GtPGKogPYT4p61R1biicqBXsUzo" /> Google+ Exclusive 'First Look' with Tracy Wolff LOVEGAME + excerpt | I Smell Sheep

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Exclusive 'First Look' with Tracy Wolff LOVEGAME + excerpt

by Tracy Wolff
Genre: Erotic Thriller
Release Date: June 7, 2016
Publisher: Random House Loveswept
Format: Digital and Paperback
True Crime novelist Ian Sharpe has spent his career writing about serial killers for very personal reasons. For his latest exposé, he is taking on the sadistic madman known as the Red Ribbon Strangler, and when his research leads him to Hollywood’s most private and provocative actress, he will break every rule to uncover her truth. The daughter of one of Hollywood’s golden couples, chased by paparazzi and treated as a commodity her entire life, Veronica Romero wields her sex appeal like a weapon. She expects Ian to be as easy to control as every other man she’s ever known. But from the beginning, he refuses to fall into line. Mysterious and cool, challenging and just a little bit dangerous, Ian somehow makes her feel safe—even as he digs into the deepest secrets of her life and pushes her to the breaking point. As raw ecstasy gives way to agonized truths, their dark obsession exposes secrets that have been buried for far too long. Ian wants to tear down her walls and heal the sensual woman underneath. But if Veronica’s learned anything, it’s that the line between pleasure and pain is a narrow one—and when caught between them the only thing that matters is how you play the game. 

Exclusive Excerpt

The phone buzzes yet again and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming, largely because I’m afraid once I start I’ll never stop. I’ll keep screaming and screaming and screaming until they come and take me away to some hospital for movie stars and rich people, an insane asylum disguised as a place for plastic surgery and rehab. Considering where my mother ended up all those years ago, I’m intimately familiar with such establishments.

I am not her. I am not going to end up in one of them.

And so I keep my jaw locked against the screaming and the nausea and the betrayal so fresh that it burns like acid. I shove it all down as deep as I can get it, pretending as I do that it doesn’t make me sick. That it doesn’t make my stomach churn and my mouth taste like vomit.

The phone buzzes again—it’s vibrating this time, as whoever has been calling suddenly switches to texts. I moan, start to roll over to get away from the sound. But my body is heavy, lethargic. I can barely get it to move. In the end, I settle for grabbing a pillow and dragging it over my head to block out the noise—and the light.

Except the pillow is wet. Sticky. Salty. I shove it away with a gasp, struggling to open my eyes against the overwhelming lethargy that continues to pull me down, pull me under.

My face is wet from the pillow and I bring my hand to my cheek, try to rub the stuff away. I finally manage to get my eyes open and I glance down at my fingers, trying to see what’s on them.

I’m so out of it that what I’m seeing doesn’t compute for several long seconds. When it does—when I register that my hand is stained with something red and thick—my adrenaline finally kicks in. I stagger out of bed, staring in horror at the pillow I’d just pulled over my head. At the crisp white sheets and blankets that I’d been under.

They’re doused in blood, covered with the thick, viscous liquid. And so am I, my gown heavy with the stuff. My arms and legs streaked red with it.

I stumble backward, desperate to get away, but I get my foot tangled in the comforter that’s on the floor and go down hard—right in a puddle of blood. That’s when I start to scream, loud, high-pitched shrieks that can probably be heard in Mexico.

Over and over and over again I scream, my mind racing. My body working of its own volition, crab-walking backward away from the bed. From the blood.

But I’m dragging it with me, can see the smears of it left in my wake—wet and red and terrifying.

There’s a tiny part of my brain that’s still working, that’s telling me to breathe. To calm down. To think. It’s almost impossible to hear it over my strangled cries and the frantic beating of my heart. But I try to listen anyway, try to stop screaming long enough to take a deep breath as the room swims around me.

It’s not blood, I tell myself again and again. It’s not blood. It’s not blood. It’s not blood.

It can’t be.

But it’s in my nose now, in my mouth. Salty, coppery, thick and I know—I know—that it’s exactly what I’m afraid it is.

Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

I don’t stop shuffling backward until my hand brushes against something sharp. The sudden prick of pain cuts through the hysteria and I lift my hand into my lap and stare at the new, jagged cut running across my palm. It’s bleeding now, my own blood mingling with the rest of the mess. Bright red mingling with dark.

I glance around wildly, trying to figure out what cut me. Trying to figure out where I am.

The last thing I remember is my mother helping me to bed. That’s it. There’s nothing after that. Nothing to account for what’s happening now. Nothing to account for all of this.

I can’t stop screaming any more than I can stop the blood pouring from my hand.

There’s a small part of me that knows I should get to the bathroom, that knows I should wrap a towel around my cut. But I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but sit here and scream.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps thundering down the hall, fast and hard. The door to my bedroom crashes open and Ian is standing there, eyes wide and wild as he takes in the state of the room . . . and of me.

It only takes a second, and then he’s next to me.

Crouching in the blood.

Hands gripping my shoulders.

Face next to mine.

He’s saying something—I can see his mouth moving, can hear the words falling into the sudden silence between us. But I can’t make sense of them. Can’t get them to compute in my jumbled brain. All I can think is that Ian is here. Ian, my love.

No, no. Not my love, I remember abruptly. Ian, the liar. Ian, the user. Ian, the traitor.

There’s a tiny part of me—the one bent on self-preservation—that tells me he can’t be here. He can’t see this. He can’t write about this.

Go, I try to tell him, but my mouth isn’t working right. Nothing is. I want to shove Ian away, but my arms are so heavy I can barely lift them. My whole body feels like it’s slogging through quicksand. Like I’m drowning in plasma and can’t work my way out of it. Whatever strength I had, I used up just getting here.

Ian grabs my hand, holds it up so he can look at it. Then he’s shrugging out of his T-shirt and wrapping it around the wound.

He’s glancing around now, eyes dark with horror, even as he elevates my arm and holds pressure on the cut. He’s talking again—I can see his mouth moving—but the words still sound tinny and distorted. Like they’re coming through water.

I look back at the doorway as my mother comes skittering through it. She freezes much like Ian did, then screams, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“Damn it, Veronica. Focus! I need you to answer me. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The words he’s saying finally arrange themselves in the right order and instinctively, I do what he commands. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He grabs my nightgown in the center of the bodice, then rips it away with his bare hands. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle him trying to pull the bloody thing over my head.

Then his hands are on me, running over my shoulders, my back, my ass. Doing the same to my chest and stomach and sex. “Let me see your legs,” he orders, and I stick them out obediently. I’m so confused, so lost, that it seems smart to let him have control, at least for a little while. He seems to know what he’s doing.

“It’s not yours,” he says after a minute, relief ripe in his voice.

“What?” I finally manage to force a word past my dry lips.

“The blood. It’s not yours. I don’t see any other injuries.”

“But where’s it from then?” I clutch at him, still too groggy and panic-stricken to think clearly.

“I don’t know,” he answers grimly. And then he’s sitting down next to me, right in the middle of the mess.

“Be careful,” I warn him, my words sounding garbled to my own ears. “I cut myself on something back there—”

“This,” he says, his voice dark and foreboding. “You cut yourself on this.”

He holds up a black and orange bow saw.

“Oh my God.” I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. “Oh my God.”

It’s the same saw that Belladonna used to dismember that poor girl. The same one I used in the bloodiest scene in my entire career.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I look around at all the blood. “What’s happening to me? What did I do? What did I do?

Copyright © 2016 by Tracy Wolff

Praise for LOVEGAME 
“Lovegame is a true masterpiece, with thrilling suspense, crazy hot sex, and writing so truly beautiful that it stays with you long after you put the book down. It’s my favorite read of the year by far.”—Sawyer Bennett, New York Times bestselling author of Sugar Daddy 

“I loved Lovegame! It’s a hot, sexy thriller of a book, with so many twists and turns I never saw coming!”—M. O’Keefe, author of Everything I Left Unsaid Barclay Publicity, LLC Author and Book Promotion, Simplified. 

Praise for the novels of Tracy Wolff 
“Tracy Wolff knows how to steam up the pages.”—New York Times bestselling author J. Kenner 

“Fall in love under the spell of a master. Tracy Wolff knows how to keep you panting for more and utterly satisfied all at once.”—New York Times bestselling author Beth Kery, on Ruined

“Tracy Wolff had me turning pages way past my bedtime. The suspense kept me on the edge of my seat, and the steamy love scenes had my pulse racing.”—New York Times bestselling author Cassia Leo, on Exposed
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About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story— something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from sweet contemporary to erotica, from paranormal to Urban Fantasy and from young adult to new adult.