Look at this cover! LOOK AT IT. *tears up* I am honored to bring you this wonderful debut Regency romance by Erin Langston. Last year, she sent me a tiny peek at the first chapter and I fell in love with her voice. When she asked me to beta-read her story, I lunged at the opportunity. Devoured it in no time.
I. Am. Smitten.
The author does an amazing job weaving a delightful tale of romance with all its complications and frustrations. Every character is vivid and three-dimensional, taking on a life of their own. I would be remiss in NOT telling you about this phenomenal book.
Erin Langston is a historical romance author who crafts Regencies with heart, heat, and humor. A librarian by trade, Erin lives in the Midwest with her husband and two children. When not working, writing, or mom-ing, she can be found outside, drinking wine, buried in a book, or attempting to home-improve. A not-insignificant portion of her first novel was plotted in the preschool pickup line.
If you’re a fan of steamy historical romance set in Regency England, then I highly recommend you give this one a try.
Releases on February 28th! Available for pre-order now.
You can follow her for updates on her social media platforms:
Here’s a little teaser for you from Forever Your Rogue:
Gone was his tempered restraint from last night. Nate hauled her against him, away from the tree, his hands starving for her body. The sensation of Cora’s muscle and bone, alive under his fingers, turned him mad.
He was unknowable, a man in the abyss, and he wanted to stay there.
He kissed her hard, sucking her bottom lip, seeking entry in an insane wave of longing. He had never felt this frenetic, this completely out of control. Nate wasn’t one to beg, but he heard his own plea and didn’t give a damn.
Please, love. Want this with me.
Cora gasped, tugging him closer still. Her hands sought purchase along the expanse of his chest. Nate was momentarily drowning in a blood-rush of gratitude and anticipation. Her fingers skimmed along the taut muscles of his neck as she reached for his height, stretching to her tiptoes, as if the tree branches held her by an invisible marionette string.
“My foot.” Cora panted sharply, pulling away from the heat of his kiss. “The arch of my foot is cramping…”
Nate groaned, his hands sliding roughly over her arse to cup the back of her thighs, lifting her. Cora sank her lips against his and moaned, shocked and sweet, her fingers weaving through his tousled hair.
He held her, one arm pinioning her against him, his free hand scorching a path from the swell of her breast to the curve of her bottom, the thin fabric of her dress denying his heat but accepting his friction.
He could feel her skin, too far from his bereft fingertips, and he took her skirts in hand, using the fabric as an extension of his own touch, dragging it along her thighs, her back.
Nate was lost to the manic, combustible sensation of her tongue, her teeth, her lips. He stepped forward blindly, needing more, more.
At the last moment, he realized he was about to slam her into the rough bark of the tree, and he rotated, spinning them so it was his own back that fell against the unyielding trunk, his jacket snagging as his shoulders took the brunt of their passion.
“Are you all right?” Cora cried, pulling away. Nate only drew her tighter against him, his fingers splayed in her hair.
“Come here,” Nate panted. “Come here, stay here.”
On and on it went. Cora melted against where he was growing hard, her body accepting the increasing evidence of his arousal. Her hands slid down his chest to his hips, holding them against her own, rolling into him again and again, pushing him harder into the tree.
Her skirt had hitched, his thigh between hers; Nate became gradually conscious she was moving against his leg—she was riding it. The thought was so filthy and delicious that he grunted, his desire tightening, his need growing acute.
He was suddenly aware her face was wet under his fingertips.
“Cora…Cora…we have to stop…” He cupped her bottom, holding her still on his leg.
“No.” She pushed him harder into the tree, the rough bark biting into her palms.
“It’s raining, love.”