In Kelly Jamieson’s seductive new Chicago Aces romance—perfect for readers of Sawyer Bennett and Toni Aleo—a fun-loving free spirit tempts an uptight hockey star into opening himself up to love.

As the captain of the Chicago Aces, Marc Dupuis is all business. The apartment he shares with his teammate and best friend, Duncan, is a refuge from the pressures of fame. But when the sexiest woman he’s ever seen interrupts his early morning coffee wearing only a skimpy cami and matching panties, Marc can’t exactly say he minds. Their chemistry is off the charts. Unfortunately, this girl’s no random puck bunny. She’s Duncan’s little sister—and she’s moving in.

Lovey Armstrong could stare at Marc’s chiseled abs and listen to his French-Canadian accent all day. She just has no idea what’s going on inside his head: When he’s not charming her pants off, Marc makes a Zamboni machine seem warm and cuddly. Lovey knows the team’s bro code says no messing with sisters, but all these mixed messages are hard on a girl’s self-esteem—especially since she’s finally getting her new life together in Chicago. She decides he’s worth another shot . . . because if anyone can melt the ice around Marc’s heart, it’s Lovey.

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Major Misconduct was a good first in Kelly Jamieson’s Aces Hockey series.  She does a wonderful job setting up the series with her cast of characters.  This first in the series features team captain, Marc Dupuis.  Add to the mix his teammate and roommate, Duncan’s sister, Lovey.  I admit that the name grew on me more than she did.  Lovey appears a tad flaky and I think she encouraged that perception a little too much.

Overall, I enjoyed Major Misconduct and cannot wait to read about the other players.

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Pre-Order OFF LIMITS (Aces #2)

Releasing Nov 17th, 2015

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When you think of Motor City, you think of poverty, but what Detroit lacks in class and elegance, we make up for in dive bars. You got the 2-Way Inn on Mt. Elliott, Nancy Whiskey on Harrison, Old Miami on Cass, Greenwich Time in Cadillac Square, Kwicky on 8 Mile, Marshall’s on Jefferson, Jumbo’s on 3rd, the Painted Lady up in Hamtramck, My Dad’s Place on Kercheval, and Caldwell’s on Atwater.

You know the kind of places I’m talking about—windowless joints on the corner with the High Life sign blinking because you know the sign is as old as the paint-chipped building it hangs off. The blinking sign beckons you. You have to go inside to see what the hell is going on ’cause you can’t see in the windows, and it sounds like you may be missing something if you don’t.

They are boarded up tight, because they got busted out two nights ago when the place got robbed by the fucking thugs who walk up and down the streets, selling candy one minute and panhandling two hours later. The pieces of shit are inventive—I’ll give them that—but my suggestion is get a fucking job, slob.

Back in the day, when the auto factories dominated the area, things didn’t look so broken down. It was alive and kicking. The area was still peppered with bars. Bar owners were making mad cash, too.

At the end of every street, there was a joint that served ice-cold High Life on tap and two-dollar shots. There was entertainment and fun to be had everywhere. You could always get a decent, quick meal on your lunch break, a live show at night; and the bartenders made you feel like you belonged, like you were family.

My pops won the title to Hooligans at a dogfight. With it being a great location in the Rivertown district near Chene Park, he truly got a prize that time. He was instantly banking money and banging women. That’s when he met Mom.

She sang, played guitar, and had a decent following as a one-woman show. He was thirty, and she was twenty-two. She sang at his bar every Wednesday night and eventually tended bar three nights a week. Like many of his barmaids, she fell for his bullshit, and that ended up with her pregnant with me in less than two months from the time they met.

He moved her into his apartment above the bar and embraced becoming a father. He wanted to do it better than his old man had. Isn’t that the truth in life, just do it better? Don’t we all strive for that?

Eventually, the novelty wore off. He started fucking around on her. When she confronted him, he beat her down emotionally. She busted her ass keeping the bar clean, and he busted his ass drinking the profit. Two more boys later, and she was busting her ass to raise their three kids on top of keeping his business afloat.

When the economy in Detroit deteriorated, he lost what was left of his mind. He started coming after us for stupid shit like spilled milk, a LEGO on the floor, you name it. Hell, the wind blowing in the wrong direction had him on us.

Mom started stepping in with, “Boys, go to your room.”

Sure, we did as we were told, but we heard the shit. We heard him hitting her. It was no better than seeing it, either. We were helpless as the sounds of each blow became increasingly deafening to our tiny ears. Funny how, in the moment, adrenaline kicks in and instincts go into overdrive. Every noise becomes louder, clearer, and sticks with you longer. I can still hear that shit in my sleep.

As I grew older and stood taller than him, I began to step in. He and I would go at it, fist to fist, until one of us wasn’t moving. At first, it was me. Then, when I was seventeen, it was finally him. Fucker knew it, too.

I begged Mom to move out, but she refused to leave her home and family. She made excuses for him, said that was how he was raised.

He stopped coming at us when I busted his nose. I hated the bastard, and when Morrison was big enough, I moved the fuck out. Still saw Mom every day, though. I couldn’t go a day without seeing her or my brothers. I needed to make sure they were okay, but I also knew, if I stayed, I would kill him and be in the state pen within a year.

He lost Hooligans because the fucking asshole bet against the wrong underground fighter. Who was the fighter he bet against? My brother, his own son. Who did he lose it to? Me. Fucker didn’t even know it was me until a week later, either.

I let him stay in the apartment above the bar, not for him, but for Mom.

I had been working for a contractor, fixing up old warehouses and making them into apartments for years. Even made enough to buy my own place.

I fixed up the second and third floors, making them livable. Wide-open space, two bedrooms, two baths on the second floor, the third is my loft. The first floor is a badass garage. It is where I spend the rest of my money—on my tools, my toys, and my rides.

I roll over to find my pit bull, Floyd, is hogging the bed as usual. She—yes, Floyd is a she—is an obvious bed hog.

When I found her, she had on a pink, spiked collar that was digging into her neck. I squatted down and peeled it off the poor girl, and she let me. Then, she took off, and I followed her to an abandoned warehouse, walking into a fucking scene that makes my stomach churn to this day. Fucking dogfights.

My dad loves those godforsaken fights, while I despise them.

I called a cop friend I knew from high school while in an outside alley and then waited. When the fuckers running the circuit were taken in, along with the spectators, I watched the SPCA take the dogs. Floyd looked at me, I looked at her, and I knew she was mine.

“Floyd, seriously, bitch”—I laugh as she licks my face—“get down.”

I think I’m going to have to read more MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron.  I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I picked up Hendrix.

The first in the Caldwell Brothers series starts you off with a bit of heartache as we are introduced to three brothers that are at their dying mother’s bedside.  Hendrix is the oldest brother and he’s up first.  I thought the match up with Olivia was sweet.

I enjoyed the scenes with the brothers, Morrison and Jagger.  I’m looking forward to reading their stories too.

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Book Blurb:

The New York Times bestselling author of Call on Me invites you to discover the thrill of control as one couple wrestles for power in and out of the bedroom…

Samantha Dunbar needs to forget Gibson Andrews. When he trained her to be a domme, she experienced just how hot things could get with the sexy executive. She was ready to hand him everything—including her heart. But Gibson backed away, declaring them incompatible. He’s a dominant, and Sam’s no submissive.

But after an attack shakes Sam to her core, Gibson tracks her down at her family’s rundown farmhouse and makes her an offer. He’ll stay the week and be hers in every way—a helping hand for the renovation and a willing lover in her bed. He swore he’d never give up control to anyone again, but he hasn’t been able to touch another woman since Sam. Maybe a week alone with her will cure him of his relentless craving.

But one taste only makes them want more, and Sam and Gibson are drawn in deeper than ever. The man who won’t give in has just met the girl who won’t give up…

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Excerpt 1

He banged on it again before she could reach it, so when she swung the door open, his fist was still hovering in the air. He blinked as if surprised she’d actually appeared, and then blatant relief descended over his features. “Thank Christ.”

Her jaw clenched, and she had to force it to relax to speak. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His gaze skated over her, a deep line appearing between his brows as he ignored her question. “Shit, Sam, you look . . . baby.”

She had a good idea what she looked like. She was sweaty, covered with wood dust, and between the attack last night and all the crying, her face probably looked like she’d been hit with a wet bag of rocks. Goddammit. This was the last thing she needed Gibson to see. And the fact that he’d forced her into letting him see her like this pissed her off even more. “Don’t you dare call me baby or look at me like that. You’re not supposed to be here. I didn’t invite you.”

His blue eyes flicked upward, rigid determination there. “You don’t need to be alone right now. And you damn well shouldn’t be alone out here in the middle of nowhere.” He swung a hand toward the door. “A stiff wind would knock this thing down. What are you thinking?”

Well, that just punched all her bitch buttons. “Thanks for stopping by. It’s been fun. I’m alive and fine. You can go home now. Buh-bye.”

She moved to shut the door, but his hand flew out to block it from closing. “Oh, no you don’t. You can be pissed at me all you want. But if you think I’m leaving you out here like this, let me alleviate you of that notion. Not gonna happen, sunshine.”

Her grip on the door tightened. “What? You gonna drag me out kicking and screaming, Gib? I’ll fucking fight you.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked and he took a step forward. “You know I’m not going to put my hands on you like that. But you either come willingly or you’re going to be staring at my ugly mug until you do.”

Ugly mug was about as far from the truth as possible. Even with dark shadows under his eyes, his hair disheveled from raking fingers, and a wrinkled shirt, he looked like he’d just fallen off the stage of some hot man revue. But she was too ticked off to care about how hot he was. Mostly.

“Leave, Gib.”

“Not unless you come with me.” He ducked under the arm she had braced on the door and strode inside.

“Oh my God.” She spun around, the door swinging shut on its own behind her. “Boundaries, dude. Ever heard of the word?”

“Yep. Can spell it and everything.” Gib crossed his arms over his chest and peered around, examining the place. His gaze landed on the sander and the stripped floor of the adjoining dining room. “Is this what you’ve been up to?”

She groaned. He wasn’t going to go away. That much was clear. And she wasn’t going with him. He really would have to fight her for that. She’d waited too long to take this week off. And she wanted that week spent here. If she could knock out the list of projects she had, she’d be that much closer to having this place livable. “I’m renovating. Despite what ideas you have in that tetosteroned brain of yours, I didn’t run out here because I’m freaking out over what happened last night. I had a vacation planned. I’m going to spend the week here—alone. I just left a few hours early. And I’m fine. I come out here all the time. I have a gun. I have Darcy. No serial killers have bothered me yet.”

“Yet. There’s a key word for ya. Friday the 13th Part Thirty-Five could be set here.”

“Gib.”

“Look, I get that you don’t want me here. But you’re not going to convince me everything’s peachy. Your argument would hold more water if it weren’t obvious that you’ve been crying, that you haven’t slept, and that you were completely freaked out when you bolted at the Ranch.”

She gritted her teeth, hoping her steely gaze would make him back the hell off. “I’m. Fine.”

But instead of backing off, he stepped closer, his eyes softening and his hands cupping her shoulders. “I don’t think you are. And that’s cool. Feel whatever you need to feel. You don’t have to hide that from me or be embarrassed. But I need you to forget for a second that you’re mad at me. Forget all that shit at the Ranch. And remember that before anything else, I’m your friend, Sam. And if this were my brother or Pike or Foster acting like a hardheaded, reckless jackass, I would call them out, too. Would you let Tessa do this? Stay out here alone when she’d just been through something fucking traumatic?”

His palms on her shoulders were almost too much. She’d die if he could feel her trembling. But the touch was somehow grounding, too—settling. And she hated to admit he was right. She’d never let Tessa do this. She could come up with ten arguments for why it was a dumb idea. But she couldn’t leave. If she left, her attackers won. They would successfully steal her vacation, change her plans, alter her life. She met Gibson’s gaze, needing him to understand, needing him to hear her. She put her hands over his. “I can’t go, Gib. I won’t. I get what you’re saying, but . . . I need this. Maybe more than anything. I need to be here.”

If Roni Loren is going to write it, I’m going to read it.  I’m a huge fan of Loren’s Loving on the Edge series.  Eight plus books in and it hasn’t lost the shine.  I’ll be the first to admit I’ll usually pass on a Domme story.  I am so glad Loren wrote this one, Break Me Down.

As usual, Loren offers up characters that are irresistible.  I loved Sam and Gib from the start.  There’s the perfect blend of strength and vulnerability to reel me in.  The chemisty is hot and their attraction leaps off the pages.  I couldn’t stop turning the pages.

If you’re waiting for the next Loving on the Edge book, Break Me Down is a perfect novella to hold you over.

Author Bio:

Roni wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen when she discovered writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Since then, her flirting skills haven’t improved, but she likes to think her storytelling ability has. Though she’ll forever be a New Orleans girl at heart, she now lives in Dallas with her husband and son.

If she’s not working on her latest sexy story, you can find her reading, watching reality television, or indulging in her unhealthy addiction to rockstars, er, rock concerts. Yeah, that’s it. She is the National Bestselling Author of The Loving on the Edge series from Berkley Heat.

Places to find Roni Loren:

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