So, my newest release with Jack Crosby—Hostile Spankover!—answers the question, “What happens when a couple of authors with similar (somewhat juvenile) senses of humor and a shared love for erotica and the movie Die Hard dare each other to write the craziest, most outlandish smut novel in the history of ever?”

I mean, we’ve all asked that question. Right??

Simply put, Jack and I were on a crazy writing spree at the end of last year. Punch drunk from late nights spent writing and a few too many bacon benders, we started talking about how most erotica seemed to take itself too seriously. But what about those readers who love a nice one-handed read and who also enjoy some serious laughs with their naughtiness?

On that fateful day, Hostile Spankover! was born. For those of you who may be used to our other collaborations—Rules of the Wild and Running Wild—please note that Hostile Spankover! is a major departure from our typical style. This one isn’t for everyone. And we’re cool with that.

You’ve been warned. 😉

Please enjoy this blurb and an excerpt from the ballsiest smut novel you’ll ever lay your hands on!

I give you….Hostile Spankover!

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Bond. Bourne. McClane. Stryker?

Special Agent Gabriel Stryker has a penchant for packing heat, thwarting his enemies, and dropping awful puns. And not necessarily in that order. When an international weapons dealer sets his sights on pulling a major job in New York City on New Year’s Eve, it’s up to Stryker to get to the bottom of his nefarious plan before the clock strykes zero.

With the help of his not-so-ex-girlfriend and intrepid, acid-tongued reporter, Vikki Phoenix, Stryker will need to call on every last bit of awesomeness–and the occasional spanking–to keep Vikki on the straight and narrow and out of harm’s way. Get in on the action as the FBI, the CIA, and a host of the wildest characters ever to grace the pages of a one-handed read join forces to maintain law and order in a city on the verge of going to hell in a hand basket.

To make a long story short, this ain’t your typical “wink wink” read. Consider yourself warned.

Publisher’s Note: This book contains terrible puns, two ridiculous main characters who totally deserve each other, a lot of the hot n’ heavies, and a poor soul whose name is not Manny but that’s tragically what we’ll all remember him by. Reader discretion is advised.

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Excerpt:

Back at the station, I scrolled through all the police reports and the articles the major papers had released over the past day about the incident at the café. Most of what I found were weak-ass regurgitations of the same story I’d scooped not even eighteen hours ago.

The sketchy details remained the same. Apparent contract hit. Eurotrash dipshits of unknown origins. Both presumably shot and killed by the very targets they’d been sent to kill. A shitload of glass and freaked out customers left in the wake of the incident. And, if I’d really seen what I thought I saw while on site, what was Stryker doing there? And what was I going to do about it if it was him?

But first things first…

Work the problem, Vik. Trace it back and work it, I talked myself up, taking a sip of the mud in a mug that the station insisted was coffee. Wincing after witnessing the parting of the oil slick resting atop the viscous liquid, I swallowed the vile brew and ran my fingers through my hair. The adrenaline I’d been coasting on had long since waned and I just needed a solid hit of caffeine to jolt me back into action.

Christ, what I wouldn’t give for some nice imported Ethiopian or Costa Rican beans. Hell, I’d even drink that fancy Asian cat shit coffee right about now.

Holy hell. Wait a second. That’s the angle I needed to pursue. These guys weren’t from the States and they would’ve had to come through border control at some point.  Snagging my phone, I ran through my contacts until I found the name I was looking for. J. Jeffrey – Immigration and Customs.

Girding my loins and gearing up for the performance of my life, I dialed him. The phone barely rang once before he picked up.

“H-hello? Vikki? Is that you?” If I didn’t know we were the exact same age—we’d graduated from high school in the same class—based on the cracking in his voice, I would’ve pegged Jeffrey as a pubescent teenager.

“Oh, Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey…” The worst part of my opening gambit was that repeating his name oh-so-seductively wasn’t a rhetorical ploy. The poor son of bitch was actually named Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey. Needless to say, his parents were total dicks. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. Long time, no talk to, huh?”

“Um, yeah, Vikki. So, what do you need this time?” The best part about Jeff Cubed was that he knew when to get down to brass tacks. The only possible reason I’d be calling him would be to pump him for information, so why beat around the bush with the whole “what’ve you been up to lately” crap?

“You hear about the guys who got popped at that café in Midtown yesterday? They’re not from the States and I was hoping you might be able to work some of your magic to see if we could get some identifications on them?”

“Oh, yeah. I saw your report on the news last night…you looked great, by the way,” he murmured, the breath catching nervously in his throat.

“Aw, thanks, Jeff. So,” I refocused on the task at hand, “think you might be able to get me something on these guys?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. I can try. Are you, uh, are you still offering the same, uh, deal as before?”

“Oh, Jeffrey, aren’t you the naughty one? If it works for you, it works for me, big guy.” Pro tip: it never hurt to call a man who barely measured up to your chin “big guy.” First off, it was sure to grease the wheels and get a faster response. Plus, based on some high school rumors, apparently our dark horse Mister Thrice Jeffrey was packing some heat in those off-brand polyester slacks of his.

“Yeah, give me a few and let me see what I can dig up for you. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”

“Sounds great, Jeff. And thanks. Thanks a lot,” I replied, my tone finally indicating my gratefulness to my old classmate.

After hanging up, I had a little time to kill and nobody to put on blast for the moment. Given how exhausted I was, a few minutes strolling down memory lane couldn’t hurt, right? I popped open the cache of photos on my phone and thumbed through until I got to a batch from a few years back. And there he was.

Gabriel Stryker, in all his drool-worthy glory. I might’ve been the sexy darling of nighttime news in this city, but Gabe was the gritty, ripped, hot-as-shit god of sex that kept this darling in line. We were one of those couples that was so goddamned good-looking, we would probably have been doomed to have the world’s ugliest kids, just on principle.

Even though the memories hurt—nobody liked getting spurned for a badge—it didn’t mean I couldn’t be self-indulgent for a moment. And Christ, was he decadence itself. Gabe wrapping his arms around me from behind. Kissing my neck as I took a selfie. Running his bearded chin along my temple as we skated at Rockefeller Center. Sipping champagne together at dozens of brunches and dinners. Screwing my brains out in an ill-advised, blurry, naked action shot.

Reckless or not, I was glad I hadn’t deleted that last one. It was all the proof I needed that what we’d had was real. And that there was a time when there was a man in my life strong enough to take me in hand and make me his. To burn me to the ground with the intensity of his love and to help me rise up from the ashes.