๐Ÿ…ด๐Ÿ†‡๐Ÿ…ฒ๐Ÿ…ด๐Ÿ†๐Ÿ…ฟ๐Ÿ†ƒ ๐Ÿ…ก๐Ÿ…”๐Ÿ…ฅ๐Ÿ…”๐Ÿ…๐Ÿ…› Forbidden Crown by Jagger Cole ๐’พ๐“ˆ ๐’ช๐“Š๐“‰ ๐“๐‘œ๐“Œ!!! แ–‡แ—ดแ—ฉแ—ช ๐•‹โ„แ—ด ๐”ผ๐•โ„‚๐”ผโ„โ„™๐•‹ เฎœเฏ€๐•†โ„•๐”ผ โ„‚๐•ƒ๐•€โ„‚๐•‚ ๐•ฅ๐• ๐••๐•’๐•ชเฎœเฏ€

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I did a bad thing. I kissed my professor, and I liked it.
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A lot.
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Bastian Pierce is twice my age. Sinfully gorgeous. Notoriously wild.
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Heโ€™s temptation wrapped in leather, tattoos, and Savile Row linen. And he knows it.
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The problem is, so do I.
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Firsthand.
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In my defense, it was before I knew he was my professor.
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Before I knew the devilโ€™s deal heโ€™d made with my family.
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Consider this my confession.
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Signed with a scandal.
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Sealed with the forbidden.
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Delivered with a fall.
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And itโ€™s a long way downโ€ฆ
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This standalone, extra spicy Bratva academy romance is guaranteed to leave your kindle steaming. Step into the viperโ€™s nest of Oxford Hills Academy and meet the Savage Heirs of Bratva kings and oligarchs.
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Absolutely no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a happy ever after.ย 

 



Iโ€™m on the huntโ€”for what, Iโ€™m not even clear on. Darkness. The embrace of blackness. Sin to give me salvation. Temptation to break me. Iโ€™m looking for the edge, so that I can toss myself headfirst over it.

The liquor burns like a familiar flingโ€™s warm embrace. Iโ€™m not the kind of drinker that romanticizes it. I donโ€™t delude myself into thinking that what me and my escape of choice have together is love.

But it is a good time. Itโ€™s fun. Itโ€™s fleeting, until the next time, when sheโ€”liquor, that isโ€”knows damn well Iโ€™ll be calling again.

Weโ€™ve had this arrangement for years. I know liquor sees other peopleโ€”several, several other people. And Iโ€™m fine with that. So long as sheโ€™s also there when I need her. She always is. And so it goes.

Lately, weโ€™re inseparable. Thatโ€™s what happensโ€”at least if youโ€™re meโ€”when life traps your balls between a rock and a hard place. Or, several rocks, and several hard places.

Iโ€™ve made my career writing books that toed the bleeding edge of appropriate. And my real-world antics have gone the same path. The โ€œbad boy of modern British literature,โ€ theyโ€™ve called me in the press. โ€œIf Hunter S. Thompson wrote Fight Club,โ€ is a personal favorite, for all the obvious reasons.

Iโ€™d done it. Iโ€™d broken out of the snobby, loathsome โ€œelite societyโ€ world Iโ€™d always hated. Iโ€™d achieved greatness, through writing fiction, a profession my parents always cringed at me delving into.

Until I went too high. Until my โ€œfictionโ€ veered all too close to the real world and ticked off the wrong people. A book deal, and my entire publishing contract, up in smoke. Dropped by my agent. And as a lovely little fuck-you cherry on top, Iโ€™m about to be branded a sexual predatorโ€”blatant lie it may beโ€”in a โ€œtell-allโ€ book my former assistant is threatening to publish.

Do not pass go. Do not collect two-hundred pounds. Get fucked, Bastian.

In short, Iโ€™ve been ostracized. Cast out of Eden; on the cliffโ€™s edge of being Cancelled, with a capital โ€œC.โ€

Thatโ€™s not why Iโ€™m drinking like my liver owes me its own head on a spike, though. Iโ€™m drinking because of the devilโ€™s deal Iโ€™m making with a woman I absolutely loathe. Because she holds the keys to my salvation.

I scowl into the rest of the whiskey at the bottom of my glass before I knock it back with one gulp. Iโ€™m supposed to be โ€œslowing down.โ€ Or โ€œkeeping a low profile,โ€ as Wendell, my attorney, keeps mothering me with. โ€œDonโ€™t give them ammunition,โ€ he says with exasperation. โ€œDonโ€™t put a hole in this parachute Rebecca is giving you.โ€

Yeah, fuck that. And fuck Rebecca. Well, not actually. Luckily, actually fucking her isnโ€™t part of our arrangement. Not fucking anyone else, though, is.

Which means Iโ€™m screwed, in every sense except the fun way.

I glance up at the bartender. Behind him, a hundred gleaming bottles of flavored vodkas, infused tequilas, and whatever the unholy fuck โ€œcask-aged, local-batch dry-botanical ginโ€ is line the glass shelves. Some god-awful DJ is absolutely murdering one of my favorite Lou Reed songs over the sound system, and a hundred carefree patrons half my age squeal and dance and snap selfies around the club bar.

This is just about the very last place on earth Iโ€™d prefer to have a drink. Except I donโ€™t know Manchester at all. So when I asked my cab driver to โ€œbring me to a barโ€ before my dinner later, this is where I wound up.

I feel like Iโ€™m in a car commercial aimed at twenty-somethings with ADD.

But fuck it. Thereโ€™s liquor. And tonight, Iโ€™m going to need every goddamn drop they have. I raise my brows at the bartender as I tap the empty glass in front of me.

โ€œAnother,โ€ I grunt.

The guy is sporting suspenders, a bowtie, and a goddamn mustache. Irony, served up, chilled, and with a twist. He grins as he sidles up and slips a leather-bound book the size of a fucking phone directory in front of me

โ€œCare to look at the cocktail list, mate?โ€

โ€œNo, just the whiskey. Neat.โ€

โ€œWeโ€™ve got this bloody brilliant maple-smoke-infused old fashioned. Well, itโ€™s a bit of a riff on an old fashioned.โ€

He chuckles. I havenโ€™t the slightest fucking idea why.

โ€œJust the whiskey.โ€

He winks as he nods knowingly.

โ€œAre you a daiquiri man?โ€

My jaw grinds. โ€œDo I look like a fucking daiquiri man?โ€ My eyes narrow. โ€œWhiskey. By itself. In a fucking glass. Itโ€™s literally that simple. You can even leave the bottle and Iโ€™ll pour it myself.โ€

He laughs. I resist the urge to reach across the bar and strangle him until he โ€œironicallyโ€ shits his pants.

He glances down the bar and stiffens. Then he grins as he turns back to me.

โ€œWell, Iโ€™ll give you a minute with that menu, mate. Feel free to ask any questions.โ€

And then he walks away. I stare at his retreat in disbelief. Are you fucking kidding me? My disposition turns from stormy to downright hurricane-level. Fuck this. Iโ€™m drinking someplace where grow-ups serve grown-ups.

Iโ€™m about to throw a few pounds on the bar and leave, when I turn to see what the fuck is so important to have pulled his attention.

The music dulls. The lights fade. My blood sizzles like liquid fire.

Blonde. Tall. Willowy, and yet curvy in the places that reinvent the word โ€œsin.โ€ Sheโ€™s in a tiny little black cocktail dress and fuck-me heels, with legs that go up to forever and leave me fucking brain dead.

Oh. Thatโ€™s what.

Sheโ€™s six feet away from me, smiling at Mr. Irony as he leers at her across the bar. For some reason, I want to smash his fucking teeth out. I narrow in on the way heโ€™s looking at this girl who I donโ€™t even know, who Iโ€™ve never even seen before, and who for all I know is his girlfriend. And all I feel is pure, vicious jealousy.

โ€œCould I have one of your peach cosmos, please?โ€

He arches a brow. โ€œHow old are you, luv?โ€

โ€œTwenty-three.โ€

Yeah, thatโ€™s complete bullshit. She looks younger than the horrific excuse for a mustache on the bartenderโ€™s face. Sheโ€™s twenty-three like Iโ€™m Earnest fucking Hemingway. Christ, she looks like she could be in high school for fuckโ€™s sake.

โ€œTwenty-three, aye?โ€

She smiles a heart-stopping, cock-throbbing, teasingly flirty grin. โ€œYep.โ€

โ€œSit tight, beautiful. Iโ€™ll get that for you now.โ€

I roll my eyes. But even through my searing jealousy and desire to knock the smug off mustache-boyโ€™s face, I donโ€™t blame him. A girl like that? With that body, those legs, and that smile?

The only right answer to anything that girl asks is โ€œyes.โ€ And she fuckinโ€™ knows it.

She pulls her phone out a small clutch and pages through it. She rolls her eyes at something on the screen, puts it away, and then suddenly turns to glance my way. Her eyes spark, and a small flush hits her cheeks before she quickly looks away. But when she looks back, Iโ€™m still staring.

This is a supremely bad idea.

Iโ€™m thirty-two years old. And I know how this plays out. I know that flush of excitement and intrigue in her face. I know the furtive glances those big blue eyes are casting on my tattooed biceps stretching the probably-against-dress-code white t-shirt Iโ€™m wearing. Iโ€™m fully aware of the effect my casual, devil-may-care smirk has on women.

Which is why this is a very, very bad idea.




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A reader first and foremost, Jagger Cole cut his romance writing teeth penning various fan-fiction stories years ago. After deciding to hang up his writing boots, Jagger worked in advertising pretending to be Don Draper. It worked enough to convince a woman way out of his league to marry him, though, which is a total win.
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Now, Dad to two little princesses and King to a Queen, Jagger is thrilled to be back at the keyboard.
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When not writing or reading romance books, he can be found woodworking, enjoying good whiskey, and grilling outside–rain or shine.
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You can find all of his books at http://www.jaggercolewrites.comโ€ฉ
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Grab a FREE book for joining my fans-only newsletter –> https://dl.bookfunnel.com/8rld1ik3sd

 

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