Saturday, January 31, 2015

BOOK BLITZ: EDEN (Eden #1) by Georgia Le Carre **EXCERPT & GIVEAWAY**

Haunted by memories of her brother’s death, and searching for answers, Lily Hart embarks on a career that takes her into a seedy underworld, where she is exposed to wealth, greed, lust and the reign of gorgeous, powerful, and dangerous men—one man in particular wreaks havoc on her emotions. 

At thirty Jake Eden has everything: looks to die for, money, power and a never-ending line of twisted, fucked-up women willing to do anything to get with him. Love? Love was for pussies…until a woman with the stage name of ‘Jewel’ arrives on the scene. She alone is different from all the others. 

Oozing pure, unadulterated sex, strong, intelligent and independent, she is everything he should stay away from, but she makes him itch to tame her and keep her for himself. 

Her lure is addictive and undeniable and soon he is hooked. 

But when the line between betrayal and loyalty is put to test… 

Will love be stronger than revenge?


AN EROTIC ROMANCE
(18+ due to mature themes and sexual content)




‘Nooooooo,’ I howl, but there is gravel or grave soil in my throat, and 

nothing other than an ugly, dried-up rasp travels out of my mouth. 

My head shakes back and forth like a mindless wind-up toy. Even 

my body is denying the horror before my eyes. Without warning my 

knees buckle under me, and I find myself in a heap at the doorway of 

his flat. Frantically, I begin to crawl toward him, screaming, babbling. 

I can’t lose him! Not him! Oh God, not him. Please. Not him.

Two feet away from his body and it occurs to me: this is just a 

nightmare. Of course it is. It has to be. Any moment now I’ll wake 

up. And the first thing I’ll do? Call him and tell him how much I have 

missed him, how much I love him. 

I feel the floor scrape against my bare knees. It isn’t a nightmare. It 

is real.

We haven’t spoken for two weeks. I had exams and when I called 

his mobile, it went straight to voicemail... Shit excuse. I should have 

called again, I should have emailed. Why hadn’t I? I should have 

known.

I hunker down over his body, my pose ungainly, heavy, that of a 

suffering beast. My buttocks hit the floor and my legs fold up and 

cross under me. I press my fingers against my open mouth and stare 

at him. His lips and fingers are blue and the rest of him is ashen and 

still. He can’t be dead. 

It can’t be real!

The stillness of a dead body is impossible to describe. And yet 

when you see it you refuse to believe it. You always think it is a trick. 

A mistake. A ploy... But a needle is embedded in his arm, which is 

blackened with the skin stretched and unreal. It looks as if it belongs 

elsewhere. That is not my brother’s arm. I know my brother’s arm as 

intimately as I know my own. 

My breathing is shallow and trembling. I suck a huge burst of air 

into my lungs and pull the offending needle out. My stomach twists. 

It should never have entered his body in the first place. I throw the 

syringe away. It hits something and rolls on the wooden floor. It also 

leaves a tiny hole in my brother’s flesh that does not bleed. I swallow 

hard. My hands are shaking badly. 

That means he didn’t suffer, a voice whispers in my head. He did not 

even have time to pull it out before he was gone to wherever it is he 

went to. 

Oh God! He is nineteen. He can’t be gone.

CPR. I should give him CPR. There must be something I can still 

do. I grab his shoulders and try to drag him across my thighs, but his 

body is so heavy, so cold, and so stiff and foreign that my shocked 

hands fly away from his shoulders as if they have touched fire. I gaze 

at him as he lies unmoving. The blood that ran without rest during 

his short life has stilled within his veins. Everything has cooled and 

hardened. He is like a piece of wood. 

With a sob of intolerable, indescribable anguish I reach for him and 

with every ounce of my might I drag his cold, dead weight toward me 

and lift it onto my lap. I touch the soft brown hair that flops across his 

forehead and it feels different. His scalp has hardened and changed 

the lie of his hair. I caress his hair, his face, his hands. Holding his 

head pressed against my stomach I close my eyes and begin to rock 

him the way a mother would comfort her distressed baby. 

But there is no comfort—his head is a hard, unfamiliar weight and 

the action produces an odd thud made by his stiff hand repeatedly 

hitting the floor. I stop. In a daze I look down on his face. 

His mouth is open, the tongue—a strange, dull color—is pushed 

against his teeth. Without the healthy sheen of saliva it looks gross. 

I try to close his mouth, but it is locked open. His eyes are not fully 

shut and through the slits I see the whites. I try to lift a lid to see once 

more the beautiful blue eyes I have known all my life. 

If I could at least see that. 

But his eyelids are glued shut. They will not budge. Tremors shoot 

through my hand as I still the gruesome desire to force his eyelid 

open. When we were young we used to lick the salt from each other’s 

skin. I am suddenly filled with the strange desire to lick his skin. 

I put one hand under his head and the other under his neck and I 

put his head on the floor. Then I scoot backwards until I am on my 

hands and knees and my face is hovering inches away from his. My 

head moves downwards. My tongue comes out. Inches away a voice 

in my head urgently cries, ‘No.’ 

I stop and listen to peculiar silence around us. It is quieter than 

falling snow. On the table top I notice his fingerprints in the light 

layer of dust, and then something weird happens. For a second I 

clearly perceive myself not from inside my body but from outside, 

crouched over my dead brother, more animal than human. I recoil 

from the sight. And then the moment is gone and I lower my head 

and lick the last salt on the corpse’s skin.

It is the beginning of my descent into an unfamiliar territory. A 

place you might call madness. 

I’m afraid my stay was excruciatingly long.


Amazon CA | AU

Georgia Le Carre lives in England, in an old 19th century romantic cottage surrounded by a magical garden filled with fruit and walnut trees. 

When she is not feeding words into her laptop, she is either curled up in bed with a box of chocolates and a good read, or lost in a long walk in the woods. Especially on moonlit nights. And often with the man of her dreams.

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