The erotic world of stripping is on decadent display in Surrender by Violetta Rand, the first installment in her Devil's Den series. Keep reading to get a glimpse of this steamy read and learn even more about this book by visiting the other blogs hosting this tour. Make sure to fill out the form below for the chance to win a $25 bookstore GC, Loveswept mug, and nail polish too!
Ever since her mother kicked her out, twenty-year-old Robyn Gonzalez has been working the poles at the Devil’s Den, saving up to finish college and travel the world. With only her wits and her gorgeous body to rely on, Robyn has learned to be independent—fiercely independent. She’s never been tempted to let a man distract her from her dreams . . . until she meets the dead-sexy Garrick Dempsey.
The club’s new head of security, Garrick had walked away from a career as a mechanical engineer to return to his roots in Corpus Christi. He hadn’t planned on getting to know someone like Robyn, with her sinfully sweet combination of vulnerability and strength, at the Devil’s Den. She acts tough, but only because she’s been hurt. Soon Garrick knows he will do anything to win Robyn’s trust. And if that means surrendering to the red-hot chemistry between them, all the better.
EXCERPT:
He yanks me close. “We’re not finished, Robyn, not by a long shot.”
“We never started.”
He lets go. His caramel-colored eyes are rimmed with long, dark eyelashes. Beautiful, really, just like every inch of him. He’s a fine specimen—but I’m not doing a science project. I shake my head and go back to my car. I climb inside. Craig has moved to the sidewalk in front of me. Good. I lock the door. Then I flip on the radio. The “Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin blares from my brand-new Alpine speakers. Classic rock goes with my car. I back out and speed away.
Half an hour later, I pull into the pier parking lot. The place is mostly dark and empty. City parks close at eleven. I don’t care, and grab the small backpack I carry everywhere from my backseat. The pier manager stays late, and if I slip him a twenty, he lets me through the gate. I walk a hundred yards, my sandals sounding like horse hooves clapping against cobblestones on the wood planks of the pier. The manager looks up from his desk and waves me in without payment. I smile and mouth thank you; he won’t hear me through the bulletproof glass. I head to the end of the dock. I stop at the last bench and spread a towel I retrieve from by backpack over the wood seat so I don’t get splinters in my backside. I stare across the black water—this is what I need. The sound of rolling waves and the smell of salt air relax me. I lean over the crudely made railing.
Today is my anniversary. Five years ago, my mother packed my clothes in two Hefty bags and kicked me out of her house without explanation. Although I’ve always suspected it was because I told her Uncle Gregory touched me inappropriately and tried to get me drunk at a family dinner last year. Who can compete with my uncle? He’s loved and adored, and I’m just me. I’m not alone. You hear similar stories all the time . . . families shunning children who speak up—who make allegations about abuse. And once I disappeared from Odem, no one looked for me, not even lifelong friends from our church. Who knows what Mom told them? I rub my arms, the sound of the waves crashing against the pier jolting me back to reality.
The fateful conversation with my mom haunts me mercilessly . . .
I’m sitting in my bedroom reading a book. Someone knocks on my door. I look up. My mother looms in the doorway, frowning. “What’s wrong, Mom?”
She steps inside and then sits on the edge of my bed. She hiccups. I smell alcohol. She’s shaky—drunk. “I don’t like you, Robyn.”
I close my book and set it on my desk. Nothing new. “Why are you telling me this now? Did I forget to do the dishes or something?” This isn’t the first time she’s told me she dislikes me. In fact, it happens so often, I’ve been desensitized to a certain degree. But deep down, it still hurts.
She cackles like a witch. Further proof she’s been hitting the bottle. She likes to do that when my father is gone on business trips. “Don’t sass me.”
“I’m not. What didn’t I do?”
“You act like a slut in front of everyone.”
I nearly fall out of my chair. “What?” I ask incredulously. That’s the most twisted thing she’s ever said to me.
“The way you dress—those short-shorts and tank tops. I can’t let you look that way anymore.”
I nearly puke. My mother is beyond intoxicated, definitely not thinking straight. I search for any viable excuse. For her, and for me. I prefer to forget this conversation ever started. “I wear shorts to go running,” I say in my defense.
“I see the way you shake your ass. Boys stare; you’re turning out to be an exhibitionist. Sleazy . . .” She coughs.
I stand up. I’m not going to sit here and listen to this crap. “Stop it!” I scream.
She laughs again. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
“How can you talk about your own daughter that way?”
She scoots to the edge of the bed. “If I didn’t know better,” she says, “I’d swear my biological child was accidently switched with you at birth.”
Tears fill my eyes. I need to walk away, but she hooks my arm. I try to break free—she pulls me on the bed. We wrestle briefly. It ends with her on top of me. Her breath reeks of gin and lemon. She always drinks a shot of lemon juice to mask the alcohol. It never works. “I want you to leave my house, now.”
FIND AT GOODREADS here.
Raised in Corpus Christi, Texas, Violetta Rand spent her childhood reading, writing, and playing soccer. After meeting her husband in New England, they moved to Alaska where she studied environmental science and policy as an undergraduate before attending graduate school. Violettathen spent nearly a decade working as an environmental scientist, specializing in soil and water contamination and environmental assessments.
Violetta still lives in Anchorage, Alaska and spends her days writing evocative New Adult romance and historical romance. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys time with her husband, pets, and friends. In her free time, she loves to hike, fish, and ride motorcycles and 4-wheelers.
Violetta still lives in Anchorage, Alaska and spends her days writing evocative New Adult romance and historical romance. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys time with her husband, pets, and friends. In her free time, she loves to hike, fish, and ride motorcycles and 4-wheelers.
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