Title: Gods & Monsters
Author: Saffron A. Kent
Genre: Contemporary/New Adult Romance
Cover Design: Najla Qamber
Photo: Wander Aguiar
Cover Design: Najla Qamber
Photo: Wander Aguiar
Release Date: February 22, 2018
Blurb
He was
an artist. She was his muse.
To everyone in town, Abel Adams was the devil's spawn, a boy who never should have been born. A monster.
To twelve year-old Evie Hart, he was just a boy with golden hair, soft t-shirts and a camera. A boy who loved taking her picture and sneaking her chocolates before dinner. A boy who made her feel special.
Despite her family's warnings, she loved him in secret for six years. They met in empty classrooms and kissed in darkened church closets. Until they couldn't.
Until the time came to choose between love and family, and Evie chose Abel.
Because their love was worth the risk. Their love was the stuff of legend.
But the thing about legends is that they are cautionary tales. They are made of choices and mistakes. And for Abel and Evie, the artist and the muse, those mistakes come in the form of lights, camera, sex.
NOTE: This is NOT a paranormal or a priest romance.
To everyone in town, Abel Adams was the devil's spawn, a boy who never should have been born. A monster.
To twelve year-old Evie Hart, he was just a boy with golden hair, soft t-shirts and a camera. A boy who loved taking her picture and sneaking her chocolates before dinner. A boy who made her feel special.
Despite her family's warnings, she loved him in secret for six years. They met in empty classrooms and kissed in darkened church closets. Until they couldn't.
Until the time came to choose between love and family, and Evie chose Abel.
Because their love was worth the risk. Their love was the stuff of legend.
But the thing about legends is that they are cautionary tales. They are made of choices and mistakes. And for Abel and Evie, the artist and the muse, those mistakes come in the form of lights, camera, sex.
NOTE: This is NOT a paranormal or a priest romance.
Playlist
Excerpt
Abel drops
his head on my shoulder with a sigh and places soft but wet kisses on my
collarbone.
“The minute
you turn eighteen, I’m picking you up, throwing you over my shoulder and
driving you down to the nearest courthouse so you can say I do,” he rumbles, still kissing me, tattooing those words on my
skin.
My hands
bury themselves in his hair as my back arches toward him, craving the rough
terrain of his chest against my soft, rounded breasts, shooting sparks all
over.
“You
haven’t even asked me n-nicely, yet,” I whimper, baring my throat to his
exploring mouth. He hasn’t. It’s been over a year since he brought it up at the
treehouse and I told him no. Since then, he likes to joke about it but he’s yet
to ask me formally.
“I don’t
have to. I already know the answer.”
“A little
too cocky, aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah,
that’s definitely what I am.” He chuckles, sucking in the skin of my neck,
making me shiver and blush. Oops. Double entendre.
The way
he’s tugging on my skin is translating into a melty tugging down below. “Abel,
no. That’s gonna leave a mark.”
He growls
and looks up. The brown of his eyes is completely gone, a drop of honey drowned
by a black lake of desire. “One day I’m gonna kiss you in the front of the
whole world and if they don’t like it then fuck them.”
I read the
frustration in his tone, the suppressed anger, and it hurts my heart. No one
should be made to hide their love. No one. It’s too pure, too beautiful to ever
keep hidden. I caress his pulsing jaw. “Okay. Kiss me at our wedding, then. In
front of the whole world.”
A slow
smile spreads over his lips and I want to fill my mouth with it. “So, you
saying yes?”
I shake my
head at him and give him a smirk. “Maybe.”
He plants a
hard kiss on my mouth. “Kidnapping you it is, then.”
“Oh my God,
you’re crazy.” I laugh.
But he
swallows it up with his mouth. He’s kissing me, really kissing me. Like, he’s lost all patience with me and he
can’t be a good guy anymore. He needs to be bad. He needs to suck both my lips
into his mouth and drink my flavor straight from the tap. He needs to bite into
my flesh to get to it, dig his way inside the pores and fuse us together.
Author Bio
Writer
of bad romances. Aspiring Lana Del Rey of the Book World.
Saffron is a big believer in love (obviously). She believes in happily ever after, the butterflies and the tingling. But she also believes in edgy, rough and gutsy kind of love. She believes in pushing the boundaries, darker (sometimes morally ambiguous) emotions and imperfections.
The kind of love she writes about is flawed just like her characters. And she hopes by the end of it, you’ll come to root for them just as much as she does. Because love, no matter where it comes from, is always pure and beautiful.
She is represented by Meire Dias of Bookcase Agency
Saffron is a big believer in love (obviously). She believes in happily ever after, the butterflies and the tingling. But she also believes in edgy, rough and gutsy kind of love. She believes in pushing the boundaries, darker (sometimes morally ambiguous) emotions and imperfections.
The kind of love she writes about is flawed just like her characters. And she hopes by the end of it, you’ll come to root for them just as much as she does. Because love, no matter where it comes from, is always pure and beautiful.
She is represented by Meire Dias of Bookcase Agency
Author Links
THERE ARE NO DOUCHEBAGS IN THIS STORY.
Well, there are, but they’re not who this story is about.
This story is about me—the coach’s daughter.
When I moved to Iowa to live with my dad, the university's take-no-prisoners wrestling coach, I thought transferring would be easy as pie—living with my father would be temporary, and he'd make sure his douchebag wrestlers left me alone.
Wrong on both counts.
ASSHOLES ALWAYS COME OUT OF THE WOODWORK WHEN THE STAKES ARE HIGH.
A bet is placed, and I'm on the table. After one humiliating night and too much alcohol, I find the last nice guy on campus. And when he offers to rent me his spare bedroom, I go all in. It’s time for the nice guy to finish first.
Midnight chats and spilling my problems turn to lingering touches. Lingering touches turn to more.
And the ultimate good guy has the potential do more damage than any douchebags ever could.
She perks up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”
“No?”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what the hell? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress. “Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”
I wave my hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so lie down.”
“And you call me the bossy one?”
“Quit stalling and get on the bed.”
Obediently, I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees, approaching my side.
A finger glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on you. Hope that’s okay.”
“Is that the approved method?”
“No, but my arms will get tired if I have to lean over you the whole time.”
“Do whatever then, I don’t care.”
I stiffen when Anabelle swings one leg over my body, straddling my ass. Warm palms at my lower back.
“You’re so tense. Try to relax,” she coos, making it worse. “Tilt your head to the side, that’s it.”
I hear the lotion bottle snap open. Click closed. My roommate’s palms rubbing together, warming it up. “Sorry, I don’t have any actual massage oil. This will have to do.”
When her hands make contact with my back, I almost groan it feels so fucking good. Warm. Smooth. Pressure in all the right places, pushing gently into my muscles.
Slowly.
Slower still, caressing along my shoulders, thumbs and fingers working together to soothe the burning on my right side.
“Doesn’t this feel great?” Her soft voice cuts into the silence. “You’re loosening up. That’s good.”
I feel her leaning as her hands move up and down my spine until they stop, hovering at the base of my neck. Thumbs stroking the skin below my hairline, back and forth.
Kneading.
Her torso dips, hands maneuvering my arms, placing them at my sides. Palms slide up and down my biceps.
For several minutes, she rubs my arms and shoulders. Then she skims down my ribcage unhurriedly, in no rush, making little humming sounds inside her throat.
I know I’m not imagining the feather-light way her hands drift down my spine. I remain still, letting her touch me, basking in it.
Remain still when her lips kiss the tender spot of my shoulder where it meets my neck, nose nuzzling behind my ear, her breasts rubbing against my back and what the fuck was that all about? What does she think she’s doing, trying to drive me insane?
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte's, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
She lives with her husband, children, and her ridiculously large dog.