April 23, 2015

{{BOOK TOUR & REVIEW}} UNTIL JULY BY AURORA ROSE REYNOLDS


 Meet Wes & July in Until July! 

Until July is book one in the spin-off series: Until Her!


 Blurb

This is a standalone and a spin off of the New York Times best selling Until Series.

Wes Silver wasn’t looking for love, but when July Mayson literally knocks him on his ass during their first encounter, his world is turned upside down by the quirky blonde, and every moment with her makes him more determined to protect her.

July Mayson doesn’t understand the pull she feels toward the bad boy biker Wes Silver, but she knows being with him is like nothing she’s ever felt before. Now all she has to do is tell her overprotective father, Asher Mayson, that she’s found her boom.

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Excerpt

I sit up when I see a few bikes in the distance. I don’t recognize their patches, but that doesn’t surprise me. Tennessee has a huge MC community, and there are always new clubs popping up all over the state. I slow down as I close the distance between us.
The closer I get, the more details I can make out. The group of about five bikes in front of me are all Harleys, all ranging in colors from almost purple to black. None of the men are wearing helmets, which is the complete opposite of me, who is covered from head to toe in black leather. Even my helmet is all black, with leather piping.
I take the men in, noticing they are all well-built, their leather cuts displaying a large eagle, with its wings spread wide like it’s midflight. The talons of the bird are carrying a long stem rose, with petals falling off it onto their club name, The Broken Eagles. I begin to speed up and pass them one by one, thankful for the security of my helmet, the black visor making it impossible to see me.
I keep my head straight until the last guy, the one who is at the front of the group, catches my attention. From the back, his hair is the first thing I notice. It’s slightly long on top and buzzed on the sides. My eyes move to the expanse of his back, the wide set of his shoulders, and the tan skin covering his lean muscles. His bike is low to the ground, and the bars are in front of him in a way that he has to stretch his arms straight out, causing every muscle to flex and move, making it look like the tattoos are alive and dancing.
My eyes skim farther down over his chest, which is covered in a white tank top tucked into a pair of light jeans, and around his waist is a black belt with a large silver buckle. I continue to pass him, my eyes shifting from the road to him and back again. This time when I look over, his head is turned towards me, and if I didn’t know any better, I would have swear he is looking directly into my soul.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, taking in his hair, the set of his jaw that is covered in days of stubble, and a pair of light eyes I can’t quite make out through the tint of my helmet. He is seriously hot, but equally scary-looking. I look from him back to the road. It must not have been even a second, but when my eyes go to the asphalt in front of me, I see a bird that is trying to make its way across the road, its wing hanging in an awkward position. I swerve to the right just in time to miss the poor animal.
“What the fuck?” I hear roared, and I look over my shoulder at the man who is now coming up quick on my right side. I yell an apology over the sound of my engine and his pipes. Do a quick wave and take off, lowering my body and pulling back the throttle, wanting to get away from them. Dude looks seriously pissed off, and even though I hate leaving the bird behind without helping it, I would like to live to see my next birthday.
I think I’m in the clear, but then the sound of pipes fills my ears, and I don’t even know how it happens, but they all catch up with me, surrounding my bike. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but my stomach starts to roll at the sound of their voices. I feel my side to make sure I have the Taser my dad insisted I carry.
I see a clearing and pull my bike off to the side of the road. I know this is probably one of the stupidest things I have ever done, but if they keep chasing me like they have been, we could all end up seriously hurt. I pull over and don’t even shut down my bike. I just lower my kickstand as my heart, which was already beating hard, begins to bang violently against my ribcage as they surround me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the guy who was at the head of the group asks, stepping in front of my bike.
I shake my head as my words get lodged in my throat.
He pulls me off my bike, and the men who are with him begin yelling obscenities as well.
“Sorry,” I croak out, and I don’t even know if he hears me as his hand goes to the collar of my leather jacket, where he shakes me hard. My hand accidently presses down on the button that ignites the Taser. The loud crack fills the air, and his eyes go wide then he falls to the ground, and I fall on my ass and crabwalk backwards. I look up when I hit something, only to meet the eyes of another man, who looks pissed.
“Get up,” he growls, picking me up. My feet flail under me as I’m lifted off the ground with my hands restrained behind my back.
“Hold him still,” the guy who I had tasered growls in front of me as I try to get away from the anger I feel coming off him. His hands go to my head and he rips my helmet off, causing my hair to float down around me.
Complete silence descends. I swear no one even takes a breath.


 


 My Review

I was so excited to read this story and once I cracked this book open I knew I wasn’t going to put it down until it was finished. July Mayson is Asher and November’s oldest daughter and is the perfect combination of her parents, gorgeous and feisty like her momma with her daddy’s take no BS attitude.  Wes Silver is an ex-Navy Seal who has moved to Tennessee from California with some of his military/biker brothers who now run a mechanic shop and oh my…. Can we say hello hotness!

July is out for a ride on her motorcycle one day sees an MC coming up the road, in passing glances she feels like one of the guys can see right through her. When she sees an injured bird and swerves to avoid it, she almost runs the other biker off the road. She pulls over and a few minutes later the MC pulls up. She tries to apologize to the guy but another one grabs her, letting the one that was almost wiped out get in her face. Nervous when he grabs her jacket and starts to shake her, her hand accidentally presses down on the trigger to the Taser she is carrying and zaps him. She tries to get away but one of the other guys pulls her up and restrains her. They pull her helmet off and boy are they all surprised realizing she is a woman. July is met by the most amazing green eyes and a magnetism that just draws her in, and knows that if she meets him again she is done for. I’m being vague with this review because I don’t want to spoil the story for anyone but I will say go and grab a copy of the book to see if July has found her BOOM!!


The chemistry between all the characters was amazing!! I’ve loved the Mayson’s since the first time I opened Until November and was thrilled to know that there was going to be books for the Mayson kids! Aurora knows how to write the Alpha males but in a way that you end up loving them unlike some that I have read and ended up despising. I recommend her books to everyone and wear my Mayson Construction t-shirt proudly, this is definitely a great read and I’m giving it 4.5 smoking stars.
Until November (Book One) Until Series


Until Trevor (Book Two) Until Series


Until Lily (Book Three) Until Series


Until Nico (Book Four) Until Series
 About the Author
Aurora Rose Reynolds is a navy brat who's husband served in the United States Navy. She has lived all over the country but now resides in New York City with her Husband and pet fish. She's married to an alpha male that loves her as much as the men in her books love their women. He gives her over the top inspiration everyday. In her free time she reads, writes and enjoys going to the movies with her husband and cookie. She also enjoys taking mini weekend vacations to nowhere, or spends time at home with friends and family. Last but not least she appreciates everyday and admires it's beauty.
GIVEAWAY
$50 Gift Card
 

((RELEASE BLAST)) Necessary Restorations by Kate Canterbary

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Kate Canterbary  
Necessary Restorations  
4/15/2015
Necessary Restorations 
 They liked to call me names. Manwhore. Slut. Player. But I make wrong look so right… He's a flawed perfectionist… I can read women better than any blueprint. I understand their thoughts and feelings, their secret desires and insecurities, and I know how to get rid of them once I get off. But all bets are off when Tiel Desai slams into my life. She redefines what it means to be friends, and she makes it sound like the filthiest thing I've ever heard. I can't read the gorgeous conservatory-trained violinist, but she's the only one keeping me from shattering by small degrees, and I can't let her go. She's wildly independent… My past—and New Jersey—are far behind me, and now my life is blissfully full of music: playing, teaching, and lecturing, and scouring Boston's underground scene with an annoyingly beautiful, troubled, tattooed architect. I'm defenseless against his rooftop kisses, our nearly naked dance parties, the snuggletimes that turn into sexytimes, and his deep, demanding voice. I have Sam Walsh stuck in my head like a song on repeat, and I'm happy pretending history won't catch up with me. The one thing they have in common is a rock-solid disregard for the rules. They find more in each other than they ever realized they were missing, but they might have to fall apart before they can come together. It's the wrongs that make the rights come to life.
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Chapter One Sam 
 I never thought I'd die in an elevator. I always figured it would have something to do with my brother Riley leaving the gas stove on all night, killing us softly in our sleep. Or gin. Chances were good that my liver was well on its way to pickled. Or doorknobs. Touching those things was like licking the goddamn plague. But today was headed for the fires of hell, and it was all Shannon's fault. "Hi, you've reached Shannon Walsh. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you soon." Fucking voicemail. Again. "I don't know where the fuck you are, Shan, but I've been waiting at the Commonwealth Avenue property for a goddamn hour. I thought we were trying to make a cash offer today, but I can't very well do that without you here." Ending the call, I wet my lips and wiped the sweat from my brow. This heat wave was in its ninth day, and if I had even a lick of common sense, I would have hitched a ride to Cape Cod with my brother Matt and his wife Lauren for Labor Day weekend. But no, I wanted to see the unit that just came available in the one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old French Revival hotel-turned-condo building in Boston's Back Bay. Specifically, I wanted my sister Shannon—the one who held the firm's purse strings—to buy that unit. I wanted to spend the long weekend drafting plans to demo it down to the studs and then restore the unit to its original beauty. I wanted to lose myself in lines and materials, things I could control. And I wasn't up for third-wheeling it with the newlyweds. I also wanted to be alone. I could handle industry crowds and clients any day of the week and twice on Sundays, and I did it so fucking well they were willing to drop unreasonable amounts of money for my services. I was beginning to think I could finger-paint my designs and still collect six-figure commissions.   But I hated small talk. Bullshit conversations about weather or sports or politics held no appeal for me. I mostly stared at tits and asses until I was getting head in a coatroom or a drink thrown in my face.   And I was in a strange place these days. It was an odd in-betweenness; I wasn't sick but I certainly wasn't well. Not suicidal, but far from happy.   I'd been sliding further into this rut for months, and letting my work keep me too busy to notice. But while I was restoring everything I could get my hands on, the bottom was falling out on me. It was gradual, an evolution too small to notice without stepping back and examining from a distance. It was better this way. I didn't want anyone noticing.   So I was flying solo this Labor Day.   To me, alone didn't mean hunching over my drafting table all night, or skulking around the ancient Fort Point firehouse I called home.   No, alone meant drinking myself numb while some nameless young thing sucked the stress right out of me. There was nothing one hundred dollars pressed into the palm of the right maĆ®tre d' and a good cocksucking couldn't soothe.   But let's be clear: blowjobs didn't solve problems.   If we were talking solutions, we were talking about my dick in someone's ass, and I didn't have the enthusiasm for that right now.   I needed a steady stream of gin, a blonde who knew her place was on her knees, and an otherwise interruption-free evening.   Go ahead: call me a manwhore.   Slut.   Player.   For all the disgust packed into those words, they were always tied with a fine, shiny thread of admiration. I did what everyone else wished they could, and I made it look good.   And I'd heard far worse. Someone always had some name to call me, and some of those names were hard to shake. For the better part of this year, I'd been replaying my last conversation with my father. The record was stuck on repeat in my mind, scratching and skipping back to the raw, awful parts.   My younger brother, Riley, had been leading a walk-through at a property in Bunker Hill—a string of decent row houses that my miserable bastard of a father Angus bought and dumped on us to restore—with Patrick, Matt, and me.   We were almost finished when Angus showed up, and I knew the minute he walked through the door that he was drunk. He'd been various shades of drunk since my mother died, and that day, he was cruel drunk.   And that was the day I refused to ignore his bullshit. I didn't want to walk away that time. It wasn't rolling off my back. I'd absorbed decades of his hatred, and that tank was long since overflowing.   He attacked everything that I was—my sexuality, my work, my relationship with my mother and my sister, Shannon—and told me I was a mistake. That I was too fucked-up to be alive. That I shouldn't have been born.   That was Angus's gift. He could hear every dark, twisted thought I had, and he knew how to sharpen them into daggers. Ten months later, I couldn't stop hearing those words.   I walked through the unit one last time, photographing what was left of the original design elements and noting restoration ideas. In the hallway joining the twin penthouse units, I texted Shannon to reiterate my annoyance. Then I hit up the manager at the new whiskey bar in the South End to reserve my preferred booth.   Tapping the corner of my phone to the elevator call button, I watched a woman emerge from the other unit. I stared at her, all summery and happy in her long yellow skirt and sleeveless magenta top, with a face like sunshine and a jingling ankle bracelet announcing her approach.   No one was allowed to look that pleased with life when it was too hot to exist. "Hi," she said with a smile, her thumb beating a rhythm against the call button. Dark, shoulder-length hair fell across her face as she leaned forward. "This thing being slow again? It was slow last week, too. I guess that's part of the deal with old buildings, right?"   She was too much and too loud, and I dug in my pocket for some hand sanitizer. I'd come in contact with enough germs for one afternoon. I glanced up from her ankle and stopped attempting to extrapolate a good reason why any civilized person would wear a noisemaker, and shrugged.   She laughed, and said, "Okay then."   She started humming, and then shaking her ankle with the tune, and I looked for the stairwell. I couldn't stand in this hall with a chattering music box much longer, and sharing an elevator with her would require a sedative.   Despite my penchant for the high-end bar scene, I preferred quiet. Growing up with five siblings who made Attila the Hun's crew look like a chill group of guys who enjoyed churning their own butter meant I had to find that quiet for myself. Noise-canceling headphones, soundproofed insulation in my office, and enough space so that my brother Riley and I could go weeks without seeing each other in the firehouse we shared.   Noticing a doorway at the far end of the hall, I gestured for her to step aside. A humid stairwell was a reasonable price to pay for serenity.   "Hey," she said, her hand grabbing my elbow. "It's here."   I met her eyes for the first time since she jangled into my personal space, and as much as I wanted to scowl at her invasion, her smile was too warm, her hazel eyes too bright. She was pretty in a way I couldn't comprehend—maybe it was her shortage of rail-thin, blue eyed blondeness, or the fact she wasn't made up, blown out, or put together, or that she wasn't simply looking at me but she was seeing me—and her smile transformed her whole face. Soon, I was smiling too. Like a fucking lunatic.   Then I felt the first spasms of panic stirring my stomach, squeezing my lungs, making my skin too tight.   My instincts told me to walk away from Miss Music Box, pop some pills to cage the ugly green anxiety monster, and hike down eleven flights of stairs. I always listened to my instincts. Beyond my siblings, they were the only things I could trust in this world.   But I stepped into that elevator anyway, gazing at her light eyes, and within ten seconds of the door closing, I was hurtling to my death.  

Kate Canterbary
 
Kate Canterbary doesn't have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean--Pacific or Atlantic--is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's scheduling her days around the region's best food trucks.
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