RAFE (Inked Brotherhood, #5) COVER REVEAL
New Adult contemporary (erotic) romance
by Jo Raven
Cover by Jo Raven
Model: Matt Sallis
Photographer: Gilles Crofta
RELEASE DATE: End March/Beginning April 2015
His name is Rafaele Vestri, Rafe to his friends.
Heís tall, strong, handsome. Distant. He often comes to the cafÈ where I work, but we donít talk much. He looks at me, though. Stares at me, his gaze heated, and I canít help but stare back. I want him, I wonít deny it. Iíve never seen anyone that beautiful, anyone that powerful, in my life.
But heís growing more withdrawn by the day. Somethingís up, and he wonít tell. I know about his past ñ the murder of his family when he was fifteen. I can imagine how much it must have cost him. So much violence contained in that strong body, waiting to be unleashed. What is he seeking? What is he training so hard for? Why is looking at me like heís dying to touch me, but wonít dare?
Even as I try to stop thinking about him, get interested in other boys, I realize I canít. Iím caught, body and soul, just like that. And I tell myself, Megan, girlÖ What have you gotten yourself into this time?
This is book 5 in the Inked Brotherhood series which started with Asher. It is a stand-alone work. No cliffhanger.
The expected publication date is end March/beginning April 2015, on all of your favorite e-book websites.
Iím staring at Rafeís hand. Big, strong, callused. A scar runs from his thumb to the index finger.
Heís looking at me, waiting. What does he want?
I lift my hand, place it in his. It fits on his palm, smaller, darker, thinner. He seems as entranced by the contrast as I am. His fingers slowly curl, closing around mine. His lips part, but no sound comes from his mouth, and his gaze remains fixed on our entwined hands, pale lashes hiding the gold of his eyes.
Now Iím the one caught, transfixed. His mouth looks soft, vulnerable, at odds with his strong, angular features and the broad set of his shoulders. The need to touch his face is overwhelming, and I step closer, so close I can sense his scent. Not a cologne, but the deep scent of his skin, like musk and warm metal. I can see the rise and fall of his chest underneath the black Deathmoth T-shirt heís wearing under his open jacket, see the outline of his strong pecs.
Weíre standing so close our breaths mingle, and our bodies touch in places as we shift, feathery brushes that send fire across my skin, into my belly, making me ache. He places his hands on my waist and I grip his thick, sinewy forearms. My stomach drops as if Iím standing at the edge of a precipice, on the edge of a moment that can change everything.
Whatís happening? Itís as if in the hollow darkness, the barrier between us is crumbling, the wall heís set between himself and the world is falling.
His hands tighten on my hipbones and his lashes lift, his gaze moving to my mouth. His breathing is ragged. He tugs me against him, his fingertips digging painfully into my flesh, his arms flexing with barely controlled strength.
His arousal presses into my stomach, hot and thick, caught sideways in his jeans.
My mind fills up with static. Rafe wants me. Thereís the solid proof of his desire. The heated gaze Iíve felt so often on me is translated into a physical reaction, and it makes me feel so hot I might burst into flames. Heís so handsome, I canít help myself. I want to stroke his square jaw, drag my fingertips over the golden stubble on his cheeks, kiss those damnable dimples.
I whimper, the sound coming from deep inside me, and he freezes, goes so still Iím not even sure heís breathing.
Then he jerks back, releases me so fast Iím left reeling.
ìFuck,î he hisses. He buries his fingers in his short blond hair, pulls, his mouth now hard like the rest of him, pressed into a flat line. ìThis is a mistake.î
A knot is gathering in my throat, in my chest, cutting off air.
I want to be mad at him, but his hands are trembling, and his amber eyes so full of pain I forget my anger before it even forms. Heís like mist, here and suddenly gone, lost into thin air. I have to touch him, touch his bare skin, prove heís real.
ìWait.î I lift my hand to his face, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of his cheekbone. Warm. Satin soft.
A pang goes through my chest, an ache that feels too much like sorrow, and Iím not sure if itís mine or his.
He jerks away, his eyes wide on his pale face. He reaches up, his hand hovering over the spot I touched. Then he turns and rushes off into the crowd.
My hand is still hovering in midair. I donít know for how long I stand there, staring at my splayed fingers, trying to figure out what happened. Or maybe trying to find another explanation for his reaction, desperate for him to be different to any other handsome, arrogant guy. Maybe I imagined the pain in his gaze ñ or maybe that pain is real but doesnít make a difference. Traumatic past or not, heís sorry he touched me, sorry he desired me. Big surprise. Why would he desire me, of all girls? There are so many vying for his attention. Girls who have witty, sexy things to say, and who donít go stiff like cardboard when he touches them.
The thought of him touching other girls shouldnít hurt quite as much as it does. And this is a bad sign. Very bad sign, Megan, I tell myself and lower my hand that touched him. I feel as if my fingertips are numb, burnt by the feel of his skin.
Jo Raven writes New Adult erotic contemporary romance. She loves sexy bad boys and strong-willed heroines, and divides her time between writing and reading. When not cooking up plots, she putters in her cluttered kitchen and dreams of traveling to India and Japan.
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