Sound the trumpets! Bang the drums! I’m always excited when I start a new series and get to see the new direction the covers take. Here’s the cover for NIGHT SHIFT! If you click on the pic, you can see the full size. I don’t have a blurb yet. I don’t have a tag line. I just finished the first/rough draft yesterday afternoon. That said, Elijah “Easy” Cross has wormed his way into my heart. Samantha “Sam” Prescott, despite stepping on her poncho a time or two, is going to keep that Wolf on his toes.

I wanted to add another teaser because even for a rough draft? I’m pretty dang happy with this story. The problem is finding one that’s…well…basically safe for work. I don’t do the R/X thing here. Usually. This book? Oh, yeah. It’s definitely darker, grittier, sexier, and far more violent than anything y’all have read from me before. And it was freaking fun to write!!! 😀 Anyway, here’s a mostly clean version that–to me, at least–packs a lot of emotional wallop.

This is in Easy’s POV:

Awareness teased my bare skin. My whiskey-soaked brain attempted to process that whispered feeling, to make sense of what was happening. My nostrils flared at the scent tiptoeing in on the breeze. I’d left the window open and as my dick swelled and my balls ached I wished I’d closed the damn thing. That scent teased and tantalized, like phantom pains when a guy lost a limb. Honeysuckle and gunpowder—sweet and deadly. Sam.

She was back.

She had to be. I’d caught elusive hints of her scent for a couple of weeks now but nothing as strong as this. I heard voices out in the compound. Digger. Hardy. And fuckin’ A. Sam. Good thing I’d gone to bed still wearing my clothes, not that anyone around here would have cared if I was naked as a jaybird.

Knocking one of the whores on her ass, and taking down a brother with my shoulder, I careened through the club room into the kitchen. None of the old ladies were there. That was bad. Their mates didn’t allow them on property when there was punishment to be dealt. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam. She’s all I could think about.

I smashed through the door and stumbled into the interior yard. Russki faced Digger and Hardy. Someone slumped between the two of them. I slid to a stop and Digger shoved Sam to her knees in front of me. Her scent scorched my nose. Honeysuckle, gunpowder, and ammonia so thick I couldn’t breathe.

“She’s been back at least two weeks, spying on Repo’s house.” Digger gritted the words out through his clenched jaw.

Two weeks. She’d been around for two weeks. Or longer. Those phantom scents weren’t figments of my brain. She’d been here the whole fucking time. Hiding from me.

As a side note, terror smells like ammonia to a Wolf. Emotions carry scent signatures. One of my favorites in this books is regret, which smells like ashes, dead roses, and almonds. I’ll have some memes with Easy and Sam before too long. And I’m editing like crazy today. The faster I get it to my critique partner and beta readers, the faster I get it back, revised, and to my editor for polishing. Still pushing for a release by the end of the month.

So…fun exercise today. Pick an emotion and figure out what it smells like. *waggles brows* Warning, I might just borrow your description. With mention in the acknowledgments, of course! OH! And like the Deadline Brain idiot I am, I totally forgot that I was guest blogging at the Pink Heart Society last Friday. Here’s the LINK TO THE POST. Come see my opinions on romance tropes!