Who knew things could get even darker and dirtier in New Orleans? New York Times bestselling author Meghan March introduces the Savage Prince of the city, the man you never want to meet.

I do what I want and who I want. I don’t follow anyone’s rules—even my own.
I knew I shouldn’t touch her, but it didn’t stop me.
Didn’t stop me the second time either. Only made me want a third.
My lifestyle suits the savage I am, and she doesn’t.
But Temperance Ransom is my newest addiction, and I’m nowhere near ready to quit her yet.
I’ll have her my way, even if it means dragging her into the darkness.
Hopefully it doesn’t kill us both.

Savage Prince is book one of the Savage Trilogy, set in the same world as Ruthless King, however you do not need to read the Mount Trilogy to devour this scandalously hot new story.

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WRAPPED UP IN READING’s REVIEW OF SAVAGE PRINCE

“That you, Temperance?”
My gaze searches the darkness, interrupted only by the Chinese lanterns and fairy lights hanging from the trees, until it lands on the red dragon emblazoned on the back of a black silk kimono, topped by a fluffy white head of hair.
Shit. My landlady.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Harriet. I’ll just—”
She spins around, spry for her advanced age. “Oh, girl, you’ve got sex hair. At least that makes one of us.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in humiliation. “I . . . uh . . . got—”
“Done up right by a real man, I’d say. About damn time, girl. I was starting to think you were a lost cause of all work and no play. Almost wondered if I’d have to find a new tenant to get some entertainment around here.”
I blink twice as she shuffles toward me, fluffy pink marabou slippers on her feet. “You were going to kick me out because I work too much?”
I knew my landlady was a little nutty, but I didn’t realize she was downright crazy.
“It would’ve been a last resort. I was going to send you a male stripper first. Girl, you need some fun in your life, and you do nothing but go between here and work. Boring as hell.”
Her point is finally sinking in, but part of me is still in shock. “I’m boring?”
“Of course you are. I swear, you go out of your way to stay that way too. But not tonight. Tonight, you look like you got dicked down by a real man.” She takes a seat at the outdoor patio table and reaches for a bottle of wine. “Here’s a glass. Now, sit down and consider part of your rent spilling the juicy details.”
Dumbstruck, I close the distance between us and take a seat at the table. “It’s nothing. I swear.”
“Girl, you’re practically walking bowlegged. I’ve been around the block plenty of times. You won’t shock me.”
I reach for the glass of wine and take a long drink. Good Lord, I needed this.
“I shouldn’t even be admitting what I did tonight.”
Harriet’s aged eyes practically light up as she grins. “Those are the best stories. Come now, I’ll take it to the grave.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I think I accidentally went to a sex club.”
Harriet’s wineglass clinks the metal of the table. “I knew this was going to be good. How do you accidentally go to a sex club?”
I tell her about the note that came to the office, and rushing to meet the appointment, assuming I was there to sell whiskey . . . and end with the part about running from the room.
Harriet claps with childlike excitement. “There’s hope for you yet, Temperance. When are you going back?”
I’m stunned at her reaction. I didn’t exactly expect her to judge, but I sure didn’t think she’d cheer me on.
“Never. I can’t. That’s not me. I’m not . . .”
“Interesting? Sexually adventurous? Up to be manhandled regularly by a real man?”
“I don’t even know his name!”
Harriet waves off my concern. “If I had a nickel for every man whose name I didn’t know, I’d be even richer than I am now. You can’t take life so seriously. You’ll never make it out alive. Now, you go upstairs, take the rest of this bottle of wine, and get tipsy enough to forget all the shouldn’ts and can’ts. If you need me to do some stalking to find this guy, just let me know. I have connections.”

A New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels, Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.

Sign up for Meghan’s newsletter and receive exclusive content that she saves for her subscribers: http://meghanmarch.com/subscribe

To get the inside scoop on a daily basis, search Meghan March’s Runaway Readers on Facebook and join the fun.

FACEBOOK | WEBSITE | INSTAGRAM | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE | TWITTER | PINTEREST

 
Who knew things could get even darker and dirtier in New Orleans? New York Times bestselling author Meghan March introduces the Savage Prince of the city, the man you never want to meet.

I do what I want and who I want. I don’t follow anyone’s rules—even my own.
I knew I shouldn’t touch her, but it didn’t stop me.
Didn’t stop me the second time either. Only made me want a third.
My lifestyle suits the savage I am, and she doesn’t.
But Temperance Ransom is my newest addiction, and I’m nowhere near ready to quit her yet.
I’ll have her my way, even if it means dragging her into the darkness.
Hopefully it doesn’t kill us both.

Savage Prince is book one of the Savage Trilogy, set in the same world as Ruthless King, however you do not need to read the Mount Trilogy to devour this scandalously hot new story.
 

BUY NOW!

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | iBooks | B&N | Kobo

“That you, Temperance?”
My gaze searches the darkness, interrupted only by the Chinese lanterns and fairy lights hanging from the trees, until it lands on the red dragon emblazoned on the back of a black silk kimono, topped by a fluffy white head of hair.
Shit. My landlady.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Harriet. I’ll just—”
She spins around, spry for her advanced age. “Oh, girl, you’ve got sex hair. At least that makes one of us.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in humiliation. “I . . . uh . . . got—”
“Done up right by a real man, I’d say. About damn time, girl. I was starting to think you were a lost cause of all work and no play. Almost wondered if I’d have to find a new tenant to get some entertainment around here.”
I blink twice as she shuffles toward me, fluffy pink marabou slippers on her feet. “You were going to kick me out because I work too much?”
I knew my landlady was a little nutty, but I didn’t realize she was downright crazy.
“It would’ve been a last resort. I was going to send you a male stripper first. Girl, you need some fun in your life, and you do nothing but go between here and work. Boring as hell.”
Her point is finally sinking in, but part of me is still in shock. “I’m boring?”
“Of course you are. I swear, you go out of your way to stay that way too. But not tonight. Tonight, you look like you got dicked down by a real man.” She takes a seat at the outdoor patio table and reaches for a bottle of wine. “Here’s a glass. Now, sit down and consider part of your rent spilling the juicy details.”
Dumbstruck, I close the distance between us and take a seat at the table. “It’s nothing. I swear.”
“Girl, you’re practically walking bowlegged. I’ve been around the block plenty of times. You won’t shock me.”
I reach for the glass of wine and take a long drink. Good Lord, I needed this.
“I shouldn’t even be admitting what I did tonight.”
Harriet’s aged eyes practically light up as she grins. “Those are the best stories. Come now, I’ll take it to the grave.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I think I accidentally went to a sex club.”
Harriet’s wineglass clinks the metal of the table. “I knew this was going to be good. How do you accidentally go to a sex club?”
I tell her about the note that came to the office, and rushing to meet the appointment, assuming I was there to sell whiskey . . . and end with the part about running from the room.
Harriet claps with childlike excitement. “There’s hope for you yet, Temperance. When are you going back?”
I’m stunned at her reaction. I didn’t exactly expect her to judge, but I sure didn’t think she’d cheer me on.
“Never. I can’t. That’s not me. I’m not . . .”
“Interesting? Sexually adventurous? Up to be manhandled regularly by a real man?”
“I don’t even know his name!”
Harriet waves off my concern. “If I had a nickel for every man whose name I didn’t know, I’d be even richer than I am now. You can’t take life so seriously. You’ll never make it out alive. Now, you go upstairs, take the rest of this bottle of wine, and get tipsy enough to forget all the shouldn’ts and can’ts. If you need me to do some stalking to find this guy, just let me know. I have connections.”

A New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels, Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had.

Sign up for Meghan’s newsletter and receive exclusive content that she saves for her subscribers: http://meghanmarch.com/subscribe

To get the inside scoop on a daily basis, search Meghan March’s Runaway Readers on Facebook and join the fun.

FACEBOOK | WEBSITE | INSTAGRAM | AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE | TWITTER | PINTEREST