Archive for March 9th, 2017
“Don’t Call It Bollywood: An Introduction to the Hindi Film Universe” by Margaret Redlich #BookSpotlight
“Don’t Call It Bollywood: An Introduction to the Hindi Film Universe”
by Margaret E. Relich
Release Date: June 1, 2016
$.99 for a #LimitedTime
Do you think “Bollywood” is just flashy dance sequences and unbelievable plots? Think again! Explore the rich history and artistic traditions of Hindi film in this engaging book, which intersperses stories from the author’s path to dedicated fandom with scholarly analysis of the films and their context. If your only exposure to Hindi films is action sequences that defy the laws of physics and dance sequences full of colorful, swirling silk, this book will open your eyes to a rich and rewarding art form. If you’re already a fan, it will enrich your appreciation of your favorite film moments by placing them in their larger context.
Book Title: Undercover
Author: Avery Aster
Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance with M/M/F Menage
Release Date: March 7, 2017
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Note: Undercover is part one in New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster’s new m/f erotic romance serial featuring Jagger and Poppy, which takes place in The Manhattanites’ world. Each volume ends on a cliffy and reflects our current political climate of in-your-face TV reporters, cyber hacking, Russian hysteria, and features BDSM, kinky role-play, ménage à trois, and of course very hung, inked-up, dominant men who just want to be loved by their smart alpha females. When you’re done, be sure to grab Unless, the second installment.
Talk show host Poppy White thought she’d seen it all while working in journalism, but when her boyfriend, Mikhail Chekhov, supposedly dies in an explosion and she goes to identify the body, the man on the table at the morgue isn’t as endowed as her lover. Nope. There’s no way that needle dick is his. But if Mikhail isn’t dead, then where is he?
Bisexual, dominant, and rich, Jagger Chabon is Mikhail’s hung, inked-up playboy of a lover on the down low. He knows why Mikhail is on the run and is desperate to find him before the CIA closes in to make their arrest. If only he could get rid of this pesky reporter who keeps sticking her perky breasts in his face.
“What d-did you j-just say?” she stutters. For probably the first time in her life, the woman of poise and perfect beauty capable of interviewing famous celebrities and world dignitaries isn’t able to speak smoothly.
Stunned, I reach for her shaking hand to try and comfort, reassure. “I’m sorry, Poppy.”
“You’re sorry. For what? His death?” She withdraws her hand from mine and wipes her palm on her short skirt as if I have the bubonic plague. “Or the fact that we both fucked the same guy?” Nearly screaming, obscenities continue flying out of her little mouth. “I cannot believe I didn’t see this shit coming. I swear, I’m either blind or oblivious. You know, Mikhail and I had good sex. Hot sex. Mind-blowing sex. Probably the best sex of my entire life.”
Meh. I think I’m much better in the sack than Mikhail. He sorta just lies there like a lazy bottom and takes it. Good head, yes. But that’s about it.
I offer nothing. I don’t want to upset her any further.
“Did you know I was also dating him?” she asks in a shaky, throaty voice, possibly embarrassed by her outburst. I’ve seen her have fits before, like the time she threw a chair at a guest on her show for refusing to answer her million-dollar question, but nothing like this.
Poppy White is losing her damn mind. But can I blame her? I try to put myself in her shoes, imagine what it would feel like to be in love with a woman who was also in love with Poppy.
Come to think of it, I’d be turned on. I won’t lie. Imagining Poppy in my bed with another woman makes my dick go hard, and for a split second I forget that we’re at the morgue.
She snaps her fingers in my face as if I’m some sort of dog. “Hello! You there? I asked you a question. Did you know?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I manage to shake my head. When I came into the room I felt sadness for the death of my lover. Now I’m somewhat uncomfortable with my coworker knowing that I engaged in a relationship with another man. Shit. This is all a bit much.
“Are you gay?” she says loudly.
“Stop that.” I step forward to shush her.
“Don’t you dare touch me.” She steps back, leaning against the table. The hurt, the pain in her eyes is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. She’s devastated. Destroyed.
“Mikhail is the only man I’ve ever been with. We met about six months ago and just hit it off.”
“Hit it off? More like got each other off!”
“Sorry you couldn’t satisfy him,” I blurt the harsh words without thinking.
Poppy strikes my face with her right hand so hard that her body jerks toward me. Embracing the sting on my cheek, I push her back before she can take another swing. She hits the table, then glares at me with an almost insane look on her face.
“There is no way Mikhail loved you.” She tries to hit me again, this time lunging toward me, taking me down to the cold marble floor.
Disoriented and now on my back, I lie glaring up at her. “Happy now?”
She straddles me. “You’re a liar. There is no freakin’ way that man, a Russian diplomat with a law degree from Harvard who has one of the highest IQs on Earth, cared for you the way he cared about me. Mikhail wasn’t queer.” Pressing her hands against my chest like she’s going to ride me into the sunset, she adjusts her hips. Under normal circumstances I would slide my hands under her skirt and start fucking her until she came over and over again. But right now my body is pressed against the floor, we’re at the local morgue, and I’ve just admitted to my coworker, a woman I’ve been crushing on for years, that I’ve been coincidently dating her boyfriend as well.
No. This isn’t normal.
“I’m not gay, Poppy! It just happened.” Livid, tired of sexual labels, I push her off me and sit up. “We didn’t define our relationship with such labels as ‘gay’ or ‘bisexual.’ We didn’t.”
The sheet, which had been covering the corpse, is now on the floor next to us.
I get to my feet, helping Poppy to hers. We don’t speak, fixating our attention to what’s on the table.
The upper part of Mikhail’s body, his face, neck, and chest, are badly burned to the point that he’s unrecognizable. However, his feet, legs, and lower torso, and more importantly the pelvic region, are perfectly intact.
“What the fuuu—” Poppy steps forward and points a long, bright pink manicured nail toward his dick. The gold bangles on her wrist jingle as she shakes her hand.
“Mikhail’s much bigger than that.”
I lick my lips nervously, trying to decide if that really is my boyfriend on the table.
“And where’s the mole on his leg?” She points to an area of skin that had a birthmark the size of a silver dollar. Today it’s completely bare.
“It’s not him….” My brain freezes as my mouth opens to say more, but I don’t. The thoughts racing through my mind are utterly crazy, certifiably insane.
She tilts her head to the side, purses her lips together, and waits for me to continue. Maybe she’s afraid to say what I’m thinking too.
New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster pens The Manhattanites, a contemporary erotic romance series of full-length, stand-alone novels, and the naughty new adult prequel companion series The Undergrad Years. Join Avery’s newsletter eepurl.com/CQ665 and get a FREE ebook!