**BLOG TOUR With Giveaway** The Paper Year by Avery Aster

Book Title: The Paper Year: A Psychological Thriller With An Ending You'll Never See Coming (Piper Adler Book 1) 

Author: Avery Aster 

Genre: Psychological Thriller 

Release Date: March 16, 2017 

Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions

For fans of The Girl on the Train, Before I Go to Sleep, and The Silent Wife, the new psychological thriller from New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster warns readers: the first year of marriage is killer.

Barclay is Manhattan's premiere cooperative—the kind of place everyone who's anyone desires to reside in. That's what psychotherapist Piper Adler believes as she moves into the garden apartment with her new husband, but then she wakes up in a hospital accused of trying to take her own life. Her dreams of being a wife and mother destroyed along with her career as a mental health professional, she sets off on a mind-bending course to discover the truth.

Unraveling a web of deceit forces Piper to second-guess her family, her friends, and even herself. With each terrifying revelation, she must come to terms with the fact that those she thought she knew aren't who they seem, and someone trusted very close to her wants her gone. Will she beat them at their own game or die trying?

Fusing nail-biting suspense with potent storytelling, THE PAPER YEAR will keep you on the edge of your seat with an unforgettable cast of characters who are compelled to do the unthinkable to survive.

I shout for help, hoping someone, anyone, hears me.

Everyone is gone. They heeded the warning and left hours ago.

Glancing down at the watch my husband gave me when we first married, I notice the time: ten minutes to eight. I’m fucked.

Any minute now the demolition crew will blow this basement into a gazillion pieces. I imagine my body combusting like an overcooked dinner that had been left in the microwave for far too long on the highest power. My arms would be found somewhere on FDR Drive. My legs would smack the roof of a nearby cab. I thought about my dentist, Dr. Sabbagh, having to identify my skull using dental records. And my mother in Westchester; I can already hear her saying, “I told Piper she should’ve never gotten married to someone as good-looking as Boden Adler.”

My hands, cut and bloody from fighting while trying to defend myself, start to shake uncontrollably. Reaching for the edge of the cage that I’m locked into, I throw myself onto the mesh metal with every ounce of energy left inside me, praying the door comes loose.

Locked from the other side, it doesn’t budge.

Fear pounds in my heart, blood thumps through my ears. The florescent lights that have given me hope like a warm blanket for the last hour fade to darkness.

Exhausted, I surrender, collapsing onto the cold cement floor.

“You got your chance. You should’ve left when I told you,” the voice yells from the top of the stairs. “Goodbye.”

Never in a million years did I think I’d die like this.

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!

 a Rafflecopter giveaway

**BLOG TOUR With Giveaway** Undercover by Avery Aster

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!

 a Rafflecopter giveaway

**BLOG TOUR With Giveaway** Call Me, Poppy by Avery Aster

Book Title: Call Me, Poppy 

Author: Avery Aster 

Genre: New Adult 

Release Date: February 7, 2017 

Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions

"Don't tell my besties this juicy tidbit: I don't know him at all. It's like Yves Remy has no past. He refuses to tell me where he's from. My friends Taddy, Lex, Blake, and Vive think he's just been released from prison. Determined to find out just who this orgasm-inducing, hung, inked, muscled bad boy with the deep French accent that makes my insides melt into liquid buttah is--I'm doing my own sleuthing.

Remy makes all of my erotic fantasies come true. First, it was in the way he kissed me: intense Frenching. Then, it was how he took ownership over my body and laid claim to every inch of my virginal flesh as he dominated me into the kinkiest submission scenarios imaginable. Lately, he's been giving me Cartier jewelry and telling me how to dress: in Chanel. Yes, I love a man who takes control and knows what he wants. Who doesn't? But this is cray-cray. Where does his money come from? I don't know him at all.

The Manhattanites suspect Yves is the thief who broke into my dorm room a few months ago and stole my diaries. Uh-huh. I bet he's been reading them, too. How else would he know to do all the things that drive me wild? I have to put an end to these sex games he's playing because I'm afraid something bad might happen. Should I call the police and tell them I know who the infamous college campus burglar is? But, damn, his body is just too frickin' good. WTF am I gonna do?" --Poppy White, college junior, talk show host, and Steeler's Fan.

Most girls in this situation, I imagine, would naturally whip around to get a good look at him, then start firing off questions like, “What school do you go to?” and twirling their hair.

Not me.

I couldn’t give a flip. I just wanna freakin’ dance.

I press my backside against his crotch, teasing him, shaking my thang, then lift my hand up in the air to show that I’m having a blast.

All of a sudden, his hands, big and strong, come down over my bare shoulders, sending a pulsating charge through my body that causes every inch of my flesh to tingle.

“Bonsoir,” he mutters in my ear in a deep baritone voice. I whirl around to face him.

“You’re French?”

“Qui.” He turns around, showing me his backside and hiding his face.

“Ohhhh. Two can play at this game, buddy.” Thinking I’m all male and stuff, I get right up behind him, slide my hands into his front pockets, and press myself against him.

He laughs and mutters some words that I don’t understand.

I giggle too, wishing I had paid better attention in French class. I couldn’t stand my teacher in high school, Madame Boulanger. The woman hated me, said I’d never amount to much in life unless I learned French. I’d argued that I’d originally wanted to learn Spanish, but that class was full, so was stuck with Madame Boulanger.

We move to the music, finishing the song.

Just as he’s about to turn, I release my hands and do the same. Slowly I walk over to the far wall. He follows, our hips meshed together as one.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, glaring up at him in utter fascination.

“No, mademoiselle.”

Oh God. This is crazy hot.

We’re in the dark, so I can’t see him very well, but I have to look, at least to see if he has a nice face or not. To be honest, with that accent, he could resemble Herman Munster and I’ll still be turned on by him. I mean, from what I can tell he’s gotta be 6’4. Ohhh, and those hands. They look like football player hands. You know, the kind that can rip your panties of in one fell swoop.

I put my fingers up to his lips.

He bites playfully down on them and wraps his arms around me.

“Kiss me,” I mutter.

He leans down and plants one on my lips. First slow and tender, but as the heat between us becomes scorching hot, his tongue goes deeper as if fucking my face with it. Oh. My. God. In. Out. He nibbles on my bottom lip. Presses me closer to him, tongue diving deeper. His hands cradle my skull.

Fuck. Yes. Now. Take me now. Please.

I take his left hand with my right and edge my skirt up around my waist. Leaning my body onto his, his fingers find their way to my pussy lips. He squeezes them, gently at first, then firmly.

I’m going to be soaking wet. Yup. Any second now. Buckets galore.

“Feel good, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. Finger me. Please.” Turning around, I face the wall. His lips nuzzle at my ears. His hands are up my skirt, his fingers playing with my clit.

“Je serai poète et toi poésie.”

“I'll be a poet, and you'll be poetry,” I repeat his words back in English, the French coming back to me.

Thank you, Madame Boulanger!

God. The mere sound of them makes me wet. Literally.

He pulls his finger out and licks it. “Bien.” Then shoves two deep inside me.

“You’re tight, mademoiselle.” His firm cock, concealed in his jeans but seemingly ready to bust loose at any minute under that zipper, presses against my ass.

Gyrating my hips and taking his hands, I pant, “Oh God. I’m going to come. Tell me your name. Please.”

“Yves,” he mutters, whipping me around to face him. His mouth hovers over mine. “Come while I kiss you.”

And so I do. I come like I’ve never come before: in the dark, in a nightclub, in a stranger’s arms.

The music is a muffled bass in my ears as he holds me tight. My legs feel weak. I’m soaking wet. I bite down on my tongue as the final wave of the orgasm rocks through me. Squinting my eyes shut tight, bright colors burst behind my eyelids.

Everything is going in slow motion. That is until I hear a familiar voice shouting for me.

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!

a Rafflecopter giveaway