★★NEW RELEASE—Available on Kindle Unlimited★★

CRY MERCY, BLOOD LEGION MC 1, READ NOW!
Gritty star-crossed lovers? You have no idea. Welcome to the Crescent City. Beignets, badasses, bikers, and a whole lot of bad juju.
★★★★★★★★★★
5 Star Reviews
"Tough, gritty, powerful, phenomenal MC romance! Holy hell, Cry Mercy is phenomenal! Yep, I said it, I mean it—phenomenal.” 5 Stars, Missy @Bookgasms
"Engrossing, heartbreaking, hardcore, and totally enjoyable . . ." 5 Stars, Cajun Heat Book Blog
“This is THE must read for the year. This book pulls you in and you’ll never want out.” 5 Stars, Julie, Spunky and Sassy
“WOW! WOW!! WOW!!! I am speechless! Angel and Mercy's story is dark and dangerous yet so sexy and sweet!” 5 Stars, FunUndertheCovers
Cry Mercy by Rie Warren is #LIVE #KindleUnlimited
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ANGEL
I thought I knew bad times. The worst times. My dad murdered, the MC that’s rightfully mine ripped apart by corrupt rule. I didn’t know anything about true horror until I met a Tennessean girl named Mercy.
Angel and Mercy, frigging ironic, right? You don’t know the half of it. Blood Legion MC is my legacy, and revenge against me is Mercy’s. If you’re looking for gritty star-crossed lovers in the Crescent City, you’ve found it. Because there’s a damn good chance one of us won’t make it out of here alive.
MERCY
I’m at the mercy of my menfolk. Mercy . . . ironic, isn’t it? Because my cousin and my uncle show no mercy to me, despite my name. I’m used against my will. I’m beaten and worse when I don’t behave. I have no freedom, only one friend, and no chance of escape even though New Orleans is so vibrant I feel like I could touch the colors.
I fled the compound for just one night. I shouldn’t have. I met a biker called Angel--Angel. He’s blond as a seraph, but big and tall and full of sweet talk I’ve never heard before. Except he’s my family’s enemy.
Angel can’t be my only hope because my kin have vowed to take out him and the rest of the Blood Legion MC in one big Tenn-tucky blaze of glory.

NSFW Excerpt . . . 
Mercy twisted her hands in front of her. “Are you sure you want me to stay again?”
I wasn’t even sure I could get my voice to work around her.
“’Course. You’re not going anywhere.” I sort of sidled around her, keeping my distance as I beat feet to the vacated bathroom.
That time I did knock my head against the door.
Then I glared down at my hard cock defying the confines of my jeans.
Nervy as fuck, I shuffled to the sink and braced my hands on the counter.
Be a nice guy,
Don’t scare her off.
Stop springing wood like a creep every time you see her.
I splashed cold water on my face. Stripped off my clothes down to my boxer briefs. Brushed my teeth for a lot longer than usual.
Fuck me, I even sniffed my pits.
This is ridiculous.
In the bedroom, I made a beeline for the bourbon, pouring two healthy doses and passing a glass to Mercy.
And I tried not to look at her as I downed the alcohol.
She tossed back her drink too and, setting her glass beside mine, she brushed close enough I had to suck in a breath as heat jolted all the way to my groin.
“Am I making you nervous, Angel?” She hit me with those shimmering nutmeg eyes, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.
“No.” Yes.
“Good.” Some kind of seductress’s smile coasted across the puffiness of her pink lips. “Then can I touch you? Or will you think I’m throwing myself at you?”
“You can touch me however you want, cher, but—”
“But I don’t have to.” A lone fingertip danced down the center of my chest to the waist of my briefs. “Trust me, I want to.”
Fuuuuck. So much for me not putting the moves on her.
I gripped her wrist in a light hold. “Whatever this is though, I think we should take it slow.”
Slow?
Bullshit.
I was already foolishly completely gone over my gamine.
“Oui.” After pulling her hand free, she snuck up to kiss the side of my neck. “I’ll go slow.” She slid her lips to my jaw where she panted hot breaths. “Really, really slow.”
A groan tumbled from my chest, and I was fucking putty.
Except putty was soft, and I was suddenly achingly hard all over.
Jaw clenched, I followed her lead. She tugged me to the bed, and I couldn’t help but stare at the firm globes of her ass silhouetted in the panties I’d bought her.
Both of us still standing, Mercy reached up to draw my mouth to hers.
The sweetness of her lips gave way to the swift wet lunge of her tongue.
Clasping her lightly to me, I kissed her until our harsh breathing melded together and I’d explored every silken recess of her mouth.
Lips moist, she kissed to my chin then down my throat and over to one shoulder. Her hand roamed to my back, and she rested her palm on my ass, which made my pelvis kick forward.
She laughed sultrily. “I like making you hard.”
“Doesn’t take much around you, beb.”
“I can feel that.” Her lips plucked and caressed all over my chest.
I craned my neck back, grunting, when she flicked at the flat discs of my nipples with firm wet lashes.
She sailed kisses onto my abs, her tongue swirling into the hair that thinned from my belly button to the top of my briefs.
Then she was on her knees in front of me.
I tensed across every single muscle in my body. I stayed as goddamn still as possible.
Don’t scare her off.
Don’t ask her to do anything.
Try not to come the second she makes contact with my dick.
Mon Dieu. Then she rubbed her cheek all over the straining rod of my erection. She laughed when my cock twitched. She puffed hot breaths into the thin material.
She nudged her nose against my nutsack.
My fists balled at my sides.
With slow care, Mercy lifted out the band of my briefs. She eased the material down, freeing the caged monster that snapped upright against my abdomen. She swept the briefs down my legs, off my feet.
And I dribbled precum onto her face.
She caught the droplets, eyes shining when she pushed several wet fingers between her lips with a hot murmur that about made me nut.
Peering at me, Mercy spun her palm over the slick knob of my cock. “You keep gettin’ bigger and harder. Is that because of me?”
I swept loose strands of hair back from her face, and my hand trembled. “No one else.”
“Ah want to suck you.”
My throat clicked as I tried to swallow.
She didn’t even have to touch me. She could just talk to me in her sexy accent.
I nodded.
“Ah think you should lay back for this.” Prodding me to the bed, she crawled between my thighs as I stretched out on my back.
I stuffed a wad of pillows beneath my neck, unwilling to miss a second of the prettiest woman going down on me.
Yeah, I was a real gentleman all right.
Her hands wandered up my thighs, and the hair-roughened texture didn’t put her off. She bent down, tendrils of her hair ghosting across my skin like the hot licks of her kittenish tongue when she lazily meandered from mid thigh to the crease of my groin.
Mercy detoured down the leg, kissing, licking, fingers tickling.
I fucking wanted to devour her.
She cruised back up, her bottom raised and wagging behind her. Instead of taking my drooling dick into her mouth, she snaked her tongue into the cum gutters arrowing from my hips to my cock.
I twitched, shivering.
She flicked, murmuring.
“Should I go slower, Angel?” She exhaled a long breath up the entire underside of my meat.

There's a STORM brewing . . . 

Hey, y'all! Well, it's gonna be a helluva sexy spring, I can tell you that much. I've just finished the rough draft for STORM, JUSTICE comes on Monday *squee*, and after I bathe myself in wine tonight (kidding. What waste of good wine. The wine is going in my mouth ;-)), I'm going to start working on the 4th and final BAD BOYS OF X-OPS book--BANE--for June release!

And then plans. Oh, the plans I have. (If you're trying to picture me right now, I'm gleefully rubbing my hands together--without spilling a drop of wine. So talented). ​

STORM COMING MAY 23rd!

Danger.
Lust. 
Desire . . . Trust? 
 
STORM 
I’m headed back to the Blood Legion MC in New Orleans, my old stomping grounds. Guns. Thugs. Broads. Cocaine nightmares. A Mexican cartel, cracker coke runners, and now there’s a new international threat in town.
 
Blaize Carmichael is my only partner in this op. Blaize. As a biker babe. Jeeesus. I’ve had a bone for her from day one when she walked into headquarters—haughty, superior, and always in charge.
 
There’s a goddamn good chance we’ll get made, played, and put in the grave as government-issue traitors. But I can’t help it—I love to get rough, raw, dirty, and dominant with her.
 
No more yes ma’am, no ma’am. Blaize is about to find out I don’t always takes orders as issued.
 
BLAIZE
I can’t stand the way Storm calls me woman or cher or sexy. As soon as we’re back in DC, I’m going to wipe that infuriating wicked smirk right off his dangerously handsome face.
 
I’m always prepared for every scenario. I’ve built my career on complete professionalism in and out of the field. But when Storm comes at me with wild animal lust—when he opens up to me--when he opens me up, I can’t say no.
 
I don’t want to.
 
We’re in danger every single day we stay in NOLA. There is no way we can make it out alive. Not together. Not this time. ​

Exclusive first excerpt from Storm, Bad Boys of X-Ops III (a little bit of yuckity-yuck-yuck from the dudes):
 
PEDESTRIAN WALKING ALONGSIDE the inner streets of London was safe from Bane when he was behind the wheel of the fast, fancy car. Fuck, I wasn’t even safe, and I was sitting inside the vehicle right beside him.
“They drive on the left side of the road here, pahdnah.” I gritted my teeth, holding onto the fucking dainty oh shit bar in the Jaguar XKR-S GT.
“I know. I’m trying to throw them off our scent. And don’t call me pahdnah, you Cajun half-breed hillbilly.”
“Don’t know where you come off callin’ me hillbilly. You’re just another piece-of-trash street thug.” I snarled.
Bane shifted down, taking the hairpin turn with a squeal of tires and a wide grin I wanted to punch right off his face.
I glanced back, checking out the rear window to make sure we weren’t being tailed too closely.
I encountered Walker’s face as he sat in the backseat. He looked ready to puke all over his new shoes. His normally, naturally copper-colored skin as pale as thin smoke, and sweat popped out on his forehead.
When I straightened around, I tried pumping my foot on the brake pedal that wasn’t there. “Fuck’s sake, Bane. Is this a one-way street?”
“Looks like it,” he muttered, staring at the oncoming traffic in the tiny brick-paved lane.
Honking the horn with the heel of his palm, he swerved up onto the sidewalk. He narrowly avoided clipping an innocent civilian before taking a swift right that put us back onto a double-lane street.
“Jesus Christ.” I swiped my forehead. “Someone sure named you right. You definitely gotta be the biggest motherfuckin’ bane of my existence.”
“Them’s some mighty refined words for a no-count country boy.” Twisting the wheel into a hard right, Bane looked briefly back to make sure no one followed us.
“I worked my way into this job just like you did, thuggy, I just didn’t commit crimes along the way."
Bane laid more rubber tread on the road, punching down and making the engine scream through crowded streets. He swerved in and out of standstill traffic, raced over a bridge, and brought us to a slamming halt that spun the Jag one hundred and eighty degrees in its tracks.
“Missed a turn,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
I reached for my holster. The holster that was missing. Walker bitched and moaned in the back, taking up where I’d left off.
We were all weaponless and not a single one of us was happy about being stripped of our sidearms, knives, or brass knuckles. Or, in Walker’s case, semtex and C-4.
Bane chewed his lower lip, his eyes darting between the windshield, rearview, and sideview mirrors.
With another gut-twisting turn like the aerobatic aeronautical tailslides I liked to maneuver in an airplane just for the sheer fucking fun of it, Bane’s eyes lit up.
“Jesus cunting Christ! Why don’t you just take the next corner on rails?” I braced myself against the dashboard to stop from sailing headfirst through the windshield.
Tailslides worked better when I was at the controls. In a plane. Without goddamn Bane. Jeeeesus.
“Good idea.”
And so he did.
Couillon.
Walker was heard gulping down his gorge, quietly trying not to retch all over the backseat.
“You still blame me for what went down?” Bane stomped on the gas, sending the transmission into sixth gear.
“Will to my dying day.”
“Let’s see if we can speed that up, then,” the bastard answered.
Bane blew through Piccadilly Circus like he was drag racing in a jacked-up ’71 Camaro.
We sped past red double-decker buses. Cruised by camera-toting tourists. We took the rounded three-lane juncture on skidding, probably balding tires.
Oh look! The famous neon billboards! 
Sirens sounded in our wake. Loud and unmistakable. Possibly unshakeable.
“Hey, guys?” Walker’s voice sounded quaky.
Bane glanced back, inadvertently misdirecting the Jag into two lanes of oncoming traffic.
“Remember what I told you about being air sick, Storm?”
“Yeah.” I prepared for a ditch and roll move before Bane crashed us in a head-on collision.
Bane swung us out of harm’s way, bumping into a narrow alley where tall stone buildings nearly kissed above us and blocked out the fall sunlight.
“Make that motion sick.” Walker was getting ready to upchuck.
Jerking the car left, Bane blasted onto a road, his hard face showing the joy of the hunt.
“Bullshit. You’ll be fine.” He laid on the horn, swearing out the window at too-slow pedestrians.
They hustled to the curb, and he gunned the engine, nearly stripping the crosswalk of its white paint.
“You ride a motorcycle.” I pointed out to Walker, trying to take his mind off his--uuuh—imminent demise. “And a horse.”
“And Jade!” Bane pounded the horn just to scare a few extra people while I chuckled.
Then I remembered I hated him.
Then Walker’s long arms reached out, and he punched us both on the back of the head with punishing blows.
“You fucking mention anything about Jade again, and I’ll pack so much C-4 up your asses you’ll shit from colostomy bags for the rest of your lives.”
The car lurched with Bane’s stuttered reaction to Walker’s threat, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it, my asshole puckered. So did my face.