Sinner's Creed by Kim Jones is a different kind of MC Romance.  This realistic view on the MC world is an angst filled emotional roller-coaster that is very well written and consuming.  Dirk and Saylor's story is not for the faint of heart and Kim Jones knocks this one out of the park.  If you are looking for a "not so typical" Motorcycle Romance be sure to pick up Kim Jones' latest release!  

To celebrate the arrival of Sinner's Creed, we would like to introduce you to Dirk and Saylor in an Exclusive Excerpt.   We hope you enjoy this sneak peek as much as we did. 

I fucking hate this place. I don’t know why I torture myself by coming back here. I should have burned it down a long time ago. I grab my bags from outside and when the cool night air hits me, it helps to release some of the pressure in my chest. When I walk back in, it returns.
I lock the door, then pull two pillows and a blanket from the tote and throw them on the now fully inflated mattress. The house is cool, even without air-conditioning. The weather has been in the fifties at night, and the large trees that surround the house help to shade it from the sun. Tomorrow, I will probably have to plug in a window unit. The lack of insulation keeps the house about the same temperature as it is outside.
I’m undressed and just before climbing under the covers when I notice Saylor laying on the couch, sound asleep. How the fuck did I forget she was here? When my eyes land on her face, everything else disappears. My memories don’t matter. This house don’t matter. Black . . . He don’t fucking matter either. Only her. Saylor Samson.
Her shirt is raised, making the lower part of her stomach visible, including her belly button that I have an urge to kiss. So I do. I place my lips on her stomach, the heat of her flesh burning them. I turn to look down her crossed legs, all the way to the tip of her boots that are covered in dust. I don’t know what I want more—to stand here and just stare at her fully clothed, or get her naked and hold her in my arms.
The battle is quickly won and I start by taking off her boots, then remove her socks and kiss her pink-painted toes one by one. I pull her jeans down her legs, kissing every inch of skin bared to me. She hasn’t stirred, and I know she can’t enjoy this while she is sleeping, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I like the way her skin feels on my lips. I want to cherish every part of her, and I know it’s not just because I care about her. It’s more, but I still can’t make out the word in my head.
I kiss her hands, up her arms, across her collarbone, up her throat, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then her parted lips. I carry her to the mattress, folding her into my chest and inhale her hair that still smells like her. Not a smoky bar, not perfume or hairspray, just her. I’m almost asleep. I’m in the hell hole I grew up in, and there isn’t a bad thought around. My mind is peaceful, my arms are full, and my heart is filled with something. That nameless emotion that I’ve never felt.
“Dirk?”
“Yes.” My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I feel her shiver when I place my lips on her head. What seems like forever passes before she answers. When she does, her voice is the same whisper, but this time it’s filled with conviction.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.” And just like that, my nameless emotion finally has a nam

New bestselling erotic romance Clubwhore by Kim Jones is LIVE! We read an advance copy of this biker stand-alone and we couldn't get enough of the gritty, dark, and complex motorcycle club world told from an unlikely heroine. Kim Jones has a strong author voice, an assured MC presence, and has created a alpha, dominant hero who will undoubtedly own you - heart, body, and soul. We're thrilled to share an alternative scene written from Bryce's point of view. Enter Deliliah and Bryce's scorching hot, passionate, and heart-wrenching world, we promise you will be as hooked as we were.

Plus, we're giving away an ebook and $10 gift card in our reading group. Go HERE to enter!

I have shit to do—important shit. I don’t have time to deal with a clubwhore or her drama. I could’ve called a Prospect. I could’ve called another whore. I could’ve made the support club who picked her up take her home. But I didn’t. I left an important meeting to be here for her. And for no other reason than the sound of her voice.
She didn’t just want me.
She needed me.
She called me.
I came.
I shouldn’t have.
Rage—blinding rage consumes me. My blood turns to scorching lava. Heat emits from me in visible waves. Red fury clouds my vision. 
I’m mad.
Pissed.
Angry.
I’m. One. Livid. Motherfucker.
Her left eye is nearly swollen shut. Beneath it is a deep, red welt that runs down her cheek. She looks tired, lonely, hurt and so fucking sad, I’m tempted to leave just so I can kill whoever did this to her. I fight hard to keep my control. But my wrath can’t seem to be tamed. Then she whimpers—the sound pitiful and fucking gut wrenching. My anger dissipates, and I kneel beside the tub to get closer to her…let her know I’m here…for her.
I push the hair back from her head—noticing how hot her flesh is compared to my touch. I trail my thumb down to her cheek and caress the ugly welt covering it. Her eyes open, and when I meet those big, sad, hazel pools, I feel that distant feeling in my chest that was once so familiar to me.
“Hello, Love.” At my words, her eyes fill with tears. Her expression is a mixture of fear and sorrow. Deep inside me something shifts. I forget everything but what’s important in this moment—to make goddamn sure she’ll never have to feel fear and sorrow when she’s with me.
I stand her up, dry her off and let her cry her silent tears—already mentally preparing myself for what I know she’ll need to get past this. In my life, I have one weakness and one strength. My strength is my ability to maintain order in the MC. My weakness is women like Delilah—damaged from a life beyond their control. I’m not conflicted about my decision to help her. The satisfaction of knowing I helped repair a beautiful, broken girl to get her back to the strong, independent woman she really is, makes all the discomfort and self-loathing I feel well worth it. But I’ll wait until later to hate myself. Right now, she needs someone.
Someone to yield her power to…
Someone to trust…
Someone to control…
Someone like me.
I pull her to my chest and hold her. She knows I’m here. She knows she’s safe. Even though she’s trembling in my arms and sobbing in my chest, she knows she’s okay. But, I tell her anyway.
“Shhh, Love. You’re okay. I got you.”
“He took it all,” she cries, her body wracking against me—shaking me physically and emotionally.
“It’s over now. You’re safe.” I hold her a moment longer, then kiss her head—leaving my lips in her hair until she calms down. I give her ass a light tap and pull away, watching as she walks past me wearing nothing but a towel. If it weren’t for the knowledge of what I was about to do, my dick would be jumping out of my jeans at the sight of how fucking sexy she looks—even at her worst. Long, tangled dark hair, tall, slender figure with just the right amount of curves and smooth, tanned flesh that is flawless in places it isn’t bruised.
She’s fidgety, uneasy and asking mundane questions like, “Do you want to watch TV?” Then, “Do you have an ol’ lady?”
I almost laugh at how fucking ridiculous that question is. But the sight of her pinching her arms, clawing her skin and pulling her hair is enough to take the humor out of the moment. She promised me she wouldn’t hurt herself. She lied. Good. Now she’ll know exactly why I’m going to do what she’s about to ask me to do.
“Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” She’s feigning confusion, because she’s embarrassed. I get it. But she needs this, and she’s going to say it. “Okay…I’m going to get a drink.”
I’m at the door when I hear her cry out. “Wait!” I close my eyes in defeat—unable to deny the part of me that was hoping she’d let me walk away. But my face is stoic when I turn to face her. Once again her nails digs into the flesh on her arms…fist in her hair…pull her scalp tight. “I need you.”
Yes. She does.
Her eyes are squeezed shut as I close the distance between us. “Tell me what you need.” The words come out more as a growl. I didn’t intend for them to be so harsh, but it pisses me off to see her like this. I’m not mad at her—it’s the whole fucking situation. I make a silent vow to kill whoever in the fuck made her this way.
She tells me she can’t say the words, and it’s enough to have me push aside my anger and be who she needs me to be. “Do you trust me, Love?” Her body relaxes at the endearment. It makes her feel special—it’s meant to.
“Yes.” I close my eyes at her admission. She trusts me. To me, that means more than love. Love is given—trust is earned.
“Do you want to feel pain?”
She hesitates a moment before answering. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her words make me flinch. She has no boundaries. Knowing this fuels my courage. She needs me. Maybe more than anyone ever has. Even her…the one I couldn’t save. My eyes flash open, meeting hers. They widen as mine darken with promise.
I’m here, Love.
In this moment, I transform. Power courses through my veins. Determination tightens my jaw. As much as I try to refuse it, I am who I am.
Not her lover.
Not her employer.
Not Devil’s Renegades SA Bryce…
I’m her Dominant.
I turn and walk away—giving her the distance she needs to come to terms with what’s fixing to happen. Then, I call out to her. “Come here, Love.” She moves instantly, her eyes moving to the bandana I pull from my back pocket. I can’t let her see the pain in my eyes. Or the hate I’ll feel toward myself when I mark her.
I hand her the bandana, afraid I might tie it too tight and hurt her bruised face. “Cover your eyes.” She starts to argue, but I cut her off. “It wasn’t a request, Love. I won’t tell you again.” When she’s finished, I move in front of her—watching her chest rise and fall with quick, loud breaths. I pull off my cut and roll my shoulders. “Bend over and put your hands on the desk.”
Taking her elbow, I guide her the few steps then release her. She blindly fumbles around, but manages to do what I instructed. When my hand comes to rest on the small of her back, she jerks. I wait for her to calm down before sliding it to her hip, and removing the towel—exposing her completely. The cheeks of her perfectly toned ass are smooth and unmarked. For now.
“I’m going to spank you, Love. Do you know why?” My voice is stern—laced with confidence and authority.
“Because I deserve it.”
“Why do you deserve it?”
“Because I’m sick.” My chest constricts. I reach out and smooth my palm over her ass—my touch gentle and reassuring.
“No, Love. I’m doing this because you hurt yourself, after you promised me you wouldn’t. You lied to me.”
Even before she speaks, I know what she’s going to say. “I didn’t—” I move my hand to her back and press lightly—cutting off her words. My other hand moves to my waist. Her body tenses at the sound of my belt unbuckling.
“Yes, you did. You clawed your neck, pulled your hair and pinched your arms. That’s why you deserve this. Nothing more. Do you understand?” I pull my belt from its loops—securing the buckle tightly in my palm so it doesn’t touch her. I replay the facts in my head—summoning the strength to deliver not only what she needs, but what she deserves. I don’t tolerate lying.
“I’m going to make sure you remember the consequences of endangering yourself. When I’m through with your pretty little ass, you’ll be reminded for days of what happens when you’re careless about your own well being.”
I give her a moment to let my words sink in, then plant my feet, draw back my arm and swing—delivering a perfectly aimed blow across the center of her ass. To remind her that this is more than just a case of what her mind convinces her she needs, I make sure the belt lands in the exact same spot on the second blow.
The pink line quickly darkens to a deep red—the welt swelling almost instantly. With each swing of my arm, she cries out and I die a little. She deserves this… She lied… The words play on a loop inside my head. I concentrate only on them and my target—making sure to not hit the same spot too often.
She cries…wails…tries to get away. I move my hand between her shoulders to hold her down. My strokes never cease—timed, measured and delivered to perfection. She screams my name—tells me she’s sorry and begs me to stop. I continue. Blow after blow…lash after lash…until her ass and the tops of her thighs are covered in crimson covered welts just shy of breaking the skin.
The last three strikes are worse than the others. I make sure to land them in the spots that will hurt the most—the tops of her thighs and the center of her ass which is not only where she sits, but the one place that has taken the most punishment. I do it as a reminder that I’m in charge. That I know what she can and can’t handle. And not to ever fucking lie to me again.
Just before her knees buckle, I drop the belt and wrap my arm around her waist. Pulling the bandana from her eyes, I turn her to me. She’s sobbing, still begging me to please stop, even though it’s over. But she clings to me as if I’m her saving grace. She lets me stroke her hair, carry her weight and comfort her—me—the man who is responsible for her pain.
“It’s okay, Love,” I tell her, dipping my head to kiss her forehead that’s cool, pale and damp with sweat. “Shhh, it’s over. I got you. Calm down. Just breathe. You’re okay, Love.” She’s still a wreck. So, I hold her tighter, and reassure her with more words—letting her know I’m here. And even though I just ripped her to pieces, I swear on my life I’ll put her back together—in more perfect form than I found her.
“You’re okay. Calm down, baby. Deep breaths. The spanking is over.” Spanking… It was more like a beating. But it had to be done. And even though I hate myself when I do it, I know that I’d never give her more than she could handle. Once the tears stop flowing and she becomes that girl I met weeks ago, I know this will all have been worth it.
When her breathing slows, I cup her face in my hands and pull back to look at her. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Look at me, Love.” She refuses and I clear my throat. When that doesn’t work, I make her a promise I aim to keep. “I have no problem tearing your ass up again. Now, look at me.” My voice is stern. My threat real. It works.
Those big, hazel eyes aren’t empty anymore. The fear and sorrow are gone. There’s a hint of alarm on her face, but I know that’s from my threat. Her eyes widen, and a shiver runs down her body.
“Better?” I ask softly, already knowing the answer. She nods and I smile, rubbing my thumb over the bruise on her cheek, unable to pull my eyes from hers. I tell her to rest while I call Luke, then spend the next couple minutes reassuring her I won’t mention this. I try to talk about what happened when her car was stolen, but either the memory is too painful, or there’s something she doesn’t want me to know. Probably the latter.
“I’m tired,” she says, dropping her eyes.
“Lay down and let me look at you.” Her face turns the color of her ass at my gentle demand, but she does as she’s told. I know she’s in pain, and as much as I want her to feel it for what she did, I can’t help but feel sorry for her when she winces. “Stay put.”
I find some lotion in the bathroom, wishing I’d have brought the crème in my saddle bag that I’d bought just for this. “This will have to do for now.” My voice falters when I look at the swollen, red marks of my belt. “I didn’t go easy on you,” I admit, to her and myself.
With the softest touch I can manage, I smooth my hand across her battered flesh. “But only because you deserved it.” My eyes move to hers. Our gazes lock—both of us displaying two different emotions. She’s worried. I’m serious as fuck.
“Don’t ever lie to me again, Delilah. When I ask you not to do something, and you promise me you won’t, I expect you to keep your word. I don’t tolerate liars in my club, and I won’t allow you to get away with it either.” Her worry turns to fear—something I swore to not allow her to feel. But I refuse to cave. She needs to heed my warning. There’s nothing I hate more than lying. Where I’m from, that shit will get you killed.
“Spread your legs, Love.” The endearment is used to hopefully lighten the mood and not make me sound like such a dick. But she takes my words out of context and immediately shakes her head—her nostrils flaring as she starts to pant for breath. I brush the hair from her face and bring my eyes level with hers.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Delilah. I’m not going to fuck you either. I just need to take care of you.”  Her eyes well with tears and I’m not sure if it’s from discomfort or humiliation, but she doesn’t need to feel either with me. This is my job. No man should ever put their hands on a woman. But in cases like this when it’s rendered necessary, if they’re man enough to hurt a woman, they should be man enough to take care of her—emotionally…physically…sexually…
Her knees part and my eyes fall to her smooth pussy. Part of me hoped I’d find it wet and swollen—aroused by the pain. But I knew the chances were slim. And just as I’d predicted, she’s not the least bit turned on.
I rub my hands together, warming the lotion before spreading it across her hot flesh. She hisses between her teeth, tensing under my touch. “Shhh…” When I move my hand to the tops of her thighs, she buries her face in the pillow and fists the sheets. I’m efficient, but quick—not wanting to hurt her anymore than I have to.
“Get some sleep, Love. I promise I’ll be here when you wake up,” I say after I’m finished. She doesn’t look at me, but I watch her until her body relaxes and her breathing becomes deep, and I’m sure she’s asleep.
What I didn’t know about her condition before, I learned tonight. She’s not aroused by pain. The need is emotional. The voice inside my head speaks to me—telling me this is something I already knew.
Her wounds run deep.
You can heal them.
Her scars are jagged and rough.
They make her more beautiful.
Her hope is lost.
You can find it.
She thinks she’s damaged.
And what do you think?
She’s perfect.

I’m that girl… 
The girl every woman loves to hate. 
The one your man dreams about. 
I live up to my name… 
CLUBWHORE. 
And this is my story. 

She needs something. Something Devil’s Renegade MC Sergeant at Arms Bryce is more than willing to give. But he’s not the kind of man who asks. He takes. And soon, he will take her. He’ll dominate her. He’ll captivate her. She’ll be his—no patches…no property…no titles. Only her. Only him. 
She thinks this is her story to tell. 
It very well may be. 
But he's fixing to rewrite it. 

**This is a standalone Devil's Renegade MC novel.**

Kim Jones is a writer with big dreams. Inspired by her personal experience inside the MC life, she’s chosen to write biker romance stories that are authentic—expressing the true meaning of brotherhood and the lifestyle of motorcycle clubs. 
In 2013, Kim began her self-publishing journey. Saving Dallas, her first MC series, is based on the life of an influential president who juggles the pressures of the Devil’s Renegades Motorcycle Club, and the search for true love. 
Taking the club life and her career a step further, Berkley will be releasing Sinner’s Creed, her second MC series, in March of 2016—an inside look into the life of a 1%er and his sacrifice for what he believes in. 
Kim plans to continue to self-publish off her Saving Dallas series, and has signed a two book deal with Penguin-Random House for Sinner’s Creed. She resides in south Mississippi with her husband, Reggie, two dogs, a cat and a donkey.

Visit Kim Jones' TRSoR author page for a list of her books and social media links.