MORE
(AVENGING ANGELS MC BOOK 5)
by Nia Farrell
Length 46,920 words. Release date December 25, 2019. FREE with KU.
Amazon Universal http://mybook.to/AAMC5
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08342TJSC/
Teasers and excerpts http://bit.ly/MoreAAMC5WP
Goodreads http://bit.ly/AAMC5GR
BookBub http://bit.ly/AAMC5BB
Tag line: She must submit if she wants to survive.
When Avenging Angels MC assassin Iceman is ordered to “take care of” a former employee who stole from the club, he has every intention of doing a clean, quick kill with no trace left behind. No one told him that Holly Webster is a young single mother with a sick child. Learning that her three-year-old boy is the grandson of the club’s arch-rival Reaper, President of the Blackwater Demons, Iceman decides to keep Holly instead of killing her.
A Dominant like the rest of his club brothers, Iceman suddenly finds himself in a Master/slave relationship in the bedroom and head of an instant family, complete with a dog. He doesn’t like keeping secrets from his club but Holly and Zach are at risk until Reaper is found. Can Iceman keep them safe or will Reaper find them first?
In the first truly dark romance of the series, More begins as a nonconsensual relationship that gradually shifts from forced compliance to consensual as Holly discovers the man behind the gun. The story includes a Master/slave relationship, adult situations, domestic discipline, and potential triggers. Written for Ages 18+.
Excerpt 1:
Remembering this morning’s fiasco, he’d kept an eye on Zach while his mother took a fast shower to wash away the smell of tuna.
Kids.
Hers was bright. Flipping through pages, he recited books to his teddy bear from memory and entertained himself with games that she’d loaded on his reader. At one point, he’d brought his tablet over to Iceman, sat by his right arm, and studied his ink, fascinated by his stylized tribute to his favorite band, Guns and Roses.
Holly came back dressed in the same clothes but definitely smelling fresher. He realized that he’d forgotten to tell her to shave her box.
She slowed her steps when she saw his frown. “Is everything okay?” she asked hesitantly, afraid that one or both of them were in trouble.
“Yeah,” he said, scratching his chin. “I was gonna tell you to shave. Maybe tonight, once we get Little Bit here in bed.”
“Lidduw Bit?” This, from an affronted Zachariah. “I’m a big boy!” he declared, beating a tiny fist against his chest. “Mommy, teww him!”
“Zach, why don’t we ask Iceman where he came up with Little Bit? Maybe there’s a story.”
“There is,” he said, turning to her son. “This whole time your mommy was gone, anytime you asked me how long she’d be, what did I say?”
Zach stuck out his lower lip and furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “You said she’d be done in a lidduw bit.”
Iceman nodded. “In my club, everyone who joins gets a road name. But even prospects get called something.”
He nodded as if he understood, then stated, “I’m Zach and Mommy’s Lidduw Bit.”
Fuck if the kid wasn’t on to something. Iceman could hear himself. I want a Little Bit. I need a Little Bit. Give me a Little Bit.
He grinned unrepentantly at Holly. “You heard him. You’re Little Bit. But the boy here still needs a handle.”
Zach framed his face in his hands and thought about it hard.
“What does your mom call you,” Iceman asked him, “when she doesn’t call you Zachariah or Zach?”
“Big boy… and sweetie…,” he said. Wrinkling his nose, he rejected that from consideration. “And bucko….”
Iceman slapped his denim-covered thigh. “Well, there we go. Little Bit and Bucko. Congratulations. You both got club names.”
Holly shook her head, amused by her son.
Tossing his reader onto the seat, Zach launched himself at Iceman, throwing his arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely.
“Thank you, Iceman!” he chortled. “I’m Bucko!”
At least it was a name that he could say, no r’s or l’s to struggle through. Chances were, the sounds would come with age and practice. If not, they’d have to check into getting him speech therapy.
He didn’t stutter, so he had that much going for him.
Excerpt 2 (NSFW)
Expecting to see a red room of pain, she stepped into what looked like any normal man’s bedroom. The Mission-style bed, matching dresser and mirror, end tables, and chest of drawers were made of sturdy oak. A log cabin quilt in somber tones of rust, hunter green, tan, and navy covered the width of the king-sized mattress.
Her bag of clothes sat by the door next to a slat-back chair. He’d hung her purse on the back of it.
“Put it there,” he said, motioning from her hand to his dresser. Sitting on the chair, he pulled off his boots, peeled off his socks, and tucked them under, out of the way. Standing in front of the mirror, she watched him rise and stalk across the room, his hunter’s gaze fixed on her form, his man’s desire growing with every step that he made.
One way or another, whatever he wanted, he was going to take.
He stepped close behind her, reached around, and planted his hands on the dresser, caging her in his arms. Burying his nose in her hair, he took a deep breath that escaped on a sigh. “You shouldn’t smell so good.”
She didn’t, she wanted to tell him. She’d worked up a sweat, hurrying to load what they needed and get on the road. The change of clothes had helped, but she knew she could use another shower.
She wondered how he’d managed to keep fresh wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and a ski mask in the early summer heat. His hair was damp with sweat but she couldn’t smell shampoo or body wash or a discernible scent of any kind. It seemed odd until she realized that he was a killer. An assassin would take care to go unnoticed, avoiding fragrances that could give him away or help identify him later.
Leaning away, he peeled off his shirt, revealing a full sleeve of ink from his right shoulder to his wrist. His left biceps—where the Avenging Angels logo normally went—was bare. There was nothing to link him to the club beyond the cut that he’d pulled from his saddlebag and carried into the cabin.
His sculpted chest was shaved as smooth as his rope-veined arms. A beaded necklace reached to his heart, ending in what looked like a claw. With that thick beard of his, he didn’t look Native American but she wondered if he wasn’t part Cherokee like her dad. The Trail of Tears to Oklahoma ran across the lower part of the state. Eventually, some descendants had made their way back to Illinois.
His heated gaze met hers in the mirror. Knowing that she was watching, he lifted his arm and rubbed a hand across his pecs, feeling the puckered brown discs of his areolas and making his nipples tighten into hard, pebbled crests.
“Take off your top.”
Pulling her hair over one shoulder to keep it from getting caught, she hooked her fingers into the bottom of her halter top and pulled it over her head. The black of her bra contrasted with her fair skin and tawny hair. The look of masculine appreciation confirmed that she’d made the right choice.
She ran a finger along the top edge, tracing the swell of her breast.
A low growl sounded in the back of his throat. “Cocktease,” he rumbled, making it sound like a dangerous thing. Gripping her hips, he pulled her back against his front and ground his erection against her. “Such a dirty girl,” he tsked, cupping her sex. “Flynn McGee said you were so tight, he nearly busted a nut just working his way in. He knew it had been a while for you, but he didn’t know you were Sig’s old lady.”
Holly felt shame wash over her, reddening her cheeks and making her stomach clench. “I hadn’t been with anyone since Zachariah was born,” she whispered. She’d still be celibate if Reaper hadn’t found her and ordered her to do what she had.
“What about Shawn Porter?” he asked. “The customer you propositioned?”
Holly shook her head in denial. “It was a joke,” she insisted. “He’d been hitting on me and Easy A was playing on the TV in the waiting room. I quoted a line from the movie…, told him I’d had my eye on a label maker and wanted a hundred dollar gift card and he took it seriously, the piece of shit.”
Just that fast, his fist was in her hair, holding her tight and pulling her up onto her toes. “You’re not one to talk, little girl. Not with five hundred dollars missing from the till.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice fracturing, her vision blurring with tears. The hand he’d shoved in her crotch slid upward. Five splayed fingers caught her breast in a bruising grip.
He jerked her hair, making her yelp. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m sorry, Sir!”
He jacked himself against her back, his erection digging a trench along her spine. “Close,” he whispered in her ear and bit it. “In the clubhouse, I’d be your Sir and you’d be my pet. I’d know your hard and soft limits and your safewords to slow or stop. But you lost that right when you stole from the club and made a customer think you were a whore. You belong to me now, dirty girl. I own you. Here, I am the Master and you are my slave. No choice. No safewords. My word is your law. I say, you do. No arguments, no excuses, no delays. Do you understand?”
“Yes…, Sir…,” she grated, tears escaping to track down her eyes.
He slapped her breast. “Yes, what?” he snarled, slapping it again.
“Yes…, Master…!”
Author Nia Farrell 