Rosalie Stanton

Romance With Pitchforks

EROTIC ROMANCE AUTHOR.

PRODUCT MAY CONTAIN SACRILEGIOUS HUMOR, IRREVERENT BELIEFS, AND TOO-HOT-FOR-PRIME-TIME SEX SCENES.

VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED.

Coming soon: Insatiable Need

Just got my contract finalized by Ellora's Cave. I've also received the first round of edits and have submitted my cover request, so hopefully I'll be able to share that with you all soon. In the meantime, here's the blurb/info for Insatiable Need

Genre: Erotic Paranormal Romance

Length: Novella (Approx 35k)

Release date: TBA

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Ever since Raegan Pritchett discovered Private Investigator Zeth McDowell’s penchant to occasionally go a little furry, she has been vocal in her fervent dislike of him and other werewolves. Still, that doesn’t stop her from shuffling into his office every time she needs a source for her stories.

Raegan has had a vendetta against werewolves ever since her college best friend was found in several pieces at the hand of her werewolf boyfriend. However, when a psychic claims a local priest plans to summon a dangerous demon—a demon that will strip the town’s inhibitions and have citizens surrender to their innermost forbidden fantasies—Raegan has nowhere to turn but Zeth McDowell, the annoyingly sexy private investigator she loves to hate.

Neither Raegan nor Zeth know how to stop a demon, but they still aim to try. Yet when the demon’s spell triggers, it turns out Zeth and Raegan’s innermost fantasies involve each other.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Excerpt:

There were many things Zeth McDowell admired about the delectable Raegan Pritchett. How her eyes darkened when she was pissed, how her frown tightened on the tail of a remark she didn’t like, and the way she held herself when she was on the cusp of her least favorite activity—asking for a favor.

Consequentially, this was exactly how Zeth preferred Raegan. She couldn’t afford to be quite so lippy if she wanted him to scratch her back. Not that Zeth minded her lippy, but there was little he enjoyed more than provoking her when he knew she couldn’t take the bait.

And after last week’s assurance that she would sooner become Donald Trump’s sex slave than set eyes on him or any of his kind again, Zeth was determined to enjoy her groveling.

“So that’s it?”

Raegan blinked dumbly. “Yeah. And it’s happening tonight.”

“You’ve left something out.”

“What?”

“How it’s in any way my problem.” Zeth flashed a grin, slid his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up on his desk.

Her eyes narrowed in such a way he knew she was contemplating the virtues of twenty-five to life. Raegan was one of those women whose short fuse he enjoyed flicking with an open flame. Watching her teeter between collected and furious was the cheapest entertainment around.

The fact she was the loveliest creature he’d ever had the privilege of laying eyes on was merely a happy coincidence.

Zeth was accustomed to fielding calls from reporters. Some wolves chose pack life while others lived in seclusion. Zeth had gone a different route altogether. Immersing himself in the midst of the human world wasn’t something his mother had encouraged—as it typically came with the warning of torches and pitchforks—but he found people fascinating, not to mention an easy target off which to score a quick buck. Through the courtesy of a small business loan and a few starter-up clients, Zeth had built a steady reputation for himself as a respectable private investigator, with special emphasis in the paranormal.

And since a good chunk of humans spent their lives hunting down things that went bump in the night, business was good.  So good he had his very own liaison to one of the country’s most lucrative tabloids, All The Above, in the form of their local chapter’s best writer. Raegan Pritchett.

Raegan Pritchett, who hated her job almost as much as she hated him.

Whenever a story broke about a possible UFO sighting, a rumor of a malicious haunting, or a string of deaths all related to neck wounds and blood loss, every crack news agency in the area code made use of his phone line. There weren’t many paranormal investigators who likewise entertained a reputation of being trustworthy, and in small-to-largish towns like Highfield, Missouri—where churches thrived on every street corner and the devil made weekly house calls to anyone not in attendance—reputation was everything.

Then again, it wasn’t as though his competitors in the field had anything to offer. A few fancy gadgets like the boys on that Ghost Hunters show liked to play with, a bunch of high-tech mumbo jumbo and words that meant little to nothing. Oh sure, on occasion, the pea-brains would stumble across something legitimate, but it was almost always by stroke of luck rather than anywhere their so-called science had led them.

Zeth could tell the phonies from the Real McCoy any day of the week. Being born a lycan had its advantages. All he had to do was stick his nose in the air and follow the trail.

Yet for all the stuffed shirts that came through his door, Raegan was definitely his favorite. Her surprising, understated beauty had yet to faze him. The strawberry undertones in her chin-length blonde hair seemed to burn bright whenever she flushed, or when her brown eyes gained some fire behind them. She was short, curvy where he liked his women curvy and slender where he liked his women slender. But her best asset, hands down, was her mouth. Those lips that could form the world’s most kissable pout one second, then be moving at inhuman speeds to illustrate each of the twenty-seven ways he was her least favorite individual. She swore like a sailor and she didn’t apologize for it, and the more she fought, the more hungrily he anticipated his conquest.

But Raegan Pritchett would have nothing to do with him. Not since she discovered what he was. Not since the night when he’d lost control of his inner animal and wolfed out in her living room. Since then, she’d made it clear she hated the air he breathed, which made his victory all the sweeter when she shuffled into his office.

© Rosalie Stanton 2016