Read Our Lips! Book Review Blog: Blog Tour – 7 Day Release Party: Against The Ropes by Sarah Castille

AGAINST THE ROPES RELEASE PARTY
Day One

Author, Sarah Castille is celebrating the release of Against The Ropes with a SEVEN day party. SEVEN great giveaways, SEVEN different posts. Stop by all the amazing blogs participating in the party to increase your chances to win!!! Each blog will post a special AGAINST THE ROPES post all seven days (no weekend posts)

He scared me. He thrilled me. And after one touch, all I could think about was getting more…
Makayla never thought she’d set foot in an underground mixed-martial arts club. But if anyone needs a medic on hand, it’s these guys. Trouble is, at her first sight of the club’s owner she’s the one feeling breathless.
The man they call Torment is all sleek muscle and restrained power. Whether it’s in the ring or in the bedroom, he knows exactly when a soft touch is required and when to launch a full-on assault. He always knows just how far he can push. And he’s about to tempt Makayla in ways she never imagined…

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Recovering lawyer, karate practitioner, and caffeine addict, Sarah Castille worked and traveled abroad before trading her briefcase and stilettos for a handful of magic beans and a home near the Canadian Rockies. Her steamy, contemporary romantic tales feature blazingly hot alpha heroes and the women who tame them.

That day when you get lost in your own city and try to navigate your way home using a GPS purchased five years prior in a foreign country.

Yes, that was the day I was inspired to write Against the Ropes. And no, it wasn’t because I was overwhelmed with the urge to pummel Claire (pronounced ‘cleh’), the English-accented denizen of the GPS, who, instead of showing me the way home, charted a path from a garbage strewn alley in a nameless Canadian city to London, England…across the Pacific Ocean.

That said, I am no longer troubled the directionally impaired “cleh.” But that is a story for another day (PG-13 Contains Violence).

The fateful day, after choosing to forgo the opportunity to test the structural integrity of my vehicle on an ocean voyage, and having forgotten to charge my phone, as you do when planning to get lost, I drove aimlessly through the streets until I found myself in a commercial district at the far edge of the city. Despite the late hour, lights shone through the windows of one of the many unremarkable, shoebox-shaped buildings that littered the area. Low on fuel, Diet Coke and gummy bears, I pulled into the dimly-lit parking lot and pulled out my bear spray.

In Canada, one never knows when one might meet a bear.

Heart pounding, I made way to a black metal door with the letters MMA spray painted on the front. Then, pulse racing, bear spray in hand, I tugged on the door handle.

Oh, the suspense.

I found myself in a large reception area. There may have been carpet on the floor. It may have been green. It could be there were chalkboards on one wall and MMA event posters on the other. The cloying stench of stale sweat may have almost knocked me off my feet. If I was writing a book, I would give you the details—color, texture, scent, even taste. Unfortunately, all I can remember are glistening pecs, hard abs, taut bottoms (as “cleh” would say) in tight shorts and the biggest collection of man candy I had ever seen. I do remember licking my lips and they tasted sah weet.

“Um…hi.” I spoke with the eloquence of an author who has mastered dialogue technique and the thin voice of a fourteen-year-old in the presence of her middle school crush.

Six shaved heads jerked up. Six tatted and ripped bodies turned in my direction. Twelve eyes (most in pairs) studied me from beneath the fringes of lashes.

“You here to fight?” The man with the eye patch snickered.

You keep snickering and you’ll get a fight, I wished I’d said. In fact, I answered with a cowardly, “Um…no.”

“You lookin’ for your man?” Baby Blue Eyes with the lickable chest gave me a wink and I almost keeled over.

I’m lookin’ for a man and you’ll do just fine, sugar,” I didn’t say. Instead, I shook my head and gave a pathetic sigh.

“I’m lost.”

And just like that, I was sucked into the vortex of a protective alpha-male testosterone frenzy.

Woman. Alone. Lost. Dark. Needs. Help. Can’t. Resist. Must. Protect. Save. Woman.

Questions were fired at me like bullets. How did I get to the gym? Was my car working? Did I have gas? Why didn’t I charge my phone before I left the house? Why didn’t I fuel up before I started my journey? Why didn’t I have an updated Canadian GPS? Why did I have wires hanging out of my purse? Was I single?

Who said that?

Maps were drawn, fuel was siphoned, vending machines were raided, a phone charger was procured. While I waited for my phone to show the necessary two bars of power that had been deemed a requirement for my release, I was treated (and I do mean treated) to a tour of what I then knew to be an MMA gym and training facility.

Yes, there is a Santa Claus.

For the next hour, I watched sweaty, muscular men roll around on the floor, trade punches in the ring, and throw spinning back kicks across the mats. Baby Blue Eyes explained the basics of MMA fighting, the different martial arts and fighting skills involved, and the sheer athleticism necessary for a fighter to hold his own in the ring.

By the time my phone was charged, I had a story in my head. It was about a naïve, slightly awkward girl (hmmm) who found herself in an MMA club, and the fighter who wouldn’t let her go.

Finally, it was time to leave. Baby Blue Eyes walked me to my car. Then he asked for my number. But that’s another story (Rated R)

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