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review 2018-03-17 07:10
Blog Tour w/Review - Two Wedding Crashers

 

TWO WEDDING CRASHERS
THE DATING BY NUMBERS SERIES – Book 2
By Meghan Quinn
Standalone

 

I don’t know what love is anymore.

 

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

 

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

 

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

 

Except I haven't felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

 

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem--but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

 

That's how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

 

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I'm a pro. I can handle this.

 

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I'm doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don't think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

 

ADD TO GOODREADS http://bit.ly/2FgXO0i

 

 

   

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Chills scream their way down my arms and legs, my nipples pucker, and just like that, with one word, all humor vanishes from our little conversation and awareness of this all-consuming man wrapped around me hits me hard.


Gathering myself, I say, “Tell me something Chris and Justine know about you.”

 

“Hmm.” His thumbs hook under the waistband of my shorts, playing with the lower part of my hipbones. His touch spurs on my pelvis, needing to rock, begging for him to go lower. My toes curl in my sandals and my back slightly arches, reaching for more. “Something they know about me.”

 

His mouth doesn’t stray from its position against my ear, and his hips start to slowly move underneath me, his legs tangling with mine. Involuntarily, one of my hands hooks the back of his neck as I hold on tightly to him, feeling like I need support from the onslaught of sensation I’m feeling.

 

I hear him say something, but it doesn’t register in my brain, which has turned to mush as his thumbs stray from my hipbones to right above my pubic bone.

 

There is no denying how turned on I am, how wet I am from his mere touch, how much—despite my reservations—I want this man.

 

With each stroke, my head turns farther and farther to the side until our noses are touching, Beck’s head bends forward to meet me halfway. My eyes flutter shut for a brief moment before I open them and am captured by those flecks of green and gold.

 

The air stills around us, our breath mixing, swirling between us, our lips so close.

 

One swipe of this thumb.

 

Another one.

 

I can’t breathe.

 

I can’t focus.

 

Another swipe, my head leans even closer, my tongue wetting my lips.

 

One more swipe . . .

 

My heart hammers in my chest, my skin prickling with awareness.

 

Beck brings his mouth even closer, only a whisper away now, and he waits.

 

Holding still.

 

His breathing feeling erratic beneath me.

 

One.

 

More.

 

Swipe.

 

And I’m gone.

 

I bring my mouth to his, slowly parting my lips ever so slightly, just enough to maneuver my mouth across his.

 

A low, provocative moan escapes Beck as one of his hands snags the back of my head and holds me in place, almost as if he lets go, I’ll disappear.

 

Needing more, I shift on his lap so I’m straddling him once again, my hands on his bare chest, feeling the powerful sinew that holds him together.

 

Our lips press and mold, mingling, taking, begging . . .

 

Desperate.

 

Beck’s tongue runs against my bottom lip, eliciting a moan from deep within me, lighting a fire so hot, so wild, my hands start to travel up his neck to his cheeks where I grip him, positioning his head so when I open my mouth, I can expertly dive my tongue onto his.
He groans, his lap shifting against mine now, his hard-on pressing against my wet and throbbing center. I match his rocking, using my position on his lap to take advantage of his length I can feel through his board shorts.

 

This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, but God, am I happy it has. Maybe I really should live in the moment, maybe I should take advantage of the opportunity, maybe I should…

 

    

 

 

 

 

Two Wedding Crashers (Dating by Numbers, #2)Two Wedding Crashers by Meghan Quinn
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is book #2, in the Dating By Numbers series. This book can be read as a standalone novel. For understanding of the series, I recommend reading this in order.

Beck is talked into crashing a wedding by his married friends who need a weekend alone. He really just wants to have a hook-up of his own. Then he spies a fellow traveler who tickled his fancy, funny bone and all.

Rylee has been struck by the worst case of writers block. Along with a deadline, she is zooming in on what might be a career epic failure. Her friend convinces her to crash a wedding in order to fire up her muse. What could possibly go wrong?

This story started out with a bang! I was laughing right away. These characters truly had chemistry together before they even knew. What a great addition to the series.

View all my reviews

 

 

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

 

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

 

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

 

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

 

Facebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website 

Amazon Author Page Instagram | Follow on BookBub

 

 

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review 2018-03-17 06:20
Timing
Two Wedding Crashers - Meghan Quinn

This is book #2, in the Dating By Numbers series.  This book can be read as a standalone novel.  For understanding of the series, I recommend reading this in order.

 

Beck is talked into crashing a wedding by his married friends who need a weekend alone.  He really just wants to have a hook-up of his own.  Then he spies a fellow traveler who tickled his fancy, funny bone and all.

 

Rylee has been struck by the worst case of writers block.  Along with a deadline, she is zooming in on what might be a career epic failure.  Her friend convinces her to crash a wedding in order to fire up her muse.  What could possibly go wrong?

 

This story started out with a bang!  I was laughing right away.  These characters truly had chemistry together before they even knew.  What a great addition to the series.  I give this book a 4/5 Kitty's Paws UP!

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text 2018-03-08 15:10
Excerpt Reveal - Two Wedding Crashers

 

 

 

 

Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.

 

You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?

 

Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.

 

Except I haven't felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.

 

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem--but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?

 

That's how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.

 

It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I'm a pro. I can handle this.

 

Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I'm doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don't think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.

 

ADD TO GOODREADS

 

 

PRE-ORDER NOW:

AMAZON US | AMAZON UK |

AMAZON CA | AMAZON AU

   

 
 

EXCERPT:

 

Crystal-blue ocean shines below me, and if I wasn’t so scared of Zoey and her repercussions for being late, I would take the time to appreciate Mother Nature. Instead I hurry into my room, flop my suitcase on my bed, unzip it, and grab my toiletries.

 

Not taking a second longer, I strip down, leaving my gross airplane clothes on the floor, and practically skip to the shower where I stop mid stride.

 

In the shower stall is a black razor, with accompanying shaving cream. That’s odd. Is that courtesy of the hotel? This place is fancy, but not that fancy. Spinning on my heel, I turn toward the sink behind me and spot a white and green toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and men’s cologne. Shit, turning toward the room, my eyes frantically roam the space, spotting a black suitcase in the corner.

 

Shit, shit, shit.

 

Naked, I cover my breasts with my arm and open the closet door only to come face to face with a few hung-up shirts.

 

Yup . . . I’m in someone else’s fucking room.

 

And whoever this room belongs to is the neatest person ever because who honestly lines up there toothbrush and toothpaste tube perfectly on the counter?

 

Reaching for the phone, I call down to the front desk.

 

“Mr. Wilder, how can we assist you?” Oh yeah, totally not in the correct room.

 

“Uh, yeah, hi, this is Rylee Ryan. I just checked in. I was given the key to room 625 and it seems to be occupied.”

 

“Oh dear, let me check.” There is a pause on the phone and then the lady comes on the line again. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss. Ryan. We have you in room 626. Would you like to come down here and grab a new key?”

 

Is she kidding? The trek it took to get over here ate up enough of my time. I can’t possibly take a shower if I have to run back to the lobby, grab a key, and run all the way back here.

 

“Would you mind bringing it to room 625? I have dinner plans and have to get changed.”

 

“Oh, of course. I’ll send someone up with a key right away.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

I hop around naked, eyeing my pukey clothes on the floor and the shower in the other room. Twisting my lip to the side, I try to decide what to do. I can be super quick, like really fucking quick. I just need to scrub the puke and throw on a dress, simple. Two minutes tops. The water doesn’t even have to be warm. I’ll write a polite note to Mr. Wilder—whoever that is—leave him five dollars as a kind gesture and quietly leave. No problem with that. Right?

 

Right.

 

Turning on the shower, I hop in before the water can warm up and hiss from the frosty temperature. I douse soap all over my hands and scrub my neck and body vigorously first, which normally I would wash my hair first but . . . puke. Once I’m satisfied with the amount of scrubbing, I wash my hair, condition it in a minute, do one more soap scrubbing all over my body before rinsing and turning the shower off. Two minutes.
Just in case Mr. Wilder is sitting outside the bathroom, I peek my head out the door, towel wrapped around my body, and call out, “Hello?”

 

When there is no response, I check that the coast is clear then strut to my suitcase and find a simple black sundress. Not bothering to look for underwear or a bra—I really don’t need one with my perky B-cups—I lay out my dress and dry off.

 

Hopefully Mr. Wilder doesn’t mind me using one of his towels or his room for that matter. He’s probably some old dude away on his golfing vacation. I hope I don’t give him a heart attack.

 

I drape my towel over the bed and run my hands through my naturally wavy, black hair. This will have to do. Picking up my towel one more time, I scrunch my hair, trying to soak up all the water just as the hotel door swings open, light blaring through, a tall, dark silhouette shadowed in the doorframe.

 

I still, frozen from the tips of my toes to the hand scrunching a towel in my hair.
Toned calves and legs are covered by black board shorts, slick to his thighs, a bulge prominent. Narrow waist where his board shorts ride low on his hips, a black shirt dancing across his broad chest, cinching sleeves cuffed over his biceps, and a V-neck providing a glimpse of how far his tan extends. Head cast down, eyes transfixed on his phone in front of him, he doesn’t notice the naked girl standing in the middle of his hotel room. He stuffs his keycard in his back pocket and looks up, startled.

 

I scream.

 

He grumbles something unintelligible as I point out the obvious. “Ahhh, my boobs are naked!” It might be a little concerning that I consider my boobs to be the only things naked at this point.

 

As quickly as I can, I cover my body, towel making a poor attempt to hide my girly bits.
The man turns away, covering his eyes with his arm while muttering, “Oh shit.”

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, struggling with my towel. I know damn well the man in front of me must be Mr. Wilder, and this is in fact his room, and I’m the one intruding, but I still feel the need to place the blame on him for walking in on me naked.

 

“Grabbing my sunglasses,” he says, his voice terrified but also deep and rumbly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

 

Still trying to cover myself, I scramble to grab my dress and back up to the bathroom.

 

“Washing my neck,” I answer, nervously, boobs swaying with my erratic movements.
Eyes still covered, he keeps his back toward me but straightens up. “Washing your neck? Is that code for some kind of weird Key West thing?”

 

I back into the bathroom and make quick attempt of putting my dress over my head and righting it so everything is covered up. Hair still damp as well as my body, I step out into the room and clear my throat, dress sticking to my damp skin. “No, it’s not code for anything. I really had to wash my neck.”

 

“And you chose my room to do that in, because . . .”

 

Bending down, I shove my dirty clothes in my bag and zip up, giving Mr. Wilder the heads-up that I’m dressed. At least he’s a gentleman . . .

 

When he turns around, he eyes me up and down, his gaze curious and heated when he sees just how hard my nipples are from the cold shower . . . and the unexpected peep show.

 

“I didn’t choose your room to take a shower in.” I move my suitcase to the floor and pull up the handle. “The hotel gave me the key to this room by mistake, and since I had puke on my neck from the airplane—long story—I decided to take a quick shower while I waited for my room. I apologize for taking up your space, but I think we’re skipping an important detail here.” I cock my hand on my hip. “You saw me naked.”

 

“No, I didn’t,” he retorts rather quickly, despite the slow grin that spreads across his face.
I’m calling bullshit. “You totally saw my boobs.”

 

“I really didn’t. Your scream scared the shit out of me. I didn’t have enough time to see anything before you covered up.”

 

Eyeing him suspiciously, I ask, “You promise you didn’t see anything?”
“Promise.”

 

Hmm. “Okay, because being hotel neighbors and all, that would be extremely awkward if you saw me naked.”

 

“Good thing I didn’t then.” He rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do. Finally he reaches out to the desk next to him and holds up his black Ray Bans. “Just needed my sunglasses.”

 


 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

 

Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

 

Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

 

Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

 

Facebook | Follow on Goodreads | Website 

Amazon Author Page | Instagram | Follow on BookBub

 

 

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text 2018-01-03 10:10
PreOrder Blast - Three Blind Dates
 
 
 
 
 
We can not wait for this release! Check out this excerpt for THREE BLIND DATES by Meghan Quinn! Don't forget to preorder your copy TODAY!
 
 
 
 
PREORDER HERE-->
 
 
Add it to your TBR--> http://bit.ly/2zY0Zuf
 
 
 
"Good Morning Malibu, it’s another beautiful day on the west coast! I'm Noely Clark, your host: and I'm in the market for love…”
 
 
 

When the publicity team of the new local restaurant, Going in Blind, began their search for a hot, local celebrity to promote the wildly popular eatery, they couldn’t have found a better person than me.

Outgoing? Check.
Single? Check.
Open to finding love? Check.

I signed up immediately.

A hopeless romantic with an exceedingly demanding schedule, I've found it impossible to find the man of my dreams—so Going in Blind seems too good to be true! That’s until they start setting me up on dates—three very different, very attractive, very distinct blind dates—and only one thing is for certain . . .

I’m in big trouble.

Good Morning Malibu,
I'm Noely Clark, and I have a choice to make.
The question is who will I choose; the suit, the rebel, or the jock.
 
 
 
 
 
EXCERPT:


“There is no way that’s what that line means.”

“It sure as hell does.”

“That’s ridiculous. What, did you study palm reading as well as Spanish?”

He chuckles and says, “I just know things. And that line right there means you’re allergic to coffee.”

I shake my head and laugh. “You’re such a liar.”

He strokes my palm with his finger, running it along every line, making my insides flutter and my breathing pick up with each stroke. He’s so close, his body practically on top of mine, his breath pressed against my ear, his scruff rubbing my skin ever so gently. And me, well, see my hips? Yeah, they’re slowly gyrating in his direction. I would like to blame the margarita, or even the music, but I know that’s not the case. It’s my libido skyrocketing into dangerous territories from the way this man lightly strokes me in just the right way.

“Not a liar, just telling you what I see.”

“Is that so?” I lean in closer and ask, “Then how come I have coffee every morning and I’m fine? Seems to me like you just wanted an excuse to touch me so you pretended to be a palm reader.”

I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

“You’re right. I did. Now give me a chance to touch you even more.” He retreats from the booth and holds out his hand for me to follow.

I take it without even giving it a second thought. Smiling devilishly, he guides me to the dance floor and immediately spins me into his arms where he takes my hands and links them behind his neck. Pulling me into his body, he places his hands on my hips and presses his forehead against mine.

As if it’s second nature to him, he starts moving us back and forth along the dance floor, his feet effortlessly gliding us. Intimidated at first, after a few passes across the floor, I start to feel the music and my muscles begin to loosen up.

“That’s it,” he whispers just loud enough so I can hear him over the music. “Loosen those hips, Sassy.”

A distinct trumpet and cowbell echo through the room, setting the pace and tone to the dance. It’s fast, yet commanding, encouraging us to grind together, and that’s what Beck does. His hands slide from my hips to my butt where he grips tightly and pulls me flush against his crotch. With my legs entwined with his, we stay in place as our hips gyrate together.

Breathless and turned on, I match his gaze with mine, his seductive eyes penetrating any last wall I might have had before this date, and for once in a long time, I let loose . . . completely.

“Just like that. God, you look so sexy.”

Leaning my head back, I let my hair fall behind me and give it a little shake before lifting my head back up and meeting his lust-filled, greedy eyes. His hands grip my butt tighter and I’m greeted by a noticeable hard-on.

I did that to him, and if that isn’t a turn-on, I don’t know what is.

My fingers start to play with his hair, twisting and turning the short strands, causing his eyes to haze over. Is it weird I want more? That even though our pelvises are pressed against each other, I want to be closer?

The music now flowing through me, controlling my every movement, I glide my hands down to his shirt where my fingers dexterously undo two more of his buttons, exposing more of his tan skin, his necklace in full view now. It’s a medallion I can’t quite make out, but it doesn’t matter right now, because all I care about is the muscular expanse of chest in front of me.

I slip my fingers inside his shirt and dance them across his chest, feeling the sinew of muscles flex with every move we make together.

When one of my fingers accidentally caresses one of his nipples, he growls into my ear and turns me around in his arms, causing me to temporarily lose my breath, that’s until his hands find mine again, securing my butt right against his crotch. I sigh and loop my hand around me to the back of his neck, anchoring me in place while he swivels our hips together, his lips pressed against my ear.

“Fuck, you feel good against me,” he whispers. His breath sends chills up and down my entire body as the music continues to guide me.

I push my butt even harder against his erection, heavy and obvious, swiveling my hips, loving the way I can feel his excitement so easily. I love that I affect him like this.

I’ve never been with a man so comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t care about how I affect him. It’s like he’s proud of it. Of us.

It’s extremely rewarding.

Feeling the music, we dance slowly in tandem, letting the beat guide us. Still hanging on to him, my other hand now on top of one of his, he starts to feel the length of my leg, his body bending just slightly to reach the hem of my dress. When he moves his hand under the fabric, my breath stills for a second before he pulls away and lifts his hand back up my body until both of his hands reach my ribcage.

Oh God.

His head peers over my shoulder, his eyes trained down the valley of my cleavage. “I told you this dress was going to get you into trouble tonight and the way you’re moving against me, my self-control is slipping, Sassy.”

Taking a deep breath, I move his hand farther up my body and say, “Then let your will slip.”

“Fuck,” he growls into my ear, letting his hand move to just below my breasts. I suck in a breath from the contact and wait for him to move a little higher, but he doesn’t. Instead, he swivels his hips with mine and moves his hands down my sides until they’re resting on my thighs, his thumbs closing in on the juncture between my legs.

The heat level between us rises to inferno in the matter of seconds and my skin starts to prickle with need, a yearning I haven’t felt since . . . well since Jack, but before that, since I can’t remember.

“I don’t know how much more dancing I can do with you,” he says into my ear. “I’m about to combust here.”

I turn in his arms and look straight at him. “Then let’s get out of here.”



The way the words fall off my tongue sound so foreign to me, but then again, there’s not a chance in hell I want to take them back.

 
 
 
 
 
About the Author:
 

Author, wife, adoptive mother, and peanut butter lover. Will dance for laughs, won’t eat anything spicy because you asked, but will squeeze boobs in replace of a hug. Grew up in Southern California (Temecula, anyone? Anyone?) lived in New York (the armpit of NY, not the city) and now resides in Colorado with my wife, son, two dogs, three cats, and my multiple book boyfriends. Loves love, anything romantic, and will die if I ever meet Tom Hanks. Yay, books!


 
Find me on Goodreads:
 
 
Visit my website: http://authormeghanquinn.com/
 
 
 
 
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review 2018-01-03 05:43
Three times
Three Blind Dates (Dating by Numbers Series Book 1) - Meghan Quinn

Noely has some ideas to jump start her personal life.  While this seems to be a great plan, she has no idea her boss will get wind of it and make her life a TV spot.  So she goes on three amazing dates.

 

There is the suit, Jack, who is just perfect for her.  Then there is the rebel, Beck, who just makes her hot all over and wanting to take risks she would have never thought to.  Last there is the jock, Hayden, who is so hot it almost scorches her eyes.

 

While I am not giving the book away, (you know I do not do spoilers) there is a certain element throughout the story that I absolutely adore - humor.  This is a RomCom like no other.  This book just ups the ante for romance writing and reading.  This is a series I cannot wait to devour and I am looking forward to the rest of the books.  I give this story a 4/5 Kitty's Paws UP!

 

 

***This early copy was given in exchange for an honest review.

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