Alexis Alvarez is an author, photographer, and digital designer who loves writing steamy romances. Her female heroines are always strong, intelligent women who fall for the sexiest guy around…and get the happy-ever-after ending of their dreams.
You can usually find Alexis hanging out with her family or her sisters, who are also romance writers, at their website, Graffiti Fiction. The three of them love to drink wine together and laugh like hyenas while making dirty jokes and really inappropriate comments. Their mom is very proud.
One really cool thing about Alexis is that she’s a friendly author who loves meeting new people on Facebook. Please come on by and say hello. Thanks, and happy reading!
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Alexis-Alvarez/e/B0107LJQEM
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AlexisAlvarezAuthor/
Blurb: When trendy young artist Casey Reilly sneaks into Chicago’s most exclusive club under a fake name, it isn’t long before two rich, handsome men are vying for her attention. The club’s owner, billionaire Jax Hunter, is the first to make his move, but when he discovers her deception he has difficulty forgiving Casey.
After Hunter’s cold response to the truth about Casey’s identity leave her dejected, Max Abbott doesn’t waste time in stepping in to pick up the pieces, and he promptly gets to work on mending her broken heart. But when Hunter decides to try to win her back, Casey will have to make the most important choice of her life.
Super Kinky Dirty Excerpt:
“What do you think, Casey? Think I know what to do?” He held up his hands, ran one finger over his lips. “Think I know how to make a woman scream in pleasure?” He raised one eyebrow. “Answer me.” His voice was harder now. “Tell me what you think I might do to you tonight if you’re a good girl.” He sat up and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Or else you won’t get anything from me.”
She sucked in a breath. “I think – I think your lips are like magic. If you lick my clit, it will feel like a butterfly kiss, like raindrops, like a storm on the sea. Your fingers will touch me like a thousand points of pleasure. And if you fuck me…” her voice trailed off.
His eyes flashed at her, dark and dangerous. “Walk to the kitchen.”
“You heard me.” He stood up. “We’re going to find a few things, Casey, and I’ll need your help.”
“What kind of things?” Nervous now, she shifted from one foot to the other.
“What kinds of things?” he mused. “Well, considering you begged for a punishment, maybe you can use your imagination. I’m surely going to.” He put one hand on her shoulder to guide her. “You are going to find me ten different implements I can use to spank you, Casey. And if they’re not severe enough, I’ll make you pick five more. Understand?”
She gulped. “Severe enough?”
“That’s right. Pick a few things that you think will sting. And a few that will hurt like hell.” He gave her one sharp slap on her ass that made her squeal and jump. “Understand me?” He gave her a wicked smile.
“Well, before, when you made me bend over. You touched me, then. And I liked it,” she said, her voice low.
“Oh, you did, did you?” His was rough, teasing, now. “Would you like me to do that again?”
“What if I didn’t stop with a touch, next time, Sofia? What if I spanked you, like you expected? What if I teased you, tantalized you? Would you let me do that?”
“Yes, I would.” She felt adrenaline surge.
“Before, it was just a test,” he said. “From now forward it will be something else. Something more.”
“I want more,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“You don’t know what you want yet,” he said, an enigmatic expression on his face. And like lightning, he stood and pulled her into his chest. “But I’ll be very glad to help you figure it out,” he growled into her ear, and then his lips were on her neck, and Casey melted into his body with passion that arose in her from his voice, his touch, his smell.
Another Pretty Dirty One:
“This,” he announced, “is for last night. It’s an example of punishment, the kind you might not like as much. This is for your attitude. I’m going to spank you, you’re going to take it without complaint, and you’re not going to come. At least, not here. After you go home, I can’t control what you do.” But then he stepped forward, grabbed her neck, and whispered into her ear, “Yet,” and the mere idea of his control, and the feel of his lips on her skin, made her moan out. “God, Hunter.”
He’s an asshole now, but better times are coming (and also, she likes it!):
“I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “And if it weren’t a punishment, I’d have my mouth between your legs right this minute, licking your juices and bringing you to ecstasy, a bliss that is only better for the pain. But sometimes you’re going to need a reminder about who’s the master, a reminder that you earn your pleasure as my submissive by behaving according to my rules.”
The Intellectual Side Of Things:
“It’s strange. Think about La Reve, and how many gazes her inscrutable gaze herself had soaked up over the years. Or the Mona Lisa – millions and millions of gazes, soulful, scornful, wistful, star-shot, desperate, passionate. How could she possibly hold so much emotion in herself? Where does it all go?”
“It doesn’t really go anywhere.” His voice sounded hard. Startled, Casey glanced at him, then again – he was looking past her, his hand gripping his mug. “It just disappears.”
“I disagree. It goes into the viewer,” Casey suggested. “Or into our collective subconscious as a society,” she amended. “It forms our global opinion about how to value our art.”
“So you think the Mona Lisa is swollen with human emotions.” He let go of his mug and looked at her again, and his mouth tugged into a small smile.
She took a minute; imagined the Mona Lisa swelling to burst open with too much energy, splitting apart into nothingness, her every molecule flung with such force that it shot like a dagger into a billion different stars in space, puncturing them and sending stardust and light out for infinity and back into every person who’d ever seen her. “She’s an icon and a receptacle at the same time.”
Hunter leaned forward, his eyes intense. “That’s a definition of a submissive, in its most vulgar form.”
“Someone who lives to accept what another gives, and is at the same time worshipped by that person. That’s how I see my perfect submissive. She gives up her power and she takes your soul, and in doing so, demonstrates her own power.” His eyes burned and he touched her hand, squeezed it, and the grip made her catch her breath. The emotion in his face was so raw that she averted her gaze for a moment, scared to let him see how he affected her.
“So the Mona Lisa is the poster girl for power exchange.” She laughed. “Someone notify the Louvre. They might need to put up a privacy curtain and charge a quarter at a time to view her.”
His laugh was rich and it rolled over her, warming her from the inside. “I’ll notify Jean-Luc Martinez immediately. I’m sure they’ll get right on that. Sofia,” he murmured, taking her hand. “I love how you look at the world. Because lately, I’ve been thinking that my paintings mean nothing. They’re more like mirrors.” He looked at her. “Telling us what we want to see. They’re mimics and nothing more.”
“But you can’t believe that,” she argued, “or you wouldn’t collect them. Prize them.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t know what I think. I’ve been collecting art for so long that it’s become habit.” His face became distant. “An idle amusement for friends who don’t care what they’re seeing. An investment, above all else, bought and traded like stocks and options. Things I’ve seen so many times that I no longer see them when I walk by. It’s refreshing to be with someone who looks at my art with more than boredom or dollar signs in her eyes.”
“I think owning La Reve is a privilege. To have that kind of power – it must be nice.”
He laughed. “Nice. Yes, I suppose it is. Although nice,” and he leaned forward and touched her face, “is definitely a subjective assessment. Nice.” His hand moved down, lazily stroking along her jaw, her neck, her shoulder bone. “Very nice.”
The Thoughtful One:
But the thing with almost perfect was that it started to wear away at you like soft sand-paper, without your slightest notice, and then one day you woke up to find a gaping wound in your soul. She couldn’t bear to settle now and deal with that gash later, and need to start all over. Better to feel the pain now, leaving herself open and ready for the person that made the almost disappear and turn into always.