We found BIG ROCK on Goodreads a few months ago and immediately added it to our TBR. Now, we can't wait for this sexy romantic comedy by Lauren Blakely, It promises to be smokin' hot and heartfelt from the hero's (Spencer's) "cocky" POV. We love Lauren's comedic writing style and are looking forward to the release of BIG ROCK (standalone) on Thursday, January 6th!
Read the Prologue and Chapter One of BIG ROCK and be sure to check out MISTER ORGASM (book two in this amazing series) releasing Summer 2016. You don't want to miss these!! Good Luck & Enjoy!
Read the Prologue and Chapter One of BIG ROCK and be sure to check out MISTER ORGASM (book two in this amazing series) releasing Summer 2016. You don't want to miss these!! Good Luck & Enjoy!
Read the prologue & excerpt of Big Rock
PROLOGUE
My dick is fucking awesome.
But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.
First, let’s start with the obvious one.
Size.
Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.
You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.
Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”
No woman has ever had to ask me that.
You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.
But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.
Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherfucking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and for now, when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.
But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.
Performance.
Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter, her world rock.
How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.
That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.
Chapter One
Men don’t understand women.
That’s just a fact of life.
Like that guy.
The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t-I-casual-and-cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with red square glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.
Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean ‘nice’ in the sense that they occupy their own zip code.
But c’mon, man.
Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them. Or the lady is going to walk.
I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.
“This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.
“Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass, and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here who depend on tips will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.
As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse and heads for the exit.
Yup. I could be a fortuneteller if my specialty was predicting when a man would score and when he wouldn’t. Most of the time, the odds are definitely not in the dude’s favor, because he usually makes the most common bar mistakes. Like, starting the conversation with a stupid pick-up line. “Girl, you make my software turn into hardware.” You might think those lines have all been put out to pasture. I assure you, they have not. Or how about this mistake? The guy has a wandering eye and can’t stop checking out the other attractions. What woman is going to go for that routine?
The worst bar sin though is assuming. Assuming she wants to talk to you. Assuming she’s going home with you. Assuming you can kiss her without her permission.
You know what they say happens when you assume.
But me?
Just check my diploma. I double majored in college—I have a degree in finance, and a degree in the language of women, and I graduated summa cum laude in that course. I have achieved full fluency in understanding what a woman wants . . . and in giving it to her. I can read the cues, the body language, and the gestures.
Like right now.
Charlotte is tapping away on her laptop, and biting the corner of her lip in concentration. Translation: I am on a roll, and do not bother me or I will throat punch you.
Okay, fine. She’s not really a throat puncher. But the point being, she is giving off major Do Not Disturb vibes.
Handlebar can’t read, speak or write Woman, though. He’s sauntering along the bar, getting ready to make a move. Thinking he’s got a chance with her.
From my spot behind the bar, wiping down glasses, I can practically hear him clearing his throat as he preps to say hello to Charlotte.
I can understand why the man has my best friend in his crosshairs. Charlotte is pretty much a goddess of the highest order. First, she has wavy, blond hair, paired with deep brown eyes. Most blondes have blue eyes, so Charlotte gets major points for the killer reverse combo that just slams you with its unexpectedness and absolute hotness. Next, she possesses a fantastic dry sense of humor.
Plus, she’s whip smart.
But Handlebar doesn’t know those last two points. He’s only aware that she’s gorgeous, so he’s about to make his play. He snags the stool next to her, and flashes a toothy grin. She flinches, startled that this guy just invaded her blinders-on work zone.
Charlotte can totally handle herself. But we made a pact long ago, and re-upped when we went into business together on this bar. If either of us needs a fake girlfriend or boyfriend to gracefully get out of a sticky situation, we’re both cool with acting the part.
It’s a game we’ve played since college, and it works like a charm.
It also works because Charlotte and I would never be a real couple. I need her too much as a friend, and judging from the number of times she’s laughed with me and cried on my shoulder, she needs me too. Which is another reason why this tactic is brilliant—we both know we will never be more than friends.
I walk around the bar and head straight for Charlotte, right as Handlebar reaches her and says his name, then asks for hers.
I slide in, and brush a hand on her lower back, as if she’s mine. As if I’m the one who gets to touch this body, thread his fingers through her hair, and look into those eyes. I tilt my head, and flash him the biggest shit-eating grin because I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who goes home with her in this scenario. “My fiancée’s name is Charlotte. Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer,” I say, and offer a hand to shake.
The guy wrinkles his nose like a rabbit, awareness hitting that he’s just struck out again tonight.
“Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.
Charlotte tips her chin to me, and shoots an approving nod. “Look at you. Captain Fiancé coming to the rescue,” she says, running a hand along my arm and squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t even see him making the moves.”
“That’s why you’ve got me. I have eyes everywhere,” I say as I lock the front door. The bar is empty now. It’s just us, like it’s been so many nights at closing time.
“And usually those peepers are busy scanning for available women,” she says, shooting me an I know you so well stare.
“What can I say? I like to give my eyes a good workout too, just like the rest of me,” I say, patting my belly.
Then she yawns.
“Get to bed,” I tell her.
“You should, too. Oh wait. You probably have a date.”
She’s not far off. I usually do.
Earlier this month, I met a total babe at the gym, and she worked out hard, then worked out even harder with me when I bent her over the back of the couch in my apartment. She texted me the next day, telling me how her thighs were aching, and she’d loved it. She said if I ever made it to Los Angeles would I please look her up, because she wanted to ride my ride again.
Of course she did. Once you’ve had Dom Perignon, you don’t go want to go back to two-buck chuck.
I saved her number. You never know, right? Nothing wrong with two adults enjoying the night, and parting ways in the morning with a spring in the step courtesy of multiple Os bestowed.
That’s how it should be. The first rule of dating is this—always please the woman first, then ideally a second time before you get yours in. The next two are equally simple—don’t get attached, and never ever be a douche. I follow my own rules, and they have given me the good life. I’m twenty-eight, single, rich, hot and a gentleman. Like it’s a surprise when I get laid.
But tonight, my dick is off-duty. Early bedtime.
I shake my head in answer to Charlotte’s question as I resume cleaning the counters. “Nah, I have a seven-thirty breakfast tomorrow with my dad and some guy he’s trying to sell the store to. I need to be fresh and ready to impress.”
She points to the door. “Go get your beauty sleep, Spencer. I’ll close up.”
“I don’t think so. I came to fill in for Jenny. You go home. I’ll hail you a cab.”
“You do know I’ve lived in NYC for five years, right? I know how to hail a cab late at night.”
“I am well aware of your independent ways. But I don’t care—I’m sending you home. Whatever you’re doing here, you can do at your apartment,” I tell her as I toss the washrag in the sink. “Wait. You’re not worried that Bradley Dipstick is going to be roaming around the lobby trying to give you flowers at this time of night?”
“No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that saidplease forgive me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N-O,” I say because Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger? On his paw?”
She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”
“I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”
I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village, the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all of lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.
I toss my keys on the entryway table, as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag of me out with the hot woman from the gym from a few weeks ago. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “noted NYC playboy.” Same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.
Tonight, I’m a good boy though.
I make no promises for tomorrow.
My dick is fucking awesome.
But don’t just take my word for it. Consider all its accomplishments.
First, let’s start with the obvious one.
Size.
Sure, some people will tell you that size does not matter. You know what I’ll tell you? They lie.
You don’t want a tiny diamond on your finger when you can have three carats. You don’t want a one-dollar bill when you can have a Benjamin. And you don’t want to ride a miniature pony when you can saddle up on a rock-star cock at the rodeo of your pleasure.
Why? Because bigger is better. It’s more fun. Ask any woman who’s had to utter the dreaded words, “Is it in yet?”
No woman has ever had to ask me that.
You’re probably wondering by now—just how big is it? C’mon. A gentleman doesn’t tell. I may fuck like a god, but I’m still a gentleman. I’ll open your door before I open your legs. I’ll hold your coat for you, I’ll pay for dinner, and I’ll treat you like a queen in and out of bed.
But I get it. You want an image in your mind. A measurement in inches to make your mouth water. Fine. Imagine this. Picture your fantasy-sized cock; mine’s fucking bigger.
Moving on to looks. Let’s be honest. Some dicks are just motherfucking ugly. I won’t get into all the reasons why. You know what they are, and for now, when it comes to my best asset, all I want you thinking about are these words: long, thick, smooth, hard. If the Renaissance masters were carving sculptures of cocks, mine would be the model for all of them.
But honestly, none of this would matter if my dick didn’t possess the most important attribute of all.
Performance.
Ultimately, a man’s dick should be measured by the number of orgasms it delivers. I’m not talking about the solo flights. That’s cheating. I’m talking about the Os that can make a woman’s back arch, her toes curl, her windows shatter, her world rock.
How much pleasure has my dick wrought? I don’t kiss and tell, but I’ll leave you with this. My dick has a perfect track record.
That’s why it fucking sucks that he has to go on hiatus.
Chapter One
Men don’t understand women.
That’s just a fact of life.
Like that guy.
The dude down there at the corner of my bar. His elbow’s on the metal counter in an aren’t-I-casual-and-cool pose. He’s stroking his handlebar mustache, and he’s acting like he’s the best listener in the world as he talks to a hot brunette with red square glasses. But the thing is, he’s staring at her rack.
Fine, the brunette has nice tits. And I mean ‘nice’ in the sense that they occupy their own zip code.
But c’mon, man.
Her eyes are up there. And you’ve got to look at them. Or the lady is going to walk.
I finish pouring a pale ale for one of our regulars, a businessman who pops in once a week. He’s working the whole my boss sucks for making me travel look, and at the very least I can help him in the drink department.
“This one’s on the house. Enjoy,” I say, sliding the glass to him.
“Best news I’ve had all day,” he says with a small quirk of the lips, before he chugs half the glass, and plunks down a three-dollar tip. Nice. The bartenders here who depend on tips will appreciate it. But Jenny had to take off early because her sister had some sort of crisis, so I’m handling the last of the customers, while my business partner, Charlotte, is managing the books.
As Handlebar leans in closer to Red Square, she backs away, shakes her head, grabs her purse and heads for the exit.
Yup. I could be a fortuneteller if my specialty was predicting when a man would score and when he wouldn’t. Most of the time, the odds are definitely not in the dude’s favor, because he usually makes the most common bar mistakes. Like, starting the conversation with a stupid pick-up line. “Girl, you make my software turn into hardware.” You might think those lines have all been put out to pasture. I assure you, they have not. Or how about this mistake? The guy has a wandering eye and can’t stop checking out the other attractions. What woman is going to go for that routine?
The worst bar sin though is assuming. Assuming she wants to talk to you. Assuming she’s going home with you. Assuming you can kiss her without her permission.
You know what they say happens when you assume.
But me?
Just check my diploma. I double majored in college—I have a degree in finance, and a degree in the language of women, and I graduated summa cum laude in that course. I have achieved full fluency in understanding what a woman wants . . . and in giving it to her. I can read the cues, the body language, and the gestures.
Like right now.
Charlotte is tapping away on her laptop, and biting the corner of her lip in concentration. Translation: I am on a roll, and do not bother me or I will throat punch you.
Okay, fine. She’s not really a throat puncher. But the point being, she is giving off major Do Not Disturb vibes.
Handlebar can’t read, speak or write Woman, though. He’s sauntering along the bar, getting ready to make a move. Thinking he’s got a chance with her.
From my spot behind the bar, wiping down glasses, I can practically hear him clearing his throat as he preps to say hello to Charlotte.
I can understand why the man has my best friend in his crosshairs. Charlotte is pretty much a goddess of the highest order. First, she has wavy, blond hair, paired with deep brown eyes. Most blondes have blue eyes, so Charlotte gets major points for the killer reverse combo that just slams you with its unexpectedness and absolute hotness. Next, she possesses a fantastic dry sense of humor.
Plus, she’s whip smart.
But Handlebar doesn’t know those last two points. He’s only aware that she’s gorgeous, so he’s about to make his play. He snags the stool next to her, and flashes a toothy grin. She flinches, startled that this guy just invaded her blinders-on work zone.
Charlotte can totally handle herself. But we made a pact long ago, and re-upped when we went into business together on this bar. If either of us needs a fake girlfriend or boyfriend to gracefully get out of a sticky situation, we’re both cool with acting the part.
It’s a game we’ve played since college, and it works like a charm.
It also works because Charlotte and I would never be a real couple. I need her too much as a friend, and judging from the number of times she’s laughed with me and cried on my shoulder, she needs me too. Which is another reason why this tactic is brilliant—we both know we will never be more than friends.
I walk around the bar and head straight for Charlotte, right as Handlebar reaches her and says his name, then asks for hers.
I slide in, and brush a hand on her lower back, as if she’s mine. As if I’m the one who gets to touch this body, thread his fingers through her hair, and look into those eyes. I tilt my head, and flash him the biggest shit-eating grin because I’m the lucky son-of-a-bitch who goes home with her in this scenario. “My fiancée’s name is Charlotte. Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer,” I say, and offer a hand to shake.
The guy wrinkles his nose like a rabbit, awareness hitting that he’s just struck out again tonight.
“Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.
Charlotte tips her chin to me, and shoots an approving nod. “Look at you. Captain Fiancé coming to the rescue,” she says, running a hand along my arm and squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t even see him making the moves.”
“That’s why you’ve got me. I have eyes everywhere,” I say as I lock the front door. The bar is empty now. It’s just us, like it’s been so many nights at closing time.
“And usually those peepers are busy scanning for available women,” she says, shooting me an I know you so well stare.
“What can I say? I like to give my eyes a good workout too, just like the rest of me,” I say, patting my belly.
Then she yawns.
“Get to bed,” I tell her.
“You should, too. Oh wait. You probably have a date.”
She’s not far off. I usually do.
Earlier this month, I met a total babe at the gym, and she worked out hard, then worked out even harder with me when I bent her over the back of the couch in my apartment. She texted me the next day, telling me how her thighs were aching, and she’d loved it. She said if I ever made it to Los Angeles would I please look her up, because she wanted to ride my ride again.
Of course she did. Once you’ve had Dom Perignon, you don’t go want to go back to two-buck chuck.
I saved her number. You never know, right? Nothing wrong with two adults enjoying the night, and parting ways in the morning with a spring in the step courtesy of multiple Os bestowed.
That’s how it should be. The first rule of dating is this—always please the woman first, then ideally a second time before you get yours in. The next two are equally simple—don’t get attached, and never ever be a douche. I follow my own rules, and they have given me the good life. I’m twenty-eight, single, rich, hot and a gentleman. Like it’s a surprise when I get laid.
But tonight, my dick is off-duty. Early bedtime.
I shake my head in answer to Charlotte’s question as I resume cleaning the counters. “Nah, I have a seven-thirty breakfast tomorrow with my dad and some guy he’s trying to sell the store to. I need to be fresh and ready to impress.”
She points to the door. “Go get your beauty sleep, Spencer. I’ll close up.”
“I don’t think so. I came to fill in for Jenny. You go home. I’ll hail you a cab.”
“You do know I’ve lived in NYC for five years, right? I know how to hail a cab late at night.”
“I am well aware of your independent ways. But I don’t care—I’m sending you home. Whatever you’re doing here, you can do at your apartment,” I tell her as I toss the washrag in the sink. “Wait. You’re not worried that Bradley Dipstick is going to be roaming around the lobby trying to give you flowers at this time of night?”
“No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that saidplease forgive me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N-O,” I say because Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger? On his paw?”
She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”
“I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”
I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village, the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all of lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.
I toss my keys on the entryway table, as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag of me out with the hot woman from the gym from a few weeks ago. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “noted NYC playboy.” Same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.
Tonight, I’m a good boy though.
I make no promises for tomorrow.
Book Summary & Pre-order link
It's not just the motion of the ocean, ladies. It's definitely the SIZE of the boat too.
And I've got both firing on all cylinders. In fact, I have ALL the right assets. Looks, brains, my own money, and a big cock.
You might think I'm an asshole. I sound like one, don’t I? I'm hot as sin, rich as heaven, smart as hell and hung like a horse.
Guess what? You haven't heard my story before. Sure, I might be a playboy, like the NY gossip rags call me. But I’m the playboy who’s actually a great guy. Which makes me one of a kind.
The only trouble is, my dad needs me to cool it for a bit. With conservative investors in town wanting to buy his flagship Fifth Avenue jewelry store, he needs me not only to zip it up, but to look the part of the committed guy. Fine. I can do this for Dad. After all, I’ve got him to thank for the family jewels. So I ask my best friend and business partner to be my fiancée for the next week. Charlotte’s up for it. She has her own reasons for saying yes to wearing this big rock.
And pretty soon all this playing pretend in public leads to no pretending whatsoever in the bedroom, because she just can’t fake the kind of toe-curling, window-shattering orgasmic cries she makes as I take her to new heights between the sheets.
But I can’t seem to fake that I might be feeling something real for her.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into with this…big rock?
BIG ROCK is a standalone, dirty romance novel written from the guy’s POV by NYT Bestselling author Lauren Blakely…
And I've got both firing on all cylinders. In fact, I have ALL the right assets. Looks, brains, my own money, and a big cock.
You might think I'm an asshole. I sound like one, don’t I? I'm hot as sin, rich as heaven, smart as hell and hung like a horse.
Guess what? You haven't heard my story before. Sure, I might be a playboy, like the NY gossip rags call me. But I’m the playboy who’s actually a great guy. Which makes me one of a kind.
The only trouble is, my dad needs me to cool it for a bit. With conservative investors in town wanting to buy his flagship Fifth Avenue jewelry store, he needs me not only to zip it up, but to look the part of the committed guy. Fine. I can do this for Dad. After all, I’ve got him to thank for the family jewels. So I ask my best friend and business partner to be my fiancée for the next week. Charlotte’s up for it. She has her own reasons for saying yes to wearing this big rock.
And pretty soon all this playing pretend in public leads to no pretending whatsoever in the bedroom, because she just can’t fake the kind of toe-curling, window-shattering orgasmic cries she makes as I take her to new heights between the sheets.
But I can’t seem to fake that I might be feeling something real for her.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into with this…big rock?
BIG ROCK is a standalone, dirty romance novel written from the guy’s POV by NYT Bestselling author Lauren Blakely…
Mister Orgasm (Book Two) releasing summer 2016
Book Summary & iBooks Pre-order
Just call me Mr. Orgasm. No, really. I insist.
Orgasms are my specialty. Delivering them. Administering them. Giving them in multiples. Then doing it again for an encore. I’m like the superhero of pleasure.
But before anyone gets all up in a lather about my “manwhore ways,” remember this. You probably didn’t even look at me years ago. You likely didn’t give me the time of day when I was the quiet geek bent over his notebook drawing cartoons about a caped crusader bestowing orgasmic pleasure to womankind.
Now, that I’m creator of the hottest animated TV show in the world — The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm — everything has changed. The women have lined up. The checks roll in. And the life I’m living is gooooooood — looks, talent, and a masterful dong have gotten me far.
There’s only one thing in my way — the woman I took home last night has turned out to be my new boss.
Oops.
Looks like the Adventures of Mr. Orgasm have only just begun…
Orgasms are my specialty. Delivering them. Administering them. Giving them in multiples. Then doing it again for an encore. I’m like the superhero of pleasure.
But before anyone gets all up in a lather about my “manwhore ways,” remember this. You probably didn’t even look at me years ago. You likely didn’t give me the time of day when I was the quiet geek bent over his notebook drawing cartoons about a caped crusader bestowing orgasmic pleasure to womankind.
Now, that I’m creator of the hottest animated TV show in the world — The Adventures of Mr. Orgasm — everything has changed. The women have lined up. The checks roll in. And the life I’m living is gooooooood — looks, talent, and a masterful dong have gotten me far.
There’s only one thing in my way — the woman I took home last night has turned out to be my new boss.
Oops.
Looks like the Adventures of Mr. Orgasm have only just begun…
Meet Lauren Blakely
Lauren Blakely writes sexy contemporary romance novels with heat, heart, and humor, and she has had eight books on the New York Times Bestseller list and fifteen on the USA Today Bestseller list. Like the heroine in her novel, FAR TOO TEMPTING, she thinks life should be filled with family, laughter, and the kind of love that love songs promise. Lauren lives in California with her husband, children, and dogs. She loves hearing from readers! Her bestselling series include Sinful Nights, Seductive Nights, No Regrets, Caught Up in Love, and Fighting Fire. She recently released SWEET SINFUL NIGHTS, the first novel in her new sexy romance series Sinful Nights that became an instant New York Times Bestseller. Her new adult forbidden romance, 21 Stolen Kisses, hit e-readers in May and landed on the USA Today Bestseller list. In January, she'll release BIG ROCK, a standalone contemporary romance sure to make you swoon. She also writes for young adults under the name Daisy Whitney. To receive an email when Lauren releases a new book, text BLAKELY + your email address to 678-249-3375 (please use the actual + sign).
Stalk Her: Website ** Facebook ** Twitter ** Newsletter ** Goodreads
Stalk Her: Website ** Facebook ** Twitter ** Newsletter ** Goodreads
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