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Crow City series by Cole McCade - Book Tour + Giveaway

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The Lost
Crow City #1
Cole McCade
Dark Adult Romance

The first book in the new Cole McCade: After Dark erotica imprint; a
darkly haunting erotica with the taboo appeal of V.C. Andrews.
"If the romantic character study is a genre, this fascinating
contemporary novel is its exemplar." - Publishers Weekly
There's something wrong with Leigh.
She's known it her whole life. She knows it every time she spreads her
legs. Every time she begs for the pain, the pleasure, the heat of a
hard man driving deep inside. She's a slave to her own twisted
lusts--and it's eating her alive. She loves it. She craves it. Sex is
her drug, and she's always chasing her next fix. But nothing can
satisfy her addiction, not even the nameless men she uses and tosses
aside. No one's ever given her what she truly needs.
Until Gabriel Hart.
Cold. Controlled. Impenetrable. Ex-Marine Gabriel Hart isn't the kind of
man to come running when Leigh crooks her pretty little finger. She
loathes him. She hungers for him. He's the only one who understands
how broken she is, and just what it takes to satisfy the emptiness
inside. But Gabriel won't settle for just one night. He wants to
claim her, keep her, make her forever his. Together they are the
lost, the ruined, the darkness at the heart of Crow City.
But Leigh has a darkness of her own. A predator stalking through her
past--one she'll do anything to escape.
Even if it means running from the one man who could love her...and leaving
behind something more precious to her than life itself.

The Fallen
Crow City 1.5

Reconnect with Gabriel, Gary, Maxi, and Crow City in this companion novella
telling the story of THE LOST‘s Gabriel Hart before Leigh entered
his life – and get a sneak preview of the sinister Priest, hero of
Gabriel Hart is a broken man.
And everyone close to him dies.
His military unit. His sister. His parents. Everyone he’s come to care
for has been taken from him, leaving him with nothing but a crippling
war injury, a Vicodin addiction, and a scraggly, chewed-up rag of a
cat. It’s enough to make anyone want to check out. And when he
holds his service pistol in his hand and presses it against his
temple, for the first time in a long time the world feels right.
But he’s not as alone as he thinks. And when grizzled bar owner Gary
challenges him to honor his sister’s memory by repairing her
houseboat before he gives up on life, he discovers she left more for
him than her belongings. And her letters lead him on a trail through
discovering himself, discovering what he truly wants…and
discovering that he has the strength to choose his own path.

The Found
Crow City #2

Witness to a murder. Kidnapped by a monster. Life hanging on a whim. Willow
Armitage’s world was already falling apart; between getting fired
and caring for her chronically ill father, she’s had little room
for anything but survival. But that survival hangs in the balance the
night she stumbles into a back alley – and watches a stranger die
at the hands of the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.
Goodreads * Amazon

His fingers grazed the curve of her waist. With a gasp, she snapped her eyes open. He met her gaze, fox-gold turned hot as melting amber, fierce and animal and stripping her more bare than that exposed, naked flesh. She felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, held by his gaze, her limbs going slack and her struggles stopping against her will. She hardly felt it, when he hooked a fingertip under the bunched edge of her tank top—then ripped with such effortless strength, the threads of the side seam snapping apart one after the other, until there was nothing left of her tank top but rags of cloth. No, she hardly felt that…but she felt it when he teased those rags from underneath the ropes, as every scrap of cloth stroked and washed against her skin until she was nothing but a trembling tangle of sensitivity and frozen breaths building tighter and tighter in her chest.
And she felt it when that taunting, teasing fingertip hooked in her panties, slipping into the opening just above her thigh, and she realized just what he intended to do.
Don’t touch me.”
Suddenly she could move again—and she writhed against the ropes, fighting to squirm away. But she had barely an inch of slack, nowhere to go but against the ropes, hanging in midair and so fucking helpless she would scream with sheer rage if she didn’t want to cry with sheer hopelessness. Was he enjoying this? Enjoying watching her struggle? Enjoying how her skin tightened and pulled and her nipples swelled and her breaths came shallow with every touch, her fucking disobedient body whispering dirty thing, dirty thing, give me more of that dirty thing while her mind and heart screamed no, no, not like that, never like that?
Was he enjoying having her at his mercy, unable to escape his every touch?
His fingers dug into the fabric of her panties. Clenched it against his fist. Pulled. Cloth creased, bit, burrowed into her dirty, dirty thing, her wet dirty thing, her pulsing dirty thing, and she was a fucking dirty thing when she arched off the seat and cried out and whimpered and mewled, as he dragged the cloth against her and all she felt was sweet-rough friction and that slickness, sickness, wet and running like a licking tongue.
“D-don’t,” she cried again, and yet he only pulled harder, the panties so much worse than the rope when every fold and crease molded to her flesh like liquid fire and left nothing untouched. “Don’t!
He paused, held that steady pressure, keeping her on the end of a taut-stretched wire. “Are you a virgin, firefly?” he growled.
She spat in his face.
Panting, body heaving, she drew back and spat in his face, and watched with a sort of foggy, dazed satisfaction as it landed in a wet streak on his cheek, dripping down his bronzed skin like a tear. He remained unmoved, watching her steadily, waiting, holding her dangling from the one hand as if he hardly felt her weight and those damnable fingers pulling her panties against her flesh.
“My body is not your business,” she hissed.
“Right now, your body is my property.” He slid a fingertip down into the crease between her hip and thigh, the place where the seam of her panties normally cut in whenever she sat, moved, shifted; there was something too personal about that touch, so close and yet so far, a threat that made her shrink back even as that feeling inside her nearly exploded, that hollow feeling that seemed like a rapacious beast, a dragon with an open maw and empty gullet that was hungry, so hungry to be full. “I want an answer.”
He bunched her panties into his hand again, curling the fabric in stretched wrinkles against his palm—and this time when he pulled he gave no quarter, a single sharp rip and a sound of cloth tearing like tape pulling off the spool, high and shrill. There was a moment’s painful bite, a muted cry welling in her throat, and then the pressure eased as the tatters of her panties fell, forgotten, to the floor.
Still he watched her. And she, naked with nowhere to hide, curled into herself; she felt her nudity like a presence, like a thing touching her and twisting over her flesh to force her to feel every moment of her exposure, every moment of her vulnerability and helplessness. Priest said nothing. He didn’t need to. He never needed to. When he wanted an answer, he got one, and would wait her out as he had before, implacable and unmoving and relentless. She had always imagined men like him to be all force, all bluster, all violence and snarling and threats.
She was quickly learning that silence—silence and careful, metered application of just enough strength to drive his point home—was just as effective as force.
And just as frightening.
Dangling from his grip like a puppy, she hung her head. Anything not to meet those piercing eyes; anything not to feel the shame of giving in to the quiet demand in his gaze; anything to make this end, so he would stop tormenting her and leave her alone.
“…yes,” she mumbled. Still he didn’t speak, or put her down. Defeat sparked into frustration, and she glared at him from under the fall of her hair. “Yes, all right? Are you happy? Is that what you fucking wanted to know?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and lowered her to the floor.

The Saved
Crow City #2.5

For it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul. – Leviticus 17:11
Before he was a mysterious, silent killer stalking the streets of Crow City,
the strange man known as Priest (THE FOUND, Crow City #2) was a lost
and broken soul—and part of Willow Armitage’s world in ways she
could never have imagined. Shattered by the Afghanistan War, left
with no companions other than fellow survivor Gabriel Hart (THE LOST,
Crow City #1), ex-Marine Priest turns to his lost faith for answers
when his life has lost all meaning…but in searching for his God, he
finds a new religion. A religion of blood. Of pain.
Of vengeance.
And from that religion rises a mission to replace everything he had lost,
to set right just a few of the small wrongs in the world…and to
ease the constant bleeding of his broken heart, filled with sins
without number.
Revisit Crow City and meet Priest as he was before the fateful night that
brought him into Willow’s life…and reconnect with beloved names
and faces as we discover what—and who—set him on his dark and
merciless path.

Crow City #2.75

There are worse things in life than loving a man who hates you.
Unfortunately, Walford Gallifrey can’t think of many.
Ever since a ghost from his past kidnapped his niece, Willow (THE FOUND,
Crow City #2), Wally’s life has been nothing but grief, turmoil,
and loss. With no idea if Willow is dead or alive, Wally’s only
comfort is in caring for his grieving brother-in-law and Willow’s
father, Joseph Armitage. For the past twenty years, Wally has never
hoped to be anything but the backdrop to Joseph’s life; between
marrying Wally’s sister and decades of mistakes building walls of
enmity and resentment between them, Joseph has been firmly cemented
in Wally’s mind as unattainable.
But the pain of Willow’s loss forces them to face the demons sleeping
between them, find common ground—and more. Together, they explore
mutual grief. Shared memories. Quiet respect. Warmth. Camaraderie.
The joy of learning to live again.
And an unspoken attraction, buried beneath the scars of hurtful words and
terrible missteps.
Yet even as they work through the thorns and tangles of old wounds,
Joseph has his own struggles to face. The struggle to leave his
ex-wife in the past. To let his daughter go. And to trust Wally to
love him, to see him as more than just his multiple sclerosis, when
so many have treated him as less than a man. The only way forward for
them both is forgiveness. Trust.
And a second chance to discover what it means, to truly be in love.
Note: This novel, while a standalone, follows in the aftermath of the
events of THE FOUND (Crow City #2), and ties in to the events of THE
SAVED (Crow City #2.5), which detail--respectively--the events of
Willow's kidnapping and Walford’s prior relationship with her
kidnapper, Vincent Manion.

Slender. Angry. (Part) Asian.
Yeah, that about sums me up.
Hi. I’m Cole. Xen. Whatever you want to call me; both are true, and
both are lies. My pen names are multitudes, my nicknames legion.
Tall, bi/queer, introverted, author, and of a brown-ish persuasion
made up of various flavors of Black, Asian, and Native American. I’m
cuter than Hello Kitty, more bitter than the blackest coffee, and
able to trip over cats in a single half-asleep lurch; I’m what
happens when a Broody Antihero and a Manic Pixie Dream Boy fight to
the death, and someone builds a person from the scraps left behind.
Beardless, I look like the uke in every yaoi manga in existence;
bearded or not, I sound like Barry White. About half my time is spent
as a corporate writer, and the other half riding a train of WTFery
that sometimes results in a finished book. Romance, erotica, sci-fi,
horror, paranormal; LGBTQIA and cishet; diverse settings and diverse
characters from a diverse author.
Sometimes I shout about things on the internet. Usually intersectional feminism
and marginalized voices, and whomever’s punching down in those
directions today. Sometimes human sociology, the psychology of sex
and gender, and my own gender non-conforming arse (he/him, by the
way). Sometimes I get really mad at Stephen Hawking and nerd out all
over the place about hairy black holes, and believe it or not, that’s
not a terrible pun or even worse innuendo.
That’s it. I’m a huge dork. My humor’s so dry it could empty oceans. I’m
a native Southerner from the New Orleans area with zero Southern
accent; I’m a mess of multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, multi-lingual
influences; I have two cats. I wake up at daft hours of the morning
to go running. I crochet terrible, lumpy things that never really
turn into anything. I’m older than you think I look. I’m much
more shy than my fury makes me sound (signifying gods only know what,
but probably nothing). Recently I decided, at 36, that I needed to
restart my life and move cross-country, so I tossed 75% of my
possessions in the trash and randomly trucked it to Seattle. I’m in
love with books and music and technology, and they war with each
other for dominance and sometimes come together in a beautiful
confluence. Most of the physical books I own are strange, obscure,
out of print, overseas imports, or any combination of the four. Most
of the physical books I used to own were destroyed in Hurricane
Katrina, and have been replaced with the infinite library on my Nook.
My wallet has a dangerous attraction to anything with pages; it
flirts and teases and gives its all, until there’s nothing left but
emptiness and ruin.
There will always be things you don’t know, and I won’t tell.
But ask me late at night over live music in a seedy bar, and you might
just get an honest answer.
...or you can poke me via:

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