s an only child and I have eight sisters;his parents were doctors and recent immigrants from Ethiopia, my mom is a witch and my dad disappeared when I was two, under mysterious circumstances that may or may not have involved trolls——but when we discovered our shared love of show tunes and Animaniacs, we were inseparable. I kept him from getting beat up until he was big enough to fend for himself and he told me when it was time to stop wearing hair scrunchies.
I’m Kateri Surreal, eldest of the simmering cauldron of crazy that is the Surreal sisters. I’m “the responsible one,” which is just as sexy as it sounds, but it was that or “the one with no tits” or “the one with the coffee shop.” My sisters are off having adventures and shit and I wake up at 5 am every day to open Witch’s Brew and caffeinate my little corner of Brooklyn. I live in the weeny little apartment above the shop with my cat, Gomez.
Oh, and yes, my mom is actually a witch. So am I, although I’m far less eye—of—newt Olde Schoole than she is. My brewing is mostly limited to coffee and mild hexes on people who double park in front of the shop. I also sell occult jewelry to the goth girls that want to look Wiccan and freak out their parents. You know, pentagrams with crystal centers, snake rings with jeweled eyes. None of it is charmed, though, just ugly. My rack of candles and sage smudge bundles bring in the New Agey old ladies in flowing linen and jangly bracelets. The usual crowd that want to believe that magic is real.
I mean, magic is real, of course, but you can’t just buy the right supplies and suddenly you can do it. It’s magic, not arts and crafts.
Thanks for reading excerpts from Paws and Claws, hope you enjoyed,
Anita
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