Charity Sunday: Endangered at the top of the food chain – #CharitySunday #GlobalTigerDay #WWF

Welcome to the Charity Sunday blog hop for July 2026. In an attempt to keep readers interested, I usually try to vary my selected causes from one month to the next. Today, though, I’m reprising a charity that I featured only six months ago, namely the World Wildlife Fund. I’ve chosen WWF because next week they are celebrating Global Tiger Day, an internationally observed event focusing on tiger conservation. 

 

Tigers are apex predators, at the top of the food chain in the environments where they live. In that role, they serve a critical function in maintaining ecosystem balance. No other creature challenges their ascendancy—except, of course, humans. Around the world, tigers are endangered due to hunting (Asian cultures, especially, treat tiger body parts as powerful medicine) as well as through the less direct but possibly more pernicious effects of habitat destruction and climate change.

The World Wildlife Fund works to sustain the global tiger population, though direct projects as well as public education. 

 

Many other species are threatened, of course. As “charismatic megafauna”, tigers provide a hook to get people to consider the global ecosystem as something precious, something irreplaceable. Whatever work we do for tigers will have far-reaching implications for other aspects of the natural world.

So, in honor of Global Tiger Day, I will donate two dollars to the World Wildlife Fund for every comment I receive on this post.

Don’t be shy!

For my excerpt, I’ve got a snippet from my paranormal erotic romance Hot Spell. No tigers – the story is set in northern California – but Sylvie, the heroine, has a very special relationship with nature.

Blurb

The flames of passion are more than metaphor.

Comfortable and at home in nature, Sylvie doesn't mind being alone in the wilderness. But she's not the only being haunting the glades and the trails. The stranger she encounters bathing in the stream near her camp obviously wants her, but refuses to act on his desire. Aidan is cursed with a power he fears will destroy her if they surrender to their passion. Can Sylvie refrain from tempting him?

Excerpt

The miles evaporated as Sylvie raced along the highway. Hot wind from the open window whipped her long hair back behind her. As the road climbed under her wheels, her spirits rose as well. She sang along with the oldies station as she drove—Satisfaction, Thunder Road, Born to Be Wild. The DJ’s playlist matched her mood. For the first time in weeks, she felt free, the burdens and worries of city life left behind her. Even the continuing heat failed to oppress her, spiked as it was with the scents of pine and wildflowers.

She reached the trailhead about five. Sunlight slanted between the towering trees like gold bars. She locked her car, then shouldered her pack and set out at a brisk pace for the campsite, about three miles up the path. She’d camped in these woods before, when she’d been in college. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

Alice and Jill had been appalled when she’d told them her plans. “Alone? In the middle of the wilderness?” Jill’s perfectly shaped eyebrows had knit in a frown. “What if something happens?”

“What could happen?” she’d laughed, guessing that neither of her friends had ever taken a hike or slept under the stars—or would ever consider doing so.

“Wild animals! Bears. Mountain lions. Or you might fall, break a leg and be stranded. You could starve to death.”

“And what about murderers or rapists?” Alice had rapped her fingernails against her desk. Her turquoise enamel matched her outfit. “You never know who you’ll meet out there in the woods.”

“I’ll have my phone,” she’d reassured them, although she’d known there’d likely be no signal. “Animals are shy. They won’t bother me if I don’t bother them. And I took a self-defense course last year. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Anyway, you’ll know where I am. If I’m not back on Tuesday, send out the National Guard.”

She strode along the trail, swinging her arms and filling her lungs with the fragrant mountain air. Sweat pooled in her armpits and under her breasts. The weather was still unseasonably warm, but a fresh breeze played amongst the trees, hinting at the coolness to come wherever it touched her damp skin. As dusk shrouded the forest, her senses grew keener. An owl perched on an overhanging branch—she caught the yellow glint of its eyes. Some furred creature skittered through the underbrush and the mournful call of a loon reached her from the direction of Crystal Lake, miles away. A spicy hint of crushed fennel tickled her nose, triggering a pang of hunger. Sylvie smiled, remembering the chunks of salmon marinating in a Ziplock bag in her backpack. She’d brought a half bottle of wine, too, for her first dinner in the wild. Somehow, she’d felt like celebrating.

Full night had fallen by the time she reached the campsite, perched on a ridge above the steep banks of Sandman Creek. As she piled fallen branches inside the ring of blackened stones and kindled them into a merry blaze, she could hear the stream singing to itself…or maybe welcoming her back where she belonged.

Her meal was every bit as tasty and satisfying as she’d anticipated. Afterwards, she sat for what seemed like hours, her back against the rough bark of a huge spruce, tasting the residual sweetness of her wine, watching the fire burn down to a clutch of glowing embers. The cinders shone from within like some dragon’s precious cache—ruby, gold, an occasional flash of emerald. The play of light fascinated her.

Her muscles ached from the strenuous hike. Her hair was in knots and a sticky film of perspiration coated her skin. None of that mattered. Peace enfolded her, along with a profound sense of well-being. The breeze whispered to her. The creek babbled and laughed.

Water. A bath. Relaxed, lazy and sated though she was, the notion still held an irresistible appeal. Sylvie checked the remains of the fire to assure herself that there was no chance it would escape the rocks encircling it. Then she dug a towel out of her pack and headed down the forested slope to the creek.

 

If you’re interested, you’ll find the buy links for this short romance at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/hotspellbook.html

Meanwhile please be sure to leave me a comment! It only takes a couple of minutes.

Ritual, Structure, and Emotional Intimacy in Female-Led Relationships – #DominanceSubmission #Femdom #MaleChastity

By Shoana Miller (Guest Blogger)

I keep coming back to a moment that seems to happen in almost every Female-Led Relationship, usually somewhere past the honeymoon phase, when the couple realizes that structure is not the opposite of intimacy. It's the delivery system for it.

From the outside, FLRs get read as a matter of rules and hierarchy: who kneels, who decides, and who holds the key. There's truth in that. But sit with couples who've been doing this for years rather than months, and the conversation drifts away from control and toward something quieter. Ritual. Attention. The particular closeness that comes from being deliberately, repeatedly seen by another person.

Why Structure Comes First

Why does a Female-Led Relationship work? Because both partners explicitly agree on where the weight of the decision-making lies. That agreement has to be spoken out loud before it can be lived. Couples who skip this step, who let dominance and submission happen by vague accumulation rather than conversation, tend to hit walls later: resentment on one side, uncertainty on the other, neither partner quite sure what was actually promised.

The couples who do it well treat the early conversations almost like drafting terms. What does leadership look like day-to-day? What does submission actually involve, practically, not just symbolically? Where are the edges? None of this needs to be cold or contractual in tone, but it does need to be clear, because clarity is what lets both people relax into their roles instead of guessing at them.

Ritual As The Language Of The Dynamic

Once the structure exists, ritual is how it gets spoken daily. A woman who leads her relationship rarely does so through grand gestures. She does it through small, repeated moments that reaffirm the shape of things: a nightly check-in, an evening report, a particular way of asking permission, and a particular way of being told yes or not yet.

I think of the couples I've talked to who use a chastity cage as part of their dynamic. For most of them, the device itself was never really the point. It becomes one ritual among several, a daily, wordless reminder of a conversation that's always quietly ongoing: a morning check, an evening removal or extension, and a few words about how the day went and what tomorrow needs. The mechanics of it matter far less than people assume. What matters is the occasion it creates, every single day, for two people to pay attention to each other.

That is worth sitting with. In relationships without imposed structure, attention has to be manufactured out of nothing, and it often loses the fight against exhaustion, distraction, and habit. Ritual removes that burden. It builds a small appointment with intimacy into the architecture of the day, whether either partner feels like it or not, and feeling like it usually arrives once the ritual is underway.

The Vulnerability Underneath The Control

Here is the part that surprises people who only think about FLRs from the outside: the submissive partner is not the only one being vulnerable.

A woman who takes the lead in a relationship, especially one who does it with real intention rather than performance, is accepting a heavier kind of responsibility. She is the one who has to notice when her partner is struggling and not just performing in compliance. She is the one who has to hold consistency even on days she would rather not. She is the one whose attentiveness the whole dynamic depends on. That is its own vulnerability, and couples who talk about it honestly tend to describe a closeness that grew directly out of that shared weight, not despite it.

Meanwhile, the submissive partner's vulnerability is more visible but no less complex. Handing over control, especially something as literal as a keyholder relationship, requires trust that has to be earned and re-earned. It is not a one-time surrender. It is renewed every time the ritual repeats.

Communication Is The Actual Skill Being Practiced

Every FLR that lasts is, underneath the aesthetics, a long-running exercise in communication. The rules and rituals matter less than the conversations that produced them and the ones that keep adjusting them. Needs change. What felt exciting six months ago can start to feel routine, or too intense, or not intense enough. Couples who build in regular, structured check-ins; weekly reviews; and monthly conversations about what is working tend to sustain the dynamic far longer than couples who assume the initial agreement will hold indefinitely without maintenance.

This is, in some ways, no different from any long relationship. What FLRs and chastity-based dynamics do differently is make the maintenance visible and scheduled rather than left to chance. There is something almost practical about that, even as it plays out inside a very charged emotional and erotic space.

Where This Leaves Us

I don't think ritual and structure are decorations on top of a Female-Led Relationship. I think they're the mechanism by which two people keep choosing each other, deliberately, on a schedule neither of them has to remember to keep. A chastity cage, a nightly report, and a particular phrase used at a particular time of day: these things work because they're small enough to repeat and meaningful enough to matter.

The couples who describe the deepest intimacy in these dynamics are rarely talking about control at all. They're talking about being known, in detail, again and again, by someone who chose to pay that kind of attention on purpose.

About the Author

Shoana Miller writes and thinks about relationship dynamics and modern kink culture. She spends her days around Lockd, a small corner of the internet devoted to chastity gear for D/s couples.

Join us for Charity Saturday, 26 July 2026 #CharitySundaySignup #Altruism #Marketing

Image by Wioletta from Pixabay

Since 2017, I’ve been devoting the last Sunday in each month to a post which features some worthy cause. Often, other bloggers join me in this effort, turning the event into a blog hop. This Sunday, July 26^th, is our next Charity Sunday.

If you do decide to join me, I hope you’ll download my 2026 banner:

https://www.lisabetsarai.com/2026CharitySundayBanner.jpg

Charity Sunday is a meme designed to give authors and bloggers a chance to give back to the world, as well as to attract new readers.

How does it work? Each participant selects a favorite charity. Before the date, you should prepare a blog post that: 1) talks about the charity and why you support it; 2) provides a link to the charity; 3) includes an excerpt from one of your books; 4) includes the code to show links to other participating blogs.

It’s fun if you can make the excerpt relate somehow to your chosen charity, but this isn’t required.

For every comment left on your post, you commit to giving some amount to the relevant charity. The specific charity and the amount to donate are up to you. You can set an upper limit to your donation if you want.

If you’d like to participate in the next Charity Sunday on July 26^th, sign up using the Linky List below. Please be sure that the link you enter will lead directly to your Charity Sunday post, not just to the home page of your blog.

Be sure to use the new Charity Sunday banner!

For an example post, check out this link from my last Charity Sunday.

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2026/06/charity-sunday-acts-of-compassion.html

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The Power of First Love – #SecondChanceRomance #Memory #Idealism

By J. Arlene Culiner (Guest Blogger)

Don’t we all have a memory tucked away of someone we once loved, someone we just might have stayed with had the circumstances been right? And what would happen if we came face-to-face with that person today? Would the magic still be there? Would our hands tremble and our knees knock together as they did back then? Or would we just stare, appalled, wonder how we could have been so silly?

The idea of meeting a romantic ex was just intriguing enough to write about. My hero —Marek Sumner— and my heroine—Felicity Powers—first meet in San Francisco. The year is 1971, a time when idealists thought they could change the world, that the looming problems of pollution, poverty and over-population would be tackled, and unjust wars could be stopped.

Felicity is a strong, determined young woman who always fights for what she believes in, and refuses to conform to the fashionable ideas of the moment. Marek, intelligent, romantic, knows that life will be exciting with Felicity as his partner. But relationships require a certain amount of sacrifice, and compromise. Marek demands security and a family; Felicity craves adventure. And so, their romance ends.

In a way… Because, even forty years later, Felicity has never forgotten Marek. She has spent her life as a foreign aid worker, has been in danger countless times, and done exactly what she set out to do. And despite all that, she knows Marek was the love of her life.

What does Marek think all these years later? He’s never forgotten Felicity. And when they meet up again in San Francisco it’s great to see her. Even in her sixties she looks wonderful. And sexy. But start over? After all these years? He’s too smart for that. Who needs turbulence and drama?

That’s not how Felicity sees things. And when they spend a few days down in a forgotten cove on the California coast, anything can happen.

Blurb

San Francisco, 1971: hippies in the streets, music and revolution in the air. The evening Marek Sumner opened his door to the wild-looking Felicity Powers, he knew nothing would ever be the same. But even love and passion couldn’t keep them together.

Forty-three years later, having lived in the world’s most dangerous places as an aid worker, Felicity is back, still offering love, passion, and adventure. Now a well-known author, Marek loves his calm life in an isolated farmhouse, and he knows their relationship would never work : he and Felicity are just too different. Besides, why risk having his heart broken a second time?

But Felicity is as fascinating and joyful as ever, and the wonderful sexy magic is still there too. Can love be more delightful the second time around?

Available in paperback, e-book, and audiobook

Purchase links: 
https://books2read.com/FelicitysPower

Excerpt

She didn’t even bother hiding her bold curiosity, or that she was observing, noting, judging. Well, let her judge him if she wanted. He didn’t have to justify himself, his life, or his taste.

“A simple student’s apartment, as you see,” said Marek, dryly, breaking the silence.

Her smile was amused as she turned to him, her gaze unwavering. “At least there’s nothing horrible.”

“Horrible?” He arched an eyebrow, attempting to meet her condescension with a sneer of his own. “Such as a corpse under the desk? A blood-stained hatchet? You must be disappointed.”

She laughed. It changed her entire face, transforming the almost severe, hawk-like features into something warmer, something infinitely touching. Her teeth were white, perfect; her smile was broad. Her head tilted back slightly on a long, elegant neck.

He was intensely aware that his fingers ached to reach out and touch her, pull her toward him, press her body against his, but he didn’t dare. Indeed, he hardly trusted himself to move lest she vanish.

“I should have said vulgar,” she corrected, still grinning. “That’s even worse.”

“A blood-stained hatchet sounds good?”

“Wait!” She held up one hand in delighted protest. “This has nothing to do with blood and hatchets and corpses. And the word tacky is even better than vulgar.”

“Tacky. I see. More or less... ”

“You know. Posters of bare feet glued onto the ceiling, drinking glasses with nude women, or ceramic cups that look like breasts.”

“I strike you as the kind of person who’d own stuff like that?” He forced himself to look offended.

“Looks can be deceiving. They usually are.”

What image did she have of him? “How about a deck of pornographic playing cards with bare-assed men wearing short black socks and shiny shoes? Is that tacky enough for you?”

“Right! That really is one hundred percent tacky.” She stopped, looked at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve got those!”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“No. Wait. I didn’t mean what I said. If you do have dirty playing cards, I want to know.”

Why did she want to know? “Tell me first if tacky is positive or negative.”

“Are you joking? I just want to see you implicate yourself before things get going.”

“Before what things get going?” A wild desire to laugh bubbled up inside of him.

For the first time, she seemed to lose a little bit of her bright assurance. Something flickered in her eyes. Her expression changed again.

“Mind if I take a seat?”

About the Author

Writer, artist, and photographer, Jill (J.) Arlene Culiner, grew up in Toronto but now lives in France. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, has lived on the Great Hungarian Plain, in a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave dwelling, and a haunted house on the English moors. She now resides in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village where she protects spiders, snakes, and weeds. She delights in ridiculous or romantic stories, and loves gossip.

She has won the Tanenbaum Prize in Canadian Jewish History, the Canadian Jewish Literary Award for Memoir, the Bookish Magazine Award, the Bookish Reader’s Pick Award, was shortlisted for the Foreword Magazine Prize, and twice for the Page Turner Awards.

Author Website: https://www.j-arleneculiner.com/felicity-s-power

http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

Newsletter: https://www.j-arleneculiner.com/newsletter

Author Links: https://linktr.ee/j.arleneculiner

Storytelling podcast: https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

 

The imprint of his fingers lingered – #AsianAdventures #AngkorWat #MFRWHooks

Happy Wednesday! My MFRW Book Hooks post for today comes from another title in my Asian Adventures series. As you might guess from the vivid descriptions, Citadel of Women borrows from my own trip to Angkor Wat, nearly twenty years ago. I understand that it has changed now, becoming much more slick and touristic. When I visited, though, the experience was a bit more of a true adventure.

Blurb

Passion flares among the ruins of an ancient empire

When her lover severs their relationship just before a long-planned trip to Angkor Wat, Doa stubbornly decides to travel alone. The marvelous sights of the ancient Khmer empire do little to heal the rift in her heart. Che, the mercurial young tour guide, senses her loneliness and offers her comfort and passion. Their connection is far more than physical – but how can two people from such different worlds share a future?

The Hook

For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to be a good tourist. When images of Laurel surfaced, I suppressed them, focusing on and photographing the wonders around me – the lichen-crusted towers and walls, the slick green surface of the palace pool, the stone elephants on the friezes, and the live ones waiting for tourists. I snapped a shot of Mrs. Ishida, perched atop one of the beasts, her face a cross between elation and terror. I captured Che's animation as he lectured to his flock in the courtyard at Bayon, guarded by the immense faces carved above. My camera caught his lanky grace, scrambling goat-like up to the peak of the Baphuon Temple.

He was a riddle, alternately tough and soft. So different from most men I'd known. He was proud, clearly, but not arrogant. Physically he was enchanting, with his golden skin, his androgynous, Buddha-like features, and a fluid energy that made his every movement a delight to watch.

We gathered on the summit, sweaty and out of breath. The sun drifted toward the western horizon. The whole city of god-kings spread out around us.

“The rulers of Angkor built their temples to reflect the Hindu view of the universe. The central tower and its four smaller towers at the cardinal directions represent Mount Meru, home of the gods.” Che surveyed his audience, as if to satisfy himself that they were paying attention. “Even the Bayon, constructed by the great Jayavarman VII as a Buddhist shrine, follows the same scheme. The kings demonstrated their special relationship with heaven by duplicating its form in stone. Each king tried to outdo his predecessors by creating new, more magnificent monuments.”

We could see the city walls, a mile away on all sides, the slabbed roads running parallel, strictly aligned to the compass, and the tumbled peaks of all the temples and palaces we'd visited over the afternoon. A greenish mist rose from the barays, the pools Che told us were used for both water supply and ritual bathing. The sun slipped off the edge of the earth, painting the gathering clouds in shades of rose and gold. For a moment the whole scene shimmered, luminous and insubstantial, as though the massive edifices might detach themselves and rise into the azure sky.

Laurel would have loved this. The thought was a knife, slashing through my carefully maintained calm. Pain twisted in my belly. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. I wanted my baby so badly.

I imagined her beside me, my arm around her shoulder, her slender body pressed against mine, her gardenia perfume tickling my nostrils. I closed my eyes, as if by shutting out the marvelous scene I could banish her presence as well. The unseen world whirled around me. My feet stumbled on the uneven paving.

There was a hand on my arm, steadying me. I smelled soap and sweat.

“Doa,” came his voice, the English vowels sing-song on his tongue. “Doa?”

My eyes flew open. He stood close enough to me that I could see the damp stains on his shirt and the shadow of tomorrow's beard on his chin. His touch was cool on my sun-baked skin. I felt briefly dizzy again.

Shame chased away my sorrow. I couldn't bear to have this young stranger see my hurt.

“Oh, sorry. Probably just got a bit too much sun, just like you warned. I'm fine now. Really.”

Che's expression was kind, but the intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear.

“Are you sure?” He still held my arm. “Let me help you down the steps.”

He made me nervous. Fresh sweat trickled into the crevice between my breasts. I was startled to realize the crotch of my jeans was damp as well. I hadn't been this close to a man in a long time. Not since I met Laurel.

“No, really, I'm okay. Thank you, though.”

“Any time,” he said, breaking into a grin. “That's what I'm here for.” Still, perhaps sensing my discomfort, he let me go. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, gathering the figures wandering around on top of the temple. “Let's get back to the hotel.”

As I hurried down to the bus, I wondered at my paradoxical arousal.

Dinner was served on the hotel terrace overlooking a small garden. The moist air was a soft, heavy blanket, laced with the scents of jasmine and mosquito coils. Two dim bulbs lit the scene with a golden glow. Our group sat together at a long table, consuming spicy fish, garlicky vegetables, and mounds of rice. I sat at the far end, nearest the garden, listening to the multi-lingual chatter, the clink of silverware, the droning of the insects in the trees. I had never felt so alone.

All at once, he was there, settling his loose-limbed frame into the chair across from me. He plunked an amber bottle misted with condensation down in front of me. “You look like you could use this.”

He took a swig from his own beer. Not knowing what to say, I did the same. The icy liquid slid down my throat.

“Good?”

I nodded and drank again before turning the bottle to examine the label. “Angkor Beer?” I laughed.

“Why not? One of our leading exports.” He tilted the bottle back. I watched his brown throat move as he swallowed. “Possibly the only thing most people know about my country.”

“Really?” It was difficult to talk to him, difficult not to stare at his mobile, expressive face. Fortunately, the beer offered a convenient alternative to conversation.

We drank for a while in silence. I wondered how I could politely excuse myself.

He replaced his bottle on the table. “You really miss her, don't you?”

My eyes filled with tears. Somehow, though, it was a relief to admit it to someone, even to him. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Is she your lover?” I'd read Cambodia was a conservative country, but Che didn't seem shocked by the idea at all.

“Was. She broke it off just before we were supposed to leave on this trip.”

“Why?” The question was completely inappropriate, but I could see he wanted to know.

I buried my face in my hands. What could I say? How could he ever understand?

I heard the scrape of his chair as he rose. His hand rested briefly on my bare shoulder. “Whatever the reason,” he murmured, “I think she was crazy.”

By the time I looked up, he had returned to his seat at the other end of the table. “Make it an early night,” he told the group. “We've got to be up at five tomorrow.” He did not look at me again, but still the imprint of his fingers lingered on my flesh.

Find the buy links at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/citadelofwomenbook.html

Or enjoy the full series, free on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/Asian-Adventures-Erotic-tales-East-ebook/dp/B08XW69V2R/

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

An epic love story from Rue Allyn – #Preorder #HistoricalRomance #Romantasy

Coming in May 2027 – the final book in the MacKai Brides saga

Sir Fionnlagh MacKai was a man without a heritage. Raised in a cruelly abusive environment, he escaped his miserable life. So desperate was he, that he faced a blizzard rather than continue being beaten and kicked without reason. That blizzard would have killed him had he not found a young girl and a gravid mare stranded in the snow. That girl became his best friend. Her family became his. That friendship grew into a love he could not deny despite the knowledge he lacked a heritage worthy of her.

Lady Artis MacKai had the gift of knowing. She knew rather than foresaw possible future events. At the age of eight she knew she must brave one of the highland’s worst blizzards to make sure of a gift promised by her murdered mother. The girl braved freezing cold, snow and wind to find the promised foal. She knew she would not perish, though no one else would ever believe her. She did not know she would meet a boy whose mere presence helped keep her alive. Nor did she know until many years later that she would sacrifice everything for love of him.

Pre-order/Buy Links

Books2Read URL https://books2read.com/u/4j9Ewo

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0H654F91C

Excerpt

Then the wind began to rise. Dry and piercingly cold, it nearly froze her hands to the wooden tiller.

“A' Ghaoth Anoir,” she whispered, the ancient name for the terrible east wind.

Mist gathered around the ship.

“Harr.” Fionn murmured and pointed at the deep white fog advancing on the wind.

Legends told by the sailors who taught Artis sailcraft described the fates of those who’d found themselves surrounded by the thick, chilly fog and never come home. Everything from Selkies to Banshees and worse were blamed for the disappearance of those who vanished in the mists.

The current continued to spin their vessel with dizzying speed.

The now relentless wind made a sharp whistling noise as it tore at the sail Fionn struggled to keep furled.

“An Fheadag,” Fear increased the tremors cold sent through Artis’ body as she named the second of the two most fearsome winds striking at the same time?

How is this possible?

The temperature plummeted.

She half expected snow.

Instead, rime formed where sea spay clung to the birlinn. Her clothing turned white from the freezing mist. Across the ship she could scarce see Fionn’s pale face.

“What’s happening?” his call came hollow, weak and distant against the ploverlike whistling.

Artis opened her mouth to answer, but the ship suddenly shot forward sending her backward where her head impacted the gunwale. Pain lanced through her brain, and she lay still, praying she suffered no permanent injury. She prayed even harder that Fionn had not been knocked overboard.

The spinning current had been overcome by an easterly drift more powerful than any Artis had experienced.

The little birlinn fairly flew atop the waves at a speed that doubled if not tripled the small vessel’s normal sailing rate.

How long the ship traveled and how far was impossible to know. The Harr kept pace with the vessel, obscuring everything from sight. It blocked the sun and any other light source.

Without access to sun, moon, and stars, Artis could not tell where or when they were.

She must find Fionn, be certain he suffered no hurt. She grasped the gunwales on either side of her and began struggling to her feet when the wood beneath her rose. Some great wave lifted the birlinn. The ship would be tossed when the wave broke, but where? To another wave? To a shore? To dash against a rocky coast? Would she die and never see Fionn’s face again?

About the Author

I learned story telling at my grandfather’s knee. (Well it was really more like on his knee—I was two.) I've been weaving my own tales ever since. I have worked as an instructor, mother, sailor, clerk, sales associate, and house painter, along with a variety of other types of employment. I've lived in and traveled to places all over the globe from Keflavik Iceland (I did not care much for the long nights of winter.) and Fairbanks Alaska to Panama City and the streets of London England to a large number of places in between. Now that our two sons have left the nest, I and my husband of more than five decades (Try living with the same person for more than fifty years—that’s a true adventure...) have retired and moved south. When not writing, enjoying the nearby beach or working jigsaw puzzles, I travel the world and surf the internet in search of background material and inspiration for my next heart melting romance. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me at Rue [at] RueAllyn [dot] com. I can't wait to hear from you.

Find Rue Allyn Online

Website~~https://RueAllyn.com

Facebook~~ https://www.facebook.com/groups/rueallyndaringdamsels

Amazon~~https://www.amazon.com/Rue-Allyn/e/B00AUBF3NI/

Goodreads~~https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5031290.Rue_Allyn

She wasn’t the shy type – #FridaySmooch #AsianAdventures

Since I’ve been gone for a few weeks, nothing’s been happening here on my blog. So let’s liven things up with a Friday Smooch post!

This is another snippet from my erotic romance short Singapore Fling, which I also featured for this week’s Book Hooks. This excerpt is a bit spicier... Hope you enjoy it!

The Smooch

He rested his graceful hands on the table and searched her face. His nostrils flared. Was he noticing her at last? His lips curled into a slow grin. “So—are you hungry?”

Was there a double meaning to that question? Ploy didn’t know. She didn’t care. She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Oh, yes...” she breathed. She stumbled a bit as she rose from her chair and launched herself at Jason. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his.

Up close, he smelled even more delicious, clean and masculine. His mouth was firm, muscular, molding to hers as she deepened the kiss. It opened to her probing tongue; she tasted coffee and breath mints. He let her take the lead, sitting passive while she devoured him. That was okay. Ploy wasn’t the shy type.

His muscles shifted under his shirt as he turned to face her, their lips still locked. She mashed her breasts against his chest, stimulating her swollen nipples. Shameless, she climbed onto his lap, straddling his lean legs. Her straight skirt rode up, baring her thighs. The hardness prodding her sodden undergarments told her that he was aware of her after all.

“Oh, Jason!” she moaned, finally breaking the kiss. Releasing her grip on his neck, she brought her hand down to cup the promising bulk of his erection. “Looks like you’re hungry, too,” she murmured. “But I can help you with that...” She fumbled with his zipper, stretched tight by his bulging cock.

“No!” The Chinese entrepreneur jerked, as if she’d given him an electric shock. “Don’t!” The chair rolled backward, slamming into the wall as he pushed Ploy off his lap. She barely escaped tumbling to the floor.

“What?” She clutched the table to steady herself and tried to slow her breathing. “What’s wrong?”

“We can’t. Someone might come in and find us.”

“Everyone’s gone.” Indeed the outer offices were empty and dim.

“Sometimes the engineers come back to work after dinner,” he protested. His sudden panic puzzled her. His eyes were wild with something that looked like fear, but the tenting in his trousers remained prominent.

“Let’s go to your place, then,” she urged. “Or my hotel. It’s an easy walk.”

“No, no—I’m sorry—I should never have allowed...” He wrung his hands, looking worried and lost. What had happened to the calm, self-confident genius she’d admired all afternoon? Jason suddenly seemed a decade younger than his thirty years.

 

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