Revelação de Capa: The Truth About Heartbreak - B. Celeste
03/04/2019
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Título: The Truth About Heartbreak
Autora: B. Celeste
Gênero: Forbidden Romance
Design da Capa: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Design da Capa: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Data de Lançamento: 3 de Junho, 2019
Sinopse
Eu me apaixonei por ele quando eu tinha treze anos.
Ele era mais velho, misterioso, e inatingível. O rapaz que eu nunca poderia tocar.
Então uma noite mudou tudo para nós. Mas tinha um enorme problema.
Ele pertencia a ela.
"Everett Tucker não tinha que quebrar meu coração por que eu mesma o quebrei ao amá-lo."
TRECHO
(Somente em inglês)
PROLOGUE
River /
Present / 23
The velvet
caress of silk sheets against my bare skin leaves me hyperaware of what I’ve
done. Early morning sunlight slips through the cracked blinds and kisses my exposed
back, coating the room in soft pinks and yellows.
Steady,
rhythmic breathing sounds from behind me. In, out. In, out. It’s a melody that
makes my muscles lock, too afraid to reacquaint my eyes with every dip and
curve of chiseled muscle displayed inches away.
His natural
musky scent wraps around me, overwhelming my senses until my heart thumps
wildly in my chest. It doesn’t take away the memories of lingering touches,
gentle kisses, and an overpowering sense of belonging. And less than twelve
hours ago, I belonged to Everett Tucker in ways I never thought possible in the
ten years of knowing him.
His touches
scorched me.
His kisses
burned me.
And his
body…
The
mattress dips with the shift of his weight. I hold my breath, waiting to see if
he’s awake. When his soft snores echo in the half-empty room, I release the
breath and white knuckle the sheets against my breasts. Carefully, I sit up and
squeeze my eyes closed like it’ll soften the blow of reality.
I wait for
the pounding headache or quake of unavoidable nausea to punish me, but my
conscience reminds me of what I already know. I wasn’t drunk last night. What
I’ve done can’t be blamed on alcohol.
My hand
drags across my bare neck until my heart thunders in pure panic over my missing
possession. I swallow my anxiety when I catch the silver chain resting on the
night stand and remember the very moment he took it off me.
Nothing but
skin. That’s what he said he wanted between us. I’ve only taken this necklace
off to shower and sleep. It goes everywhere with me, the silver paint palette
and brush charms sweeping over my heartbeat as a reminder that he cares. But in
the moment I had him as more than a wish, a hope, a dream, he didn’t want it
lingering.
Nothing but
skin.
My
fingertips touch the newest charm, a cracked heart, and I suck in a short
breath when the contact shocks me. Clenching the sheets tighter to me, I turn
slightly to peek through my peripheral and see a tussle of dirty blond hair
against my starch white pillow case.
Look, my
conscience taunts. Look at him.
Slivers of
tan skin make their way into my sight as I shift, my gaze drifting up the
mountain of hard muscles that form his toned biceps as they wrap around a
pillow. Worrying my bottom lip, my heart summersaults in my chest when the curve
of his square jaw comes into view. The sharp line of it is coated with early
morning shadow that he’ll shave despite preferring a thin layer of stubble.
He looks
peaceful when he’s sleeping; the hard edge he normally radiates eased to a
laxed slumber. From this angle, I can see the faded white scar that stretches
from the bottom of his left ear along the curve of his throat, landing just
above his pulse. You wouldn’t know it’s there unless you know the story, and he
doesn’t tell just anybody.
But I’m not
just anybody.
Especially
not now.
My throat
tightens from the emotions lodging in the back of it as I scope out his
sculpted body. He works hard for every muscle, spends countless hours in the
gym or training at the fire department, and it shows. The man sleeping beside
me has been a figment of my imagination that I’ve conjured thousands of times,
but his body is a masterpiece I never could have perfected unless I saw it in
person.
I absorb
the memory of his body spread on my mattress, bare to me. Every vulnerability
laying in a mess of sheets, open to pull apart and dissect and regret when the
sun fully rises.
Less than
twelve hours ago I belonged to the minty eyed boy I’ve loved since I was
thirteen. But Everett Tucker isn’t mine to love.
He stirs when
I rise from bed.
“Everett,”
I whisper brokenly, my heart shattering inside my chest. I can feel the pieces
splintering apart as I choke out my final words. “We made a mistake.”
Bio da Autora
B. Celeste
é o alter ego de Barbara C. Doyle.
Sua obsessão pelo romance proibido permitiu que ela abrisse um caminho para um novo mundo de amor, sexo, pecado e angústia.
The Truth about Heartbreak é seu livro de estréia.
"Ela não era mais aquela de 16 anos que me pediu para tirar sua virgindade. Ela era perigosa agora."
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