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RELEASE BLITZ – Stay Baby Stay (Daddy Loves You #2) by Margot Scott

Title: Stay Baby Stay
Series: Daddy Loves You #2
Author: Margot Scott
Genre: Standalone Forbidden/Erotic Romance
Release Date: March 11, 2021
BLURB
Hold on, baby. Daddy’s got you…
I was on the hunt for a devil the night an angel fell into my lap. My obsession took hold before she’d even told me her name, aroused by a craving for Holly’s particular brand of sweetness.
If I hadn’t been undercover that night, I’d have thrown her over my shoulder and carried her far from that poisoned playground. One of many gilded mansions where the scotch is aged to perfection, and the girls are young and disposable.
The devil I’m tracking has a taste for that sort of prey. I’m determined to catch him, but till I do, I’m keeping my baby girl close to me.
In my arms and in my bed where I can protect her.
Where I can be the man she craves.
And the Daddy she needs.
Author’s note: Brace yourself for the wild ride that is book two in the Daddy Loves You Series from Margot Scott. Each title in the series is a standalone romance, bursting at the seams with fast and filthy age-gap instalove. Absolutely NO cheating or cliffhangers, and a guaranteed HEA!
Please note, this book contains scenes and descriptions of violence, as well as discussions of past sexual abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
PURCHASE LINKS
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
Free in Kindle Unlimited


EXCERPT
I don’t belong here.
I repeat the words to myself like a mantra. I do not belong here.
My foot tap-tap-taps on the chair leg, as I watch Kenzie work her magic by the bar. Laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. Smiling just enough to convey interest without coming off as desperate. Each hair flip and slow blink is a carefully choreographed dance step intended to entice.
The moves would probably work even if she wasn’t gorgeous, but she is. I’ve done a good job accentuating her cheekbones, balancing highlight and bronzer so that the light hits the high points of her face just right. She’s got the sort of ski-sloped nose you’d expect to find on a doll, not a living, breathing human woman.
I’m not saying I’m ugly in comparison. I’m just not pretty in the same way Kenzie is. She brightens any room she enters, while I stand in the corner praying not to be noticed. Where she’s warm, I’m cold, jittery, like a nervous cat. The moon to Kenzie’s sun; I expect she shines even brighter beside me.
I remind myself Kenzie’s good at this because she’s had to be, and she’s just as good at turning it off when needed. Some guys will take a polite smile as an invitation to invade your personal space.
Others don’t need any prompting at all.
The men here seem to appreciate the dance, like it’s a type of foreplay. I watch them watching her, drinking her in like a glass of champagne.
For the tiniest of moments, I’m jealous. Not because I wish they’d look at me that way, but because of how easily it comes to Kenzie. People are drawn to her in ways they simply aren’t drawn to me. Because she doesn’t instinctively give off a don’t-talk to-me vibe.
Apparently, that vibe isn’t enough to turn away the white-haired geezer shoving his crotch in my face.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” he says, standing over me, his hand resting on the back of my chair.
“Am I?” I sip champagne and glance anxiously in Kenzie’s direction, but she doesn’t turn toward me.
“I think you might be the prettiest peach in the room.”
I instruct my eyes not to roll as I finally look up at him. My pulse picks up speed. The old man smiles, and his teeth are blindingly white, like he had them bleached this morning.
“That’s very kind of you,” I tell him.
He takes the empty seat beside me. I feel the sweat start to build under my arms and behind my knees. I wish he’d go away. Choose someone else, someone who actually looks excited to see him and his money.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these things before,” he says. “Are you a virgin?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. He chuckles, a croaking frog-like sound. I am probably one of the least experienced girls here, but I’m not about to advertise that fact. Having sex means letting people get close to you, and I don’t let very many people get close to me.
“Excuse me,” I say, rising to my feet. “I need to…reapply my lipstick.”
“Aw, I was just joking, sweetie. No need to play hard to get.” He grabs my hand and pulls me onto his lap. My limbs freeze up as his bony arms cinch around my waist. “Though I must say, the deer-in-headlights look is really doing it for me—”
“I believe you’re in my seat, Mr. Treasurer.”
I crane my neck to get a look at the face of the man staring down at us. I instantly recognize him from before, when I first walked in.
Ice-blue eyes. Sandy brown hair, shorn close to the scalp, yet still long enough to comb your fingers through, if you were interested in doing that sort of thing. He’s younger than most of the men here, though that still places him firmly in his late thirties.
His gaze meets mine, and even though I’m seated on a creep’s lap, I immediately feel…safer.
“I don’t see your name on it,” the old man—Mr. Treasurer—says.
“Trust me, it’s there. Now let the young lady stand up so I can claim what’s mine.”
Mr. Treasurer narrows his gaze at the younger man, who makes no move to step down or back away.
“I didn’t realize you’d made a down payment. My apologies.” The old creep lets go of me. I practically leap from his lap. He stands up and waves his hand at the chair. “All yours.”
The younger man takes the empty seat without a word.
“Name’s Jack,” the man says, holding out his hand to me. “Forgive me if I’ve just pulled you away from the geriatric of your dreams, but you looked like you could use an emergency exit.”
“God, yes…and thank you.” I shake his hand. He doesn’t pull or try to convince me to sit in his lap, but I find myself mysteriously drawn to him.
I sit down on the arm of his chair, granting me a front-row seat to his face. He’s handsome, but not flawless. There’s a faint scar on his forehead, and his nose is slightly crooked; he probably broke it as a kid. The dusting of stubble along his jaw makes him look rugged, which is hard to pull off in a suit.
He has to be rich if he’s here tonight. I wonder how he makes his money.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Mia,” I say, using the fake name Kenzie helped me come up with.
“Where are you from, Mia?”
“All over,” I say with a shrug. A stock answer for strangers, but Jack doesn’t feel like a stranger. I feel like I’ve known him for ages.
“What brings you out into the country on a Saturday night? Shouldn’t you be partying with your friends?”
“I don’t really like parties,” I say.
“In that case, why’re you here?”
“My friend wanted to come. She thought we could make some easy money.”
The light dims behind his smile.
“Trust me, sweetheart. Ain’t nothing easy about this kind of money.”
I finish off the last of my champagne. Jack watches my throat closely as I swallow, his gaze warm and intense.
“How old are you, Mia?”
“Eighteen,” I say.
For a second, I think he looks relieved. His face is kind. I hate to think he’s a creep like the rest of the men here, but why else would he be at this party?
“You in some kind of trouble?” he asks.
“Why? You want to rescue me again?”
He chuckles. “Just wondering if you could use a getaway.”
Kenzie and I lock eyes from across the room. She makes a crude gesture with her fingers at the sight of me sitting so close with a man. I purse my lips, grateful I went with full-coverage foundation tonight, otherwise my cheeks would be as red as the hair on my head.
“I’d love to get the hell out of here,” I say. “But I can’t leave my friend. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Anytime,” he says, and I get the feeling he means it.
I have no good reason to trust Jack, but it’s rare that I meet someone who’s so easy to talk to. Someone who doesn’t make me break out in a cold sweat just by looking at them. The only other person I feel this comfortable around is Kenzie.
The chair’s arm is sharp and unforgiving against my backside. Before I realize it, I’m sliding down onto Jack’s lap. His arms go around me, but unlike the old man, his hold doesn’t feel confining. It feels protective, comforting. Like sinking into bed.
“My name’s not Mia,” I tell him. “It’s Holly. I’m sorry I lied.”
“Nah, you’re smart not to advertise your real name. I bet most of the girls here are going by some kind of alias. Now, how old are you really?”
I laugh softly. “That, I didn’t lie about.”
“Thank fucking God.” He touches his temple to mine. I probably shouldn’t have told him my real name. He’s a stranger, no one special to me. But part of me hated the thought of lying to him.
“Seems like you’re the only man here who cares to ask how old we are.”
“Oh, they care,” he says, with an edge to his voice. “They’re just hoping for a different answer.”
A cold chill runs down my back and settles in my stomach. Jack must feel it, too, because he’s suddenly holding me tighter. I tuck my face into the angle of his neck and jaw. If I close my eyes and tune out the party around us, I can pretend we’re somewhere far away from here. Just the two of us.
“I think your friend wants to talk to you,” Jack says.
I glance at the bar where Kenzie stands waving and beckoning.
Sighing with frustration, I straighten my posture. “I should go see what she needs.”
“Hold on a sec, Holly.” Jack reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a scuffed-up pen and a small notepad. He clicks the point down and writes something on a piece of paper, which he then tears out. “If you ever find yourself backed into a corner, I have friends in the Knoxville Police Department who can help.”
“Friends?” I can’t say Kenzie and I have ever put much faith in cops. In fact, we’ve spent the last three years going out of our way to avoid them.
“People I trust.” He folds the piece of paper into a small square, which he then tucks into my cleavage.
Before my body even registers that he’s touching my breast, his fingers are already gone.
“If you’re ever in trouble,” he says, “ask for Caleb Larkin. Say it for me, will ya?”
“Caleb Larkin,” I echo.
“Good girl.”


ALSO AVAILABLE
99c for a limited time!
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
Free in Kindle Unlimited


AUTHOR BIO
Margot Scott likes long nails and short, sexy reads, rainbow sprinkles on vanilla ice cream, and rainy days spent in bed with her furbabies. When she’s not writing forbidden-love stories about bearded older men, you can find her browsing Pinterest for pictures of pink things.
AUTHOR LINKS

RELEASE BOOST – Blood and Wine by Margot Scott

Title: Blood and Wine
Author: Margot Scott
Genre: Dark Vampire Romance
Release Date: October 29, 2020
BLURB
A slow-burning descent into darkness and desire… 
Betrayed. Imprisoned. Alone. 
For decades I have suffered as a reluctant blood donor. Caged like an animal and drained of my strength to enrich the Radcliffs and their winery. I’d forsaken all hope of escape—until the winemaker’s daughter returns to the family’s estate. 
A drop of my immortal blood is all it takes to activate her psychic talents. Now we’re connected, and all that remains is convincing her to seek me in the darkness. 
Bribe. Seduce. Deceive. 
To claim she’s too young is an understatement. But a starving man doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for fruit to ripen. I’ve awakened her gifts, and now it’s her turn to replenish me. 
I will have my fill of the winemaker’s daughter. Then I will take revenge on her family. 
Author’s note: Please be aware that this book contains scenes of violence, gore, and rough sexual contact, as well as an age-gap pairing spanning literal centuries. If you find drastically inappropriate older man/younger woman romances squicky, do yourself a favor and skip this book.
PURCHASE LINKS
99c for a limited time!
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
Free in Kindle Unlimited


EXCERPT
I inhale the perfume of lilacs, and watch the horses grazing among the vines. Then I remind myself that it’s October, and there aren’t any horses on the grounds anymore. 
That’s how I know I’m still dreaming. 
I’ve been a lucid dreamer since I was little, capable of controlling my consciousness at whim while asleep. It’s the one Greyson-like talent I’ve been blessed with, and it’s not even that interesting. 
A burst of laughter calls my attention to a couple drinking champagne on the patio. I approach them. They ask if I’m wearing that to the party, and it’s not until I notice how they’re dressed—her in a silk blue wrap dress with ruffles, and him in a fedora and striped jacket—and the way their silhouettes dissolve slightly into the air around them, that I realize they aren’t just stand-ins manufactured by my dream engine. 
They’re ghosts. My mom tried describing them to me, but it’s one thing to hear about something and another to actually see it with your own eyes. 
Ghosts don’t look the way you might expect, all white-sheeted and billowy. Neither do they resemble rotting corpses. They look like shimmery versions of regular people. A little fuzzy around the edges, maybe, but otherwise normal. 
The clamor of horn-heavy music playing elsewhere on the estate coaxes me to step barefooted into the grass. I make my way toward the sound. Sure enough, there’s a party in full swing in the grand foyer. I peek through the windows at the crowd of ghosts having a grand old time, drinking, laughing, and dancing. 
I stay and watch for a while and listen to the band play, until a man in a waistcoat comes up behind me and asks if I have an invitation. I run into the field, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being chased. 
A woman in a white dress watches me from a second-story window. I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I’m pretty sure she’s watching me from the room I’m staying in. She’s too far away to note the details of her face, but her hair is long, dark, and straight, like mine. I blink and she’s gone, and her absence unsettles me and sends me galloping further into the grapevines. 
The sky hasn’t changed since I awoke into the dreamscape, giving the vineyard a sense of timelessness. Now that I’m away from the house, I make my way down the rows of vines slowly, skimming my fingers over the leaves. 
This place isn’t so bad without Edward and his awful relatives making me feel unwelcome. It would’ve been even nicer to have come here with my mother; I could’ve listened to her tell her own stories. 
A crow soars overhead and then drops into a cluster of trees. That’s when I spot the man standing with his back to me among the vines. 
“Hello,” I call out, moving a little closer. He turns his blond head slowly, like he’s not sure if he heard me. I call out again, “Hello, sir?” 
When our gazes meet, I stop advancing. His eyes are so blue they’re almost turquoise. I’m already lost in them, and I just got here. He studies me curiously, like he’s never seen a girl in a Blind Melon tee shirt before. 
“Did you say something to me?” he asks. 
“I said hello.” 
The man looks around, like he’s making sure I’m not actually talking to someone behind him. He’s a pretty big guy, fit and brawny. Maybe he’s the ghost of a laborer, I think, though his clean shirt and fair skin would suggest he’s not one for toiling in the sun. I’d guess him to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. I wonder how long it’s been since he passed on, then remind myself he isn’t real. This place looks like the vineyard, but it’s not the vineyard. There’s no reason my mind couldn’t dream up ghosts just as easily as it cooks up impatient servers. 
“How long have you lived here?” I ask. Mom also told me that ghosts sometimes forget they’re dead, and when they do, it’s best not to remind them. Nine times out of ten, whenever there’s an aggressive haunting, it’s because a ghost is confused, or hasn’t yet come to terms with their situation. This man appears lucid enough, and his silhouette is surprisingly crisp, but I figure it’s better to play it safe. 
His lip curls slightly. “I’ve been here much longer than I’d like to be.” 
“Oh. That sucks.” I’m not sure how else to respond. 
Two rows of vines separate us, but even that distance and a coating of golden scruff aren’t enough to mask the fact that he’s handsome. His face is angular without being pointed, his lips full, yet defined. The longer I look at him, the faster my pulse starts to race. Heat floods my face as I force myself to stop gawking at him like some wannabe groupie. 
“I’m just visiting my dad,” I say, hoping he won’t notice the tremor in my voice. The man says nothing. When I allow myself to glance his way again, he’s no longer standing in the same spot. 
He’s right beside me. 
I stagger back a few steps. 
“How did you do that?” A dumb question, considering ghosts don’t have to follow the laws of physics in the real world, let alone the nonexistent rules in my dreams. 
I hold my breath as the man reaches out to touch my cheek. Somehow his eyes are even bluer this close up. 
“How is this possible?” He strokes the sides of my face. 
“Anything’s possible in a dream,” I say. He shakes his head in disbelief, like I’m the ghost in his dreams. 
“This is why he wants you,” he says, and I have no idea what that means. 
“Who wants me?” 
His gaze lifts over my shoulder, in the direction of the house. 
“It’s time to wake up, Mariah.” 
“Why?” And how does he know my name? 
“You have a visitor.” He grasps my shoulders firmly enough to pinch and shakes me. 
I’m jolted awake, for real this time. 
It takes me a second to recall where I am—in bed, in the guestroom, at Red Cliff—and half a second more to realize that I’m not alone.


AUTHOR BIO
Margot Scott likes long nails and short, sexy reads, rainbow sprinkles on vanilla ice cream, and rainy days spent in bed with her furbabies. When she’s not writing forbidden-love stories about bearded older men, you can find her browsing Pinterest for pictures of pink things.
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