‘I will admit, I am in the “I loved Fifty Shades” camp, but after reading Release Me, Mr Grey only scratches the surface compared to Damien Stark’ Cocktails and Books Blog
‘It is not often when a book is so amazingly well-written that I find it hard to even begin to accurately describe it … I recommend this book to everyone who is interested in a passionate love story’ Romancebookworm’s Reviews
‘The story is one that will rank up with the Fifty Shades and Crossfire trilogies. I am impatiently awaiting book two’ Incubus Publishing Blog
‘Release Me gives readers tantalizing pages of sensual delight, leaving us reeling as we journey with this couple and their passions are released. Release Me is a must read!’ Readaholics Anonymous
About the Book
I never thought I’d lose control, but his desire took me to the edge.
Powerful, ambitious and devastatingly sexy, Jackson Steele was unlike any other man I’d ever known. He went after what he wanted with his whole mind, body and soul – and I was the woman in his sights. One touch and I surrendered, one night together and I was undone. Jackson and I had secrets, dark pieces of our pasts that threatened to swallow us both. I was scared to trust him fully, to finally let go. Yet no matter the dangers that lay ahead, I knew I was his – that there could be no more holding back and that in our passion lay our salvation …
one
Jackson Steele tossed back the last of his scotch, slammed the glass down on the polished granite bar, and considered ordering another.
He could use it—that was damn sure—but probably better to have a clear head before he went to answer his brother’s summons.
His brother.
That was something he didn’t say every day. Hell, he’d spent his entire life avoiding saying it. Been told he wasn’t allowed to say it.
“Sometimes families have secrets,” his father had said.
Wasn’t that the fucking truth?
The great and glorious Damien Stark—one of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful men—had no idea that he and Jackson shared a father.
But in about fifteen minutes he’d know. Because Jackson was going to tell him. Had to tell him.
Fuck.
He held up his hand to get the bartender’s attention because, screw it, right now he really could use another drink.
The bartender nodded, poured two fingers of Glenmorangie, neat, then slid the glass to Jackson. He hesitated, bar rag in hand, until Jackson finally looked up and met his eyes. “Something else?” Jackson asked.
“Sorry. No.” It was a lie, of course, and as Jackson watched, the bartender’s cheeks turned pink.
The bartender, whose name tag identified him as Phil, was in his early twenties, and with his hair slicked back and his perfectly tailored dark suit, he looked as essential to the Gallery Bar—which epitomized the glamour and excitement of the 1920s—as the polished wood, glittering chandeliers, and ornate carvings that filled and completed this space.
The historic Millennium Biltmore hotel had always been one of Jackson’s favorite places in Los Angeles. As a teenager, when he’d only dreamed of becoming an architect, he would come as often as he could, usually begging a friend with a car to bring him up from San Diego and drop him downtown. He would wander the hotel, soaking up the exquisite Spanish-Italian-Renaissance-style architecture that blended so well with the California location. The architects, Schultze and Weaver, were among Jackson’s idols, and he would spend hours examining the fine detail in all of the elements, from the elegant columns and doorways, to the exposed wood-framed roofs, to the intricate cast-iron railings and elaborate wooden carvings.