Blaire Drake

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Blaire Drake is a pseudonym for a New York Times bestselling author who wanted to let her kinky side out after dark. She’d love to tell you who she really is, but then she’d have to kill you. Besides–where’s the fun in that?

Blaire is a self-proclaimed romantic who enjoys long walks on the beach at sunset, gushing Facebook statuses about her definitely better half, and random acts of adoration.

No… Wait. That’s a lie. Blaire hates having to get out of her yoga pants (and apparently you’re supposed to do that when you leave the house) and is under every impression that she’s the better half in her relationship. She has the brains and the beauty, but after much deliberation, she decided he can keep the balls. Mostly because she needs those.

She spends too much time scrolling Facebook and hiding those gushy-gushy posts, and unless the random act of adoration is a spanking, she isn’t interested.

That said, she is definitely a romantic at heart.

Her debut novel, DEAR PROFESSOR, will release worldwide on December 14th. She’s certain you’ll find the three things in her novels that she believes make for a f*cking good book: this-might-offend-someone sarcastic humor, won’t-be-needing-these-panties hotness, and get-me-a-bucket-before-I-throw-up true love.

And no, she won’t send you nudes. And she doesn’t want your d*ck pics either. She just thought she’d clear that one up. (She’s looking at you, Creepy McCreeperson.)

She’d love to hang with you on social media, if you’re one of those people. (Just don’t be offended if she unfollows you–she’s probably too busy writing about forbidden love.)



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Dear Professor - coverDear Professor

Dear Professor,

Does it bother you that you’re ten years older than me?
Have you ever thought it’s wrong that you watched me fuck another guy on camera for months?
What do you want from me, really? All I wanted was my letter of recommendation, but now I’m stuck, aren’t I? Stuck under your thumb… And your body.
From cam girl to personal whore, and all by the age of twenty-one. You’ve got me good, haven’t you?
But guess what? I can play too. Grab the polish, because I’ve found your skeleton, and it’s time to dust.
I’ll see you in class.
Oh and, Sir? I’m not wearing any panties.

Love, Darcy

P.S. you’re an asshole.


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Born into blood, I was a mafia princess. Raised in hiding, I was a Californian sweetheart.

The day my father sold my thirteen year old body to pay off a five year old debt was the day my mother stole me in the dead of night. She protected me as she was supposed to.

My father may have been the king, but my mother was the queen.

The mafia blood was hers.

That was ten years ago. Now… the devil was on the loose.

Carlo ‘Hunter’ Rosso was my father’s right hand man and the boy I’d loved since I could tie my own shoelaces. He was always the most ruthless and the most deadly of all the children.

He’d thought I was dead until the day his assignment was given: Kill Adriana and Alexandria Romano. Kill the princess, and definitely kill the queen.

What he didn’t know was that the queen was dead, and the princess had taken her throne.

Blood didn’t lie. It smeared, distorted, stained. But it didn’t lie.

My father was going to learn the hard way that the empire he’d stolen belonged to me.

And so did Carlo ‘Hunter’ Rosso.


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