Ethan Frost returns in the breathtaking conclusion to New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Tracy Wolff’s seductive novel Ruined—perfect for fans of Release Me and Bared to You.
Praise for RUINED:
“Tracy Wolff knows how to steam up the pages, and she proves it again in Ruined. If you’re looking for a hot read, curl up with Ethan Frost.” —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author J. Kenner
“Fans of Fifty Shades of Grey will love Tracy Wolff’s Ruined! Heat sizzles off the page and the oh-so-sexy Ethan Frost will make you swoon!”—USA Today bestselling author Stacey Kennedy
Additionally, Random House is giving away two prize packs: a $25 gift card to Babeland and a copy of RUINED! Enter here!
Ethan Frost is everything a woman could want in a man. He’s rich, gorgeous, powerful, one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.
I love Ethan for all the things no one else gets to see: his innate kindness, his reckless spontaneity, his unwavering determination to use his brilliance for good. I love the way he looks at me, the way he touches me. The way he makes me forget the wreckage of my past and the twisted fear that still lives inside me.
But sometimes it terrifies me how much I crave him, how much I need him just to breathe. I always thought it would be my past that ruined us, but there’s a darkness in Ethan I never dreamed existed. Can we survive as his secrets surface—threatening to unravel us both?
Also in the Ethan Frost series: RUINED by Tracy Wolff!
Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she forayed into the wonderful world of girls lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love. Now an English professor at her local community college, she writes romances that run the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense.
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Blog
Fifteen minutes later, there’s an urgent pounding on the door, one that has my heart climbing up my throat even as I walk to the door. I know who it is—of course I know—but I check the peephole anyway, do all the responsible things a single woman living in a big city should do.
It’s Ethan—of course it is—so I fling the door open. And stare. I just stare.
I can’t help myself. He looks hot. I mean, he looks really, really, really hot. He’s wearing a pair of massively ripped jeans and a tight black T-shirt that shows off the curves of his biceps and the powerful muscles of his chest. And he’s got a look on his face that I’ve never seen before, like a starving man . . . or a dying one. Desperate, depraved, maybe even a little delusional. And I swear, my mouth actually waters.
And then, it’s on.
He grabs my upper arms.
Yanks me to him.
Shoves the door shut behind him.
Slams his mouth down on mine.
Pushes me against the door.
And then, he takes. He just takes and takes and takes.
He’s ravenous, his mouth skimming from my lips to my jaw to the long column of my throat. He latches on just where my neck meets my shoulder and sucks so hard that I know there will be a bruise there tomorrow.
He moves to the other side, does the same thing, before grabbing my shirt and yanking. It rips straight down the center, buttons flying in all directions.
Then he’s on his knees in front of me, biting and nibbling and sucking a path straight down the center of my body. He pauses at my breasts for a few breathless seconds, shoving my bra down and sucking love bites into the soft undersides of my breasts.
“Ethan,” I half-sigh, half-moan. My head is rocking back and forth against the wall, my fingers tangled in his hair and my body—God, my body feels like it’s about to go supernova. Like it’s going to spontaneously combust in a pillar of flames that burn so hot it just might incinerate my whole world.
“Chloe,” he growls back as he undoes the button on my jeans and yanks them down and off.
His mouth is on my hip, and this time he sinks his teeth in. Hard. I yelp even as I burn hotter and then he’s burying his face in the juncture of my thighs, eyes closed and hands cupping my ass.
“Ethan,” I gasp again, rocking my hips against him. I’m desperate for his mouth, for his hands, for something—anything—for whatever he wants to give me.
He doesn’t answer. For long seconds, he doesn’t do anything—doesn’t speak, doesn’t bite, doesn’t move. Instead, he just breathes me in, short, shallow, shuddering breaths that somehow only ratchet up my desire.
And then he’s shredding the delicate lace of my underwear, ripping them off my body with a curse that sounds an awful lot like a prayer. He rests one hand against my stomach, pressing my ass into the wall, then grabs my right thigh and lifts my leg up until it’s draped over his shoulder.
“Ethan!” This time it’s a high, keening cry as my consciousness—my whole world—is reduced to those two syllables.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”