Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 59
July 12, 2015
Bestselling m/m romance at a discount
Not Safe For Work made it onto All Romance Ebooks’ bestseller list! You can get it for 75% of the price (until July 21) by clicking the icon:
July 8, 2015
Reviews
World of Diversity Fiction review
Find Rival Poet at All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords
World of Diversity Fiction review
Find Just Playing at All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords
World of Diversity Fiction review
Find The Road Taken at All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords
Find Release at All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords
Find Not Safe For Work at All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords
July 7, 2015
Excerpt from Not Safe For Work
I feel the red hot build-up in my thighs and groin. I’ve had it with fragile. I don’t want any more beautiful. Feathery touches can’t convince me that he’s mine. I need the raw pounding, the eclipsing of the self.
He senses my hesitation and props himself up on his elbows. The look he gives me is full of reproach. “I’m your best friend first.”
I know what he means. What am I doing, keeping him in the dark? We’ve always told each other everything. I release his cock with a sigh and sit up. My hair hangs in apologetic wisps in front of my face, as if to filter what I know I have to say. “Leo…”
“You want something else.”
“Yeah, I…” I gesture limply, afraid to name it.
But he already knows. “Look, when I said I wanted you to use your mouth… I mean, I do, I want that, but fuck it, Jakob… I’d like to really seal it, you know?”
I nod, completely in tune with his thinking. “Mark the beginning,” I translate. “Make it real.”
“Yeah.” His cheeks are flushed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So who should… I mean…”
I laugh a little. “Who should fuck who?”
He rolls his eyes and then grins cockily. “Well, I’d offer, but we both know you’re the asshole.”
I move a stiff hand to minimize the window. “I think that’s enough for now.” I sound completely exhausted. Perhaps I am. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
Merethe looks up with glistening eyes, surfacing as if from a dream. She looks like she’s waiting for something. My confession? My shamefaced confirmation that this is in fact completely real, exactly what happened? Jesus. This is so fucked up. Seriously, psycho fucked up. I’m letting her read Leo’s fake post about his sexual escapades with me? In my name. We’re nowhere near that level of friendship.
“It’s well written,” she says, and I know it’s her way of asking how it can’t be true: something that beautiful just has to be real. She’s always been romantic like that.
“Emphasis on ‘written,’” I mutter, but my voice grates against dry vocal cords and doesn’t sound very convincing. “Written, as in fictitious.”
She doesn’t grace that with a comment. She’s the literary theory buff, I’m the linguist. She believes everything she reads, especially if it’s well formulated. As if an adage is automatically true because it sounds good. While I doubt everything, and suspect lies at every turn.
“It is kind of romantic,” she says.
I want to explode at her, but I don’t have the energy. I just shake my head in despair. “Romantic? Are you completely bloody insane? What’s romantic about hijacking someone’s identity and rewriting their whole life?”
Merethe bites her lip. “In the beginning was the word…”
I roll my eyes. Trust her to believe that. Now she’s going to tell me that writers lie to tell the truth, that Jules Verne predicted the future and that nothing is real but what we clothe in words. The very thing I said to Dahlberg today.
She sighs, looks like she’s going to say something more, but then swallows it down. A minute of silence, then she cocks her head. “Want some coffee?”
“Huh?” I stare at her. She’s strangely out of focus.
“Coffee.” She smiles. “You seem to need it.”
I don’t reply, so she just takes an old mug from my desk and goes to fill it, leaving me a moment to gather my fraying wits. I should be grateful, but I just don’t know where to start. I try to go back to this morning, pick everything apart from beginning to end. Why did I read that blog post in the first place? What made me browse the #nsfw tag today of all days? My dream comes back to me through a fog of confusion. The image of that welcoming smile, the reddish hair, the plea to take me… And then Leo’s text, gatecrashing my embryonic jerking session. As if he knew…
Drawing a hissing breath, I lean my head in my hands. I’m being completely insane. He can’t read my mind, and he doesn’t know what I dreamed. Christ, I’m being paranoid! How could a secret dream ever be related to a spoof blog post? A Professor Dahlberg question if ever there was one. Can he have hacked my computer somehow, seen my Internet history and put his crazy story on the very website I frequent most often?
He probably could do that, actually. But hacking a computer is very different from magically controlling someone’s dreams. No, that was just a coincidence.
Although Leo does have kind of red hair.
“There you go.” Merethe plonks the mug in front of me and I grab it instinctively. Too hot, I remind myself. Take it easy. She watches me while I blow on the coffee, being very careful not to spill it.
After a minute, she sighs. “Okay.” She’s scowling now, radiating disappointment. “I believe you. He made it up, fine. I mean, you’re here. Not in London.”
“Exactly.”
“Although that photo could have been taken anywhere.”
“No.”
She makes a face. “Well…”
Clenching my teeth, I reach for the mouse to go back to Facebook and show her: look, for fuck’s sake, there’s a big whopping Westminster Abbey or whatever in the background – but my finger slips and the Tumblr page refreshes, tossing up a new post that actually makes me drop the mug. Like you never do in real life: the kind of shock-limp hand that makes trays of porcelain crash in romantic movies. Coffee splashing everywhere.
I stare at the screen, heart in my mouth. There’s a video. A very real-looking video of me and him, as if we’re part of a game, and this is the promo clip for it. And it’s obvious from the still what we’re doing. What is this? What is this? my brain keeps shrieking at me, and the answer is as inevitable as it is frightening.
It’s ultimate fucking proof.
And I do mean that literally.
Find Not Safe For Work at All Romance Ebooks, Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo or iBooks.
What if your OTP found your Tumblr…?
Wonder no more. My new book Not Safe For Work (25% off at All Romance Ebooks) takes a look at how two ordinary guys’ lives are completely overturned by the slash phenomenon.
It’s Jakob’s birthday, and boy is he getting a surprise. His friend Leo has written a sexy blog about the two of them — all untrue, of course. Or is it? Identity hijacked, fake love life laid out for the world to see, Jakob is devastated. He should deny it all, but he can’t stop reading. Soon, he’ll have to confront Leo, but he’s afraid — can there be a tiny grain of truth in those stories?
Find out in Not Safe For Work, on sale now!
June 29, 2015
Seven Thousand Minutes (Pt 2)
Dennis found him on a swing set in the garden, bathed in moonlight. When his shoe scraped against a stone in the grass, the slender figure made a start, and a hand came away from his mouth.
Dennis stopped. He just stood there, watching, for what seemed like half a minute. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Martin looked back up at him, his eyelashes a bluish quiver in the dusk. The only sound was a faint squeak from the swing. When the silence began to grow unbearable, Martin smiled. The moonlight made a slash at his teeth and then rippled in his hair as he shook his head. “If you’re going to tell me off, I have to warn you. I don’t have all night.”
The spell was broken. Dennis walked up and sat on the swing next to him. “I just don’t understand why you had to… I mean, the others weren’t even looking.”
He felt Martin turn to look at him, and his cheeks warmed at the silent retort. I wasn’t the one who started it.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis mumbled. “I guess I’m a little drunk.”
Martin chuckled. “Oh, you are.” He turned his head up and gazed as the moon was covered by purplish wisps of cloud. “But not that drunk.”
Dennis wanted to object, but he didn’t know how. The haze of beer was heavy in his head, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t string coherent thoughts together.
Martin leaned his head on the swing chain. There was a faint sound, perhaps a sigh. “I don’t get that game.”
Jumping at the chance to joke, Dennis started to explain. “Well, it works like this: you pull a couple of names from a hat…”
He didn’t know why he stopped. Martin hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even made a gesture. It was just… him. How he was. How he always was. That strange, innate gentleness that could deflect any barb, any taunt. Nothing ever seemed to faze him. He was like a deer who just turned to look the hunter in the eye, and all weapons fell to the ground.
Dennis wished there was some way of moving closer, but the swings hung where they hung, two feet apart.
“What did the others say?” Martin asked.
Dennis looked up sharply. “You didn’t go to them?”
Martin shrugged. “Well, I was going to, but…” He kicked at the ground, making the swing twist and turn.
A shiver ran through Dennis. “I didn’t either.”
A new kind of silence descended on them as they perhaps both contemplated what this might mean. What would the others think? What would anyone think if a couple of guys went into the closet for seven minutes of heaven and then disappeared without a trace?
Dennis leaned his head in his hands and groaned. The swing creaked in sympathy. “I want to go home.”
Martin said nothing.
Breathing in deeply, Dennis straightened up. “But I can’t. I have to explain first.”
“Explain what?” Martin mumbled.
Dennis closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know.”
Martin giggled under his breath.
Dennis gave him a cross look. “You think this is funny?”
“It kind of is, yeah. I mean, what did you think would happen when you dragged me off like that?”
Dennis had a sudden urge to yell, but he stopped himself. Because Martin was right. Dennis had invited this whole thing. For once, one of his notorious jokes had backfired, and now he was the butt of it. “So what do you suggest, genius?”
There was a pause, a shift in mood. Sensing it, Dennis’s heart shuddered in his chest. Something was happening again, something he couldn’t handle.
He stood up, and the swing rattled behind him. “Let’s go back in.”
“Okay.”
He felt Martin approach behind him. It was as if Dennis’s senses were heightened, tightened like a violin string to the point of snapping. The subtle warmth from Martin’s living, breathing body invaded his skin through the cotton of his shirt. Moving quickly, he stalked up the slightly sloping lawn, eager to get away. But Martin was quite as fast as him. Dennis heard his laboured breathing, unnaturally close in the darkness. Heart beating too hard, he stopped and turned. Martin almost bumped into him, and Dennis grabbed him by the arms to stare at him. Martin looked back, or at least Dennis thought he did: the moon was behind him now, and his face was in shadow.
As if drawn by magic, Dennis’s hands let go of Martin’s arms and hovered up to his face. When his fingertips brushed something soft, like cobwebs of silk, they curled closed. The hard, hot contours of Martin’s head felt strangely real against his skin. And then Dennis’s hands twitched a little, and it was all that was needed. Martin’s face edged closer. His breath smelled of beer, and it mingled with something that must be cologne. Sweet and heady, it snaked up through Dennis’s nose, straight to his brain. It lit up his synapses in carnival colours.
They must have lunged at the same time. When their mouths crashed together, there was a sharp pain in Dennis’s lip. With a yelp, he yanked his head back. His hands were still buried in Martin’s hair, curled around the base of his skull. With a gasp, he let go. On instinct, he licked his lips. They tasted salty. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, because someone had to say it. He’d rather it was Martin, but one look at the way his body leaned into him like a wisp of smoke told him that he wasn’t sorry at all. Not even for biting him.
“Shit,” Dennis muttered, and then he slipped and almost fell as his shoes swerved on the grass and he fled into the night.
To be continued…
June 10, 2015
I love to hate you? (Or, wrapping your head around a Jasper)
This is not a review. I don’t write reviews, because there are just too many variables to take into account, certainly in a five star rating system. So please take this for what it is: inane ramblings, prompted by a book I read and loved (For Real by Alexis Hall).
The question I keep asking myself after having read this book is: why can’t I love people when I love characters?
The character I can’t let go of is Jasper, an academic. I’m tempted to leave it there, but he’s actually a specific type of academic, and we’re not all like that: aloof and intense, condescending and vulnerable, can’t take his own medicine (that may be my own speculation). I have met this exact person in real life, and I have hated them. But I don’t hate Jasper, I love him. In a twisted, love/hate kind of way, granted, but still. There’s nothing romantic about the real life version, and yet I’m drawn to this character “like soapy water down a drain pipe” (to quote an adaptation of Goldoni’s Venetian Twins for no good reason other than that’s what Jasper would have done). I have no idea why I love him, which is, I suppose, the reason why it’s still bugging me two days after I finished the book.
Of course, I have Theories.
1) He’s so well written that what I actually love is that someone can see these things and put them on paper without having a fit.
2) The joy of recognition: my tendency for nostalgia is so strong that even the negative stuff takes on some kind of romantic cast.
3) As my husband and I like to say, people are best on film (or as the case may be, in books). Human beings are fascinating, but that doesn’t mean that we want to interact with them personally.
If these theories were scrutinized by a Jasper, they would probably be found to overlap unforgivably and to leave out recent developments in psychology, sociology, and linguistics*. But I’m not sending it to Jasper, I’m posting it on my own damn blog. I reserve the right to be inconsistent and anecdotal on my own turf, at least.
But I guess it does all boil down to this: encountering an exact reflection of your own experience in a book can be exhilarating. And maybe in some way, the reflection redeems the people? They are seen and understood, categorized and explained, and somehow I can accept if not them, then the idea of them.
Now, this is all very well and I could just smile at the whole thing, were it not that tomorrow I have to meet people who are exactly like Jasper: self-absorbed, condescending assholes whose only function is to slaughter my work. (Not all of them are assholes, of course, but just like in fiction, the nice ones aren’t interesting enough to mention.) Anyway, with Jasper and my affection for him as a kind of shield against these people, shouldn’t I be able to smile indulgently and remind myself that it’s just their own insecurities that make them act the way they do? That it’s just the toxic culture of academia that fosters this kind of person?
Heh. No. I can rationalize until the Devil himself comes to replace me, but I’ll still gnash my teeth and get a headache tomorrow. Because the worst part of it is, there’s a fourth theory.
4) I wish I was him.
* Yep, that comma was intentional.
June 2, 2015
Seven Thousand Minutes (pt 1)
“Dennis and…” John groped around in the hat for an unnecessarily long time, and then pulled out the second piece of paper with a flourish. Unfolding it, he was about to say the name of the lucky lady who was about to spend seven minutes in Dennis heaven…
And then he burst out laughing. “Martin!” he hooted, waving it around for everyone to see. The room erupted in drunken cheers, and Dennis joined in. Martin was looking wide-eyed and awkward, but that wasn’t unusual. The guy seemed intent on going through life inviting criticism and derision with a gauche kind of stoicism.
“Okay then,” Dennis smiled and stood up – a little uncertainly, but not clumsily enough to look like an idiot. Martin didn’t move a muscle. “Come on, be a good sport,” Dennis cajoled. “I promise I won’t go past second base.”
That earned him another round of guffaws. Martin looked up at him with an inscrutable expression on his face – almost as if he was sad. But Dennis kept holding his hand out until Martin’s hand came up to meet it. His slim fingers crept into Dennis’s palm like a kitten begging for a petting. Dennis closed his hand on them, pulling Martin up in a single, smooth motion. Martin staggered a little and ended up with his nose almost touching Dennis’s.
“Hey, don’t sneak extra minutes!” someone hollered, whipping up new giggles.
Dennis slipped an arm around Martin’s waist and then mimed a mock ass-grab. Anything for his audience. Anything to keep the mood light and fun. But when he looked at Martin, something tugged at his ribs. He seemed so small. As if he was trying to creep inside his own skin and hide.
“Come on,” Dennis said again and pulled at Martin’s hand. He could feel the reluctance in the way that hand lay too stiffly in his, but there was no hesitation in Martin’s feet. Murmurs of laughter followed them all the way to the closet. When he’d closed the door behind them, Dennis let go of Martin’s hand and switched on the light. Martin blinked a little in the glare. “Sorry, man. I just thought, you know…”
“No sweat,” Martin replied quickly. “I get the joke.”
Said with the most somber face in the history of mankind. Dennis couldn’t help cracking up. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Seven minutes and counting!” John shouted just outside the door and banged on it. In the background, the other guests sniggered. “And turn off the light, you’re killing the mood,” John added in a saccharine voice.
Shrugging, Dennis obeyed. “Or else he’ll never stop,” he explained to the darkness. He thought he could hear Martin exhale.
“Six minutes and fifty seconds,” John informed them.
“Shut up and go away,” Dennis barked.
“Ooh,” John cooed as he walked back to the others. “Lovebird is getting possessive.”
“Don’t mind them,” Dennis said. “You know what they’re like.”
Martin didn’t reply.
“What’s the matter, Martin? Disappointed that we’re not making out?” Dennis giggled. “I’ll feel you up if you want.”
He took a step forward and caught Martin in his arms. He turned rigid, but didn’t fight Dennis’s hand as it crept down his thigh in a parody of seduction. Martin’s breath came in tiny starts against Dennis’s ear, and something in the sound felt strangely intimate. Heart twisting a little in his chest, Dennis launched into full goof mode. “Yeah baby,” he whispered into Martin’s hair. “Ooh, you feel so good.”
There was a weird sound in Martin’s throat, almost like a sob. But he still wasn’t resisting the joke. To be fair, he wasn’t playing along either. He was just sort of standing there, straight as a rod, letting Dennis enact his little farce without saying anything.
“Come on, Martin,” Dennis smiled into his neck. “It’s your seven minutes of heaven – maybe the only ones you’ll get tonight!” He regretted the words as soon as they hit the air. Martin turned as fragile as glass, and he started pulling away, but Dennis caught his arm. “Shit, Martin, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”
“No, you’re right,” Martin whispered. “I should enjoy it while it lasts.”
And with that, he grabbed hold of Dennis’s chin. Dennis didn’t understand what was happening until his back gently hit the wall and something covered his mouth. Breath hitching, he felt the tip of Martin’s tongue brush his lips. He thought he was about to turn his head away and laugh it off, but that wasn’t what happened. Instead, his mouth fell open, and Martin’s tongue pushed all the way in.
It only lasted for a few seconds. Then Martin drew back and a cold string of saliva snapped between them, landing on Dennis’s chin. “Was that what you wanted?” Martin asked low in his throat. And then the door opened on a slash of light and Martin slipped out of the closet and into the cheers and applause of the rest of the party.
To be continued…
May 25, 2015
Rival Poet giveaway
For the chance to win a free copy of Rival Poet, please head over to Multitasking Mommas and leave a comment before June 1!
May 19, 2015
Excerpt from Release
He bent over his bike again, but was distracted by the sound of crunching gravel. “Oh, shit,” Jamie muttered where he sat. “Incoming Samaritan.”
They exchanged weary looks. If travelling England had taught them one thing, it was that people were much too helpful. They’d been offered everything from directions to a sip of whisky in the rain, which was fine but for the tiny fact that the whole point of this tour was to do it the hard way.
A mud-spattered car slowed to a stop beside them, and Michael steeled himself. Just say no, he told himself. Just smile and say ‘thanks but no thanks’.
But the person in the car didn’t roll down the window, didn’t address them. When Michael squinted at the dappled glass, the young man inside averted his eyes. The car started rolling again, wheels turning out towards the road, only to swerve back and stop.
“What the hell?” Jamie chuckled. “Is he drunk or something?”
There was a moment of hesitation so palpable that Michael could almost hear it. Then the window was rolled down, slowly and jerkily, as if the hand that turned the handle was nervous. When it was almost all the way down, a young man with a wilting fringe peered out. He looked too young to be driving a car, but maybe it was just his big eyes and reedy thinness that peeled off the years. “You okay?” He scrunched up his face against the rain and put a hand over his eyes to shield them.
Michael stood up. “Yeah, thanks, we’re fi–” He stopped. The stranger was wearing the weirdest expression. Almost as if he was… awed. “… uh, fine.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, and then he let slip a giggle that sounded out of breath. “This is just… such an honour.” He looked from Michael to Jamie, his cheeks colouring, and then his eyes trailed away to where Becca was drumming her fingers against her saddle, fifty yards up the road. He blinked and frowned, as if there was something wrong with the picture.
Jamie stood up and brushed the grit from his tracksuit. Then he walked up to the car, leaned with his elbow on the roof and gave the lad inside his trademark look – the sideways grin, the one he’d always used for the camera. “You know who we are?”
The young man laughed and nodded, and then he held out his hand. But before Jamie could take it, he drew it back and wiped it on his corduroys, as if he was afraid of contaminating Jamie with his sweaty ordinariness. Sticking it out of the window again, he waited until Jamie hesitantly shook it. “I’m Adam, and yes,” he giggled, “I know who you are.” He was speaking too quickly, as if he was afraid of being interrupted.
Jamie chuckled warmly. “Well, hi there, Adam. Nice to meet you.”
Michael’s heart pulsed with ridiculous love. Jamie had been indulgent with another awkward youngster a couple of years back. If there was one thing he was phenomenal at, it was making people feel comfortable. Sometimes Michael was as awed by him as Adam seemed to be.
The boy wasn’t letting go of Jamie’s hand. Instead he pulled him closer to the car, confiding in a husky tone, “I have all three of your albums.”
“Oh, so you’re the one who bought them?” Michael grinned. The joke was wearing a bit thin, but he needed to say something to break the spell. It was enough to watch audience members throw yearning looks at Jamie every night. He didn’t need another rival.
Adam nodded eagerly and finally loosened his grip, apparently to swipe his fringe from his face. “Actually, I’ve got two copies of each,” he said. “I keep one in the plastic, the original plastic, um, wrapper, you know… They’ll be worth money one day.”
“Yeah, because right now, they’re worth fuck-all,” Becca snorted as she came walking back, pushing her bike. “What was it in that Virgin sales bin? Fifty pence?”
Adam gave her a filthy look, and seeing it, Michael prickled. Becca was a bloody handful, and he reserved the right to complain about her diva ways whenever he wanted, but he couldn’t stand it when other people didn’t appreciate her. “She’s right,” he said. “Fugue wasn’t exactly Top of the Pops material.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Adam insisted, all serious and big-eyed. “People may not get you just yet, but that’s because you’re so far ahead. I get you, though. It’ll be insane, just wait and see. And when that day comes, remember me. I was a fan all along. Not like these other knuckleheads.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the world outside his car. “I think what you’re doing is amazing.”
“Well, thanks for your support,” Michael said, demonstratively turning a foot towards the road.
“Do you want a ride?” Adam asked. “Or I could take your, I don’t know… keyboards?”
“We’ve got a minivan that transports our stuff. Cal drives it.”
Adam relaxed so visibly that Michael almost laughed. The guy had been all wound up because their drummer was missing? This really was a fan.
“Okay,” he smiled lopsidedly and started rolling up the window again. “Well, see you tonight then. It’ll be smashing!” With that, he drove away, waving until they couldn’t see him anymore.
“Aw, bless his heart,” Becca cooed.
Jamie mimed hitting her upside the head. “Without the fans, we wouldn’t even be a band.”
“Oh yes, we would,” she sniffed. “And it would be a hell of a lot more avant garde than playing in Wiltshire town halls.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that Pax is supposed to be avant garde?”
Becca laughed, a sound that sometimes made people think she was a smoker. “Your spaced out fucking hippie album from last year?”
“It’s not a hippie album,” Jamie muttered, but Becca had already jumped onto her bike and was pedalling away as if having the last word was a matter of life and death.
Michael smiled at her receding back. “It’s like having some kind of terrier with us.”
Jamie cocked his head. “A terrier who can play.”
“And mix a wicked Black Russian.”
Jamie nodded gravely. “A talent not to be discounted.”
Their eyes met in silent laughter. A moment of hesitation – and then Jamie stepped forward to plant a soft kiss on Michael’s lips. “Darling.”
Michael closed his eyes to the grey sky above them, to the glistening wet hedges. In that moment, only Jamie existed: his velveteen lips, his warm body. The faint taste of wine. Breaking off the kiss, Michael smiled against his mouth. “At least brush your teeth before we go on tonight.”
Jamie scoffed. “I’m not snogging the audience, Mike. And bad breath isn’t actually visible.”
“Not yet.”
Another car appeared on the horizon, and they quickly stepped away from each other. Jamie withdrew his arm from Michael’s waist, and they slipped back into character. The whole country might know that they were queers, but shoving it down their throats was never a good idea.
Jamie gripped his handlebars, put a foot on the pedal and pushed off. As he swung his other leg over the cross bar, the bike wobbled a little, but then he got control over it and was on his way. Michael followed him closely, shaking his head. One of these days, Jamie was going to end up in a ditch, tangled in his bike. Not that it would make him reconsider the liquid snacking. I have one silver lining in my life, he would say, and you want to take it from me?
And Michael would retort, I’ll show you silver lining.
Find your copy of Release at Smashwords, All Romance Ebooks, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks or Kobo.
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