Published by Random House on September 11th 2014
Genres: Erotica, Fiction, General, Romance
I can’t recall my first thought that morning: that I was in a strange bedroom; that an unfamiliar man was naked beside me; or that a woman was screaming somewhere in the distance. When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage a trois. But the morning after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One of the men she’s spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident, suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn’t know where to turn. Can she trust Sol, the other man, who is an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire to continue their kinky game? A dark erotic thriller from the author of Thrill Seeker
I am so excited to be part of the Blog Tour for the newest book from Kristina Lloyd, Undone. This was a great read! It starts off at a party with hot sex. When one part of her threesome ends up dead, Lana is left to try and sort out if she is falling for the killer or deep in something much more violent. We don’t get all the details right away, we just have an account of what happened from Lana’s point of view. I found myself swooning as the lusty affair unfolded in Lana’s diary. Lana lays it all out there for us to enjoy, writing as if to an old friend. I was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. Her love interest, Sol, is so deliciously written. I loved that Lana was not some expert lover, just one dabbling in BDSM. Sol has all the right moves and it is so hot to hear how Lana falls so deep. Lana finds herself almost a victim in this affair, which borders on manic infatuation. We see the whole scene as Lana does, flaws and all. Kristina envelops us into this story full of lies and betrayal. I could scarcely believe how it all went down.
Kristina describes the life of a bar owner, making it sound like a viable career. I want the life of Lana. The loves of her as well, please. This girl really goes outer limits for her own happiness in this relationship. Since there is such a nasty twist in this book, I can’t give you too many details. I can tell you that you won’t really miss Misah, the guy who dies at the beginning. He served his purpose and made this intro one of the best I have read this year. I am really excited be able to offer up a signed copy of this sexy twisted tale. Scroll down for details..
The story so far: Lana Greenwood is at a weekend party in the country. Here, she’s writing in her diary, recalling the second time she met Sol Miller after an earlier, brief exchange of words when he was applying ice to a tennis injury, a split lip. It’s a flashback scene after we learn Lana has spent the night with Sol and another guy, Misha. On the morning after the threesome, Misha is found dead in the swimming pool. Lana is trying to piece the weekend’s events together.
“To go back to the party. After meeting Sol in the utility room at Dravendene, I later saw him several times that day, always talking to someone, his aviator shades giving him silver-black, shellac eyes. He felt dangerous to look at because if he were mutually curious, I’d be none the wiser.
I was interested in talking to him but didn’t get chance until the evening. I’d napped, bathed and changed, and was feeling nicely buzzed. I was wearing a 1960s mod dress, cut just above the knees, in navy blue cotton with a white Peter Pan collar and large, white buttons down the front. On my feet were strappy, Lola Ramona wedges in red, white and black. As I said before, when I picture myself from the outside, the nightmare feels more manageable. The events become discrete, strung neatly and evenly across a timeline of the weekend, rather than swirling in a maelstrom of upset. If I order them by clothing, we have: Day time: tea dress. Evening: mini-dress. Night time: handcuffs.
I spotted him alone on the fringes of the party, beyond the hubbub of the garden, where glowing Chinese lanterns now hung from trees like strange pastel moons. He was leaning against an enormous horse chestnut, smoking, and gazing out across undulating countryside to a mauve-blue sky shot through with streaks of pink. Swifts swooped high above, their screams trailing. Long shadows slanted across the landscape.
Emboldened by a couple of glasses of sangria, I approached, heels a touch wonky on the grass. ‘Hey, how’s the lip?’ I called.
He turned, giving me a quick up–down assessment, and smiled tentatively. ‘Yeah, good thanks.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette, tapped it against the trunk, and then dropped the butt to the ground, swivelling his heel where the end fell among tree roots.
His bottom lip, although less swollen and raw, was still marked by a ruby-purple lump, sagging and splitting like an overripe fruit. The wound had a lascivious quality, as if the man were melting from an excess of sensuality; as if the private hollow of his mouth were bursting out in a shameless display of wet, pouting obscenity. I wanted to suck him there, to carefully place my lips on the tenderness and taste the point where he was too much for himself. His broken flesh and blood would tingle on my tongue in a concoction tasting of velvet and copper, and I’d drink him down.
‘Did you win your match?’ I asked.
He tucked a thumb in his belt loop, and crooked his knee against the broad tree trunk, all cool and laid-back like a beat-up cowboy. Outdoors, he seemed older than he had done earlier, high on endorphins in the utility room. His hair was thick, as dark as bitter chocolate, and his brown eyes were set in warm, crinkled rays. He smiled as if he found me amusing, his mouth lopsided from the injury. It was a sexy smile, arrogant, jeering and playfully calculating; a smile which suggested nothing would stop him from taking his pleasures as he preferred them.
‘Certainly did,’ he replied, as if it were never in doubt because he always wins. I cast my eyes up and down his body, checking him out because two can play at that game. He wore jeans, a leather belt and a checked shirt unbuttoned over a tee.
‘You look as if you’re auditioning for the role of Marlboro Man,’ I said.
He laughed then dabbed his lip. ‘Yeah? So do I get the gig?’ He checked his fingertips.
‘Well, I’d hire you.’ I smiled and stepped closer, offering him my hand. ‘Lana. Lana Greenwood.’
He wiped his fingertips on his jeans and shook my hand, his big, firm grip threatening to crush my fingers. ‘Sol Miller. Apologies. My lip bleeds when I smile.’”
About the Author
KRISTINA LLOYD writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. Her novels are published by Black Lace and her short stories have appeared in dozens of anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collection, in both the UK and US. She lives in Brighton, England.