Let him wonder – #EroticRomance #Steampunk #MFRWBookHooks

It’s hard to believe it’s Wednesday already, and time for another Book Hooks blog hop!

One of my New Year’s plans – I won’t call them resolutions because that generates too much pressure – is to create print versions of my other novels during 2026. (Only three are in print now: Raw Silk, Incognito and Rajasthani Moon.) I will start with my steam punk trilogy The Toymakers Guild, which are among my most popular titles.

In preparation (hah!), I thought I’d share a bit from Book 2, The Journeyman’s Trial, for today’s event. Enjoy!

Blurb

If she builds it, will they come?

Technically brilliant and thoroughly wanton, Gillian Smith has found her vocation: designing innovative erotic devices for the Toymakers Guild. Lust is a lubricant to creativity at Randerley Hall. But what happens when two Toymakers fall in love?

The Hook

After cleaning up the remains of breakfast and thoroughly extinguishing the fire, they went out to the shed where he’d secured the horses. Somehow she wasn’t surprised to find the interior far less ramshackle than it looked from outside. Samson and Dorothea wore thick blankets and had boxes full of fresh hay and pails of fresh water. They pranced and snorted as Rafe saddled them, their breath making white clouds in the cold air.

He led Dorothea over to a strategically placed boulder, then handed Gillian the reins. “Can you mount her by yourself?” he asked. “I’ll be right back.” With the extra boost of height offered by the rock, she was able to reach the stirrup with her left foot, then swing her right leg over the mare’s back. She settled into the saddle. Though she was somewhat stiff from the previous day’s ride, the position felt more familiar and comfortable then she might have expected.

Meanwhile, Rafe disappeared back into the cottage. Perched on her horse, she gazed out over the empty moors, back in the direction of Randerley. Her own breath emerged in feathery puffs of condensation. The sky was a blue bowl overhead. There was no sign of any other human habitation. They might have been the only people in the world.

A lonely spot, Gillian thought. Anything could happen here. No one would ever know. A little shiver crawled up her spine. She drew her scarf tighter, trying to convince herself that the wintery temperature was responsible.

With a bit of a clatter, Rafe emerged, a leather sack thrown over his shoulder. He fastened the padlock, then tugged to make sure it was secure. It took mere moments for him to attach his bag to the saddle, then spring onto Samson’s back. Sweeping his hair back with his long fingers, he gazed at her with clear approval. “Ready?”

Gillian nodded, stroking Dorothea’s grey coat then gathering the reins. He led the way across the trackless moors, starting with a walk then switching to an easy canter as their mounts warmed up. Though likely colder than it had been the previous afternoon, the air was still. The crisp clarity of the morning brought out the subtle colours of the moorland shrubs and grasses. A flock of grouse erupted from a clot of bushes as the horses passed. Glancing up, she caught sight of a hawk wheeling above them. Despite her curiosity and frustration, her spirits soared as well.

At the spot where the rudimentary trail began, Rafe drew up his horse to wait for her. “How are you managing?” he asked. “Are you sore from yesterday?”

“A bit,” she replied. “But hardly anything to complain of. I believe I’m starting to get the hang of this.”

“Well, then. I’ll race you back to Randerley! Gi’yup!” He dug his heels into Samson’s flanks and the stallion took off like a shot.

“Wait!” Gillian cried. “I don’t—” But he was already fifty feet ahead of her, well out of earshot. “Bloody hell!” She snapped the reins against the mare’s neck. “Come on, girl! Go!”

Dorothea broke into a smooth gallop, chasing Rafe and his stallion. Gillian flattened herself against the horse’s mane, letting her have control. The fleet-footed mare dashed across the uneven terrain, her hooves beating against the half-frozen earth. Wind whistled in Gillian’s ears and whipped her hair into her eyes. Her heart thundered in her chest as she and her mount gradually gained ground. The speed was intoxicating; she and the mare both craved more. When they swept past the black horse and his black-clad, black-haired rider, Gillian laughed aloud.

She had a good twenty yards on him now, though he was catching up. Soon they were tearing along, neck-and-neck, urging their respective horses to go faster still.

She and Dorothea both recognised the dirt path that would lead to the road. She pulled ahead of Rafe, ready for a last sprint up to Randerley’s gates. She had no idea of the prize, but she was determined to win this race.

In the end, however, they pulled up to the mansion’s portico at the very same instant, their horses lathered and labouring for breath. Gillian managed to dismount without assistance. “Nice work, girl,” she murmured, patting the mare’s sleek coat. Dorothea whinnied and pressed her soft nose against Gillian’s neck.

Rafe slid from the saddle with the ease of long practise. “Jolly well done, Jill!” he cried, clapping her on the shoulder. “We’ll make a horsewoman of you yet.” Leaning in, he brushed his lips against her cheek. The gesture took a mere instant but left a hot brand on her skin.

“You get inside where it’s warm. I’ll settle Samson and Dorothea.”

“Wait – Rafe!” She snagged him by the sleeve. He paused, his dark eyes searching her face.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

What indeed? Questions crowded her mind. Emotions clashed in her breast, clamouring for recognition. She needed time to sort it all out.

“Thank you,” she said finally. For what? She really wasn’t sure herself. Releasing his arm, she turned her back and headed up the steps. Let him wonder.

Find the links (ebook and audio) on my website: https://www.lisabetsarai.com/journeymanstrialbook.html

Be sure to visit the other authors participating in today’s Book Hooks!

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Review Tuesday: Bound by the Blood by Cecilia Tan -- #BDSM #EroticRomance #ReviewTuesday

Bound by the Blood by Cecilia Tan

Flingass Productions, 2026

Sex is magic. I won’t be able to start this way in my Amazon review or I’ll be censored, but on my own blog I can speak the truth, a truth I’ve known personally for as long as I can remember. Of course I’m not talking about the reflexive, bored, scratching-an-itch type of sex, but the kind where there’s a genuine bond between you and your partner, where you open yourself emotionally as well as physically. It might start as a conjunction of bodies but soon you understand that the physical is just a conduit. Intense pleasure can blast you out of your body, pushing you beyond the limits of the of the mundane into a realm where the ordinary rules don’t necessarily apply. Barriers can dissolve. You may find yourself hearing your partner’s thoughts or experiencing their sensations as if they were your own. You may discover you have powers you never imagined – for instance, the power to intuit your lover’s deepest desires and to make them manifest. This is the kind of sex that can change you, or even change the world.

The erotic dynamics in a serious and sincere BDSM relationship have a special potential to expand beyond the physical realm, because the trust and connection often go deeper than in vanilla scenarios. Indeed, a scene may be extremely arousing without there being any explicitly sexual acts involved. Power lies at the heard of BDSM. This is not just jargon. The submissive surrenders their body and their will; the dominant wields the offered power to support and satisfy both participants in the D/s dance. And in some scenes, things happen—things that can’t be completely explained by a mechanistic view of the universe. The first time I submitted to my master, I saw his fantasies of domination, as clearly as if he’d been narrating them to me out loud. Our discussions afterward confirmed my visions; I wasn’t just imagining things.

At its heart, Bound by the Blood is an exploration and exposition of this truth. When Mira and Clive meet at a kink club, neither can quite believe the immediate connection they feel to one another. Even in their first encounter (an extremely erotic punishment scene), there’s evidence of their perfect reciprocity.

Through Clive, Mira becomes involved with the quirky, fractious members of the Circle of Light, a (possibly) ancient secret organization of sex magic practitioners. The Circle is engaged in an ongoing struggle with their nemesis, the Partisans of Fire. Though the members are loathe at first to trust her, she proves unexpectedly adept at their rituals. Her apparently unbreakable psychic bond with Clive enhances her capabilities but means that in every crisis she has more to lose. Meanwhile, both she and Clive harbor deeply-buried secrets that warp their power in unexpected ways. Both will need to face their pain and admit their vulnerability and guilt before they can fully commit to one another.

Bound by the Blood might be called an erotic fantasy. In my view, it’s fantasy at several levels, some of which work better than others.

The core and anchor of the book is the incredibly arousing bond that exists between Mira and Clive. Clive offers himself completely to Mira, body and spirit. He literally gives her his life. If she decrees that he must perish, he’s willing.

Cecilia Tan does an amazing job conveying the seductive intensity of this connection, from both the dominant’s and the submissive’s perspectives. (The latter is particularly impressive since Mira, the dominant, is the POV character throughout the novel.)

We devotees of power exchange love to fantasize about perfection: perfect devotion, perfect surrender, perfect control. This is the ultimate desire. I suspect that this sort of total connection is in fact a fantasy that can never be achieved. We all have limits, much as we might wish we did not. We all can be selfish. No one can fully banish fear or anger. While you’re reading Bound in the Blood, though, the author convinces you it’s possible and manages to convey the intoxicating, yes, magical, experience of a perfect bond.

The novel offers fantasy at another level as well, in its explications of the Circle of Light and the Partisans of Fire, with their histories, rituals and conflicts. Indeed the book is subtitled: “An Urban Fantasy BDSM Romantic Suspense”. (That’s a bit of a heavy burden for one novel to bear.)

I had some problems with this aspect of the fantasy. Although I loved the characters of Jair, Kish, Roland and Niko (as well as Barrow, a fascinating villain), the plot felt somewhat incoherent. There’s a lot of running around from one place to another, rescuing people; quite a few intriguing rituals; and a whole series of sanctuaries, where a new hide-out conveniently becomes available when the current one is compromised. I kept forgetting what constituted the current crisis and what was really at stake. This is partly because the Circle of Light members repeatedly vanish from the narrative for many chapters at a time while Mira becomes deeply involved with Clive, Barrow, or both.

Ultimately, I had the feeling that Cecilia Tan was a bit torn between writing an intense BDSM romance and writing an urban fantasy. I can understand the problem. The gorgeous eroticism of Mira’s and Clive’s connection could serve as a significant distraction from the plot.

Overall, I very much enjoyed Bound in the Blood. I’m looking forward to the next book in the series in the hope that the goals of the Circle become more clear. There’s also the question of what will happen between Mira and Clive. When you have a perfect dom-sub bond, then what?

I’m sure Cecilia Tan will have an intriguing answer to that question.

Friday Friends: And a good time is had by all... #LarryArcher #Erotica #FridayFriends

For today’s Friday Friends feature, I’m showcasing the work of one of my closest author friends, Larry Archer. Larry writes lively, sexy, no-holds-barred erotica where every character ends up having a good time (even the ones who start out as shy or prudish). I think you’d have to categorize his work as smut, but it’s happy, horny, non-exploitative smut. There’s no angst, no guilt, and definitely no coercion – just temptation, and satisfaction!

Larry and I tried to write a book together once. It all started with this luscious cover image: 

 

I thought we’d alternate writing chapters. As it turned out, I couldn’t keep up with his dirty mind. By the time I’d finished my first chapter, he’d already written three more. So I tossed Nina the Fallen Ballerina over the wall and let him finish. Meanwhile, that experience kicked me into erotica gear and inspired Hot Brides in Vegas, the first of seven books I’ve written that are set in Larry’s fictional world.

My books are a bit more restrained than Larry’s. But only a bit!

The first book of Larry’s books that I read is still one of my favorites: Driving the Stripper Mobile. Apparently it’s based on a true incident, where a bar in Vegas tried to build business by having a vehicle with a transparent back where strippers would perform. I gather the real Stripper Mobile didn’t last long, but Larry has immortalized the clever marketing idea.

You can read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/01/review-tuesday-driving-stripper-mobile_27.html

Another rollicking tale is Company Benefits. When a hard working sales professional receives a well-earned promotion, he discovers that executives in his organization enjoy a raft of erotic benefits he’d never expected to receive. The package includes sexy diversions to help his loving wife deal with his absences on business trips.

 

Read my review: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2022/04/review-tuesday-company-benefits-by.html

My most recent Larry Archer read was The Shrink, part of the House Party series. For the most part, Larry’s stories don’t include much conflict, but this series is an exception. The result is something more than just a sexy romp.

 

Sound interesting? You can read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2025/05/review-tuesday-shrink-by-larry-archer.html

I’ve never met Larry in person, but I love him dearly. He has a heart as big as his native Texas and a powerful sense of morality. His anything-goes-as-long-as-nobody-gets-hurt attitude toward sex is very similar to mine. 

He often encourages me to just let my hair down and write pure smut, the way he does.

It’s tempting. Indeed, like his characters, I sometimes do slip over to the dark side!

Stir in a pinch... #MFRWHooks #RomCom #NewRelease

Happy New Year! Welcome to the first Book Hooks hop of 2026. I hope you’re ready to discover some fabulous new romance reads, because that’s what this weekly event is all about. Members of the Marketing for Romance Writers (MFRW) community come out to share their favorite snippets from the new books or their back lists. Just follow the links at the end of this post to visit each of the participants.

As for me, I’m sharing an exclusive excerpt from my latest erotic romance, a contemporary rom-com entitled Her Secret Ingredient. Hope you like it!

Blurb

Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.

When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee “Emily” Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is skeptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.

Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting Monsieur Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.

The Hook

“And how am I supposed to cook in this?” I’d been working on my recipes for the show that morning when Roth had appeared with an ankle-length, scarlet silk brocade cheongsam and announced that this was the costume Etienne had chosen for my first appearance on Tastes of France. It fit perfectly—meaning that it felt like it was spray-painted onto my body and hugged every curve. A slit climbed to mid-thigh, allowing me to walk without difficulty, but I was worried that one overly energetic twist might split the seams. That would be some television debut!

“It really suits you.”

“Honestly, though. I’m a chef, not a courtesan!”

Lisa had styled my hair too, plastering my chin-length locks to my skull with a gallon of mousse and adding a fake knot at the back, decorated with frangipani. I’ll admit that the woman facing me in the mirror was voluptuous, glamorous and elegant, but she certainly didn’t look like me.

“Etienne said he wanted to emphasize your cultural differences. You know—French cuisine as a universal standard, around the globe.”

I sighed and shook my head, careful not to dislodge the hairpiece. The gold dangles I’d gotten from wardrobe brushed against my neck. Did I really want a guy like him in my life—and in my bed? He had a lot to learn about the Chinese. We’d been civilized, rulers of a vast empire, when France had been the domain of hairy barbarians.

Then again, it might be fun to teach him…

A knock on the dressing room door interrupted my musing. The object of those meditations entered, looking devastating in a royal blue shirt and tight leather trousers, with a ruby-hued cravat knotted at his throat. My critical thoughts scattered like a flock of cranes rising from a marsh. He favored me with one of his twenty-carat smiles. The birds seemed to take residence in my chest, fluttering and making it difficult for me to breathe.

With a dramatic flourish that would have come across as silly for most men—but not for him—Etienne raised my hand and pressed his lips to the bare skin just below my wrist. A tingling sensation lingered at the spot after he’d released me. My nipples tightened within their silk casing.

“Emily, you’re magnificent. Exactly what I’d planned.”

“Um—thanks. You don’t think this is too much?”

“Not at all. Remember, this is show business. You’re not behind the kitchen doors anymore. We have to give the audience something to look at.”

He, at least, certainly fulfilled that objective. At that moment, I would have sworn he was the most handsome man on the planet. His makeup was subtler than mine. Somehow it accentuated his high cheekbones and strengthened the line of his already firm jaw. A hint of shadow brought out the blue in his eyes, making them warmer and more welcoming. His lush mouth, so often pressed into a narrow line of disapproval, was relaxed and full today, quick to quirk into a smile.

Overall, he appeared to be in a far better mood than the previous day. I understood suddenly that this was because he was about to perform. Etienne Duvalier loved being in the spotlight.

Find the buy links (and another excerpt) at my website: https://www.lisabetsarai.com/hersecretingredientbook.html

Don’t forget to visit the other authors joining today’s Book Hooks!

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The Reality of the Recipe – #FrenchCuisine #FactCheck #NewRelease

https://www.theseasonedmom.com/beef-burgundy/

Saturday I had a new experience.

We’d invited friends for dinner at our apartment. When I asked Jean about her favorite types of food, she listed French as her first choice.

I’ve always enjoyed cooking, but I have little or no expertise in the area of Gallic cuisine. However, having just published Her Secret Ingredient, a rom-com featuring a Chinese chef who runs a Michelin-starred French restaurant in Hong Kong, I thought, “What the heck? Why not give it a try?” So I decided to try my hand at boeuf bourguignon, one of the dishes featured in the story.

I learned quite a bit. For one thing, this recipe takes forever. Just marinating the beef requires four hours! (Fortunately I had allocated the whole day for cooking and preparation, so this wasn’t a problem.) My cookbook calls for a minimum of three hours on the stove; beef tends to be tough in my part of the world so my cooking time was closer to five hours.

Then I faced issues with ingredients. The recipe includes salt pork (what the French call lardons) but that’s simply not available here. I substituted bacon, which seemed to work fairly well. Instead of button mushrooms, I used shitake mushrooms, which are much more flavorful (as well as easier to find here, and less expensive). I also couldn’t find any small white onions (I was supposed to have 24 of them!) so ultimately I cut up some larger ones. This made the dish look much less elegant, with random pieces of onion rather than consistently-sized pearls.

But it tasted amazing! Though I did find I needed to add more broth and adjust the seasonings, overall the dish was a huge success. As well it should have been – I devoted a full day to the preparation!

The experience made me realize that I’d been a bit unrealistic in the book. Emily whips up her boeuf bourguignon in just a couple of hours. And she and Etienne actually demonstrate the recipe on their TV show.

You could demonstrate individual stages: the marinade, browning the meat and creating the roux, frying the onions and pork... but it would take imagination or prior preparation to pull the whole thing together within a single hour-long demonstration.

Just for fun, here’s the scene from the book:

 

“You should let me do the talking,” Etienne instructed. “At least at first. You’ll find that it’s not all that easy to cook while focusing into the camera.”

“Yes, sir.” In another situation, I would have found his bossiness offensive, but now that I was actually here, minutes away from being on live TV, I was willing to listen to anyone’s advice.

Marty came up to clip a wireless microphone to the stand-up collar of my cheongsam. “Say something,” he ordered.

“Um—good afternoon. Testing, testing…”

“Great. Thanks!” He scurried off.

Etienne resumed his lecture.

“I’ll introduce you and ask you to say a few words. Then we’ll begin making the beef. You prepared the vegetables this morning, right?”

“As you suggested.” I went to the refrigerator to retrieve the bowls of chopped onion, garlic, carrots, parsnips and potatoes, which I set upon the counter in what I hoped was an artistic arrangement.

“One of the challenges of cooking for television is managing the time. We have just scant of an hour, so we have to take short cuts.” He checked out my veggies, reminding me of my old teachers in Paris. I found I was holding my breath until he nodded his approval. “The other problem is keeping the viewers’ interest while things are actually on the stove or in the oven.”

“I’ve made pissaladières.” I indicated the tray of onion, olive and anchovy tarts I’d created just before heading off to makeup. They were still warm. The savory, thyme-laced aroma set my saliva flowing. I hadn’t had time to eat any lunch.

“Excellent. They look delicious.” His praise made me glow. “We’ll sample those and chat about you and your background while the beef is stewing.”

“Sixty seconds,” someone called out from beyond the glare of the lights.

I took a deep breath. My pulse was loud in my ears. I can do this, I told myself. Compared to Cordon Bleu, this will be easy.

“Thirty seconds!”

Without any warning, Etienne encircled my shoulders with his arm and gave me a quick squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll take care of everything.”

Right. That was just what I was worried about.

“Cue theme.”

The Baroque melody sounded familiar, harpsichord and viol starting low and soaring higher. Lully, or perhaps Marin Marais. The spotlights grew brighter and hotter still. My smile felt glued on. A bit of sweat trickled down my spine.

“Bon jour, mes amis. Welcome to Toutes Saveurs Francaises, the place for people who love authentic French cuisine.” Etienne’s rich, carefully modulated voice was like a fur coat on an icy day, full of luxurious warmth. He smiled broadly and extended his arms as if blessing his invisible audience. “Today we’re fortunate to have a very special guest, a talented cook from the other side of the world.”

The music changed to the dissonant notes of a Chinese fiddle, a jingle-like tune reminiscent of old Charlie Chan movies. Behind my fixed smile, I fumed. Was that really the best they could do, when San Francisco was more than thirty per cent Asian?

“Mei Lee Wong is head chef at acclaimed Belvedere Restaurant in Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong, which was recently awarded three Michelin stars. She holds a Grand Diplôme from the original Cordon Bleu school in Paris, and is renowned for her creative mingling of Asian and traditional French cooking techniques.”

At least he was aware of my reputation!

“On today’s show, though, Mei Lee and I are going back to fundamentals, preparing one of the classic recipes that form the foundations of Gallic cuisine. In any case, I’m delighted to have you cooking with me, Ms. Wong.”

His pause shook me out of my paralysis. “Ah, thank you very much, Etienne. It’s quite a thrill for me to be here, as you might guess. I’ve been a fan of your show since the first time I watched it.” On YouTube, five weeks ago—but why be picky? “And your book French Cooking: From Basic to Advanced was one of our texts when I studied in Paris.”

Etienne beamed. Was flattery all that was required to win him over?

I probably should have done more detailed research before writing this scene.

Hopefully readers will be sufficiently engrossed in the plot that that they’ll not notice!

Friday Friends: Awesome Imagination and a Big Heart -- #FridayFriends #AlanaLorens #LyndiAlexander

For today’s Friday Friends feature, I am celebrating the life and work of one of my favorite author friends. I don’t exactly know how to introduce her because she has a number of different pen names: Lyndi Alexander, Alana Lorens, Barbara Mountjoy... She also writes in an amazing range of genres: sweet romance, science fiction, paranormal/horror, suspense and urban fantasy.

Babs has been a guest at Beyond Romance many times. (Follow the links on the genre names above for some of her posts.) She has also been kind enough to host me for almost every book I’ve released over the past five or six years, since we got to know each other. Like me, she’s a “mature” woman (don’t ask us our ages!) She’s also a huge ailurophile. Maybe even more than I am – she fosters homeless cats and kittens, teaching them what it’s like to be loved.

Here’s a photo she shared of her “catio”, where the felines that she cares for hang out. Lucky cats!

 

One of the things I love about Lyndi/Alana/Babs is that I can never predict the twists in her books. One of the first things I read by her was The Elf Queen.

 

Blurb

At her friend's coaxing, Jelani tries on a glass slipper left lying on the sidewalk. When she steps into the shoe, it shatters, cutting her foot. As blood trickles to the pavement and mingles with the broken glass, dozens of two-inch high creatures emerge and then scurry away into the shadows. Soon she is approached by two mysterious and handsome men claiming to be elves who need her help to rescue their queen. More revelations come, threatening to unravel the life of this sassy barista from Missoula, Montana. Jelani must learn to accept that elves are real and living in the forests of the Bitterroot Mountains

You can read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2020/09/review-tuesday-elf-queen-by-lyndi.html

I loved the complexity of the back story, the elven politics, and the setting. (I’ve spent time in Missoula myself.) Although I guess the book fits the general notion of “urban fantasy”, its themes are a long way from the typical “vampires-werewolves-demons taking over” tropes that I’ve come to associate with the genre.

More recently, I devoured Remnants of Fire, which I guess you’d consider paranormal suspense. 

 

Blurb

Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment for the Ralston Courier is to investigate a string of deaths, all young women, all her age. To deal with chronic back pain, she goes to the Goldstone Clinic, a local healing center with a strange reputation. As local doctor Rick Paulsen teaches Sara how to access hidden energy skills and reveal secrets from her past, police officer Brendon watches Sara’s every move. The deeper she digs into the Goldstone, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?

Read my review here: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2023/09/review-tuesday-remnants-of-fire-by.html

This is one of the most suspenseful and creepy novels I’ve read in a while. It put me through the emotional wringer. That’s a good thing – when a book keeps you up at night, you know it’s skillfully written.

Here’s an excerpt. Sara, the heroine, is talking to her fellow reporter Dedra. They’ve both been treated at the Goldstone Clinic.

“So they didn’t creep you out? All that touchy-feely stuff?” Dedra shifted in her chair and hugged her knees close to her chest.

“What do you mean? It’s a medical clinic. There’ll be examinations and manipulation of bones and things.” But I knew what she meant. The nurse, the doctor, both had touched me much more often than I’d expected.

Europeans as a whole had a reputation for more body contact between friends and associates than Americans. Maybe it was just their way.

“This was different. First the nurse, who kept smoothing down my arms and back after she asked me all her usual questions. You know, patting me, like I was a dog.” She demonstrated by running her hand down her arm, shoulder to wrist. “It felt cold the first couple of times she did it. By the end, it was warm, almost hot.”

“Hmm. That’s an odd technique. Not what happened to me, but we had different complaints, you know?”

“I guess.”

“Maybe it’s just part of their treatment, a therapeutic touch. Like all those studies that show old people living alone need hugs frequently, to help stimulate their immune system? Every time they are touched, it gives their own healing powers a kick in the pants.”

“Oh, I remember reading that,” Dedra said.

“If everyone in the clinic is vested in helping your treatment, if they’re working together, that makes sense.”

Dedra swirled the tea in her cup. “Did you ever give blood?” she asked. My breath caught in my throat, and I nodded slowly.

“When he was done, it felt just like I felt after that.” Dedra looked at me in earnest across the table.

So we’d both felt depleted of life fluids? I sat back, feeling the solid chair behind me, my feet on the floor, again solid, something I was sure of. That reaction was surely unique and more than a coincidence. But the clinic practitioners hadn’t done anything that could be envisioned as removing blood or plasma or anything. No needles. No medications.

A cold rock about the size of my fist formed in my stomach. Something wasn’t right. Something frightening. No. My journalist’s ear for accurate wording nagged at me. Not frightening. More like disquieting. The feeling the moment just before opening the dark and scary door. Waiting to see what was going to grab you.

What was making me so uncomfortable? I felt so much better, so in tune with how my body was supposed to be. No pain! But at the same time, there was something. Maybe just the novelty of the new age healing: chakras and reflexology and acupressure. Previously, I’d gone the strict medical route. This was different. I had the opportunity now to get some information, particularly if it was going to be practiced on me.

I realized with a start that Dedra had babbled on, and I made a conscious effort to catch up with the random thread.

“I’ll have to thank Melissa for recommending the place,” Dedra was saying. “If I can get rid of a migraine that quickly, I’ll do it in a minute. Besides, if I can see Chal more often, my life is destined to improve dramatically.” She giggled.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him myself.” I thought about that brief burst of heat when our eyes met. More than a spark there, I was sure of it.

“Oh, no you don’t. He’s mine.” Triumph spread her grin wide.

That made me laugh. “You did get first shot.” A quick memory of the nurse’s admonition to the man, this one is for Dr. Ruprei, passed through my mind. Was that strange? Or was I just paranoid by now, thinking about the oddities? “And those paintings.”

Dedra blinked. “No kidding. They were something else. I couldn’t stop looking at them.”

“Or the staff. They were all really beautiful.” As I said it, I realized it was true. All the women, even the man in black, had thick, shiny hair, smooth, perfect skin. They were fit and proportioned perfectly.

“I noticed that. Huh.” Dedra finished her tea. “Want another?”

I shook my head and stood up. Dedra had reclaimed some of her usual perk, and I had things to do. “No, I’d better go home. I plan to take it easy tonight, though. You should, too.”

I discovered in looking at her Amazon author’s page that Babs has been writing for more than four decades, including her work as a newspaper reporter and her non-fiction. Makes my two and half decades sound paltry!

Just to pique your interest, here are a few more of her books:

Anyway, I hope this Friends Friday feature has made you a bit curious about Babs/Alana/Lyndi. You can find out more about her work at https://lyndialexander.wordpress.com/ and https://alana-lorens.com/

New Year’s Mistake! – #FreeStory #NewYearsEve #ParanormalRomance

 Image generated by Gemini AI

I messed up. Today you were supposed to see this post, a retrospective to round out the year. However, it appears that when I set it up last weekend, I forgot to tell Blogger that I wanted it to appear on the 31^st. So it was published immediately.

Oh well...

Anyway, I’m not one to dwell on my failings (that would take too much time away from more productive endeavors). So instead, I’ll thank you for your visits and support by sharing a paranormal New Year’s story you might enjoy.

Wishing you abundant blessings in 2026!

 

First Moon

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm good at being human. No one ever guesses the truth.

I hold down a responsible, well-paying job as HR Director for an up-and-coming biotech company. The ability to smell emotion and read non-verbal cues gives me an advantage when working with tense or angry employees. I have a handful of women friends, including Lyssa, the hostess for tonight's festivities. I join them for coffee or shopping or movies, just like an ordinary person. We complain and gossip. We talk about men. Yes, I've even had lovers, occasionally, though I have to admit they always leave me feeling unsatisfied – not necessarily physically, but in some deeper sense. Lyssa and Janine tease me, telling me I'm too much of a perfectionist, that I should compromise, that these days nobody expects to meet her soulmate. I laugh along with them, pretending to agree.

People like me, are drawn to me in fact. I'm no anti-social loner, despite the reputation of my kind. And yet, there's always a wall, keeping me separate. Tonight especially, as the clock counts down to midnight and my friends get progressively more tipsy, I'm aware of the distance between me and my fellow celebrants. It's as if I'm looking through one way glass. I sense their joys, their fears, their rising excitement, the surges in hormones triggered by the closeness of the opposite sex. New Year's Eve, a night to be a bit reckless, to take chances one can blame in the morning on too much wine. No one really sees or understands me, though. My weariness from the effort of maintaining my mask. My longing for freedom. My unending, unalterable loneliness.

Almost everyone is dancing. The loud rock music stirs my body but hurts my ears. Lyssa's condo suddenly feels stuffy and overly warm. Twenty five or thirty humans give off significant heat. I'm sweating in my velvet top.

I slip out onto the tiny deck, closing the glass doors behind me, and the noise mutes, though drum beats still vibrate the planks under my heels. Gazing across the Cambridgeport rooftops to the river, I fill my lungs with frigid December air. The cold, still night is as delicious as Lyssa's champagne.

It snowed earlier, so every surface is frosted in white, but now the sky is clear as crystal, black as my ebony hair. The moon climbs above the chimneys and my breath catches in my chest. It's barely half-full, no real challenge to my self-control, but still, the beast in my stirs and stretches. Moonlight glitters on the icy Charles. I crave the sensation of that stark, pale light on my nakedness.

“Oh, sorry! Hello!” A pleasant-voiced, even-featured man appears beside me. “It's just too loud in there, isn't it? Do you mind some company?”

“No, not at all,” I'm forced to reply, though I'd really rather savor the night alone.

“I'm Brett,” he adds, then wraps his arms over his nicely muscled chest. “Jeez, it's cold out here! Aren't you freezing?”

“Not at all.” I let the awkward pause lengthen, refusing to pick up the conversational ball and tell him my name as he expects. I stare at the moon, so bright it practically burns. “I love winter nights.”

I smell Brett's arousal, sense his frustration and confusion. “It's nearly midnight,” he says finally. “Want to come in?”

I can practically read his mind: his lips on mine as the year turns, his big hands molding my hips and pulling me close. I'm tempted for an instant, but I know how it will end - like every other encounter, flat and empty.

“In a minute. You go ahead.” He sighs, turns, leaves me to my solitary vigil.

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” My friends' voices are a million miles away. The moon whispers to me. Why resist your nature? Why surround yourself with strangers when what you want is the earth under your feet and the night wind in your hair?

New Year's Eve, a night to be reckless. I make my way through the crowd of laughing, kissing humans, to offer Lyssa my thanks and regrets. Nobody really notices me leaving.

My coat swung over my shoulder, I head for the river, high heels loud on the empty pavement. The deserted Esplanade gleams in the moonlight, embroidered with the intricate shadows of the bare-limbed oaks and maples.

I manage to hold off the change until I'm under the trees. The brief, familiar disorientation ripples through me, then the flavors of the night deluge my senses. The faint rustle of a few crisp leaves clinging to the branches above me. The pulsing blood-smell of a rabbit crouched under a footbridge. Tar and car exhaust, blackberries and rust, the damp, ripe scent of the ground, still unfrozen under the thin carpet of snow.

Stretching out my paws, I work the stiffness out of my spine. The moon beams down on me. My snow-dusted jet fur sparkles.

I have just enough human left in me to suppress my howl. Instead, I run.

It's effortless. I race through the shadows along the river bank, eating up the ground. The power surging through me has me drunk as any liquor. Sights, sounds, scents flash by, each one acute and distinct despite its brevity. The world does not blur as I run; it sharpens.

I head upstream, out of the city, the river winding westward into the wealthy suburbs, conservation land on either side. The trees crowd thicker here, but they don't slow me down. Sure-footed and strong, I streak between them, bounding over fallen trunks and ice-crusted tributaries that block my path. Now I let the joy rise in my throat and ring out over the countryside. My howl echoes through the blessed night. The moon approves.

The chill winter air slices into my chest. I'm miles from home, but I don't want to stop, not yet. This is too perfect, a glorious relief from the endless, everyday effort of fitting in. I don't really think about my human life, though. I don't think about anything. I merely sense and feel.

Finally, I slow to a trot, my heart pounding against my ribs. I'm exhausted, close to spent, yet excitement still sings through my body. Squatting, I loose a stream of urine to mark my passing. My nostrils twitch at the ripe warmth of my own scent. I spring to the top of snow-draped boulder, sink down onto my haunches and survey my surroundings. Gradually my pulse drops and my breathing returns to normal. A deep sense of peace steals over me.

“Grrr!” The growl drags me out of my trance of weariness. I start and emit an answering growl. A flood of maleness assaults my nose and my nether parts swell in automatic response.

He steps out of the shadows, all bristling red-gold fur and blazing yellow eyes. He's easily twice my size. When he bares his teeth, they're ivory-hued daggers that could crush me in a single vicious bite. He doesn't attack, however. Of course, I have the advantage, perched on the rock above him.

I'm terrified, but thrilled, too. I know what he wants. I want it as well. But there's a fine line between lust and violence when you're a wolf. I've just enough human left in me for fear to hold me back.

He paces back and forth below, his eyes riveted to mine. Finally, he sits, patient as a pet hound, waiting for me. Then I give in to the beast, leaping down to land in front of him.

His voice, half wail, half growl, welcomes me. He circles my crouching form, snapping playfully at my ear when I allow him to get close, raking his claws across my flank. I know this dance; it's in my blood, though I've never mated with another wolf. My body knows how to bend, how to arch, how to open as he drives into me from behind.

Our coupling is over in minutes, but feels endless. Pleasure pure and sharp as moonlight pours through me as he launches his seed into my depths. His teeth close on my shoulder. The pain simply amplifies the intensity.

When we're done, I'm shaking. The moon won't be full for two weeks and my wolf-self is fading. The male trots off into a copse of beech, obviously expecting me to follow. I limp after him, cold seeping through my paw pads and up into my aching shoulders.

Thankfully, it's not far. He leads me to a snug-looking cabin dug into a hill, half-buried in the underbrush. A few yards before we reach it, the change seizes me. My limbs liquefy and rearrange themselves. In an instant, I'm sprawled in the snow, dizzy, naked and shivering. I can't move.

The male wolf nudges me with his snout. I force myself to crawl toward the wooden structure, noting how awkward four legs can be. The door's unlocked. Inside, embers glow gold and scarlet on the fieldstone hearth.

I collapse on the cot in one corner, lulled by delicious warmth, unable to stay awake for an instant longer. The wolf crouches by the bed, as if to guard my sleep.

Buttery sunlight wakes me, streaming in the small window above the bed. The fire has died. The room is cold, but there's smooth heat against my naked back.

I turn to find him curled around me – tall, well-muscled, his bronzed skin dusted with red-gold down that matches the curls on his head. I breathe in his scent, ripe male musk spiked with a sharp evergreen edge. He's sleeping, but he wakes as I gaze on his beauty and pulls my body to his. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear and sliding his hardness into my soaked cleft.

Joy surges through me, almost drowning my lust. Almost, but not quite. As a man, he's nearly as fierce a lover as when he was wolf. I let myself go, let him see the animal that that is my true self. I know he won't be disgusted or afraid. And I'm quite certain that afterward, I won't feel empty.