Frost by Taryn Kincaid
Dagney Night, a sought-after succubus, is no stranger to blazing hot sex. But as Valentine’s
Day approaches, she longs for something more. When oddly erotic paintings arrive for display
at her art gallery, arousing everyone who views them, she wonders about the mysterious artist
who created the works.
Maxwell Raines, a fire-sex demon, lives a life of solitude and seclusion behind the walls of his
compound at Sleepy Hollow, channeling his lustful impulses into his art—until his muse deserts
him and his temperature rises past the danger point. He needs sex. Now.
When Madame Evangeline arranges a torrid Valentine’s 1Night Stand for them, will the flames
of their encounter be too hot to handle?
Dagney followed her sister’s glance, and her heart flipped like a gymnast unable to nail a
vault. Darkness swathed the gallery with the exception of the lights above or below each
of the paintings. The large man emerging from the shadows held her rapt. Waves of pure,
unadulterated lust smacked her with such force she didn’t even see Lily and Campbell leave.
The blast of raw desire crumpled her to the floor. Her gaze remained riveted on the tall hunk of
ferocious male stalking toward her, radiating undiluted carnality. He set something carefully on
the floor and grasped her by the elbows, his touch surprisingly gentle when he lifted her to her
“I’m Maxwell Raines.”
Yeah. No kidding. Who else could a guy so hot, so studly, possibly be?
She told herself not to swoon. Ordered herself not to swoon. But, Goddess, that rumbling voice.
More potent than a train barreling over the tracks. And he smelled so good. Sinfully masculine.
A bit of musk, a bite of pine, an essence of dark, smoky nights. Sexy scents. Reminiscent of tangled satin sheets that had been given a good work-out.
Her legs turned to rubber, and she doubted they’d support her on their own. She’d be mortified
if he’d have to scrape her puddled body up again. But he hadn’t yet relaxed his grip. Could she
bullshit her way through the meeting without collapsing? “You’re late,” she said.
“I’m never late.”
“Well, the party’s over, Mr. Raines.” She waved a hand around the empty room.
“Depends on your perspective.”
“You’re big on perspective, are you?”
“I’m a painter.” A brief shrug accompanied his blunt words. “Obvious connection.”
“Right. But as you can see, everyone’s left.”
“You haven’t.” He gazed down at her, a black brow flaring. “And you’re what I’m here for.”
Author Bio and Links:
Taryn Kincaid lives in beautiful Bora Bora. Or wishes she did. When she's not parasailing up
and down the Hudson River, taking care of her aging pet walrus, or volunteering at the local
animal shelter [oh, HELL, no], she loves to arrange her voodoo doll-pin collection and practice
chanting. Taryn is dedicated to eradicating the Kardashians and Honey Boo-Book from the
face of the earth, along with The Bieb and sparkly vampires. At this moment, she is busy
adjusting the tin foil to throw the CIA (Culinary Institute of America) off her trail. She hangs
around a lot on Facebook and Twitter with her trillions of fans and pops in at Goodreads from
time to time. You can catch her on her website and her blog where she lives for comments!
Check out the other tour sites by clicking the image above, or here.