Dark BWWM Romance Books | Purchased For Pregnancy FREE Sample

It’s about time I make an announcement about Book #2. Book #1 in the series, Purchased For Submission is live now and tells the story of Fallon and Stavros. Want to know more about them? You can get updates in this book. But mainly, this book is about single father Loukas Pagonis and his daughter’s best friend, Tisha West.

Tisha is a beautiful, 18-year-old and the last person on earth Loukas Pagonis expected to end up with… especially when losing his last FOUR partners under mysterious circumstances.

I’ve posted some chapters on my Patreon already (they get the first look) and so far, readers are LOVING the chapters. The taboo romance between Loukas and Tisha makes their chemistry even HOTTER and you can tell that they’ll have to get through some MESS to have their HEA.
Keep reading to check out the first chapter…

Eager for the story already?

Click here to pre-order.

Purchased For Pregnancy | April 10th 2021

Purchased For Pregnancy FREE Excerpt | Chapter #1

“Papa!” Carlotta shrieks from the boat deck, “Papa! It’s Stavros!”

I don’t want to go above deck because if I go above deck, I’ll have to face her. Not Carlotta. Her brown-skinned friend, Tisha West. She looks nothing like Stavros’ woman, despite the Greek conviction that all those with African skin tones look the same. She has full lips and she’s slighter of frame with smaller breasts and a much larger ass. She’s lying on my pool deck right now and Carlotta lent her one of the tiny pink thong bikinis I told her to throw away. My daughter never listens.

I poke my head up the stairs.

“Stavros?”

“He’s on the phone.”

I run up the stairs and avoid looking at the girl lying to my left, covered in tanning oil. What the hell does she need tanning oil for? The girl is one of the darkest I’ve ever seen. I’d like to look at her again. Even if looking at her makes me a sick old man. She’s my daughter’s age. And I’m... a murderer. I snatch the phone from Carlotta. I left it upstairs for a reason. I don’t want to talk to my brother.

“What do you want?” I snap. 

Fuck. It’s my young sister, Helen. Some idiot ex-boyfriend of hers got it in his head that he could raid our family villa and he somehow made it past Galanos, Papa and Antonio. Stavros just got there to clean up their mess, but not before the idiot ex-boyfriend could get her. He shot Helen. I hang up and toss the phone to Carlotta.

“What is it, Papa?” 

“We need to go. I’m taking us back to shore.”

“Papa! I’m working on my tan with Tisha!”

Carlotta pouts, her red lips jutting forward as she points to Tisha, asleep on the boat deck, lying on her stomach with her big bum exposed. I swear, if a Pagonis woman dressed like that, I would be the first to smack her. Carlotta wears a more conservative two-piece swimsuit and only because she didn’t talk to me for several days when I burned her Louis Vuitton bikini.

“Your brother’s in trouble. Your aunt has been shot.”

“Cassia?”

“No. Helen. Now get up and wake your friend.”

Carlotta snaps, “She has a name papa. You never want to acknowledge her. I understand if YiaYia is racist, but you have no excuse.”

“Damn it, Carlotta. I don’t need to argue with you.”

She folds her arms and pops her hip. It’s like my twenty year old daughter is a teenager. We bring the worst out of each other. 

“You’re a chauvinist, papa! A dirty chauvinist. You think women are objects because you’re a filthy old man and I HATE you!”

“You hate me? I pay your bloody tuition from the sweat of my brow.”

“Don’t test me, papa!”

“I buy every fucking thing you own you little brat.”

She gasps.

“I hate you! Why don’t you do what you always do and push me overboard. Put me in the fucking sea where you put mama.” 

Tisha’s nervous American accent rises above my daughter’s clatter. I hate fighting with Carlotta. She looks too much like me — blue eyes and hair the color of coffee beans.

“Carlotta? Is everything okay?” 

She rolls over and I can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that I can no longer see her ass in that thong bikini. The view from the front feels less lewd somehow. Her thighs cover her crotch but her soft, smooth stomach draws my attention with a piercing through her navel. She’s so young, like Carlotta. I don’t like young women, I remind myself. I’m forty-one years old and much too old for a girl my daughter’s age. I’m much to old to go after a girl like this and have her end up dead. 

Carlotta glowers at me as she answers her friend.

“I’m fine. My dad’s just a total loser.”

Carlotta storms off downstairs and I storm off to the railing. Fuck. I am such a shitty parent. Ana would have known what to do with the children. I met her when Carlotta was fifteen and she wanted to be a mother. My kids didn’t scare her. Then she got pregnant. After she gave birth to Zoe, she died. Murder, like all the others. I sent Zoe away to live with her aunt after Matilda. 

I corrupted the other children already but Zoe doesn’t have to turn out just another fucked up Pagonis. Carlotta will never forgive me for sending her sister away. Fuck. Not even the fucking ocean can make me feel better. I feel a small hand on my shoulder and jerk back thinking it’s Carlotta returning to slap me in the face. It won’t be the first time Carlotta’s slapped me. 

If YiaYia ever found out... 

I tell myself that I won’t let my grandmother hurt my children the way she fucked up Stavros or Galanos. Or me. As the eldest boy, I was her favorite for a while. But YiaYia prefers Galanos. He’s more cruel. The hand on my shoulder is Tisha’s and I turn around with such a fierce look on my face that she jumps back.

“Sorry, Mister Pagonis,” she says with a soft voice. She has a beautiful American accent with a voice that’s more breath than force.

“It’s fine. You startled me. Enjoying the boat?”

“Oh, this is awesome. I love the ocean. Greece is so beautiful. It’s way better than Brooklyn.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hm.”

I don’t know what to say to her. She’s too beautiful. I’ve never been skilled at talking to beautiful women and Tisha isn’t just a beautiful woman. She’s young. A ruby pendant hangs around her neck drawing my eye to her ample breasts.

 And she’s wearing a bathing suit that no Greek man in his right mind would have ever let his daughter run out in — at least when I was a young man. Granted, I haven’t been a young man for a long time.

“I heard you and Carlotta fighting. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You’re more worried about me than your friend?”

I instantly regret the question. It’s too forward. The question itself is nearly flirtatious. She leans against the railing next to me, her breasts nearly falling out of that tiny bikini top. I will myself not to stare at this young woman’s breasts even if temptation menaces me.

“Don’t tell Carlotta I said this but... she’s rude to you sometimes. She doesn’t appreciate all this stuff. I’d kill for a boat.”

My heart swells with pride. Every parent wants that acknowledgement from their kids. Every bullshit job I do for my father, every gun I’ve ever sold, I’ve done it so my children can have a better life. Carlotta doesn’t see it that way. Unlike Tisha, she sees more than the boats, the villas and the cars. She sees the darker side of our Thessaloniki wealth.

“No need to kill. Just work hard and one day, you may afford one.”

The statement is the boldest lie I’ve told all week. But I have to set a good example for the girl. 

Papa gave me the boat when I killed three men at seventeen, long before Tisha was a twinkle in her father’s nutsack. My response provokes a laugh from Tisha. Her whole body moves when she laughs. Her smile is fucking beautiful and her breasts... She squeezes them up against the railing, trying to lean over and catch the sea breeze in her curls but inadvertently making my cock rise to attention.

Hey, asshole, there’s a beautiful woman standing next to you and you haven’t gotten any in months!

Thessaloniki street walkers don’t count. I have needs but... I’d prefer one woman. But I’m better now. 

Not completely better because I stare at Tisha’s breasts and think about her nipples.

Yiayia claims I have the Pagonis curse — excessive virility she calls it. YiaYia will believe anything as long as it makes the Pagonis name look or sound good. She thinks we’re Gods. 

I realize I’m awkwardly silent and worse... I’m staring.

I wet my lips and realize something far worse than my erect cock or my lecherous gaze. Tisha notices. She stands up straight and adjusts her top so those marvelous plump breasts escape my view.

“I’m going to check on Carlotta, Mister Pagonis,” Tisha mumbles awkwardly. 

Fuck. The first chance I had to get close to her and I blow it by being a lecherous and perverted old man, staring at his daughter’s best friend. I watch her disappear below deck. She’s already seen me staring. It can’t hurt to look at her ass... 

Look at me. I’m a sicko. My sister’s hurt and I’m thinking about a woman. Maybe YiaYia’s right about men. We’re too easy to manipulate. And I know Tisha’s name. I just can’t bear to say it because of what happened. What was all my fault... 

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What do you think? Let me know what you think of this sample in the comment section below. Have you read Book #1 yet? I look forward to reading your comments here.

Dark Billionaire Romance For WMBW Romance Fans | Purchased For Pleasure (BWWM Billionaire Romance)

Caption: An iPad with a copy of Jamila Jasper’s billionaire romance Purchased For Pleasure sits on a table next to a cup of tea sitting on a saucer with two cookies next to it. A black woman’s hands grasp the tea cup and stir sugar into the cup.

You can pre-order Purchased For Pleasure now! Click here to order. This is a sizzling hot story for all the cold months ahead…

If you enjoy a dark billionaire romance featuring an attractive white male with aquamarine eyes and a thick, full-figured black female lead, you’ll enjoy this BWWM romance story with a happily ever after ending.

This book has scenes that will make your heart throb and you’ll probably need to buy a brand new massage wand wink wink to cope with the heat between the thighs from this book.

Seriously… the story is out of control hot and perfect if you’ve been a thirsty lady this cuffing season.

Check out Chapter 1 here. Don’t hesitate to click here and one click order ASAP.

Romance Novel Excerpts | Purchased For Pleasure

Alice was twenty years old with little dating experience. She’d worked her ass off through high school, sometimes taking jobs that were less than legal to pay her way through college. Alice was an African American beauty whose booty didn’t go unappreciated by the men in her neighborhood. She had an hourglass figure with plump breasts and buttocks that attracted unwanted attention to a large degree. 

Alice hated feeling like she was constantly on display. Men gave her attention, but she never returned it. They didn’t know how to treat her. To them, she was just a pair of ass and tits. Alice hadn’t ever dreamed of becoming someone’s baby mama. She wanted more for herself than that, despite her past — the past of poverty that she never spoke about in her college setting.

Alice had ignored the advances of the men in her community her whole life. She’d made it to twenty years old, giving none of them the time of day. Alice felt lucky. She’d kept herself pure, and she wasn’t like some of her other friends who got knocked up the second they left high school. Alice knew love stories didn’t really happen for women like her, but she maintained her hope that just around the corner she’d meet the man of her dreams.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be just out of reach. Even when Alice tried to date, all the men were just looking for some fast action. They assumed that Alice’s alluring figure meant that she “put out”. Alice was just about ready to give up on dating altogether based on her last experience - her date had pinned her down in the back of his car and tried to force himself on her. No more men like that. Never.

Now that she was at university, and about to enter her last year, she found that she was not only tight on cash but thousands of dollars in debt. She couldn’t ask anyone in her family for money. Unlike some of her white peers, Alice didn’t have a safety net. She didn’t know how things had spiraled out of control, but now they’d threatened her with eviction, starvation or worse.

Alice wished she could turn to her mother, but there was no point trying to interact with Elise when she was using. That had been one of Elise’s biggest vices that Alice had been paying for since the day she was born. Elise had Alice at seventeen with a retired pimp twenty-five years her senior. Alice hated feeling like a stereotype or the product of a twisted situation. She knew it was technically wrong to feel ashamed of her mother and her circumstances, but she couldn’t help it. Few people in Alice’s life knew exactly what she was dealing with back home and what she was so desperate to avoid. 

Alice had never known her father, but she knew what he looked like from old pictures. He’d never been around much; Elise said that he had no interest in claiming Alice as his own. Alice believed her. The absence of a father in her life had always hurt her. That was one reason she’d vowed to save herself for the right man. 

Alice didn’t want to end up like Elise. Her mother had many boyfriends throughout Alice’s life, but when Alice was still in her teens, most of them became more interested in her than in her addict mother. None of them counted as a father figure. Not the ones that would do something nice for her only to try their hardest to get into her pants while she was underage. 

Alice hated them. Sometimes, she thought she hated her mother too. The world didn’t have to be so cold. Other girls in her school had mothers and fathers. And they made fun of her. She hated that. She loathed being the one who they called a stereotype. How did it make sense as a stereotype when she was the only one in her class without a dad? 

She wasn’t angry about it. The past disappeared… and it was the past. But she wanted more. She always had. 

The memories of her past hadn’t chilled Alice to the world. Some people succumb to pain and let it ruin them. Alice used her pain as motivation to work even harder. But even with her scholarship, she was still on the verge of bankruptcy and losing everything she’d worked for. Alice’s goal after college was to meet a nice, well-mannered guy, get a job working for a bank with her degree in finance and then have the perfect life. Her past didn’t have to ruin everything for her.

Alice hated feeling so defined by her tragic backstory, but she knew on some level that her experience motivated every single one of her actions.

Despite this hardship, Alice had made it out of her neighborhood and she had no intention of going back. She couldn’t face the same chicks who made fun of her, or the guys who mocked her skin color, her hair and the fact that she never had designer clothes. 

“Everybody knows her mama smokes crack!” one boy shouted during Alice’s last presentation senior year.

She didn’t want to carry the humiliation back on the old blocks. Even if it would have been nice to get a Jamaican patty from the corner store and one of those small sugary drinks. Alice had one mission: pay off this debt and get herself some cash fast. 

She had a good part-time job, but her income was not enough to cover her expenses. Things were spiraling and with no one to turn to, Alice considered a permanent way out. She wasn’t depressed. And she hated the thought of… giving up. But there wasn’t any money. She had no one to ask. She had no one to turn to. No parents. Barely any friends. Shit. 

“I’m such a fucking loser,” Alice muttered to herself.

She didn’t want to be a loser. She wanted to… breathe. Money solved more problems than it created. She didn’t believe more money meant more problems. Rich people made that line up to trick poor people into thinking they were better off. Ha! Alice would kill to relax in some ski chalet or to have $100 to spend on herself.

To add to her stress, her mother expected her to send cash home, not understanding that college was more of a financial burden than a source of income. Alice’s little brother Jevon, who was only five. Her aunty in the suburbs — who never returned Alice’s calls — adopted him. The adoption process had been brutal. Alice couldn’t stand knowing she’d failed her brother. And that her aunt thought she was just another deadbeat like her mom.

“Can’t you see, I’m trying my hardest! I’m just so fucking POOR!” Alice screamed into the phone.

But her aunt hung up. And Alice was alone again. She didn’t have time for boyfriends. Not like boyfriends wanted to be with what one guy called a “broke ass bitch”. Seriously… Did he have to drag her ass like that?

Alice longed to make enough money to bring her brother back, to get her mother the help she needed and to reunite their strange and broken family. It would never happen. Not with Wells Fargo about to slap her on the ass with a $15 overdraft fee. Why the fuck do I have to pay to be broke? Alice wondered.

Alice wanted Jevon back more than her mother did. Her mother barely wanted to get better. Alice couldn’t negotiate with her when she was using. She couldn’t get Elise to see that she was tearing her family apart. All she did was demand Alice send her money, call her a worthless skank and scream about her dealer. Once, she tried to convince Alice to sleep with her dealer for drugs. 

Desperate. That was the best word to describe her. So. Fucking. Desperate. Throughout college, she was friends with plenty of girls who were stripping to put their way through school. These girls had done what Alice never could. They spent their evenings and weekends at seedy strip clubs, making thousands of dollars a night. All of it was in cash too, so they could keep their earnings well under the radar. Alice wasn’t sure if she really envied them, but she envied their ability to go through college carefree. Old guys bought them fancy handbags and high heels and jewelry. Alice didn’t own any jewelry. She barely owned a ceramic bowl to cook her ramen noodles in.

Maybe I should change my name to Poverty McBrokeAssBitch, Alice thought to herself. 

No matter how she hustled, money wouldn’t stay in her account.

Many of the chicks she knew had Mercedes Benz cars, and nearly all of them wore designer clothes and had designer boob jobs or ass jobs. Once you got your ass done, you didn’t have to work a day in your life. Men would give you money just for having a big fat ass. Alice wanted to scream. Her natural homegrown booty was cute enough, but she couldn’t compare with silicon butts. There were the girls who made money from their tits and those who relied on their ass. But each one was financially stable. When you worked in that world, men gave you everything. But “natural” went out of style years ago.

Natural hadn’t been in style since the 80s. Alice hated the jackass who gave men the idea that women needed to have boob jobs and ass jobs to please them. Men with small dicks weren’t out here turning their wieners into ten-inch monster schlongs just to make women happy. Fuck ‘em. 

Those women never wanted for anything, and most of them had steady boyfriends too. Men didn’t seem to mind that they spent their weekends exposing their breasts and butts at clubs. Even if she was hesitant to enter that world, Alice was desperate for money and there was one friend from that world she could reach out to. Goldie was one of Alice’s closest friends, and she was one of the best paid strippers in her club. Alice never asked her too many questions, but she had a feeling that Goldie was netting close to six figures. Perhaps Goldie could help her? 

Goldie made fun of Alice too because she had “no ass” and didn’t strip. Goldie called her poor sometimes, but at least she bought dinner once in a while.

As the deadline to pay her tuition bill drew closer and closer, Alice felt desperate. This could be her ticket out. She wouldn’t enjoy shaking her ass in a club and having random men place dollar bills in her underwear, but she also wouldn’t enjoy going down the same dead-end path that her mother had. First it was bankruptcy, then it was dropping out of school… Alice didn’t want to let her imagination take her too far. The preview was grim enough.

Alice called Goldie. 

“Can we talk? I need to make money. Fast.”

Goldie laughed.

“Sell ass, girl!”

Alice cringed. She didn’t want to “sell ass”. She wanted money. She didn’t want to sell out. Goldie agreed to meet at the school’s burrito bar. Goldie arrived overdressed as usual. Goldie’s image was everything to her, and she always had her eye on the next trend in plastic surgery. She was five foot eight and had massive ass augmentations. Despite this, her butt still looked real and natural. 

Goldie had caramel skin and long black weave that hit in the middle of her back. She wore tight skinny light wash jeans, with the whale's tail of her black thong revealed. Goldie wore a see through white crop top with a cheetah print bra underneath. She contoured her face to perfection with massive fake eyelashes and overdrawn lips. Goldie didn’t look like a natural beauty, but men didn’t seem to care. They loved her looks. 

Goldie paid for their burritos and the two sat at a corner table. 

Goldie began talking, “So what do you want to know about stripping. I know that’s why your ass called me mid day instead of your usual ‘Let’s go take shots!’ that you text every Thursday.” 

Alice blushed a bit, not expecting her ploy to be so transparent. 

“I’m kind of strapped for cash I guess and I was wondering if I--” Alice started.

“Well, honey, no offense, but stripping is not for you. There are other ways you can make money without having to go through all the shit I put myself through,” Goldie said. 

Alice was silent, listening intently to the girl’s advice. 

“So, you’ve probably guessed that most of us don’t make all our money from stripping,” Goldie chuckled. 

She was wrong; Alice hadn’t guessed at all. She tried not to get too many details from Goldie’s sordid life.

“I didn’t know,” Alice muttered. 

Goldie laughed in disbelief. “Girl, do you see the shit that we buy? It’s expensive!” 

Goldie launched into an explanation. She explained that many of the girls had sex for money. She’d only done it once, but she’d made an easy $3,000 for just one night. Alice was shocked, and she was getting uneasy. This wasn’t the work she was looking for. Goldie explained that she had an online profile where she made money doing various naughty activities on camera. Alice squirmed in her seat as she listened to her. She wasn’t sure that she was quite that desperate for cash. Not yet, at least. She also explained that she had a profile where she would go out on dates with guys for a lot of money. Goldie went on dates with high-class clients who didn’t want other rich men to see them with ugly women. 

Often they bought her gifts — one of these gifts was  Goldie’s impressive ass augmentation. Goldie also mentioned that she’d had work done on her tummy and gotten free boob jobs for two of her friends. The guys were mostly nice, but some of them were real creeps. Alice tried to listen. When would this get to the part where she could do something for herself?

“But I think you could benefit from something else,” Goldie said after she’d explained a variety of techniques. 

“What would that be?”

She was a little titillated by what she’d heard, a little scared but keen to learn more.

“Sweetheart, you’re still a virgin, right?” Goldie asked her.

“Yes, I am,” Alice said, a little embarrassed. 

“Oh, thank God. I have the perfect idea for you,” Goldie said.

Goldie launched into another explanation. It was a website where girls could sell their virginity to older, wealthy men who had a penchant for youthful flesh. Well, one of these websites. This website sought specific black girls willing to risk impregnation by having the buyers take their virginity. A lot of white men had this fantasy and would pay big bucks to have it fulfilled. 

The arrangement was this: you put up a profile, they matched you with a buyer who took an interest in you. You could look at what he was offering and his net-worth, both of which the website vetted. Then, he could pay you for a date and see where things went from there. Often, the dates are at their homes, so Goldie promised that she would be the check-in person for Alice if she took her up on it. 

“I’ll help you make your profile. They love innocent looking girls like you,” Goldie said and then she laughed, “Girls like me look a bit too... used up to these guys.” 

“I don’t know if I can do this, Goldie.”

“You can! Listen… If you’re worried about a husband, you can always lie. Tell him you’re still a virgin. Guys love that shit. If you’re in a tough spot, I promise this will end all your problems. One night with a rich ass dude. You can slip a quaalude into his drink and rob his ass if he gets creepy.”

Alice shifted uneasily. This wasn’t who she was. She studied. She did odd jobs like babysitting and chauffeuring kids to soccer practice. Not sex. She didn’t sell sex. She didn’t look the part. She didn’t dress or act like Goldie. 

“But it’s sex with a stranger! I’m just not that kind of person,” Alice urged, trying to get Goldie to see her perspective.

Goldie kissed her teeth, “Listen, Alice… Life works against us. We grew up poor. Even in college, it’s just bills and more bills. I don’t know what demons you got, but if they’re anything like mine, you need to do whatever it takes to get ahead. Don’t let the demons win because you’re too much of a prude to do what you have to do. You don’t get a prize for saving your virginity.”

“How did you lose yours?” Alice asked.

“Stepdad. He got me a Sidekick so I wouldn’t tell my mama.”

Alice grimaced. 

Sex for money? Is that what she had to do? Alice pushed back tears. I’m not weak, she thought to herself. It’s one night. And who cares? It’s not like I’m saving my virginity for any special guy. Guys don’t want to date a broke bitch. Not normal guys. 

Alice pursed her lips. Goldie had a point sometimes, as much as she resented it. Still, Alice didn’t know if this was the thing she could do easily. She was humoring Goldie now — there was no stopping her once she put her mind to something — but Goldie didn’t exactly convince her that going through something like this could be worth the money.

Could you really put a price on self-worth?

* * *

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Romantic Comedy Novels: French Kissed | BWWM Pregnancy Romance

Romantic Comedy Novels: French Kissed | BWWM Pregnancy Romance by Amazon best-selling interracial romance author Jamila Jasper. This story is a republishing of The Coach's Baby, a novella briefly published in 2015. This book has been updated to better fit a contemporary audience and many aspects to the story have been expanded upon and changed. 

If you love romantic stories with an interracial pregnancy plot you'll enjoy the story of Milo & Lucy. Their love is complicated. Of course, love can be complicated when you dedicate your entire life to tennis and barely have time for romance. So many of us black women work so hard that we struggle to see when true love is right in front of us. 

Maybe our Prince Charming is right across the court from us! Lucy and Milo slowly discover their love for each other over the course of this novel. We see Lucy struggle with her family and her commitment to tennis. With a baby on the way, the plot only thickens.

Keep reading for a gripping first chapter sample of this steamy interracial romance novel, one of our best contemporary interracial romance novellas of the year. 

Romance Novel Excerpts: French Kissed

Chapter One

Sitting with Earl meant forgoing relaxation. Since Lucy could remember, her father had always required proper etiquette, full engagement, and appropriate dress whenever he requested a meeting with one of his daughters. Lucy still felt a slight twinge of terror when she was meeting with her father, even if he had mellowed out over the years and she was certainly far stronger than him when it came to physical strength.

He'd ruled over his daughters with an iron fist and age couldn't change the fact that he was her daddy and daddy's word was law.

Lucy waited in the sitting room for her father to come out with “drinks” for the two of them. She wore a deep oxblood dress that highlighted the gorgeous undertones of her dark, mahogany-toned skin. Lucy’s hair coiled densely on top of her head held together in a bun by a strained band. Her dress hit just below her knees and on her feet, she wore a pair of two-inch heels. Anything higher and not only would she tower over her father Earl, but he would be sure to give her a lecture about the impact of high heels on the balls of her feet. She wouldn’t want it to affect her game now, would she?

Lucy could hear the blender stirring up a ruckus from the other room. Of course when Earl said “drinks” he meant a protein shake for Lucy and whiskey on the rocks for himself. Lucy would have rolled her eyes if it wasn’t so entirely predictable of him. Lucy crossed her legs at the ankles and waited, silently glancing at her phone to see if her sister had called. There was nothing from her twin sister, Diana. Of course not. She knew better than to try to stick her head in on days when Lucy and Earl met up to talk tennis.

Earl finally entered with a frothy white protein shake for his daughter and a glass of whiskey for himself. He grunted as he squished into his chair, the impact of sitting down almost seemed to knock the wind out of him. Lucy noticed how much he’d slowed down over the past ten years. He’d aged faster since his wife had fallen sick… 

“Here you go doll,” Earl said, gesturing to the tray on the center table. Lucy grabbed the drink and clamped her lips down around the straw, leaving the light imprint of dark, plum lipstick. 

“So… How are you doing papa,” Lucy asked.

Earl smiled, “I’m good, doll but you know we ain’t here to discuss how I’m doing.”

Lucy nodded and sighed, “I know. It’s about tennis.” 

“Recently, I’ve been watching your tapes and I just think something’s off Lucy. Now… The tournament is soon and I just think you should talk to Milo and come up with something new. I’m paying him all this damned money for what?” 

Lucy sighed. Having her father as her manager was both a blessing and a curse. 

Lucy answered, “I’m fine dad. You don’t have to worry, Milo’s doing a good job.” 

Her coach Milo had been with her for the past five years and Lucy wasn’t interested in finding a new one. Especially not so close to a tournament. 

“I don’t know if we should trust him…”

Lucy replied, “Well you say that about everyone and so far Milo has helped me win. A lot. You’re too suspicious.”

“Young lady…” 

“I know, I know… I don’t know what to tell you, dad. Milo looked at the tapes and he thinks I’m just tired. I need more rest.”

Earl scoffed, “More rest?! You think you win so many matches because you spend valuable training time resting?” 

Lucy knew there was absolutely no getting through to her father. She sipped on the remaining drops of her smoothie and sat quietly, waiting for him to continue speaking.

“Listen, child. I know you think I’m being a hardass for nothing but winning is how we keep your image good. Winning is how we get deals with Adidas or with Gatorade. You know they aren’t exactly racing to you the way they are with Jenny.”

Lucy cringed. Jennifer Winslow was her main tennis rival but she hadn’t managed to beat Lucy once in the past eight years, even if she’d come close a couple of times and had given Lucy a run for her money. Despite her serious losing streak, Jenny had managed to sign deals with Lululemon, Powerade, Nike and more. 

Both Lucy and her father knew the reason for that was the fact that Lucy was a black woman. Lucy could dominate on the courts but she had to work twice as hard to get half as much credit as a skinny blonde in the tennis world. 

“I’m going to win. I need to win papa,” Lucy said, reassuring her father that she was just as committed to the game as he was.

“I know you do, child. I’m just worried. I want you to be the best…” 

“I know.”

“Where’s that sister of yours?” Earl grumbled.

Lucy smiled. Diana might have been right to stay away.

“I think she’s out of town today,” Lucy mumbled before trailing off.

Earl huffed and then twirled his mustache. 

“She never comes to see me you know,” He said.

Lucy knew that “never” was an exaggeration but she let Earl have his moment. Ever since his daughters had hit their thirties and spent weeks at a time away from him, he’d taken up exaggerating his loneliness to encourage them to visit more. Lucy was sure he’d made the same desperate plea to her twin sister Diana the last time she had visited.

Lucy’s mood shifted as she thought about Diana and then her mother… 

“No talking about mama I guess?”

Earl shook his head, “You ain’t s’posed to worry about her ‘til you’re done that tournament.”

“Y’all are too stubborn,” Lucy muttered.

Earl smiled, “Damn right we are. Now, don’t you have practice?”

Lucy rolled her eyes, “I think I can keep my schedule in mind on my own papa…”

“Why’s your ass still sitting here, then? You need to be committed to winning Lucy. If I don’t see some changes I’ll get rid of that Milo fella…” 

“Papa!”

“Don’t chastise me, girl. Get down to practice so you can play better,” He said gruffly. 

Lucy brought her empty glass into the kitchen and then kissed her father good-bye. Sometimes his criticisms could be too harsh. He’d been managing his daughter since her tennis career began and sometimes the line between manager, coach and father blurred too much. When Earl finally retired from coaching Lucy directly, his grasp on her life had eased up a bit. But these days, Earl was finding creative ways to get an “in” to micromanage Lucy’s tennis career.

She drove back home at the tennis court entrance of her house where Milo would be waiting. He was consistently ten minutes early and always carried on with Lucy about her chronic “lateness” which really meant being right on time. 

As expected, Milo’s Audi was already parked there. Years of high-level coaching meant Milo could afford more than a couple sports cars with six-figure price tags. Lucy wasn’t impressed by it at all. She always thought guys who drove flashy cars tried way too hard. 

“Lucy… You’re late,” Milo said as Lucy walked into her training room adjacent to the courts.

She ignored his comment and locked the door behind her. Lucy looked in the mirror at her shapely muscles and curves. After tennis practice, she’d need to hit the squat bar badly. Lucy knew that for most women, her strength would be a dream come true. But the truth was, having a body that looked nearly perfect meant hours and hours of training and sculpting. Sometimes the upkeep could get exhausting. One of the few things keeping Lucy going was the thought that she would be retiring soon. There was no way she would turn forty and still be playing this game… 

Lucy changed into her tight white Nike skort that hugged the curves of her thighs and the shape of her thick ass. On her upper body, she squeezed her breasts into a custom-made sports bra. Lucy slipped into her tennis shoes and added a white headband to the entire outfit. She removed her piercings, makeup, and jewelry and then shoved them all into her gym bag. Now it would be time to face Milo’s “wrath” at her lateness and hit as hard as she could. She needed to prove her father wrong. At the very least, that might earn her a real weekend off with no training for the first time in years… 

She walked outside onto the court with her recently restrung tennis racquet. Milo was excellent at keeping her equipment in perfect working order. 

“Ready to hit?”

Lucy nodded. When Milo started a workout nicely, she knew that she was in for trouble down the road. She took a deep breath and started their usual warm up. Today, Lucy’s breath felt thick in her lungs. She knew that things had barely started but her mind was somewhere else, slowing her down. Keep this up any longer and she’d be forced to admit that her father was right about her training.

By the time Lucy was done with her workout, she was dripping with sweat. Her outfit still looked pristine and white as she walked to her cooler for a drink of water. Milo followed her with his hands on his hips.

“Lucy… That was awful,” he chided.

Lucy glared at him as she wiped the sweat off her brow.

Lucy nodded, “Earl thinks so too. He took the time out of his day this morning to tell me he thinks I’ve been playing like garbage.” 

Milo grinned, “He doesn’t mince words does he?”

Lucy shook her head and took a big drink of ice cold water. 

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Well take an extra five minutes. I think we should talk about this.” 

“I don’t need to talk, I need to play,” Lucy replied.

Her gaze intensified and Milo caught a glimpse of that fierceness in her eyes that he loved. He wouldn't have it any other way with his clients. Lucy had always been a delight to train.

She had that fiery look in her eye that Milo loved. No matter how much Lucy might deny it, tennis was her life. She cared every bit about winning as her father did. This wasn’t a life that he’d forced on her, even if she thought so during her times of weakness. Milo stood across from Lucy with his arms folded, waiting for her to adjust to the idea of actually talking through their strategy together. A part of what made Milo a good coach was his strategy. 

Lucy sat down on the bench and glared at the tennis court before her.

“Earl thinks we need to change things. He thinks I need to train harder. Or do something different.”

“I agree.” 

“You're my coach," Lucy scoffed, "Not Earl's." 

Milo was used to her harsh tone, so he ignored it and continued, “Yes, I am your coach. And I think that Mr. Walters is right.” 

Lucy glared at him again.

“Listen, Lucy, you’re training hard but there has to be something wrong.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Lucy snapped.

“Well if you know so much, why don’t you fix it?” Milo hit back.

Lucy didn’t respond and took another swig of water. Right now, all she wanted to do was take out her anger at her father and Milo about this. She’d been practicing her ass off but match after match, she could feel that things weren’t getting better.

“Maybe I’ve hit my peak… Maybe I’m just getting old,” Lucy mumbled.

“Old? You’re thirty-four Lucy. I’m the old one around here.”
 

“Hm.” 

“Listen… Why don’t we compromise? We switch up your training but I’ll let you have more input. Earl should be happy and you can build in some more time for rest and recovery.”

“You really think he’ll let that slide?”

“I’ll talk to him, tell him it’s what’s best.”

Lucy grumbled, “Good. And stop riding my ass so hard.” 

“That’s what you pay me for ma cherie.”

Lucy winced at his use of the word “ma cherie”. She’d begged Milo to stop calling her these silly diminutive names around a thousand times and she was sick of it. Frenchmen were different, he'd claimed. And he'd used his French heritage as an excuse to keep up the diminutive phrase.

Milo had more than a French tendency for pet names. He also had French confidence and integrity. He wasn't afraid to push her hard, on and off the court. He understood Lucy's psychology better than anyone. The only person who knew her better was Diana.

Every once in a while when Milo let slip one too many "ma cherie"'s Lucy struggled not to bite back. She’d been treated like she was less than men her entire life, even if she could squat more than they could or deadlift more… or tear them apart on the tennis court. 

But today Lucy was tired. All she wanted was to end the practice and go visit Diana. She picked herself up off the bench, feeling that itch to get her heart racing and looked Milo square in the face before saying, “Let’s get started. I’ll show you just how much improvement I need.”

“That’s my girl,” Milo answered, standing back and watching her walk onto the court.

There was something alluring about that woman. No matter how tough and unapproachable she could seem, there was a deep beauty in her strength.

Thank you for reading! The book will be launching October 1st, so stay tuned. Did you know that some people had a chance to read this sample early? Subscribers to my Patreon get oodles of free content and early access. If you love interracial romance and you're impatient to get to your next read, I suggest subscribing. I add fresh content every week including free bonus stories, early chapter previews and early previews to trailers. Get your first look here. 

Our Best Contemporary Romance Novels: Get Pucked (BWWM Hockey Romance)

Get Pucked is an interracial hockey romance featuring a French Canadian alpha male main character who falls for forbidden fruit... the African American publicist who is supposed to keep him out of trouble. If you love romantic stories and want to check out one of our best contemporary romance novels for the year, similar to Harlequin Kimani romance, keep reading for the description and then a length free BWWM romance sample for all fans to enjoy 100% free.

If you enjoy romantic comedy novels, dark romance books and sports romance books with plot twists, steamy romance scenes between black women and white men. This is one of my top romance novels of the year and you can now find the book on Amazon and other sites like Kobo, Nook (Barnes & Noble), iBooks, and Google Play. 

Book Description: 

Amy

Luc is my client. He’s aggressive, unruly and dangerously off limits. 

He wants to have me in every position and toy with me until I scream.

I must resist him. I could lose my job… I could lose everything. 

If either of us screw up our next gig, our entire lives will be ruined.

He’s supposed to be well behaved. I’m supposed to keep him that way.

But how can you tame a man who’s as much of a beast in the bedroom as on the ice? 

Luc

She runs the show in her world and I run the show in mine.

I’m what anyone would consider an alpha. My publicists shake in their boots when I walk in the room.

Not her. 

She isn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Not even me. Not even my past.

Amy thinks I can change my life around, but I know the truth about guys like me.

We never change. At least I never will… Not for her, not for anyone.

Get ready to squirm in your seat as the curvy black girl falls into the arms of a powerful white alpha male. This standalone interracial romance novel is 50,000+ words long with NO cliffhanger and a guaranteed HEA.

Romance Novel Excerpt: Get Pucked (BWWM Hockey Romance)

Luc Alfredsson

I spent my entire life on ice. I eat sleep and breathe hockey. My nickname growing up was "Puck", for obvious reasons. When I was sixteen, I flew to Canada to pursue my dream: playing hockey until the day I die. 

I stared at Coach Gagnon, a big French-Canadian bastard who stood three feet away from me, screaming his head off in my face. 

"LUC, ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?!" 

His thick Quebecois accent, pierced me out of my daydream. Coach Gagnon’s green eyes bored into my mine. I could see the reflection of my face in his eyes, staring back at me with that boyish smirk I couldn’t shake whenever someone started yelling at me. 

"Yeah," I shrugged, "I'm listening."

"What did I just say, then?”

Trick question. I hadn’t been listening and coach knew. I was a goner. 

"Uhhh... I'm in huge trouble?"

"Oui! You are in huge trouble you stupid bastard! Tabernac! How could you get on camera and say something like that for all the world to see?" 

I responded with a smirk, knowing it would piss off Félix and knowing that he'd kick my ass off the ice for doing so.

"GET OUT!" Félix roared.

I heard the others laughing, low rumbling chuckles common in the locker room. They watched with folded arms to see if I’d finally get what was coming to me. Coach was right, I had been an ass. But if he wanted to embarrass me in front of the whole team, I’d walk off the ice like a man with a smile on my face.

My smirk turned into a grin and I swung my gym bag over my shoulder.

"Fine. I'll leave." 

Dave Tanner stepped up, approaching Félix and resting a hand on his shoulder. He could always talk sense into the coach, or me.

"Coach, with all due respect, we need Luc on the ice today."

Félix's face glowed red hot. His bottle green eyes glimmered with rage and frustration. His face reddened because he knew Dave was right, he couldn’t bear to admit it. After what I’d done… After how I’d embarrassed him… It stung to let me waltz right back on the ice. But he needed me. Desperately. 

"Put your shit down Luc."

Dave nodded and I obliged, dropping my gym bag to the ground.

"He's right. We need you on the ice. We're playing Calgary in a month and I need you boys to whoop 'em."

Snickers and cheers of agreement erupted from the team. 

"Get dressed," Gagnon growled.

I nodded and stalked off to the locker room, victorious once more. I stripped down to my boxers and then suited up. Long sleeved warm-up tee, pants, pads, helmet and then my skates. Before I could lace my skates up, Dave opened the door to the locker room.

"Are you in here you big stupid bastard?"

“Here.”

“Trying to lose your contract, eh?“ Dave asked.

Dave always had my back when I messed up. He'd been that way since I was first drafted to the minors up in Toronto, all the way until now.

"No," I replied, "I can't stand when Coach gets like that."

"When he does what? His job?"
 

I glared at Dave.

"I don't need a lecture from you mom."

"Hey, don't take it out on me, eh?" 

He reached for my hand to help me off the bench.

"You're right. Maybe I should retire."

"Bullshit," Dave retorted, "You're one of the top shooters in the entire league. You have to play."

"With those fines... I don't know."

"You did earn those fines."

"It was a joke," I growled.

How was it my fault no one had a sense of humor these days? On my feet, I lumbered out of the locker room door towards the ice.

“A joke that went over poorly. Cough up the money and move on. You don’t have to make a big deal out of this.”

“Félix wants to.”

“Félix is pissed. He should be pissed. We’ve had media training. You should have known better.”

I grunted in response and changed the subject.

"Is Jane in today?" I asked.

"What do you care?" Dave asked, folding his arms.

"No reason."

"You aren't thinking of getting back together with her, are you?"

I scowled, "No."

"Good. You were a bastard to her Luc. You broke her heart."

I grunted. Broke her heart. Yeah right. Jane knew exactly what she was signing up for with me. My reputation is no secret and the incident only made things worse. The guys were already on the ice, sticks in hand, pucks slipping back and forth across the frigid terrain. Home.

Dave stepped onto the ice before I did and he was off. I might have been the best shooter on the team, but Dave was the fastest. He started off on the first part of our warmup, sprints. I followed him, racing as fast as I could, my lungs stinging with the sharp blasts of cold air familiar to the first five minutes of the workout.

My heart rate caught up with my legs. We skated forward, bursting across the ice at unthinkable speeds. The rush of adrenaline sent me flying faster. Then backward. We skated backward, our feet crisscrossing as we infused our brutish sport with real grace.

Pucks flew onto the ice and Félix stood outside, glaring at me as we started shooting. Stamkos, the goalie, stood impenetrable in front of the net. I grinned as I flew down the ice towards him, smacking the puck at full speed, knowing he couldn't catch my shot. He missed and I whooped, to his dismay. My shooting made John one of the best goalies in the entire league. He could stop a puck flying at his face at 90 mph. He was that good.
 

"Good shot," he called. 

John's thick German accent meant I could hardly understand a word he said, but his respect was visible in his eyes. Practice went on like that. Tough. Hard. My muscles ached from four straight hours of sprinting. Coach Gagnon was right though -- we had to whoop Calgary. My old buddies from the minors played on the team. Cal Sampson, an irritating Texan with a stick up his ass played for Calgary, as did my former roommate, Leo Lip-Twitch. He had a Polish last name I can't be assed to remember but we all called him lip twitch because when he was intensely focused, his lip twitched. 

Hey, I never said our nicknames were clever, did I?

On the ice, I came alive. My senses heightened and my body performed at its peak, executing all I'd trained it to do. It's hard to describe to a weak man what strength feels like, but it's like being high... all the time. Endorphins and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I dribbled the puck down the ice.

As I came close to scoring, our new recruit Henrik skated out of nowhere and flicked the puck out of my control.

"Bastard..." I growled.

He dribbled the puck back in the opposite direction as I chased him. For a new recruit, he was good, but the experience made me better. I caught up with him in a matter of seconds, but instead of pushing my stick out to grab the puck, I thrust it between his legs, causing him to fall over.
 

"Watch it," I growled, as he toppled over, losing his balance.

When Henrik returned to his feet, he glowered at me, hot rage surging through his pink face, his long blond hair covering his eyes through his helmet.

"Asshole," he grunted.

He lunged at me, but I was faster than him. I dodged his punch and landed another one on him. He grunted and hit me in the stomach. Where did that little punk learn how to hit like that? I grabbed his pads and pushed him against the wall, hitting him until I heard Gagnon's familiar shout.

"ENOUGH. LUC. OFF THE ICE. MAINTENANT!"
 

I eased off Henrik. His nose was only bleeding a little, but his face was redder. Like most young recruits, he wasn't afraid of fighting, but he didn't enjoy getting his ass handed to him.

Once I eased off him, Henrik skated to join the others, dribbling the puck he'd stolen from me playfully across the ice. Gagnon's face said everything once I was off the ice. I knew he was going to chew my ear out but this time, I was ready for him. Henrik knew the rules on the ice. He knew how our team played. He got what was coming to him for stepping out of line. 

After practice, Coach gathered us around.

"You boys did great. You, Dave, stay after practice."

"Me?" I asked.

"Did I stutter?" Gagnon replied, his French accent thickening with his frustration.

"Yes, sir." 

Gagnon sent the rest of the team off to get some rest, but he held me and Dave behind.

"It's clear we need to talk."
 

I glowered at him, "Henrik knows how we play. That little punk deserved it."

"Silence!"

I kept my mouth shut. Dave glared at me, encouraging me to stop being such a smart ass for once. 

"You need to make some changes Luc. I can handle you, but the boss doesn't like liabilities."
 

"It was one fight!" I protested, "That's what the game is about."

"Henrik is a new recruit but he is still your teammate. He is Swedish, just like you are you big lug. So show him some respect and keep your bloody hands off him. There's so much fire under your ass I could roast a fuckin' pig!" Gagnon spat.

He was practically foaming at the mouth and I struggled to keep my amusement under wraps. 

"Coach, I'll pay the fines. It'll be fine."
 

"Non!" Gagnon hissed, "It will not be fine. You fail to understand how serious this is Luc."

"With all due respect coach, why am I here?" Dave asked.
 

"Because you," Coach spat, "Are going to keep this crazy Swedish bastard in line."

Dave glared at me, "Got it. Do the impossible."

Gagnon chuckled. 

"That's not all. We're going to your publicist's office right now to discuss your next move."

Then I scowled.

"Coach, I'm tired. I killed it on the ice. All I want is to head home so my trainer can put my legs on ice and give me a killer massage."

Gagnon glared, murder in his eyes. 

"Luc, don't argue," Dave suggested.

"Fine," I growled, "Let's meet with the publicist." 

"Good," Coach said, "10 minutes, 42nd Street." 

It wasn't possible to get down to 42nd Street in 10 minutes but I got the message: hurry down there and try not to piss anyone else off. Coach left for his car and Dave and I walked back into the locker room to shower and change.

We showered in silence. I could tell Dave was pissed at me. 

"Hey man, I'm sorry you got roped into this," I said, hoping to make peace as I dragged a comb through my thick, shoulder length brown hair.

"You've got to stop messing around Luc."

"I know."

"What was that stunt with Henrik about, eh?"

"He's a punk."

"He's 19. He's just a kid. You should know better."

"Yeah, I keep getting that."

"Listen," Dave said, "I'm pissed at you but you can fix this okay? When you meet with Polly, she'll tell you what to do."

"Polly's an idiot."

"She's not an idiot. She's done PR for players up and down the coast."
 

"I said what I said."

"Hey, I'll have Ramon pull the car around," Dave said.

I nodded. Sure. My car was stuck on the Upper East Side since I hadn't expected to be allowed to stay for practice. I followed Dave and we stepped into his car to drive to my publicist's office. Traffic was thick and we were way off Gagnon's ten-minute deadline. He stood outside the office, waiting for us with a scowl on his face.

We walked inside and were instantly buzzed upstairs to Polly Patterson's fifth-floor office. 

Polly's desk was absolutely covered in papers. When we walked in, she scrambled to push them all into a pile before searching for her tortoiseshell reading glasses amongst the mess.

"Come in, come in. Félix, Luc... Dave..."

She offered each of us chairs.

"So... what are we here to discuss?" she asked, pursing her thin, pink lips into a faint half-smile.

"Why don't you tell us? I can't escape this media shit storm and I need a way out."

Gagnon cleared his throat, "What Luc is trying to say is, we need to find out how you're going to fix this."

"Ah. Right. Fix this."

Polly rifled through more papers on her desk, searching through them in vain.
 

"One moment, I have your case file right here..."

She shuffled more papers and a huge stack fell off her desk onto the floor.

"Shit!" she huffed.

Dave, ever the gentleman, got off his chair to help clean them up. I didn't. I kept staring straight ahead at Polly, wondering how the hell this woman could keep it together enough to do her job.

"Polly, stop searching," I barked.

She stopped. Dave and Félix both stared at me. Dave knew what was coming, but it was clear Félix didn't. He probably thought it was just me being me, doing something wild and crazy again without thinking it through.

I stood.

"Without looking, tell me exactly what the problem is with my public image right now?"

"Um... Um..." 

Polly looked terrified. I didn't care. I was angry. I forked over $40,000 a month to her firm to keep everything straight for me and she couldn't even get me a straight answer to the simplest question I could ask. My eyes narrowed, the way they did when I focused on getting the puck into the net.

"Let me tell you what's happening here Polly. I've paid this company a total of $1,000,000 over the years to keep my public image spotless. I make money on the ice, but I also make money through brand sponsorships. Everyone in this room knows I'm a notorious fuck up. Your job is to squelch those fuck ups."

"Y-y-es Mr. Alfredsson, I'm aware."

"Let me finish," I interrupted, "Your job is to squelch these fuck ups and last week, boy did I fuck up. Didn't I Dave?"

"Yes Luc, you did."

"I got on National Television and suggested that kids in America need more cigarettes. Yes, it was a spur of the moment joke that got out of hand but it was your job to stop it from getting out of hand."
 

Polly stared back at me with widened eyes as if she were about to cry. I hadn't even raised my voice yet. My nose wrinkled in disgust and I approached her desk, taking all the papers that were on it and sliding them off onto the ground.

"This is a mess," I growled, "A hot mess. I don't think you have what it takes to clean it up."

"I do!" she squeaked, "We strategized and came up with a plan."

"What kind of plan?" I asked, folding my arms.

Her lips trembled before she spoke.

"W-well, we thought you could make a charitable donation to a lung cancer fund."

Dave and Félix exchanged glances, accurately anticipating my anger. 

I roared, "I blew it on national television and the best you can do for me is tell me to make a quiet donation? Polly. Polly, I want you to look at me."
 

She avoided my gaze. I stalked up to the desk, balling my fists and resting them on her desk.

"Look at me," I growled.

Polly's lips quivered as she looked up at me.

"You can't fix this Polly. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. You can't fix this."
 

She whimpered as if she knew what would happen once she admitted me.

"Admit it!" I roared.

"I can't fix this," she mumbled.

"Tabernac!" Gagnon muttered. Dave frowned, his arms folded.

"Luc, be reasonable," Dave suggested.

"No Dave, I won't be reasonable. Polly, you're fired. Dave, Félix, get me out of here before I wreck something." 

I pulled a photo off of Polly's wall and slammed it onto the ground. It shattered and she squealed.

"Luc!" Dave warned.

"I said get me out of here!"

They two men escorted me out. I was fuming. My fists clenched and my jaw tightened. I could feel heat pulsing in my chest, the same heat that flowed freely when I was about to deck some poor pathetic bastard on the ice. If I hadn't gotten out of there, who knows what I would have done.

We walked out onto the street, security hot on our tail from the mess I'd made in Polly's office.

"Did that go how you thought it would?" I asked Félix.

"Bastard," he muttered, walking off without response to his car.

Even Dave seemed fed up.

"Be honest Dave. If Polly had looked you in the eyes and said that to you, what would you have done?"

"Fired her," Dave grumbled.
 

"Exactly."

"You don't think Luc," Dave continued to grumble, "She's gone now but you still have a massive problem on your hands. Did you think about how you're going to fix it?"

"Not yet." 

"You'd better figure something out. We have a game and the press will be hot on your ass after the last time."

"Yeah, I know."

"Figure it out, Luc. Don't fuck up again."

Dave’s frustration with me showed. Practice had been a nightmare and the meeting with Polly had gone even worse. I had a media firestorm blazing a trail behind me and I’d just fired my publicist. By all accounts, a terrible move. I’d be lucky if Félix let me on the ice after what I’d just done.

Ramon pulled his car to the front of the building and we entered silently. Dave was right. I couldn't afford to screw up again. 

Did you enjoy reading this sample? You can finish reading the book on the website of your choice. The book is also available as an eBook and a Paperback. Do you want to read this book on iBooks, Nook, Kobo, Google Play or with your local library via Overdrive? Click this link here to read the book: books2read.com/GetPucked

BWWM Books: Cocky Cowboy | Jamila Jasper

Howdy BWWM Books Lovers, hop in the saddle and let's skedaddle over to Omaha, Nebraska, the Western setting for my upcoming March release, what I expect to be one of my top romance novels of the year: COCKY COWBOY.

You've just become privy to a little secret and this is your first glimpse at not only the cover but a gripping free sample of the first chapter. Yeehaw! 

If you love interracial romance stories, or if you don't give a damn about color and you just want some hot cowboy action, this is the book for you. Check out the description and then check out this sample 100% free. When you're done reading the sample, share this page with your friends. 

If you share this with 100+ people (Facebook friends, Instagram followers, Twitter followers, ladies who lunch), email me jamilajasperromance@gmail.com for a FREEBIE! 

Description: 

This should have been easy.

Hiding out from my ex in Omaha while helping an old woman on her ranch.

One problem…

Her son Kurt O’Connor.

I should have known better than to get involved.

He’s tall, a pillar of muscle, icy blue eyes… and cocky as h*ll! 

He doesn’t just want my body. 

He wants all of me. 

I must resist.

This is a romance novel between a 45 + year old black woman and a hot alpha male! 

If you think you're in for a wild ride... You're 100% right! 

Cocky Cowboy by Jamila Jasper | Romance Novel Excerpt 

“I’m not a good man. I’ve killed once before and I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.” 

I sat, clutching my cup of coffee and staring wide-eyed at Sam O’Connor as she spoke. Her strawberry blonde hair sat in a loose French braid down her back. Her wrinkled face still carried a few scars and her earthy-brown eyes glowed with fierce intensity.  She shook her head.

“He said that to me,” she continued, “And he whacked me so hard I had a black eye for weeks.”

She chuckled, then gazed off almost wistfully.

“The day he died was the best day of my life,” she mused.

I drank the rest of my tea and set the mug down on the hand-carved dining table. 

“The boys,” she shrugged, “Well the boys missed their father of course. But I didn’t. Billy belonged six feet under. He’s just lucky I wasn’t the one to put him there.”

Helen smiled at me and nodded.

“Well, I’m so grateful you agreed to have me ma’am,” I said, pushing some of the hair from my blunt haircut behind my big ears that I inherited from my brown-skinned daddy.

Sam smiled weakly, “I’m just hoping you can help me. It’s like Billy’s ghost is haunting me, letting me know that I’ll never know peace, even now that he’s gone.”

Her eyes narrowed and she exhaled loudly.

“Enough about me. Helen tells me you’re a detective?”

“I was a detective. I quit and started working freelance five years ago.”

“That pays better?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, “Plus, my ex-husband was a cop. As we drifted apart, it made sense.”

“A cop huh? Did he hit you?”

Her forwardness surprised me, but it wasn’t a question I hadn’t heard before and it wasn’t a question I was afraid to answer.

“Yes ma’am.” 

She shook her head, “These men think as soon as they get a little bit of power they can treat women how they want. So long as you’re helping me out, you can stay here as long as you like.”

Helen nodded, “It will be a good long while before she’s ready to head back to the East Coast.”

I glanced at her and she nodded approvingly. This was the last thing I expected to be doing, hiding out in Omaha, Nebraska from the man I’d thought I would spend the rest of my life with. But in this room of just women, women who had all been through tough times at the hands of men, I didn’t feel alone.

Sam smiled, “I got sons about your age. Maybe a bit younger.”

“Two of ‘em,” Helen added, “How are the boys?”

Sam rolled her eyes, “Helpin’ me out and causin’ me mischief too.”

“Do any of them know what’s been going on?”

Sam shook her head, “No. If they know any more than I do, they haven’t let on.”

“I see.”

Helen grinned, pushing a few of her thin frayed dreadlocks out of her face.

“Nicki asks a lot of questions,” she said.

“It’s how I get closer to the truth.”

“We need some of the truth around here,” Sam replied, “Would you like something to eat dear? You’re awfully skinny. No good food out East?”

I grinned, “No thanks ma’am, I’m not hungry.”

Helen added, “Nicki used to be a vegan.”

“A vegan?” Sam raised her eyebrows as if she found the concept ridiculous.

“Not anymore,” I replied, “Anemia.”

“Well a good bit of meat never killed anybody. Out here, we slaughter all our own.”

“You got animals on the ranch?”

Sam nodded, “Yes ma’am. We got pigs, horses, cows, chickens… If you expect to stay ‘round here I’ll expect you to help. I’ll go easy on you. I don’t want to scare you off.”

“I’m a tough cookie. I can handle more than you think.”

“Well good ‘cause as I’m getting older the arthritis in my fingers acts up something crazy.”

She spread her fingers wide and then clenched them together in a delicate fist that hid all the bruises and calluses on her palms from decades of hand washing, roping cattle and tending the earth.

Helen touched Sam on the knee.

“I only got five minutes dear.”

Sam smiled, “When you gonna stop being such a rolling stone?”

Helen cracked her caramel colored skin into a smile, shaking her dreadlocks out of her face where they’d once again fallen. The silver and turquoise beads on her dreads clinked together, creating music with every movement of her head. 

“When life gives me a reason to settle down, I guess.”

At fifty, that had yet to happen. Helen lived out of her VW bus, traveling the country selling turquoise jewelry and tarot readings. Given her dreadlocks, her nose ring and her tattoos, she made a convincing fortune teller. I’d never asked her outright if it was all a con, but let’s just say I didn’t believe in her New Age woo-woo.

“You takin’ that rickety ole thing back over to Los Angeles?”

“Yes I am,” Helen smiled proudly. We all glanced at the VW bus that had taken me to Omaha parked out in the driveway. At some points on the highway, I wasn’t sure Helen was going to get me there in one piece. But now, she was heading out again, leaving me in a strange land with my suitcase of possessions, my modest savings and a house full of strangers.

Anything was better than staying in Boston. 

“Just make sure you drive safe,” Sam warned.

“I always do.” 

“And you stay away from that reefer,” Sam chastised.

Helen smiled and then winked at her old friend, promising nothing. 

“Take care of this one,” Helen told her, indifferent to my presence, “Make sure she don’t go back out there for a good long while.” 

Sam nodded, “Yes ma’am.”

“I’ll be fine Helen. I’m grown.”

Helen snorted, “You grown… I’ve known you since you were a child. You’ll always be Jamie’s little friend.”

Helen’s younger brother, now deceased, was the thread that had held us together. An old friendship from my childhood had been what ultimately rescued me from my husband’s mercy. Her rescuing had taken me further west than I’d ever been and further into the country than I was comfortable.

“I’d best be off,” Helen said when she was about to leave.

Helen had mastered goodbyes in a way I hadn’t. I teared up while hugging her but was sure not to let any tears fall. I was too old for crying. Too old to put up with a man beating me. Too old… That’s what everyone told me.

Sam was worse than I was, weeping about how she wasn’t sure she’d ever see Helen again. My guess was she didn’t get many visitors. We walked Helen out to her bus and she put on her Jimi Hendrix, blaring it from her tinny stereo as she pulled off. A dust cloud billowed into the unpaved road and like that her bus chugged off on the road to nowhere… 

Sam wiped her hands on her apron.

“That woman is something…”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “She’s something.”

“Braver than I ever was,” Sam continued, “That’s for damn sure.”

I didn’t respond to that one.

“I s’pose it’s time I give you a tour of the ranch. But I’ll let you get cleaned up and settle in first.”

“Thanks ma’am.”

“I got you a nice little suite upstairs. I designed it myself for guests. It’s got its own bathroom, own little balcony and everything.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

“C’mon in then.”

Sam held the screen door open as I marched in beside her. Alone on the ranch with her and the sound of tractors outside, my isolation dawned on me. I hadn’t seen anything suspicious or felt any strange nagging at my gut, but even if I had, I’d now committed to spending at least six months out here. We creaked across the floorboards and up the stairs. Sam pointed to the two rooms at the end of the hall.

“That’s Kurt’s room and that’s Dierks’. Mine is downstairs. And yours is right through here…”

She pushed open the first door on the left which opened into a room far larger than I’d expected. Sam maintained the farmhouse decor, but a few modern touches like an air conditioning unit for the summer months, a memory foam mattress and a large shower made the space familiar. 

“It’s lovely,” I acknowledged, eyeing the well-curated decor of hens, roosters and other farm animals. 

The white sheets on the bed had tiny little cow patterns on them and the cozy comforter was ivory and real down. Sam opened up the old dresser, showing me where I could put my clothes.

“Now I’ll leave you to it for a minute. I’ll be up in twenty.”

“Thanks Mrs. O’Connor.”

She grimaced, “Please, Sam.”

“Sorry Sam.”

Her grimace turned into a smile and she walked out of the room, leaving me to my own thoughts for the first time since I’d entered her home. I peered out the window over the flat rolling fields. I’d expected Nebraska to be flat but the cornfields stretched out for miles and miles creating an almost impressive vista. 

The fact that I didn’t know a single soul in Nebraska except for Sam O’Connor was a relief to me. I was tired of answering questions about Dominic. I was tired of the judgmental stares or the whispers about the bruises on my arm. The rumors and the lies had chased me out west and now that I was here, I’d have a chance to start over. 

I turned over the events of the past month as well as my week long road trip with Helen. I unpacked my clothes in the drawer and hid my jewelry box under the mattress. I hung onto that box with all those memories of Dominic tucked inside, not because I wanted to remember him but because I’d let go of every other part of my identity. I needed something to remind me of who I was, at least who I’d been when I married him.

I unpacked and flopped back on the bed, running my hands through my new haircut, wondering where the heck I was going to find someone to do my hair in Omaha. 

A shout interrupted my ruminations. 

“BULLSHIT KURT AND YOU KNOW IT.”

A bass drawl boomed across the open fields. 

Kurt. If I remembered correctly, that was one of Sam’s sons. I glided towards the window and pulled the lace curtain aside just an inch so I could peer through the window without detection. No one had mentioned to me that Sam’s sons weren’t too fond of each other.

A deeper, quieter voice responded, “Stop making a damn racket. Ma will be out here with her shotgun again.”

The voices came into view. Sam’s “boys” were men, younger than me, but still men. From my estimation, they were both in their mid-thirties. They were young, but not young enough to be considered kids.

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN. Y’HEAR THAT?”

“Listen, you need to calm down or I’ll sock you in the mouth.”

“I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY YOU LYIN’ BASTARD.’”

The brown-haired one spat at his blonde brother. The blonde one rushed him and a knock at my door forced me to turn away from the fight which had now gone silent — at least from the second floor.

“Are you ready?” 

“Come in!”

Sam came in with a smile on her face and flour on her starched white apron.

“Baking downstairs. C’mon it’s time for me to show you the ranch.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

I glanced towards the window but I couldn’t make out where her sons had gone. As we walked through the fields, the pens and the barn, I caught no sight of Sam’s sons. But you bet your bottom dollar I still had questions about them.

“How old are your sons?”

“Kurt’s 35 and Dierks is 32.”

Mid-thirties just as I’d guessed.

“They work for you?”

“Yes ma’am. Kurt works with the horses and he traps furs. Dierks manages the farm hands.”

“Do you have many employees?”

Sam shook her head, “Not since the first frost. They’ll start up closer to the start of summer. Right now it’s just Jack.”

“How long has he been working for you?”

“Jack Wilson’s an old friend of Dierks. He’s a mean drunk but he shows up to work on time and he don’t ask for much money.”

Sam’s country accent made her more personable to me and she got real comfortable as we moved around the ranch and she explained what my morning duties would be. I listened to her while absorbing every detail of my environment. This was my new home. Most importantly, this was the site of my newest case. Sam had yet to explain what was happening precisely, but I’d gathered from Helen it was something bad and that I’d need to be alert.

“I’ll take you through the fields to meet the Brody family.”

“Neighbors?”

“Uh huh. Bitches too.”

I gasped and stifled a chuckle as I heard Sam cuss. She’d given off the impression that she was a good frontierswoman who minded her manners and kept her language polite. 

“What makes you say that?” I asked, both bemused and curious. 

Maybe one of those despised Brodys was what had been causing the trouble.

“When you meet ‘em, you’ll know.”

We eased through the cornfields and came to a small house. A man lay on the porch with a hat over his head. It was only when we approached the porch that I noticed this “man” was a woman wearing red lipstick. She was tan with freckles over her nose. Her hair was dyed black and she had a scowl on her pretty face.

“Good afternoon Mrs. O’Connor.”

“Hi Emma, is your mama home?”

If these people didn’t like each other, you couldn’t tell. Not yet at least. They hid their disdain beneath Midwestern politeness and broad smiles. 

“I’ll go get ‘er.”

Emma hopped to her feed, brushing her hands on her overalls and looking me up and down with a cheeky grin on her face.

“What’s her story?”

Sam glowered, “She’s a friend. She’ll be staying with me for a while.”

Emma snickered.

“Her? Out in Omaha? You warned her yet?”

I could tell Sam was getting all hot and bothered, but I could handle myself.

“I love Nebraska so far.”

“Yeah well, it’s a piece of shit.” 

Emma opened the door to her house and stepped inside, yelling up to her mother.

“MA! OLD SAM IS HERE! SHE’S GOT A BLACK CHICK WITH HER.”

I started to understand where Sam was coming from and why she might not have been fond of the Brody family. Stomping down the wooden steps alerted us that Emma’s ma was coming. The woman pushed past her daughter to stand with us on the porch. Emma stood next to her mother, slouching and slinging her hands into her pockets. She had stretched ears, thick Kohl black liner and a few nose and liprings. Not exactly the “cowgirl” you’d expect.

“Hi,” Emma’s mother introduced herself, “I’m Nancy.”

“Nicki. Pleased to meet you.”

Her palm lay limp in mind as I gave her a strong, confident handshake. I pulled my hand away and she wiped hers on her denim.

Nancy and her daughter had the same sharp blue eyes, but Nancy’s hair was a wheat blonde color, likely what Emma’s had been too. She dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt with her blonde hair falling down to the middle of her back in gentle waves. A kerchief wrapped around her head kept her hair from falling into her face.

“Sam,” Nancy said, folding her arms, “Are you here to make accusations again?”

“No,” Sam replied, “Wanted to show Nicki a friendly face.”

Her sneering look told me that Nancy was who Sam really had problems with. The feeling appeared mutual. 

Nancy snorted, “What the heck are you doing out here in Omaha? You look like a real urban kind of girl.”

The way she said urban made my skin crawl, but I ignored it. I was too grown and experienced in life to let passive prejudice get under my skin.

“I’m helping Sam.”

“The problems at the ranch,” Sam continued, “She’ll be investigating. She’s a private eye.”

Nancy raised her brows and smirked in disbelief.

“Her?”

“Yes ma’am,” I interjected.

Nancy chuckled, “So you think she’ll help you find out who’s haunting the ranch? Well we all know it’s Billy darling.”

“Haunting?”

I narrowed my eyes. Sam had led me to believe this was a real mystery, not something paranormal. I’m a detective — a shrewd one at that — I believe in what I see right in front of me. I didn’t believe in hauntings of any kind.

“Yes,” Nancy continued, “Didn’t Sam tell you.”

I looked at Sam with confusion, wondering what was going on and wondering if I’d come out here for no reason.

“You and I both know it’s not a haunting,” Sam hissed, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“It sure looks like a ghost,” Nancy retorted with a shrug.

“And acts like a ghost,” Emma added.

Sam’s face reddened and I could tell she needed a way out.

“I’m sure you’ll explain the whole thing later,” I offered.

Emma chuckled, “Well good luck.”

Sam’s face now shifted from red to purple and I thought she was going to smack Emma Brody right in her smug face.

Before Sam could say anything else, we heard gunshots. Loud ones.

“FUCK. YOU.” 

I recognized the voices from Sam’s fighting sons. The gunshots continued and Emma chuckled.

“He’s shootin’ at his damned brother again?”

Sam’s face went from pale to ghost-white.

“Want me to grab my gun and silence ‘em?” Emma asked, gesturing towards the O’Connor house with an imaginary shotgun.

“No,” Sam replied, “We’ll be leaving. I’ll deal with the boys myself.”

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