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Wednesday 16 March 2016

☀ I, Porn Star: I [1] - Zara Cox

Thank you for joining us on the Virtual Book Tour for I, Porn Star, a Erotic Romance by (, Zara Cox, 457 pages).

This is the first book in the I series.

PREVIEW: Check out the book's synopsis and excerpt below.  Read the first five chapters with Amazon Look Inside.

Author Zara Cox will be awarding a $50 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner on 21 March 2016 - see details below.

Synopsis | Teaser | About the Author | Giveaway


My name is Quinn Blackwood:
By day, I'm a billionaire CEO. Rich. Entitled.
By night, I'm the exclusive porn star only known as Q.
Why? Because I love women. If I believed in an almighty being, I'd thank him for creating them. They're by far his most perfect creation… especially when I'm fucking one of them.

Oh, did I mention I'm an asshole? Fuck yeah. According to my shrink, I'm one twisted motherfucker. And that's just the way I like it. Until she walks into my life…

My name is Elyse Gilbert, nicknamed ‘Lucky' because according to my dad, I'm the unluckiest person alive, and I'll die the same way I came into the world: naked, screaming, and dirt poor.

Yeah, my life is a twisted, seething mess. But that life changed the day I met HIM.

He made me forget the cameras.
He made me forget I was doing this for the money.
He made me forget my shame.
He made me forget everything. I was consumed by him. Only him.
But now my past has caught up with me.

Teaser: Excerpt



April 2015
     There’s no reason for me to be here. I don’t need to do it.
     Not another one.
     I have more than enough to work with. I should end it now.
     It’s what I’ve been telling myself for months now.
     Shit, who am I kidding?
     Enough will never be enough. He has to pay for what he’s done with absolutely everything I can take away from him.
     Besides, I have big enough balls to admit it’s become a rush. The delayed gratification is part of the game. It’s an addiction. In my jaded world where everything comes to me with a snap of my fingers, risky highs like these are to be treasured.
     They’ll be gone in a blink of an eye. Just like every other pleasure in my life.
     I peer at my watch.
     5:58 p.m.
     I rise from my sofa, walk down the wide hallway and enter the empty room. It’s not completely empty, but it might as well be. I haven’t bothered to decorate since acquiring it six months ago when my time in Boston was done and I moved back to New York. It’s as if my subconscious knew I’d need it just for this purpose.
     In the middle of the room, I grab the remote on the table and hit the power button. Three screens flicker to life. I sit down in the leather chair I placed in here earlier. Three faces stare back at me. The darkness and mirrored glass means they won’t see me as clearly. Even if they do, my mask is in place. My black clothing and leather gloves take care of the rest of my disguise.
     Anonymity is key. I’m too well-known for anything else to be acceptable. Or acceptable for now, at least. Who knows what’ll happen a month, two months from now? Every day I fight my impulse.I might wake up tomorrow and decide the time has come to give in, unveil my plan.
     I’m not ashamed of taking this route to achieve what I want. Far from it. In fact destroying myself in the process is exactly what I’m aiming for. I want there to be absolutely nothing left to be sustained or redeemed by the time I’m done.
     For now, though, my public role is integral to my grand plan. And since my sins are already numerous, I don’t have any qualms about adding vanity to them and admitting I love my other life. Keeping my identity secret adds to the thrill.
     It’s all about the thrill for me. Without it, I risk prematurely succumbing to the dark abyss. The abyss my shrink keeps warning me I’m rimming.
     She thinks it’s a revelation, that morsel of news she dropped in my lap three years ago. Little does she know I’ve been staring into that abyss since I was sixteen years old. I’ve stared into it for so long, it’s fused with me. We are one. We haven’t done our final dance yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
     I’m twenty-eight years old.
     I won’t live to see thirty.
     It’s an immutable inevitability, so I take my pleasures where I can.
     “You each have scripts in front of you. When I tell you to, read them out loud. You go first, Pandora.” I use a voice distorter because my natural voice contains a distinctive rasp that could give me away.Because of who I am, I’ve had cameras shoved in my face more times than I’ve had sex. And that’s saying something.
     Pandora—fucking idiotic name—giggles, and her golden curls bounce in an eager nod. I suppress a growl of irritation and relegate her to the #possibly maybe~ list.
     “#May I feel, said he.~” She giggles again.
     Ten seconds later, I place her firmly in the #hell no~ list and press the intercom. She’s escorted out, and I switch my gaze to the next girl.
     The redhead is staring into the camera, her full mouth tilted in a #I-was-born-to-blow-you~ curve. I admit the lighting is better on her, but her eyes are a little too wide. Too green.
     I adjust the camera and scrutinize her closer. “What color are your eyes? And don’t tell me they’re green. I can see the edges of your contacts.”
     She flushes. “Umm...they’re grey.”
     I check the notes on my tablet. “Missy, is that your real name too?”
     She nods eagerly.
     “Did you read the brief?”
     “Umm...yeah,” she answers, her voice trailing off in a semi-question. This one is clearly dim.
     “What did it say about lying?”
     The blow-you expression drops. “They’re just contacts.” She leans forward, nearly knocking out the camera with her double Ds.“Here, I can take them out—”
     “No, don’t bother. Your interview is over. Leave now, please,” I command in my best non-psycho voice, and press the intercom again.
     I may be slightly unhinged, according to some spectrum my shrink keeps harping on about, but Mama, God rest her pure soul, taught me to be a gentleman. Mama’s worm food now, but that’s no reason for me not to honor her with a touch of politeness.
     Missy’s lips purse, then part, as if she’s about to plead her case.The burly guard who enters the room and taps her on the shoulder convinces her words have lost their meaning at this point.
     I turn to the last screen.
     Her eyes are downcast. Her lashes are long enough to make me wonder if I have another fake on my hands. I sigh, then take in the rest of her face. No makeup, or barely any if she made the effort. Her lips are plump, lightly glossed. I use the controls on the remote to zoom in.There’s a tiny mole on the left side of her face, right above her upper lip. Not fake.
     I zoom out, examine the rest of her that I can see. Her grey T-shirt is worn to the point of threadbare, and her collarbones are a little too pronounced. Malnourishment wouldn’t be a crowd-pleaser, but that problem can be easily taken care of.
     Beneath the T-shirt, her chest rises and falls in steady breathing, although the pulse hammering at her throat gives her away. I zoom in on the pulse. The skin overlaying it is smooth, almost silky, with the faintest wisps of caramel blonde hair feathering it.
     Something about her draws me forward to the edge of my seat. I like her pretended composure. Most people fidget under the glare of a camera.
     My gaze flicks to her skeleton bio. “Lucky.”
     Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyelids flick up. Her eyes are a cross between green and hazel with a natural dark rim that pronounces its vividness. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about that look in her eye sparks my interest.
     Hell, if I had a heart, I’d swear it just missed a beat.
     “Is that your real name?”
     She shrugs. “It might as well be,” she murmurs.
     Fuck, I have another liar on my hands. “Cryptic may be sexy if you’re auditioning to be the next Bond Girl. It’s not going to work here. Tell me your real name. Or leave.”
     “No.” Her voice is a sexy husk, enough to distract me for a second before her answer sinks in.
     “With respect, you’re tucked away behind a camera issuing orders. I get that you hold the cards in this little shindig. But I’m not going to show you all of mine right from the start. My name, for the purposes of this interview, is Lucky. It may not officially be on my birth certificate, but I’ve responded to it since I was fifteen years old.That’s all you need to know.”
     Well...fuck. I note with detached surprise that I’m almost within a whisker of cracking a smile.

I, Porn Star
Available NOW!

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About the Author

Zara Cox has been writing since she was thirteen years old, but it wasn't until eight years ago that she decided to share her love of writing sexy, gritty stories with anyone besides her close family (the over 18s anyway!).

Her best-selling Indigo Lounge Series is Zara's first step in her erotic romance-writing journey.

In 2016 she hopes to bring her readers even more sizzling-hot stories featuring panty-melting alpha heroes and the women who rock their world.  She's also working on an entirely new super-hot series, so watch this space and keep in touch!

She loves to hear from her readers.

Follow Zara Cox:

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To celebrate the release of I, PORN STAR, Zara Cox is giving away a $50 AMAZON GIFT CARD to one lucky winner. All you have to do is...READ AND WIN!!! Yep, in order to win, you need to read the book, because Zara needs one simple question answered. Here it is:

In I, PORN STAR, Quinn drives an Aston Martin DB9, BUT what other cars does he drive during the course of the book?

To win, ***PRIVATE MESSAGE Zara Cox on Facebook*** with your answer and she will put you in a draw. Remember, if you leave your answer on her Facebook wall for everyone to see, you're ruining the game, lol. Just post there to say 'DONE' and Zara grab your name. Okay? Okay.

***The winner will be announced on 21 March 2016!!***

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