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Shopping for a CEO's fiancee - Release Blitz





Book Blurb:

We skipped right over the whole fiancée thing and went straight from girlfriend to wife.

At least, I think that’s what happened. I woke up after my brother’s Vegas wedding reception with my luscious girlfriend in bed with me. We’re both wearing wedding rings.

So is her coworker, Josh.

And our Vegas chauffeur, Geordi.

Who the hell am I married to?

Unraveling this mystery will be as difficult as figuring out why Amanda and I are having panic attacks over the thought of being husband and wife.

Or, whoever we’re actually married to.

Oh, ^%$#.

It’s true that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, with one exception:

If she’s my wife, we’ll make it work.

If she’s not?

I’ll make it happen.

Get the 9th book in Julia Kent's New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series as Andrew and Amanda sort out their wild Vegas night...and the rest of their lives.



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EXCERPT

She has this sound she makes when she’s about to come. We all do. Everyone has a sex tell. If you think you don’t, you’re wrong. Amanda’s tell transmits a signal to my brain that says Congratulations.
Achievement unlocked.
Except it’s not the achievement you think. Not a sex goal. Those are easy. Anyone can do that with the right skill and enough alcohol.
This is love. Complete release and abandon with someone you trust so deeply, you take the leap of faith that they’ll catch you.
You can only catch the tell if you have that kind of love.
“Andrew,” she says in a voice reserved for when we’re between the sheets. “Andrew.” Her hand is threaded in my hair and as I rise up, I taste the silky smoothness of her skin, which unfolds before me like a perfect, lush valley, hills and curves, rolling sweetness and a place of discovery. No woman captivates me like Amanda, and when our eyes meet and I slip into her, the way her head tips back and her throat begs for a kiss makes me offer up my tell.
It’s the sound of gratitude. I’m not grateful for sex. I’m grateful for having her.
The balcony doors are open and a massive breeze pushes the curtains in, the sound of billowing fabric catching my ears as the rush of ocean air chills my back. The sunlight in the room dims suddenly, making the room surreal, as if we’re in the eye of a storm and chaos is about to be unleashed.
Which is apt.
She’s so damn beautiful under me, her hands on my back, my shoulders, my ribs, just touching me with a possession that fires my soul. Her hair tickles her shoulders and it’s thick and tousled, makeup long gone, her lips bright red from long kisses all night. Those impossibly-big eyes peer up at me and make me stop breathing, though I keep moving, making love to her with long strokes like a clock tower bell calling out the hour, the slow, sonorous beat designed to mark time.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Now.
I dip my head down to take one nipple and it tastes like salt and velvet, like my fingerprints and her secrets. She arches up, a simple gesture that asks for more, and I’m grateful again. Fire courses through me, sweat making the slick friction between our skin even easier, the glide of body against body allowing for the insatiable build-up between us sparked by each stroke.
Amanda reaches up, one hand on my ass, her fingertips digging into me, her mouth on mine, tongue searching for more connection. We’re as close as two bodies can get, her hands clinging to me, her breasts smashed against my chest, and I know this tell, too. When she tightens her hold and her touch becomes damn near frantic, she’s about to come, and I pause. Just for a second, just long enough to honor what’s inside me without interrupting what she needs.
Because in that pause, I feel all the emotions at once, thousands of feelings connected to her sighs, our kisses, the strokes and caresses, the push of being in her, the warm softness of being enveloped, the wet moans and worshipful sighs and eager urgency that all rolls into a whirlwind of energy and emotion that is the tornado within.
And then we roar together.
A crack of lightning makes us both startle and jump, the rhythm interrupted, the cacophony of a sudden, explosive rainstorm outside changing the air, ozone and salt on the tip of my tongue, replacing the taste of her from moments ago.
“You timed that, didn’t you?” she says, laughing under me, the push of muscle nearly evacuating me from her body, but we shift, holding closer, and I stay inside her.
The pounding rain makes it hard to hear. She reaches up and pushes the hair from my forehead using the same hand that was in those strands moments ago, urging me.
“Even I can’t orchestrate that,” I say with a laugh, picking up the rhythm, her eyes closing, breath quickening. We’ve lost what we had but we’ll find it again.
That’s the beauty of knowing.
You’ll always find each other again.
My throat tightens as we crest together, caught up in the crazy storm of arousal and climax, of pleasure and desire, of the mix of the squall outside and the tornado within, whirling and whirling until there is no more Amanda, no more Andrew, just a tight clinging to each other that comes from certainty. From trust.
From some feeling deeper than love, threaded together by those thousands of emotions I felt in that single pause.

About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken. She loves to hear from her readers by email at julia@jkentauthor.com

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