A COVER REVEAL!! And for a Talia Hibbert book!! Can we all scream in delight?!?! I could not be more excited for this.
Today’s cover reveal is for The Roommate Risk. The book used to be known as Wanna Bet? but has been retitled and given a new cover!
Ready to take a look? Alright, let’s do it! (And don’t forget to read the excerpt too!)
THE ROOMMATE RISK BY TALIA HIBBERT
Bestselling author Talia Hibbert returns with an electric, domestic, roommates-to-lovers romance between a whirlwind party girl and her uptight best friend…
Jasmine Allen believes in bad luck, great wine, and the seductive power of a stiletto heel. What she doesn’t believe in is love. Her life is perfect without all that romance rubbish—until a plumbing disaster screws everything up and leaves Jas homeless. Luckily, she has someone to turn to: her best friend Rahul.
For seven years, Rahul Khan has followed three simple rules.
– Don’t touch Jasmine if you can help it.
– Don’t look at her arse in that skirt.
– And don’t ever—ever—tell her you love her.
He should’ve added another rule: Do not, under any circumstances, let Jas move into your house.
Now Rahul is living with the friend he can’t have, and it’s decimating his control. He knows their shared dinners aren’t dates, their late-night kisses are a mistake, and the tenderness in Jasmine’s gaze is only temporary. One wrong word could send his skittish best friend running.
So why is he tempted to risk it all?
The Roommate Risk is a steamy, standalone, diverse romance. This book is 75,000 words of fluff, angst, and extreme pleasure, with NO cliffhangers, NO cheating, and a guaranteed HEA. Please be aware: this story contains themes of parental neglect and abandonment, parental death, and alcohol dependence that could trigger certain audiences. This book was previously published as Wanna Bet?.
Amazon| Barnes & Noble | Apple | Kobo | Google Play | Paperback | Audio (US) | Audio (CA) | Audio (UK)
The TV had turned itself off. To save energy, he supposed.
They’d fallen asleep. They must have, because outside, the city was early-morning quiet. The kind that only existed between blackest night and breaking dawn, all soft and shadowed and echoing.
Rahul kept his breathing slow and even, because he knew from experience that Jas slept light. And she was asleep on top of him, her body sprawled over his, the weight comforting and warm. How they’d gotten like this, he had no idea.
Maybe, some time during the first film, he’d gotten carried away and let himself lean a little too close to her. And maybe, as they started the second and laughed about Lara’s choice of wetsuit, she’d crossed the last of the space between them to let her head rest on his shoulder.
She’d been tired, clearly.
Now her head lay on his chest and strands of her hair brushed his face, tickling. That was probably what had woken him up. He was in two minds about the whole ‘being awake’ thing.
See, on the one hand, he had work tomorrow—or rather, today. Spending all night on the sofa would land him with a cricked neck and a late start, and really, he was lucky that his glasses were still safely on his face and completely unbent. Yes; it was better to wake now, to nudge Jas into the land of the living and head to bed.
Separately. They’d go to separate beds. Obviously.
So he should’ve been glad to wake up. But a worryingly large part of him was… pissed. Because she was so fucking perfect, her skin warm against his, her hand curled around his biceps as if she were actually holding him. Because his cock was half-hard and the pressure of her weight was delicious, and now he felt guilty for even acknowledging the fact, but fuck it. Because—this was his favourite part—his hand was resting against her arse.
If he’d been asleep, his hand could’ve stayed there. He wouldn’t have been conscious to enjoy it, but some part of his sleeping mind would’ve known, he was sure. The part of him that had secretly, shamefully lusted after Jasmine Allen for years would’ve rejoiced and sent him wonderful dreams involving bottom-heavy, curly haired, brown-eyed women.
But he wasn’t asleep.
Rahul moved his hand to the safe zone of her lower back and stifled a sigh. He already missed her arse.
And of course, that tiny movement fucked up the entire, delicate arrangement. Because seconds later Jasmine gave an odd little huff, the sound muffled against his chest, and began to stir. Rahul stared at the shadowed ceiling above, because if she woke up to find him staring at her, it might push their current position from awkward to disturbing.
Although, he supposed, she was the one lying on top of him. Technically, he was innocent in all this. The fact that he happened to be enjoying it was neither here nor there.
At least his dick was calming down. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
He felt the exact moment when she woke up completely and realised where she was. Or rather, who she was on top of. Jasmine’s whole body stiffened for one taut heartbeat—but then she relaxed. Softened against him, just as she had in sleep.
Rahul abandoned his study of the ceiling. He looked down to find those big, brown eyes staring at him, slightly narrowed with sleep, fine lines fanning the corners.
She had a crooked little smile on her face, nothing like the biting smirk he’d expected. Then she pressed a kiss to his chest, just above the neckline of his T-shirt. Which didn’t mean anything; she kissed him all the time. On the cheek, or the forehead, or the back of his hand.
But not on the mouth, he remembered. He’d been inside her, but he’d never kissed her on the mouth.
Don’t think about that.
“Jas?” he murmured, his voice hushed like the pre-dawn city.
“Rahul,” she whispered back, sleepiness making a soft word softer. Like a cat, she stretched, all smooth and sinuous. She held his gaze as her curves rolled over him. She was like a river, forging its path through earth and stone; so soft, so fluid and seemingly gentle, but powerful enough to mould the world to her will. Jasmine knew how to get what she wanted.
God, he loved her. He loved her.
He didn’t want to. He shouldn’t. It was useless. It was true.
She was looking at him with that pure focus that made him feel like the most powerful thing in the world. He knew it was an illusion—that it was just one of the many things that made her magnetic. She picked up every needle in the haystack and she didn’t even try. She couldn’t help it. Rahul told himself this, and yet, under her gaze he became a king.
His hand felt too big and too clumsy against the small of her back, even though there was plenty of space for it. If he moved that hand lower again, where he’d found it when he’d first woken, would she object? An hour ago he might’ve said yes. Now he saw something bright in her eyes, bright like the spots of light dancing across the darkened city. What did that mean?
He tangled his fingers in her T-shirt, as if that would give him more of her—the kind of more he needed. It wouldn’t, but sometimes desperate people tried pointless things because it was better than sitting and wanting. He thought, Kiss me. Fucking kiss me. Give me something, give me a reason, give me permission, and I’ll give you everything I have.
Maybe she heard him somehow. Maybe she saw it on his face because he was fucking obvious. Either way, the result was the same. She trailed her fingers up his arm, and he felt fireworks spark and fly in her wake. His core tightened and his balls grew heavy, just because she’d touched his bloody arm. He had no idea how she did this to him, had never understood and doubted he ever would, but he didn’t want her to stop.
And yet, she did. Her weight shifted as she leaned towards him, raising her chin until their mouths were level. Close. So damn close. So close that there was no space for light between them, so close that he barely saw her in the almost-darkness. He felt her, though. Felt her like a promise. And then she stopped.
His pulse was racing, his blood burning its way through his veins like wildfire, his nerves singing in anticipation, but he held himself still. Kept himself quiet. Had to be sure.
She licked her lower lip again, the tip of her tongue sliding over that plump curve. Ripe fruit. He wanted to sink his teeth into it.
Her whisper sliced through the night air like a knife. “God, Rahul. You’re so… fuck.” Her fingers caught his T-shirt, tightened as if to pull him closer.
Rahul told himself, Control, only he’d lost the meaning of the word somewhere along the line; he didn’t recognise it anymore. So instead he thought, Fuck it.
He closed the space between them. His lips slanted over hers, barely touching, and that was enough to steal the air from his lungs. God. God. In the silence and the shadows, the brush of their lips felt like something holy. Like prayers whispered into the earth, like purifying flames. This was the closest he might ever be to perfection.
But no. She pulled away, laughed softly. Whispered, a dare in her voice, “Like you mean it, my love.”
She was fucking impossible, and that was perfection.
Rahul slid a hand into her hair and pulled her back to his mouth. What was control, anyway? There was only one thing he desired, one thing he needed. More.
This time, when their lips met, the flames didn’t purify so much as devour. He kissed her hard and ruthless, the way he’d always dreamed, and she responded like a fantasy except it was so much better—so much better—because it was real and it was Jasmine and he couldn’t fucking believe it. She kissed him as if she were starving. He’d die just to let her consume him. Her breath came in short, sharp little gasps and her whole body rocked into his, the pressure painfully sweet against his aching cock.
Her hair felt like a raincloud in his hand, thick and cool and fresh. He tightened his grip because right now, for who knew how fucking long, he could. He could. As long as she kissed him like this, she was his. His other hand slid from her back to her arse, and the ache in his cock sharpened. She was wearing a skirt; she always wore skirts. So he dragged up the fabric, and she arched her back as if in invitation, and nothing had ever turned him on more in his fucking life. Nothing except the sight he’d never forgotten, the sight of her sinking on to his cock.
He already knew that whatever this moment was, it would ruin him all over again.
Rahul slid his palm up the bare skin of her thigh, traversed the soft ripples of her flesh until he reached heaven. Grabbing one cheek, sinking his fingers into the ripe curve of her arse, actually made him moan against her lips. Fuck. He could feel the fabric of her knickers, cotton and unexpectedly plain and in his fucking way. He pushed as much aside as he could, and she laughed against his mouth.
“Just take them off,” she whispered.
He shook his head, though he burned to do just that. “If there’s something you want me to do,” he murmured, “ask for it. Nicely.”
About Talia Hibbert
Talia Hibbert is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author who lives in a bedroom full of books. Supposedly, there is a world beyond that room, but she has yet to drum up enough interest to investigate.
She writes steamy, diverse romance because she believes that people of marginalised identities need honest and positive representation. Her interests include makeup, junk food, and unnecessary sarcasm. Talia and her many books reside in the English Midlands.