Scott Hildreth's Blog, page 9
July 9, 2016
LIVE NOW!!! HARD, my newest Motorcycle Club Romance, is LIVE!!!
HARD is now LIVE on Amazon! The book everyone has been waiting to read. Prepare to fall for Nick Navarro, Peyton Price, and Nick’s side-kick and Sergeant-At-Arms, Pee Bee.
Be forewarned, this book will hit you right in the face. You won’t soon forget it, either.
Get your copy of this 5-star read for only $3.99.
A cheap price to pay for such goodness.
Amazon US: https://amzn.com/B01I6562CU…
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01I6562CU
Amazon CA: http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01I6562CU
Amazon AU: http://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B01I6562CU
Signed Paperbacks: http://tinyurl.com/Hildrethsignedbooks
June 27, 2016
99 cent best seller SALE
In celebration of my upcoming novel, HARD I have placed these three books on sale.
Enjoy, and feel free to SHARE.
Books can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Scott-Hildreth/...
June 21, 2016
The first two chapters from “HARD”, Book I of the Filthy Fuckers MC Romance Series
ONE
I pushed his office door open just enough to peer inside. He stood at the far side of his desk with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed on the skyline. I cleared my throat. “Your email didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He turned to face me and shrugged. His crisp white shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in the fabric, a reminder of how early in the day it was. He studied me for a moment and shook his head lightly. “It was as straightforward as it could be.”
It wasn’t. It never was with him. His cryptic messages – always without punctuation – made it problematic to understand his desire, and even more difficult to believe he was the editor-in-chief of the Union-Tribune, San Diego’s largest newspaper.
But he was. No differently than his father, and his father’s father, Camden Rollins III was the man in charge.
I swept my thumb across the screen of my phone and stared at the email. “Need something on the filthy fuckers make it hard edgy and in-your-face maybe a three or four installment piece depending on what you find.”
He brushed his hands along the thighs of his pants, chuckled, and sat down. “Everything you need is right there.” He motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Peyton.”
I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jeans and sat down. “What – or who – are the filthy fuckers?”
“You’re not much of a reporter.” He chuckled. “They’re an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, but, like all the motorcycle gangs, they like to be called a club. You know, like the Sons of Anarchy,” he said.
I nodded eagerly. There were very few television personalities I cared for, but no differently than half of the female population in the nation, I’d crawl naked through a mile of broken glass for a chance to suck Charlie Hunnam’s cock.
Bikers made me go wobbly-legged, especially if they were covered in tattoos. “I’m going to do a piece on a motorcycle club? A real motorcycle club?”
“Real? Yeah, these guys are real. The Filthy Fuckers are as rough as it gets. President’s name is Nicholas Navarro. He goes by Nick or Crip to his brothers in the club. You’re going to need to interview him personally unless you want rumors and bullshit. Scuttlebutt around town is that they’re close to declaring war with Satan’s Savages. After some of what we’ve seen from these clubs in the past, we’d like to call it before it’s news.”
“Holy shit. Yeah, I’m stoked,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, but if you don’t mind me asking, why me? A girl doing a four installment piece of a motorcycle gang?”
“Three or four, depending on what you uncover.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head.
“What?”
“Why? You’re a thrill seeking weirdo, and everyone here knows it, including me. That’s why.”
He was right, except for the weirdo part. I loved driving my Jeep to the most remote place I could find, parking it, and rock climbing anywhere I wasn’t able to get to by vehicle. Hang gliding and paragliding from the cliffs at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla was a common occurrence for me. And, I always volunteered to follow each unsolved death in the city, hoping I could turn it into a homicide, but so far it never happened.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“An adventurous reporter who leaves no stone unturned.”
“I like that better,” I said. “So what do I do? They’re not just going to agree to talk to me.”
“Do your research. You’ll figure something out.”
“That’s it? That’s your best advice?”
He leaned forward, adjusted his tie, and sighed. “When was the last time you did what I told you to do?”
I shrugged.
“Precisely. You’re going to do what it is you do. So, go do it. Just make it interesting, we need something awe-inspiring.”
I stood from my seat and nodded. “Awe-inspiring four installment piece, coming right up, Boss.”
“Three or four,” he said. “Depends on what you find.”
The thought of rubbing elbows with the members of a motorcycle club made me tingle all over. “You might not see me for a while. But, if it’s out there,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure three or four weeks is enough.”
Three weeks with a real-life Jax Teller?
He had assigned me to three weeks in fucking heaven.
I turned toward the door. “See you in four weeks.”
“Three or four,” he snapped back.
Yeah, I guess it all depends on what this Navarro guy looks like.
“What’s he look like?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Covered in tattoos from head to toe, including his hands. Rough dude. Like I said, do your research first.”
Tattooed alpha male biker?
“See you in four,” I said with a laugh.
Maybe longer.
TWO
I walked along the row of motorcycles that were parked outside the bar. Some of them were apparently new – fitted with painted saddle bags and multi-speaker stereos, while others were older and adorned with nothing more than a solo seat, a leather tool pouch, and ape hanger handlebars.
Albeit short, my study of Harley-Davidsons – and the men who rode them – provided me with enough information that I found the motorcycles, the men, and the concept of a close-knit biker club fascinating.
I couldn’t help but wonder what level of rejection I was going to get. There was no doubt in my mind that the members of the well-known Filthy Fuckers MC weren’t going to agree to sit down and answer all of my questions over a glass of beer.
Dressed in cut-off jean shorts, Chuck’s, and my favorite tee shirt, I walked across the scorching asphalt parking lot toward the bar’s entrance.
I reached for the door, inhaled a shallow breath, and pulled it open.
Just be yourself, Peyton.
I stepped into the poorly lit bar and realized the only patrons were bikers. I was met by no less than twenty-four eyes, two of which I immediately recognized.
Nicholas “Crip” Navarro was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and despite my being almost twenty years his junior, I found him to be extremely attractive. He was 42, covered in tattoos, and as handsome as any man I had ever seen. Him being a biker made him even more attractive.
While mentally preparing to infiltrate the club, I studied many photos of the club’s known members, their motorcycles, and of Nick. In doing so, one thing stood out in each and every picture of him.
His remarkable blue eyes.
Now that they were locked on me, I searched for a glimmer of hope that I could remain strong-willed, independent, and above all, professional.
With my head held high, I clung to what little hope I had found, and walked directly toward the group of drunken bikers. Dressed in jeans, boots, and his leather vest, Navarro stood from the bar stool at his high-top table and turned to face me. With a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, he raked the fingers of his free hand through his black hair, brushing it away from his face.
His eyes fell to the floor and then slowly raised the length of my torso. After pausing to stare at my tits for a few long seconds, he eventually met my gaze. “You lost, little girl?”
I stutter-stepped, not quite knowing what to do. Roughly a dozen men surrounded him, and although they all looked at me with lustful eyes, it seemed they were waiting on his approval or rejection of me before they made any comments or passed judgement.
I swallowed hard and returned his stare. “No. I’d uhhm. I’d. I’d uhhm. I’d like to talk to you,” I stammered.
His eyes dropped to my bare legs. He grinned, revealing teeth much whiter than I expected him to possess. He raised his bottle of beer, took a drink, then lowered his chin slightly. “Show me your tits,” he demanded without so much as an ounce of expressed emotion.
Excuse me?
It wasn’t at all what I expected. I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?”
He took another drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk to me? Show me your fuckin’ tits.”
Causing any other man to respect me would have required a no answer. To get Nick Navarro to respect me meant I needed to bare my tits.
I cleared my throat.
Twice.
I nodded toward his waist. “Show me your cock.”
The man at his side, a muscular giant with collar-length hair and an awesome full beard, choked on the beer he was in the middle of swallowing and coughed out a laugh.
Navarro didn’t so much as crack a smile. Still cradling the bottle of beer in his hand, he reached for his belt, unfastened the buckle, and struggled to push his faded jeans down his thighs. As the material cleared the base of his dick – revealing a few inches of the rather thick shaft – my eyes shot wide.
Holy shit.
I wondered just how far he would go.
While I stood and waited, fairly certain he wouldn’t get his entire cock out in a public bar – especially amidst the members of the MC – he pushed the denim a little further and it sprung free.
Well, there’s the answer.
I stood, open-mouthed, and did what any girl in the same situation would have done.
I stared.
I enjoyed the scenery for a few seconds less than I really wanted to, laughed to myself at the thought of including the scene in my first written installment, and regretfully tore my eyes away from his thickness.
With the waist of his jeans at mid-thigh and his dick dangling from between his legs like the heavy slab of meat that it was, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a drink no differently than if he was fully clothed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t pull his jeans up, but was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all to give matters much serious thought. My heart felt like it was beating between my ears. I desperately wanted to take another look at his massive cock, but didn’t dare turn the event into any more of a sexually frustrated situation than it already was.
With his eyes locked on me, he finished his beer, handed the empty bottle to the six-foot-ten giant, and pulled up his jeans. He fastened his belt and cocked an eyebrow slightly. “Get ‘em out.”
What the fuck have I got myself into?
I inhaled a breath of courage, glanced around the bar, and made note that there was no one present except for me and the bikers. No waitress, no bartender, no nothing. Although I shouldn’t have, I found the thought of revealing my tits in front of the group of bikers to be sexually stimulating.
But, as my boss had clearly stated, I was a thrill seeking weirdo.
Against my will – and best judgement – my pussy began to tingle.
I pulled my tee shirt over my head, shoved a portion of it into the back pocket of my shorts, and lowered the straps of my bra past the sides of my upper arms. While each and every wide-eyed biker stood in wait, I cradled the cups of my bra with my hands and pulled them down slightly, revealing the full ‘C’ cup boobs that made me the most sought after freshman in high school.
Navarro shook his head. His mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk. “Take off the bra.”
A tingling ran the length of my body, from my neck to my calves and back. But, instead of rubbing my goose-bump covered arms, I unfastened my bra, pulled it forward, and tossed it toward the giant who was apparently Navarro’s body guard.
Not that he needed one.
The bearded biker snatched my bra from the air in mid-flight. I made note of the patches on the front of his vest.
Pee Bee. Sergeant-At-Arms.
My focus shifted back to Navarro. His slight smile made me comfortable, and I quickly got lost admiring his eyes. I cocked my head to the side and pressed my biceps against the edges of my breasts. “Satisfied?”
He pursed his lips, stared at my tits for a few long seconds, and nodded. “Nice set of tits.”
I did my best to offer him a curtsy. It probably looked like I lost my footing and stumbled.
His eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fought to swallow, and reached for my shirt. “Peyton. Peyton Price.”
“What’d you do, back your Hyundai into my fuckin’ bike?”
His entire body was covered in ink. Even his neck and knuckles were tattooed. He was far better looking than I expected him to be. I pulled my shirt over my head, situated it, and shook my head. “No. I parked fifty feet from you guys, and I drive a Jeep. I uhhm. I’m a reporter for the newspaper. The Union-Tribune. I’m doing an article, a three or four-piece installment on outlaw motorcycle gangs. I’d like to interview you.”
He stepped so close I could feel his breath on my face. “We’re a club,” he breathed.
My throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and muttered my response. “A uhhm. A club. An outlaw. An outlaw motorcycle club. Sorry, I misspoke.”
It was a foolish mistake.
He leaned away and shot me a glare. “Better get your shit straight before you go writin’ anything. Some half-wit motherfucker goes and calls us a gang in the newspaper, and we’ll all be doing time in the joint under the RICO act.”
“So you’ll agree to it?” I asked excitedly.
He inched closer, completely obstructing my view of everyone who surrounded him. He raised his clenched fist in front of my face, extended his middle finger, and widened his eyes.
I peered beyond his tattooed finger and widened mine in return.
With our eyes locked, he slowly lowered his hand. The lack of space between us made doing so rather difficult, and his tattooed bicep lightly brushed against the nipple of my left breast. I shuddered as a result, quickly reminded that I hadn’t taken the time to get my bra back from his oversized body guard.
I felt the tip of his finger trace along the inside of my leg, just above my knee. Feeling his hand on my flesh did little to excite me. It was impossible.
I was already soaked.
Although I wanted desperately to look down and see just what it was he was doing, I kept my eyes fixed on his, rolled my shoulders slightly, and straightened my posture. He needed to know I wasn’t just some dumb girl who was going to be scared away easily.
I’ve got news for you, Nick Navarro, you’re not going to intimidate me.
The tip of his finger rose the length of my inner thigh for what seemed like a lifetime. He must have perceived the lack of objection on my part as an invitation to continue.
Still focused on his hypnotic eyes, I tried to refrain from showing any emotion. With him teasing me while a dozen of his brethren watched, it didn’t come easily. His hand came to rest at the frayed opening of my shorts.
His mouth twisted into a smirk.
I tried to swallow, but didn’t quite succeed.
I felt his finger slide beneath the leg of my shorts.
You’re not going to…
As he circled my clit with his tattooed digit, I considered objecting to his little game, but the words never came. Had I protested, it would have been a lie. My boss was right, I was a thrill seeking weirdo, and having an outlaw biker come close to fingering me at noon in a remote bar in Escondido, California stood as all the proof that was needed.
Without warning, he pushed his finger inside of me.
Completely.
I gulped a breath.
So much for remaining professional.
He stared into my eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you?”
I wasn’t a whore. Hell, I wasn’t even what a person that anyone in their right mind could describe as promiscuous. But, for whatever reason, I was allowing Nick Navarro to finger fuck me while the beer guzzling members of his club eagerly watched. Be it because I desperately wanted to write the piece, or because I found tattooed bikers insanely attractive was irrelevant.
The fact remained that the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC had his middle finger shoved so deep inside of me that I could feel the palm of his hand against my clit.
And, I liked it.
A lot.
He curled the tip of his finger against my g-spot a few more times, bringing me to a shallow climax. Guilt washed over me. I made a feeble effort to writhe away from him, but failed miserably.
He gripped my neck with his free hand. “Going somewhere?”
An inaudible no puffed from my lips.
He pushed his finger deep and held his hand still.
I exhaled into his tattooed neck.
“Be at our clubhouse tomorrow at six o’clock,” he growled. “If you’re worth a fuck as a reporter, you’ll find it. Between now and then, I’ll decide if I’ll talk to you.”
As he pulled his finger from inside of me, I considered the possibility of him not wanting to talk to me after I showed up at his clubhouse.
I had no intention of sticking around while the other members of the club ogled me or expressed how they thought less of me for allowing their president to finger me senseless in their presence. I decided to wear the finger-fucking experience as a badge of honor.
I tugged against the legs of my shorts in an effort to situate myself. It provided no comfort. I was way past horny. “Sounds good,” I chimed.
He grinned.
I grinned in return, turned away, and took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth, you’ve got a nice cock.” I said over my shoulder.
And your finger’s not bad, either.
The first two chapters from”HARD”, Book I of the Filthy Fuckers MC Romance Series
ONE
I pushed his office door open just enough to peer inside. He stood at the far side of his desk with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed on the skyline. I cleared my throat. “Your email didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He turned to face me and shrugged. His crisp white shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in the fabric, a reminder of how early in the day it was. He studied me for a moment and shook his head lightly. “It was as straightforward as it could be.”
It wasn’t. It never was with him. His cryptic messages – always without punctuation – made it problematic to understand his desire, and even more difficult to believe he was the editor-in-chief of the Union-Tribune, San Diego’s largest newspaper.
But he was. No differently than his father, and his father’s father, Camden Rollins III was the man in charge.
I swept my thumb across the screen of my phone and stared at the email. “Need something on the filthy fuckers make it hard edgy and in-your-face maybe a three or four installment piece depending on what you find.”
He brushed his hands along the thighs of his pants, chuckled, and sat down. “Everything you need is right there.” He motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Peyton.”
I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jeans and sat down. “What – or who – are the filthy fuckers?”
“You’re not much of a reporter.” He chuckled. “They’re an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, but, like all the motorcycle gangs, they like to be called a club. You know, like the Sons of Anarchy,” he said.
I nodded eagerly. There were very few television personalities I cared for, but no differently than half of the female population in the nation, I’d crawl naked through a mile of broken glass for a chance to suck Charlie Hunnam’s cock.
Bikers made me go wobbly-legged, especially if they were covered in tattoos. “I’m going to do a piece on a motorcycle club? A real motorcycle club?”
“Real? Yeah, these guys are real. The Filthy Fuckers are as rough as it gets. President’s name is Nicholas Navarro. He goes by Nick or Crip to his brothers in the club. You’re going to need to interview him personally unless you want rumors and bullshit. Scuttlebutt around town is that they’re close to declaring war with Satan’s Savages. After some of what we’ve seen from these clubs in the past, we’d like to call it before it’s news.”
“Holy shit. Yeah, I’m stoked,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, but if you don’t mind me asking, why me? A girl doing a four installment piece of a motorcycle gang?”
“Three or four, depending on what you uncover.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head.
“What?”
“Why? You’re a thrill seeking weirdo, and everyone here knows it, including me. That’s why.”
He was right, except for the weirdo part. I loved driving me Jeep to the most remote place I could find, parking it, and rock climbing anywhere I wasn’t able to get to by vehicle. Hang gliding and paragliding from the cliffs at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla was a common occurrence for me. And, I always volunteered to follow each unsolved death in the city, hoping I could turn it into a homicide, but so far it never happened.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“An adventurous reporter who leaves no stone unturned.”
“I like that better,” I said. “So what do I do? They’re not just going to agree to talk to me.”
“Do your research. You’ll figure something out.”
“That’s it? That’s your best advice?”
He leaned forward, adjusted his tie, and sighed. “When was the last time you did what I told you to do?”
I shrugged.
“Precisely. You’re going to do what it is you do. So, go do it. Just make it interesting, we need something awe-inspiring.”
I stood from my seat and nodded. “Awe-inspiring four installment piece, coming right up, Boss.”
“Three or four,” he said. “Depends on what you find.”
The thought of rubbing elbows with the members of a motorcycle club made me tingle all over. “You might not see me for a while. But, if it’s out there,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure three or four weeks is enough.”
Three weeks with a real-life Jax Teller?
He had assigned me to three weeks in fucking heaven.
I turned toward the door. “See you in four weeks.”
“Three or four,” he snapped back.
Yeah, I guess it all depends on what this Navarro guy looks like.
“What’s he look like?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Covered in tattoos from head to toe, including his hands. Rough dude. Like I said, do your research first.”
Tattooed alpha male biker?
“See you in four,” I said with a laugh.
Maybe longer.
TWO
I walked along the row of motorcycles that were parked outside the bar. Some of them were apparently new – fitted with painted saddle bags and multi-speaker stereos, while others were older and adorned with nothing more than a solo seat, a leather tool pouch, and ape hanger handlebars.
Albeit short, my study of Harley-Davidsons – and the men who rode them – provided me with enough information that I found the motorcycles, the men, and the concept of a close-knit biker club fascinating.
I couldn’t help but wonder what level of rejection I was going to get. There was no doubt in my mind that the members of the well-known Filthy Fuckers MC weren’t going to agree to sit down and answer all of my questions over a glass of beer.
Dressed in cut-off jean shorts, Chuck’s, and my favorite tee shirt, I walked across the scorching asphalt parking lot toward the bar’s entrance.
I reached for the door, inhaled a shallow breath, and pulled it open.
Just be yourself, Peyton.
I stepped into the poorly lit bar and realized the only patrons were bikers. I was met by no less than twenty-four eyes, two of which I immediately recognized.
Nicholas “Crip” Navarro was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and despite my being almost twenty years his junior, I found him to be extremely attractive. He was 42, covered in tattoos, and as handsome as any man I had ever seen. Him being a biker made him even more attractive.
While mentally preparing to infiltrate the club, I studied many photos of the club’s known members, their motorcycles, and of Nick. In doing so, one thing stood out in each and every picture of him.
His remarkable blue eyes.
Now that they were locked on me, I searched for a glimmer of hope that I could remain strong-willed, independent, and above all, professional.
With my head held high, I clung to what little hope I had found, and walked directly toward the group of drunken bikers. Dressed in jeans, boots, and his leather vest, Navarro stood from the bar stool at his high-top table and turned to face me. With a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, he raked the fingers of his free hand through his black hair, brushing it away from his face.
His eyes fell to the floor and then slowly raised the length of my torso. After pausing to stare at my tits for a few long seconds, he eventually met my gaze. “You lost, little girl?”
I stutter-stepped, not quite knowing what to do. Roughly a dozen men surrounded him, and although they all looked at me with lustful eyes, it seemed they were waiting on his approval or rejection of me before they made any comments or passed judgement.
I swallowed hard and returned his stare. “No. I’d uhhm. I’d. I’d uhhm. I’d like to talk to you,” I stammered.
His eyes dropped to my bare legs. He grinned, revealing teeth much whiter than I expected him to possess. He raised his bottle of beer, took a drink, then lowered his chin slightly. “Show me your tits,” he demanded without so much as an ounce of expressed emotion.
Excuse me?
It wasn’t at all what I expected. I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?”
He took another drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk to me? Show me your fuckin’ tits.”
Causing any other man to respect me would have required a no answer. To get Nick Navarro to respect me meant I needed to bare my tits.
I cleared my throat.
Twice.
I nodded toward his waist. “Show me your cock.”
The man at his side, a muscular giant with collar-length hair and an awesome full beard, choked on the beer he was in the middle of swallowing and coughed out a laugh.
Navarro didn’t so much as crack a smile. Still cradling the bottle of beer in his hand, he reached for his belt, unfastened the buckle, and struggled to push his faded jeans down his thighs. As the material cleared the base of his dick – revealing a few inches of the rather thick shaft – my eyes shot wide.
Holy shit.
I wondered just how far he would go.
While I stood and waited, fairly certain he wouldn’t get his entire cock out in a public bar – especially amidst the members of the MC – he pushed the denim a little further and it sprung free.
Well, there’s the answer.
I stood, open-mouthed, and did what any girl in the same situation would have done.
I stared.
I enjoyed the scenery for a few seconds less than I really wanted to, laughed to myself at the thought of including the scene in my first written installment, and regretfully tore my eyes away from his thickness.
With the waist of his jeans at mid-thigh and his dick dangling from between his legs like the heavy slab of meat that it was, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a drink no differently than if he was fully clothed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t pull his jeans up, but was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all to give matters much serious thought. My heart felt like it was beating between my ears. I desperately wanted to take another look at his massive cock, but didn’t dare turn the even into any more of a sexually frustrated situation than it already was.
With his eyes locked on me, he finished his beer, handed the empty bottle to the six-foot-ten giant, and pulled up his jeans. He fastened his belt and cocked an eyebrow slightly. “Get ‘em out.”
What the fuck have I got myself into?
I inhaled a breath of courage, glanced around the bar, and made note that there was no one present except for me and the bikers. No waitress, no bartender, no nothing. Although I shouldn’t have, I found the thought of revealing my tits in front of the group of bikers to be sexually stimulating.
But, as my boss had clearly stated, I was a thrill seeking weirdo.
Against my will – and best judgement – my pussy began to tingle.
I pulled my tee shirt over my head, shoved a portion of it into the back pocket of my shorts, and lowered the straps of my bra past the sides of my upper arms. While each and every wide-eyed biker stood in wait, I cradled the cups of my bra with my hands and pulled them down slightly, revealing the full ‘C’ cup boobs that made me the most sought after freshman in high school.
Navarro shook his head. His mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk. “Take off the bra.”
A tingling ran the length of my body, from my neck to my calves and back. But, instead of rubbing my goose-bump covered arms, I unfastened my bra, pulled it forward, and tossed it toward the giant who was apparently Navarro’s body guard.
Not that he needed one.
The bearded biker snatched my bra from the air in mid-flight. I made note of the patches on the front of his vest.
Pee Bee. Sergeant-At-Arms.
My focus shifted back to Navarro. His slight smile made me comfortable, and I quickly got lost admiring his eyes. I cocked my head to the side and pressed my biceps against the edges of my breasts. “Satisfied?”
He pursed his lips, stared at my tits for a few long seconds, and nodded. “Nice set of tits.”
I did my best to offer him a curtsy. It probably looked like I lost my footing and stumbled.
His eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fought to swallow, and reached for my shirt. “Peyton. Peyton Price.”
“What’d you do, back your Hyundai into my fuckin’ bike?”
His entire body was covered in ink. Even his neck and knuckles were tattooed. He was far better looking than I expected him to be. I pulled my shirt over my head, situated it, and shook my head. “No. I parked fifty feet from you guys, and I drive a Jeep. I uhhm. I’m a reporter for the newspaper. The Union-Tribune. I’m doing an article, a three or four-piece installment on outlaw motorcycle gangs. I’d like to interview you.”
He stepped so close I could feel his breath on my face. “We’re a club,” he breathed.
My throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and muttered my response. “A uhhm. A club. An outlaw. An outlaw motorcycle club. Sorry, I misspoke.”
It was a foolish mistake.
He leaned away and shot me a glare. “Better get your shit straight before you go writin’ anything. Some half-wit motherfucker goes and calls us a gang in the newspaper, and we’ll all be doing time in the joint under the RICO act.”
“So you’ll agree to it?” I asked excitedly.
He inched closer, completely obstructing my view of everyone who surrounded him. He raised his clenched fist in front of my face, extended his middle finger, and widened his eyes.
I peered beyond his tattooed finger and widened mine in return.
With our eyes locked, he slowly lowered his hand. The lack of space between us made doing so rather difficult, and his tattooed bicep lightly brushed against the nipple of my left breast. I shuddered as a result, quickly reminded that I hadn’t taken the time to get my bra back from his oversized body guard.
I felt the tip of his finger trace along the inside of my leg, just above my knee. Feeling his hand on my flesh did little to excite me. It was impossible.
I was already soaked.
Although I wanted desperately to look down and see just what it was he was doing, I kept my eyes fixed on his, rolled my shoulders slightly, and straightened my posture. He needed to know I wasn’t just some dumb girl who was going to be scared away easily.
I’ve got news for you, Nick Navarro, you’re not going to intimidate me.
The tip of his finger rose the length of my inner thigh for what seemed like a lifetime. He must have perceived the lack of objection on my part as an invitation to continue.
Still focused on his hypnotic eyes, I tried to refrain from showing any emotion. With him teasing me while a dozen of his brethren watched, it didn’t come easily. His hand came to rest at the frayed opening of my shorts.
His mouth twisted into a smirk.
I tried to swallow, but didn’t quite succeed.
I felt his finger slide beneath the leg of my shorts.
You’re not going to…
As he circled my clit with his tattooed digit, I considered objecting to his little game, but the words never came. Had I protested, it would have been a lie. My boss was right, I was a thrill seeking weirdo, and having an outlaw biker come close to fingering me at noon in a remote bar in Escondido, California stood as all the proof that was needed.
Without warning, he pushed his finger inside of me.
Completely.
I gulped a breath.
So much for remaining professional.
He stared into my eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you?”
I wasn’t a whore. Hell, I wasn’t even what a person that anyone in their right mind could describe as promiscuous. But, for whatever reason, I was allowing Nick Navarro to finger fuck me while the beer guzzling members of his club eagerly watched. Be it because I desperately wanted to write the piece, or because I found tattooed bikers insanely attractive was irrelevant.
The fact remained that the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC had his middle finger shoved so deep inside of me that I could feel the palm of his hand against my clit.
And, I liked it.
A lot.
He curled the tip of his finger against my g-spot a few more times, bringing me to a shallow climax. Guilt washed over me. I made a feeble effort to writhe away from him, but failed miserably.
He gripped my neck with his free hand. “Going somewhere?”
An inaudible no puffed from my lips.
He pushed his finger deep and held his hand still.
I exhaled into his tattooed neck.
“Be at our clubhouse tomorrow at six o’clock,” he growled. “If you’re worth a fuck as a reporter, you’ll find it. Between now and then, I’ll decide if I’ll talk to you.”
As he pulled his finger from inside of me, I considered the possibility of him not wanting to talk to me after I showed up at his clubhouse.
I had no intention of sticking around while the other members of the club ogled me or expressed how they thought less of me for allowing their president to finger me senseless in their presence. I decided to wear the finger-fucking experience as a badge of honor.
I tugged against the legs of my shorts in an effort to situate myself. It provided no comfort. I was way past horny. “Sounds good,” I chimed.
He grinned.
I grinned in return, turned away, and took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth, you’ve got a nice cock.” I said over my shoulder.
And your finger’s not bad, either.
May 28, 2016
99 cent SALE! The entire Bodies Ink and Steel Series for 99 cents
Due to the overwhelming positive reviews from everyone on my newest release, Brawler, I have decided to place the Bodies Ink and Steel Series on SALE for 99 cents. Thank you, and enjoy.
LINK: https://www.amazon.com/BODIES-INK-STEEL-Scott-Hildreth-ebook/dp/B01G9CCCZ8/
May 19, 2016
2016 MUST READ Romance “BRAWLER”, is the best Scott Hildreth novel yet
TWO FOR ONE BOOK DEAL!!!! Deal of the day. Buy BRAWLER, my newest release. If you read it and don’t think 100% that’s it’s my best book ever, I’ll give you ANY book I’ve even written, for FREE.
Why?
Brawler is THAT good.
…
Best. Book. Ever.
Stand alone. No cheating. Rags to Riches. Feel Good Romance. And? It’s HOT as FUCK.
Amazon US: https://amzn.com/B01FT7ZD6O
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01FT7ZD6O
Amazon CA: http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01FT7ZD6O
Amazon AU: http://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B01FT7ZD6O
Signed Paperbacks: http://tinyurl.com/Hildrethsignedbooks
May 18, 2016
“BRAWLER” Kindle book giveaway: Follow me on Amazon for a chance to win “BRAWLER”
Follow me on Amazon for a chance to win a copy of my newest release, Brawler, a boxing romance.
May 17, 2016
My newest release, “BRAWLER” is LIVE!!!
My newest release, “Brawler” is LIVE!!! if you like strong heroines, fighters, and a great story, this book is for you.
Mike Ripton returns as a trainer for Jaz Briscoe’s book, Brawler.
In Jaz’s own words, this story is about fucking, fighting, and falling in love.
In that order.
BUY LINK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01FT7ZD6O
April 28, 2016
Succeeding as a self-published author isn’t easy, but it is possible
First things first. I’m stubborn. When I set a goal, I reach it. I’ve never been one to set unattainable goals, but I’m certainly not opposed to setting difficult ones.
It was 2012. I had committed myself to writing a novel and succeeding. With no job, no income, and a dwindling cash reserve, I locked myself in the house and began writing. Thirty days passed. Another thirty. Maybe more. I slept little and typed a lot. Then, I cast aside what portions of the MS weren’t needed, kept what I believed was, and whittled it down to the base essentials. I had finally reached a point where the MS, at least in my opinion, was perfect. A good friend (who just so happened to be an editor) came over and read it.
He told me I had a knack for writing. In short, he loved it.
The next day I fired up my tired laptop to make a few final touches to what I expected was going to be an award-winning manuscript.
The computer locked up. After repeated attempts (by me, friends, and professionals) to resurrect the document(s), I found out my hard work was lost.
And, I started over from scratch.
A few months later I was done (again). I convinced myself version two was better than the first.
During my development of my first MS, my car was repossessed (no job, no income, and the necessity for a home trumped the need for a car). I didn’t care. I was sure I was going to be pretty damned wealthy in a matter of months.
I walked to the coffee shop, logged on their internet, and self-published my first book, Broken People.
Family, friends, and everyone I had met at the coffee shop over the years rejoiced. They all bought the book, read it, and loved it. 5-star reviews on top of 5-star reviews followed. I rubbed my palms together and dreamt of what color of car I was going to buy to replace the car that was repossessed.
60 days later, I got my first check (they sent me an actual check, because I didn’t even have a bank account). It was roughly $100.
The next month I got another. It was $70.
The bank came and repossessed my motorcycle. My motorcycle. My motorcycle. A motorcycle I had for over 10 years. My signature. My other half. I bit my quivering lower lip and reminded myself that I was going to succeed.
Challenged by a literary agent to write an erotic novel, I did so. Upon completion, I sent it to her. She chuckled. “It’s not marketable,” she said. “I couldn’t get an editor to even consider it. The hero is an asshole, and although you could self-publish it, you need to…”
She continued to speak, but I didn’t listen. What did she know?
I self-published my second novel, Baby Girl. The agent was right. It was marketable as a self-published work. It made it to #1 in Erotic Romance, and stayed there for two weeks. It was 2013. At the time, I was one of just a few self-published male romance/erotica authors. It was more of a curse than a blessing. Personally, I hated it when people said ‘you’re my favorite male romance author.’
What? Out of the four that exist?
I wanted to be categorized with everyone. A man, especially one in touch with his feminine side, should be able to write romance as well as a female, right?
I wrote a second book, Baby Girl II, a continuation of the couple in the first book. And then, a third, Baby Girl III.
Between my motorcycle’s departure and the third book, I got a few eviction notices. I’m not even going to get into that. I’ll just say I was determined. I worked 14-16 hours a day writing, and did so 7 days a week. I went 90 days without so much as opening my front door. I didn’t get the mail, I didn’t see friends, I didn’t do anything. The eviction notices stacked up.
I read. I wrote. I studied. I read more. I wrote more. I asked questions. I listened. Although I didn’t have a television (I hadn’t had one in 10 years), or the internet (I didn’t have it for 10 years either) I used the free wireless down the street at he coffee shop. I started a blog. I got a Goodreads page. I got my first Facebook account.
You see, up until that time, I was anti-social media. I didn’t believe I needed Facebook in my life. If someone wanted to know how or what I was doing, they would have to know me well enough to either have my phone number or know where I lived.
To succeed in the self-published world, however, I had to become social. So, once again, I bit my lip and did so.
The Baby Girl series sold extremely well, and I was pleased at my first attempt to write erotica.
A check came. It had a comma in the amount column. I paid my rent. And.
I ate food.
Peanut butter. And oatmeal. At the same time.
In December of 2013, I wrote another book, Undefeated. A boxer with a hard head and a soft heart. I published it in January 2014. It was met with mixed reviews, some saying he was too warm-hearted, and others saying he was too much of a hot-head.
I took it personal. I wondered, however, how he could be too soft and too hard. I reviewed my MS, re-read the book, and scratched my head. Time passed. I realized there will always be people who make it a point to hate on a self-published work. They enjoy it. They pick at it like a festering sore.
I decided my hero, Shane Dekkar, was a great guy, and wrote a four book series about him and his best friend, Mike Ripton. Unstoppable, Unleashed, and Unbroken all went to #1 in their subgenres, and Unleashed went to #1 in all of erotica for an entire month.
Finally, I was making enough money to survive.
I wasn’t getting rich, but I was paying my rent.
And. I. Continued.
I’m not going to bore you with all of the details, but I made a few changes. I realized my covers were nothing short of a photo that covered the title page. My wife volunteered to make me new covers. I replaced all my old covers. Sales picked up.
I spent an hour or so a day interacting with fans on Facebook, an hour on Goodreads, and wrote for 12 hours. Seven days a week, this process continued from 2014-2015.
In 2015 I did my first signing, and took 300 books. My wife and I had no idea what to expect. It was at Hard Rock in Tulsa. In four hours, we were sold out of books. It appeared that I had reached a point that I was being well-received by readers. I convinced myself i was capable of writing. A pimple, if you will, on an author’s ass.
I left with a sack of cash and a stomach full of humility.
On the surface, I appear to be an ass. I am, however, a very humble man.
I bit into a slice of humble pie, and in fall of 2015, I sent the agent (the one who said Baby Girl was unmarketable) a query. Enough time had passed that I realized she was right about Baby Girl. You see, in the beginning, many of us think we’re authors. More often than not, we aren’t. We’re simply writers.
We put words together until they form an improperly punctuated sentence, follow it with a little dialogue, and give the dialogue a very descriptive dialogue tag. We tell a lot and convince ourselves we’re showing. We make mistakes.
My first manuscripts stand as a testament to my ability to sell a story that’s poorly written, filled with mistakes, and nothing short of embarrassing. I’m a great story teller and a really crappy author.
So, the fall of 2015…
I’d written a series of books about a motorcycle club. They’d all been to #1, and they’d also hit the top 100 out of all book on Amazon, regardless of genre. Two made it to the top 50. I was selling (with each release) between 1,000 and 1,500 books a day. My author ranking, at the time, was #2. Only EL James was above me.
I emailed the agent. The email turned into a phone call. The phone call produced a challenge on her part to have me write a book for her that an editor specifically asked for. I accepted the challenge, and wrote the first 4 chapters for her.
She submitted it to the editor. Within 12 hours, I had commitment for my first book deal. It seemed my writing had progressed enough to gather the attention of an agent, a major publisher, and become mainstream.
The next month, I won a Kindle All-Star award for selling more books than most self-published authors.
Then, my book won a Kindle All-Star award. And then, I won another. And another.
Amazon contacted me. They offered to buy the audio rights to my motorcycle series. I refereed them to my agent. I liked saying it. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to talk to my agent.”
2016 rolled around.
I exhaled for a moment at Christmas and realized more that three years had passed since my first stab at writing a self-published book. 25 full-length novels later, and I had finally reached a point that my writing didn’t embarrass me.
And now, everything’s pretty much the same. I write 12-14 hours a day, seven days a week, and each day I learn something about the craft that makes my writing more clear, more concise, and more marketable.
How?
I listen to my agent, Michelle Johnson. And my wife, Jessica. And my PA, Kat Chadwick. I read a lot. And, I realize that above all, I’m human. Not super-human, simply human. And, humans make mistakes. A lot of them.
I guess I’ll close by saying this. I had written for almost 20 years (magazine articles) but committed myself to becoming an author in the late months of 2012. I stuck with it. I lost everything, but I never gave up. I listened. I changed. I realized when I made mistakes and learned from them. I thanked people for their constructive one-star reviews. I read all the reviews, applied what I felt I should, and, as a result, developed a more palatable book.
I now stand as proof that a self-published author can make it.
We can succeed.
But we must be willing to admit something to do so.
We’re only human.
And in being so, we make mistakes.
April 26, 2016
My next book, due out May 10th is going to KNOCK YOU OUT!
UPDATE of my Upcoming release (mid-May).
In two weeks, the erotic romance book world will once again be turned on its ear.
Why?
Well, someone is coming back.
Someone HUGE.
Someone funny.
Someone who loves to fuck, fight, drink, swear, and have dinner at home with his momma.
Whaaaaat? You ask. Who might this be?
Well, have a look at this PROLOGUE.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is all you get. No first four chapters. Not of this one. You’re just going to have to wait until the teasers are posted for some more.
BUT.
This one is fast-paced. Filthy dirty.
And.
It has the best heroine ever.
EVER.
Meet Jaz.
Just don’t piss her off.
Or her trainer. He’s been known to have a temper.
This is a STAND-ALONE Erotic Romance. But. You need to be prepared for a book like HUNG, told from a woman’s POV. This one is a GREAT story, but OMG does it have a sexually active couple.
And action galore.
I’m giddy!!!!!
PROLOGUE
Cheerios. Ten or so of them floating in a bowl of milk. That’s my earliest memory. I don’t know how old I was at the time, but I was less than two years old, because the next vivid recollection I have is of my second birthday. I don’t recall the gifts I received, but I’m sure I was two. Either that, or my father could only afford two candles. There was frosting. Lots of frosting. And wrapping paper.
At some point there was loud music. Kisses. Fizzy drinks. The blue car with multi-color cloth interior. A mustache. The house with no trees. Rain. It rained forever. The house with nothing but trees. And bunkbeds. I never understood the bunkbeds, but then again, I never asked.
And then, nothing until I was seven. Second grade with Emily Barton. We got in a fight in the hallway over something so unimportant I couldn’t recall it a week later, and damned sure can’t remember now. I’ll never forget how much it hurt to have my hair pulled, though.
Elementary and middle school must have been uneventful, because I really don’t remember much between Emily pulling my hair and the first day of high school. High school brought with it football and house parties. Bobby Breyton talked me into giving him head in the back of Toby Wilson’s truck when I was a freshman. It was cold and his dick was the size of my wrist. And long. Really long. He told everyone what a slut I was. At first, I denied it. I later learned admitting to it made me more marketable, so I proudly laid claim to the house party truck bed blowjob.
An overabundance of sexual opportunities soon followed, and my sophomore through senior year was a blur of boys, beer, blowjobs, and being backhanded by my father. I learned that I was a product of my environment, and my father’s anger soon turned into mine. As the fights with my father continued, fighting at school became second nature for me.
I left home when I was eighteen. Eighteen and angry.
It was May 21st.
The day after I graduated high school.
Depending on what one’s definition of a great distance is, I didn’t get far. It was 1,057 miles from my home in Omaha, Nebraska to Corpus Christi, Texas, and Corpus Christi was my final destination. I made it as far as Austin, Texas.
It was a far cry from the Gulf of Mexico, but at the time, I saw it as the beginning to what was sure to be a perfect life.
When we met, I was 18 and Preston was 31. We both liked coffee. And wild sex. He was going out when I was going in. We collided. It was the first time someone told me I was beautiful that I believed them. He was handsome, rich, treated me well, and fucked me even better. At least at first. A year quickly passed. Every day it seemed things got better. Not that they were ever bad. In fact, they were great. And from there things got better than great.
Spectacular.
Yes. Life at the age of 19 was spectacular.
And then the wheels fell off. Things went to shit. Not over a period of time, or after a sequence of events, but immediately. One day he decided he’d had enough. And just like that.
Boom!
My life was over.
He kicked me to the curb, and not a metaphorical curb kicking. He actually kicked me to the curb.
With a backpack filled with my personal items and a little money he gave me to get on my feet, I went from the comfort of his million-dollar home to living on the streets.
I didn’t live there for long. Two years and six months later, I had the world by the balls.
How?
I hit a girl in the mouth for talking a mad line of shit to me in the parking lot of a Starbucks. Before she had a chance to wipe the blood from her lips, I met a man who volunteered to train me as a professional fighter. And, at his gym, I met another man. The man I fell in love with.
My name’s Beth, but no one ever calls me by my name.
They call me Jaz.
It’s short for Jasmine.
And the trainer who noticed my raw talent?
His name’s Mike. Michael actually.
But no one calls him by his name.
They call him Ripp.
This is my story. It’s intense, fast-paced, often violent, full of crazy sex, and hard to believe at times…
But it’s true.
