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Wednesday, November 15, 2017

His to Corrupt

Author: Ava Sinclair

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Landing Page: http://www.avasinclairauthor.com/his-to-corrupt

His to Corrupt blurb:
I’ve always been the shy one among my friends. The responsible one. The good girl.

But that was before I met Jackson Rider, the tattooed, motorcycle-riding ex-con who saved my life and demanded a date with me as payment.

Jackson wants to make a good girl go bad, even if it’s for just one night. But one night isn’t enough. Not for him. Not for me.

I know he’s dangerous. I know he’s corrupting me. I’m just not sure I want him to stop…

Publisher’s Note: His to Corrupt is a stand-alone novel which is the fourth book in the Completely His series.

His to Corrupt excerpt:

“I am a good girl,” I protest, before correcting myself. “A good woman. I’m a decent woman.”

“So…” He leans forward, resting his brawny, tattooed forearms on the table. “You’ve never fantasized about fucking a man. A real man?”

“My fantasies are none of your business,” I say, but I can’t look away from the ice blue eyes boring into mine.

“There’s nothing wrong with fantasies,” he says. “I have them. My favorite is taking a sweet, good girl who’s never let herself go and introducing her to the beauty of her wild sexuality. The rawness of it. The sensations, the smells, the hard pounding that makes her scream. I want to make a good girl go bad, even if it’s just for one night.”

For an ex-con, he has a way with words. My pussy has become so wet that I fear I may soak not just my thin panties but my skirt as well if I don’t end this now.

I stand hurriedly, grabbing my purse. I look away from his face. I can’t want what I don’t see. He’s wrong for me. Dangerous. Bad. A bad, dangerous man. It’s a rapid, muddled self-preservation stream of consciousness that comes to an abrupt halt when he slowly rises and walks over to me. I’ve picked up my bag and put it over my shoulder, and he slowly takes it off and puts it back on the floor. Then he reaches for my face, cupping it in his large hands.

It feels like the kiss is happening to someone else, like an out of body experience, at least at first. Then his tongue slips between my lips to sweep around the inside of my mouth, his body presses against mine, and I feel the point of his jutting cock nudge against my midsection, and the ‘no’ I was starting to utter comes out as a moan.

I’m trapped between the colorful tapestry of his arms. His hands move down, lift my skirt. He’s not gentle as he squeezes the soft mounds of my ass, I gasp around the tongue still sweeping through my mouth. He squeezes my ass again, possessively, and hard enough to hurt. My panties can’t contain the rush of wetness resulting from this attention. Even if I wanted to hide my excitement, I couldn’t. Jackson’s hand has slipped between my legs to find my secret. I quiver as his finger brushes my mound, and then turn my head and cry out when his fingers slip into the waistband of my panties and snap it with a tug. The damaged garment slides to the floor, leaving me bare.

“I can smell your pussy.” His mouth is hot against my ear, the frankness of his words making me flush. I fancy I can smell it, too, my own sweet, faint musk. His fingers find my cleft and delve into it, stroking the folds of my inner labia. I arch toward him.

“Don’t…” I say, and he chuckles and backs away, leaving me standing there weaving slightly with my torn panties hobbling my ankles.

He’s taking his shirt off, and now I see the ink isn’t just on his arms. He has a chest plate as well. His body tells a story I’ve yet to understand, a story in images that I realize must mean something, or why else would he have etched them into his skin?

His chest is a hard, hairless canvas so ridged and toned that it reminds me of painted battle armor. It doesn’t look real, and I clench hands eager to reach out, to touch, to explore. I want to trace the line between the swells of his pectorals, slide my hands across the symmetric patchwork of his achingly perfect abs, trail my fingers down the obliques.

He moves back toward me, reaching for the hem of my shirt, and just like that, I’m suddenly shy and afraid. He’s muscles and ridges. I’m pale softness. His body was made for the gym. Mine was made for the library.

“Wait,” I say. “I’m not…” But he’s not listening.

“I want you. I want to see you.” It’s a king’s command, and I’m the princess he’d ravish as I raise my arms, acquiescent to what I can’t control. My shirt is off, and he reaches behind me to unsnap my bra. He’s looking at my breasts as he puts his hands on my shoulders and runs them down my arms.

“So sweet,” he says, and I’m not sure what he means, and there’s no time to process it as he kneels and slips my skirt off. I’m wearing just my low, practical heels now as I stand there looking down at the top of his head. Jackson Rider is on one knee, like a man about to propose. But what he’s proposing is my moral ruination, and I’d say yes if he asked me formally, because he’s eyeing my pussy and I’m wanting what happens next, even though I know it’s going to wreck me.

Ava Sinclair bio:

Variety is the spice of life and Ava Sinclair writes a little something for everyone, from dark romance to menage to kinky AF age play. But the one thing that is consistent in her books are strong storylines, alpha males, and strong women whose hearts and bodies aren't given up without a fight.

Ava lives in southern Virginia, where she enjoys hoarding books, hiking, running, spoiling her cats, and spending time with her Eurasian eagle owl, Lucius.

Web site: www.avasinclairauthor.com

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