It’s been a long time coming but Break My Fall is finally on sale.
I almost didn’t finish this book. I guess it means I’m never meant to write a sequel novel b/c this is the second time a “second book” in series has kicked my tail in an epic and unforgettable way. Guess I’ll never learn.
Oh yeah, I’ve got two contests running for two different iPad Minis. Celebrate Break My Fall & Enter to Win an iPad Mini
And for those of you on Pinterest, you can go here.
Anyway, I’ve put an exclusive excerpt up below and I hope you’ll order it this week if you can. First week sales dramatically influence author ranks on all the sites. Also, whether you loved it or hated it, reviews are incredibly important. If you’re so inclined, please consider leaving one wherever you buy ebooks.
Here’s the blurb
"Break My Fall is pure emotion wrapped in Jessica Scott’s signature wit. Josh and Abby are the kind of characters who will stay with you long after you close the book." – Farrah Rochon, USA Today bestselling author
"Jessica Scott has a gift for writing characters that I feel in my heart. Break My Fall was no exception. I was all in from the first page to the last." Claudia Connor, New York Times bestselling author of Worth The Fall
And now I have to sit around and discuss it like it’s physics or calculus. I can’t do it. I can’t pretend that it’s some sterile academic topic. Violence isn’t sterile. It isn’t calm. It’s pulsing. It’s alive.
It’s my drug.
Until I met Abby, I never wanted anything beyond the next fight. Never considered that I might finally find a way back to the land of the living.
Now? Now I find myself dreaming of a woman with golden eyes.
But I can never be with her. Because I am not whole. And I never will be again.
But I cannot stay away.
And loving her might finally be what breaks me.
And check out this exclusive excerpt!
I’m a little drunk. I didn’t mean to get drunk but it was that or stare at my phone, sick with worry.
She texts me and tells me she’s okay. I want to meet up with her. I want to see her. To confirm that yes, she is okay.
I don’t, because I know she needed to do this. And I’m not going to let my own psychosis ruin something she needs to do herself. And a tiny sliver of shame slides over my spine. Of doubt that what we’d shared the other night was just a fleeting thing, a passing hookup destined for the memory banks to be recalled when I was too drunk or too fucking sad to avoid taking that stone from my ruck sack.
But I’ve reached the point of not knowing what else to do with myself. I can’t sit at the bar any more.
I step out into the darkness.
And I am not so drunk that I miss Abby walking up, momentarily caught in the shadows cast between the overhead lights.
I see her.
She is beautiful. A soft mix of shadows and light. A beacon in the dark haze of alcohol and fatigue.
She doesn’t turn away. Instead, she walks toward me. There is a hesitation in her movements.
“Hey.” My best pick-up line.
“How did things go with Graham?” I honestly want to know.
“He got his dad’s watch back.”
There’s something more, something she’s not telling me. She’s chewing on her inner lip, her hands stuffed in her pockets.
And just like that, the hypothetical violence we dissect in class is very real once more. “Is he okay?”
She tips her chin and looks at me, her golden eyes filled with sad questions. “You really are one of the good ones, aren’t you?”
I pause, her question breaking through the haze in my brain, and I have to think hard on what I actually said, in case it was something deeply inappropriate. It takes me back a little, pushes behind a defense for a moment. To a place I’m not comfortable being pushed. “For asking if your friend is okay?”
She swallows and doesn’t look away. It’s one of the things that draws me to her. She went into a shitty situation tonight. For a friend. As a soldier, that kind of loyalty speaks to me, calls to me. Draws me closer to her.
As someone lost, looking to find his way home again.
Or maybe for the first time.
But she doesn’t answer for a long time. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s just you keep surprising me.” I suddenly badly want to feel her lips on me. Her fingers. Her body pressed to mine.
The allure of that siren call is fierce and compelling.
Then her gaze collides with mine and she steps into my space.
I’m drunk. But not so drunk that I can’t slip my hands around her waist and draw her closer. I resent the clothing between us, separating her skin from mine. I resent the streetlamp overhead, the city street that is not a private space.
“I’m a little drunk,” I whisper against her mouth.
“I can taste that.” Her words brush across my lips, followed by a fleeting sensation of her lips against mine. She is soft and sweet and tastes like mint and a thousand bright lights.
Her words send a cascade of imagery through my brain, a starburst of her body spread beneath me, her dark skin cast in shadows and light. My mouth on her. Her taste on my tongue.
I want this. Holy god, but I want.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers.
I slide my hand over her cheek, cradling her face. For a moment I just stand there, savoring the feel of her skin beneath mine, the sensation of touching someone I care about. For a moment, it doesn’t matter that I’m broken, that I can’t love her fully and right like she deserves.
For a moment, she is enough.
I nip her bottom lip. Her breath huffs into my mouth and I want to swallow the sensation and savor it. I press my lips to hers. She opens for my hesitant touch, her tongue brushing against mine, twining, dancing, tasting.
An erotic twist of moist, delicate strokes.
She makes a warm sound in her throat. “I live very close to here.”
I am suddenly a very thankful man. “You don’t mind that I’ve been drinking? I might not be able to get it up.” The truth, hidden in an alcohol-laden confession.
“You’re not a violent drunk, are you?”
I lower my forehead to hers. “Not with women.”
She slides closer, her body aligned with mine. Until I can feel the inhalation of her breath.
“And we already know you’re very good with your mouth,” she whispers in my ear. Her breath is hot. My body shudders with arousal, dark and needy and far too long denied. I can almost imagine a shiver of sensation in the vicinity of my dick.
I smile and nip at her ear. “That was just a warm up.”
This time, it is Abby who shivers, her body trembling. I can feel the shift in her. The lithe, erotic tension twisting through her sinews, making them soft and supple.
She buries her face in my neck. “Oh god, just the thought of that is making me crazy.”
“Of what?” I whisper. “Can you say it?” I press my lips to her neck where the pulse is scattered and quick. “Tell me what you want?”
We are standing in the street, bathed in overhead light. She is pressed to me, her body as close as it can be while fully clothed.
And I have never been more aroused. More fully aware of someone else’s need, throbbing through her and into me.
It is powerful what I can do with my mouth, my words.
It is not enough.
It is everything.
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