Monsoon Fever: Excerpt

In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs.

Anil Kumar, a charismatic Indian lawyer who arrives on business, enchants both Priscilla and Jon with his god-like beauty and charm. In separate incidents, each of them succumbs to Anil's lustful attentions. Will the illicit desires excited by the handsome Indian be the final stroke that destroys their marriage? Or the route to saving it?

***

The bathroom was simple, Asian-style, a tiled area with a drain rather than a tub. Lalida had left an ample supply of hot water, filling every bucket and ewer in the house. Cold water came directly from the rain-fed cistern on the roof.

Quickly, before she could think too much about what she was doing, Priscilla stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a corner. She grabbed one of the pitchers of hot water and poured it over her head. Dirt sluiced out of her hair in muddy rivulets and swirled down the drain. The warmth soothed her aching muscles but made her scratches and blisters sting. She picked up a bar of her precious English lavender soap and began smoothing the suds over her breasts and belly. She lingered over the task, savouring the silkiness of her own skin under her fingertips.

The two men watched her, transfixed. Jon's mouth hung open as if he didn't believe what he was seeing, but at the same time his trousers were distended by a huge erection. Anil's lips were parted, his tongue-tip playing unconsciously at the corners. She could see that he was hungry to taste her. For long moments, though, neither man moved.

Her soapy hands slipped easily into the cleft between her thighs. It seemed so natural, to slide her slippery fingers along her folds and stroke the juicy bud of flesh that set her trembling. She had done this so many times; she knew instinctively the path to her own pleasure. No one had ever watched her, of course. Instead of inhibiting her, though, her audience stirred her to new peaks of excitement.

No longer was her self-pleasuring lonely and sterile. Now she was sharing it with the man -- the men -- that she loved and desired. As she climbed higher, she could see her own arousal reflected in their faces. Neither moved to expose his cock, not yet, but she knew that would come soon.

She rubbed harder, plunging three fingers into her depths while vigorously thumbing her clit. With her other hand, she pinched her soapy nipples, sending sharp bolts of sensation straight to her sex. She moaned, closer every instant to her final release. With her eyes closed, she could still feel their lustful gaze, hear their harsh breathing.

All at once, Jon groaned. Priscilla's eyes flew open. He had unbuttoned his trousers. His cock jutted out, pale as ivory, the helmet purple with blood. He gripped his length with both hands, jerking away desperately. A grimace distorted his sweet mouth; he seemed almost to be in pain.

He worked his cock faster and harder, his eyes never leaving her soapy form. She picked up his rhythm, her fingers probing and twisting, her thumb mashing her clit against her pubic bone. She was close, and so was he. She squatted, opening her thighs wide and burying both hands in the sloppy, soapy cavern between them. Jon groaned again at the sight of the sight of her lewd posture.

They were locked in a race toward completion, each urging the other on. Priscilla tottered on the brink, humping her hands, watching her husband ravage his beautiful blood-engorged cock. Energy whipped back and forth between them, circling, strengthening. Nothing existed but their two bodies, straining toward ecstasy.

A half-strangled cry from Anil drew their attention. He had freed his cock as well. He stroked the thick rod of tawny flesh gently, far from the desperation of climax, or so it seemed. Yet as they watched, his cock contracted, pulsed and sprayed viscous ribbons of cum all over his delicate brown fingers.

The sight was simultaneously beautiful and obscene. Priscilla ground herself against her hands, hurling her body into an orgasm that tore through her like a hurricane. Even as she quivered in the retreating gusts of pleasure, she heard Jon yell and knew that he was spewing his seed across the floor.

The next thing she knew, Jon was beside her, helping her to stand. He clutched her soapy form to his now-naked body and sealed her lips with his. Joy ballooned in her chest. It had been so long since she'd felt his decisive mouth or tasted his familiar flavour. She rubbed her breasts against him, smearing herself with his dirt. His rigid nipples poked at her chest. Below, she could feel his cock stiffening again, nudging into the gap between her thighs.

She opened her legs and tilted her pelvis toward him, inviting his entry. Then, all at once, a torrent of warm water poured down on their heads. They broke their kiss, sputtering in the surprise flood. Before they could respond, another bucketful drenched them.

"Anil!" Priscilla turned to find that the native was behind them. He too had shed his clothes. As she watched, he raised a pitcher and poured its contents over his own head.

The shower slicked his dark locks against his skull, emphasising the fine planes of his countenance. Rivulets coursed over his muscled shoulders and down his hairless chest. His skin looked oiled, cinnamon-hued and buttery smooth. Only in his groin did hair grow, in wild black tangles completely different from the golden fur at the base of Jonathan's cock.

Priscilla's palms itched with the need to caress that silky, dark skin, to mould Anil's flat breasts and flick her thumbs across his chocolate-hued nipples. She saw herself kneeling in the puddle at his feet, swallowing his majestic penis. The urge to turn image into reality was overwhelming. Did she dare to act on her desire?

She glanced back at Jon. He too seemed transfixed by the sight of Anil's glorious nakedness. His cock was fully erect once again. It twitched slightly, in rhythm perhaps with his racing pulse. His hands were clenched at his sides, but as Priscilla watched, he relaxed and began stroking himself. His cock swelled further. She willed him to look away from Anil and meet her gaze, with its unspoken question. He must have felt her thoughts. Their eyes locked, and for a moment Priscilla felt the old connection that they'd had at first, the sense that everything was understood. He nodded slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

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Crossed Hearts: Excerpt

For the past six years, Jason Hofstadter has attended the Four States Annual Scrabble Tournament. Jason comes to the Four States for two reasons: to play Scrabble and to get laid. Every year since his first, he has managed to hook up with one of the other players for some sexual fun. This year he has a chance at the grand prize in the tournament. Meanwhile he figures that he has hit the jackpot when he spots handsome, bookish Matt Sawyer, who's competing at the Four States for the first time.

Shy and seemingly innocent, Matt turns out to be full of surprises. First he jumps Jason in the rest room at Starbucks. Then he reveals that he's into BDSM and encourages Jason to experiment with topping him. Finally, despite his lack of experience with tournament play, Matt ends up competing with Jason in the semi-final round. When Matt throws the game he should have won, Jason is forced to confront his own feelings: about winning, about casual sex, and about Matt.

****

The elevator doors had scarcely closed before Matt was on him, arms like steel bands locked around Jason's body. Matt's mouth was hard and demanding, not at all what Jason expected. His tongue pried Jason's lips apart and plunged inside. Hands roamed down Jason's back to grip the swell of his butt. Strong fingers dug into his flesh, pulling his hips against the stony lump in Matt's crotch. Friction sent white-hot jets of pleasure sizzling up his spine.

He tasted the berry-flavoured residue of Matt's wine. He smelled the rich funk of dried sweat from their afternoon jaunt. He clutched at Matt's shirt, pulling it up so he could slide his hands over the contours of the other man's naked back, smooth as sun-warmed marble.

Matt pushed him against the mirrored wall, releasing his mouth to lick a path down his neck to the hollow of his throat. Jason sucked in his breath as Matt pinched his nipple. A star of green pain bloomed then ripened to golden delight. Matt ground his erection against Jason's thigh, his own thigh pressed firmly between Jason's legs. Jason's dick pulsed helplessly against the hard limb that held it captive.

His eyes fluttered open. He glimpsed their reflection in the opposite mirror, over Matt's shoulder. Matt's head bent to Jason's chest, suckling him through his shirt. Jason's hands were buried in Matt's loose jeans, stroking the boy's silky butt. Their bodies squirmed in slow motion as each tortured the other's trapped penis. It was beautiful and obscene.

The lift chimed as it reached Jason's floor. The doors slid open. They tumbled out, hands still tangled in each other's clothing. The corridor appeared to be empty—hopefully, everyone was down in the ballroom, listening to speeches, watching videos of last year's highlights. Matt caught Jason again, halfway down the hall, flattening him against some stranger's door and claiming his mouth.

"Wait--Matt, hold on, just a second..." Matt stole his breath. Jason couldn't talk, couldn't think. He was ready to explode. He struggled out from underneath the younger man's weight and half-dragged Matt down to his room at the end of the hall.

He fumbled for his wallet in the pocket of his tight jeans, every motion transmitted to his aching dick. He managed to extract the key card, while Matt circled Jason's waist from behind and rubbed his cock up and down Jason's crack. Jason's hand trembled as he tried to slide the card into the slot. The light remained red. "Matt, please! I can't do this..." Matt reached down between Jason's legs, stroking then squeezing. "Damn it, Matt!" Jason protested, weak from the pleasure that shimmered through him.

Finally, the LED turned green. Jason wrenched himself from Matt's grasp and pushed the handle. The door swung inward. The two men fell into the room and collapsed onto the bed.

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An Inconvenient Kink

By Sharazade (Guest Blogger)

Just to head off any initial understanding, I should say that I don’t mean an “inconvenient kink” the way Al Gore means an “inconvenient truth.” I do not have a kink, which I find to be inconvenient. Rather, I have a kink, which is for the inconvenient. A cramped hotel room, a rocky train, a canceled flight, a power outage… these are things that actually turn me on.

Of course, there is a difference between inconvenience and disaster, just as there is a difference between being spanked by a lover and being beaten up. It is the former—just to be clear—that I enjoy. I do not wish for my hotel to burn down, especially while I am in it. However, given a choice between a 5-star hotel and a no-star establishment, then the no-star wins every time. Khartoum before Paris. Economy class over first class, and it’s a shame we can’t fly steerage.

The Venus Hotel

My erotic stories reflect this. I have put lovers in a capsule hotel (naturally one that I’d tried myself), that rocky train car, the Cairo airport during the recent revolution, various public places with the risk of interruption, and countless foreign settings where local languages and customs provide an extra challenge.

I suppose part of my attraction for hardship is familiarity: I first started traveling on the cheap out of—or so I tell myself—necessity, because I simply didn’t have much money. And when you’re a youth, a youth hostel seems almost expected. It’s just that I never outgrew it. These days I’m sometimes put into expensive hotels when I travel, and while I can certainly appreciate the luxury on some level, I would never set an erotic story there. A run-down little place, tucked into a cramped side alley, without hot water? That’s where my lovers are going to meet. These days, it’s a question of preference, not of money.

Now, what is the appeal? What’s so fun about hardship? Well… it’s that hardship is interesting. People who struggle are more engaging than people who don’t. Even as a child, I enjoyed the beginnings of fairy tales more than the ends. The characters we care about are the poor little goose girl; the prince in pauper’s clothing; the youngest of three sons who goes off to seek his fortune through adventure; pre-ball Cinderella and Snow White when she’s running through a dark forest and then cleaning house in the woods (although admittedly I never romanticized the actual cleaning part). A handsome prince is, well, handsome and all, but he doesn’t do much. He kisses, he proposes, and then the story ends, because … nothing is happening. If he’s dressed in rags and outwitting ogres, then he’s worth watching. It’s the tension that fascinates. A handsome rich man and a beautiful wealthy woman in an opulent setting—well, where’s the story? I’d rather write a short man with a scar and a bit of a chip on his shoulder and a woman with ADD who’s lost all her luggage having a tryst in a cave (note: this is not a work-in-progress) (well… actually the cave part is).

Di Hamri Hotel (with goat)

There’s romance in inconvenience. A lover who will overcome difficulties for you—that’s a lover who cares. I like the desperation of passion that can’t wait for a wide comfortable bed and ambient lighting, but must be consummated now, in the back seat of a Mini Cooper, both lovers dressed in heavy winter clothing. Inconvenience slows you down—a situational delay and tease that only increases the wanting. A passionate lover makes time, overcomes distances, finds a way.

Is it a contradiction that I’m an avowed sucker for happy couples and happy endings? Well, not in my mind. The world I like to write about consists of united couples (or uniting couples—I seem to have an affinity for first meetings). There are sometimes internal struggles, or temporary misunderstandings, but the real conflict is with circumstances, and lovers meet and overcome those circumstances together. I sometimes get just a bit tired of hearing “write what you know” (even though I know I do a good bit of that). I prefer “write what you value.” And in a weird way, inconvenience has that for me—adventure, challenge, the unexpected, and the joy of overcoming obstacles, assisted by someone you care for who cares for you.

To make all this more concrete, there's an excerpt from the short story Schiphol, set in the Amsterdam airport.

A view of the capsule hotel described:

http://www.yotel.com/en/Hotels/Amsterdam%20Schiphol.aspx

* * *

It’s true, of course—there is a hotel at the other end, the Yotel, a sort of budget travelers’ place, and of course you’ve already checked in. We separate just a bit as we get to the door, so it’s not clear whether we’re two single people coming in at the same time, or if I’m really with you. I fumble in my purse for something—my key?—while you swipe your key card in the lock. When the door opens, I follow behind you. I can see the questioning look on the face of the woman at the desk. She doesn’t remember checking me in, and yet I could have done so before her shift started. You’ve paid for a single room, so surely you couldn’t have…but we have already vanished around the corner.

We turn another corner in the narrow hallway, then another. … Suddenly you push me back against the wall, take my face between your hands, and kiss me deeply. It’s the same demanding kiss that I love so well, but this time it expresses a new intensity, some emotion I don’t expect. I pull back just a little, and you let me go. You have an unerring instinct for when to pursue and when to back off and let me come to you. And the night has not even begun for us.

You take me by the hand to your (well, our) room. Although I couldn’t explain why in words, I’m somehow pleased that you knew to ask for the very smallest. We barely fit: two bodies, two carry-ons, one purse. I don’t think it’s possible for us to stand in any configuration where we are not touching, and I intend to take advantage of this. I kiss you again, and you respond lightly for a few seconds. You unzip my dress and ease it off. I reach for you, but you stop me and hold my arms to my side. “Let’s shower first, so we can go straight to bed and stay there.”

I hate to wait even ten minutes, but I know that you’re right. Taking out toothbrushes and removing shoes means we’re constantly rubbing against each other, and I’m getting more agitated. Finally, though, we manage to undress, put our clothes away and step into the shower. There’s almost more space in the shower than in our “room.” I lather my hands with soap and run them over your body to wash you. I kneel in the shower to wash your legs, moving slowly up. You’re hard, even in the hot water. I open my mouth to take you in. I run my tongue over the tip, then down the underside of your shaft, cup your balls with my hand, and move to take you into my mouth; but you stop me with your hand. “Be patient, now,” you say with a smile, though I can’t see why I should have to wait. I do what I’m told, however. I stand again, and it’s your turn to wash me, which you do with firm, knowing strokes. It feels heavenly. Any touch anywhere melts me, but even when washing my breasts and pussy you don’t linger. You don’t tease.

Your matter-of-fact touch is maddening. I almost say something, but think better of it.

You turn off the water, towel me off and then yourself, and we edge toward the single bed. Oh, finally! You switch the light to what Yotel calls their “mood” setting, an odd but not unpleasant green glow. You know I like you to look at my body as you take me.

I lie face down on the bed in the enclosed capsule-like alcove. My body is warm from the shower, still slightly damp, and needing you. You move over me—we can just manage to fit two bodies here, as long as you don’t lift your head abruptly. You shift my body a bit to a position that pleases you. I can feel you over me—your body heat, soft kisses that land on my shoulders and upper back. I can feel your cock, hard against my thighs and ass, and I open my legs to the extent that I’m able, trying to raise myself up to meet you. And … you’re still caressing me—a kiss here, a kiss there. Sometimes your stiff cock presses into one ass cheek or the other but doesn’t stay for long.

What the hell are you doing up there? Are you positioning yourself? I know there’s not much space, but I’m lying down, you’re lying over me. How difficult can it be? I’ve been waiting for this all day, I’ve been teased along for over two hours now. I am ready.

“Just fuck me already, Jesus,” I mutter in irritation into the pillow.

“Excuse me?” you say. “Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” I said. “Just fucking fuck me already.” My words still half go into the pillow, though I’m sure you heard. But you lift my head and turn it so my mouth is free, and ask me to repeat it again.

“Will you fucking fuck me already?!”

SMACK. Your hand lands on my ass, totally unexpected. I don’t know how you even had room to swing, but you hit me hard, harder than usual, and I jump.

“How about a little respect?”

I can’t believe it. I’m so frustrated. I need you so badly that I’m actually angry at you. Between clenched teeth, I hiss, “Fine.Will.you.fucking.fuck.me.already … SIR.”

You laugh out loud. “You’re pretty mouthy for a submissive woman, aren’t you?” You bend to kiss my neck tenderly, though with a bite at the end that makes me shiver. “But you know that I like that about you. And you know that I always take care of your needs, Shar, I always take care of you.”

And finally, finally you enter me. Slowly, so I can feel every blessed inch fill me. I hold absolutely still at first, not wanting to miss a single sensation. This is what the wait was for—this heightened sense of you, of me, of us together. Then you start moving, and I want to move with you. I try to push back against you, but I can’t. Somehow I’m lying too flat, and my knees and elbows can’t find purchase on the narrow mattress. You put an arm under my waist, raise my body, and slip a pillow under my hips. You pull my hands over my head, pressing them against the wall, and hold them down with yours.

Yes, this is the right angle! I push back to meet your thrusts. I know I’m making some kind of sound in my throat, and I wonder very briefly how soundproof these walls actually are, but I don’t care. I try to pull my arms out from under your grasp, which tightens. The more I struggle, the more firmly you hold me. I’m so turned on I’m panting now. When I stop fighting you, you release one hand, and I move it under my body, over my pussy, to finger my swollen clit. Your free hand finds my ass; you work your thumb into my asshole, which clenches around you, and you grip my cheek with your fingers. I can feel my body gathering up, pulling me together from neck to toes, all energy flowing to my groin. After the slow, drawn-out build-up, my orgasm is hard—hard and long. The irregular spasms of my pussy and ass over your cock and thumb pull your orgasm into mine, you starting as I finish, you finishing as I lie beneath you, not breathing, for I don’t need oxygen now, every cell is full.

After some period of time (minutes?—I wouldn’t know), you roll to the side, your back against the wall. You pull me to my side too, so that you’re spooning me; it’s the only way we’ll both fit in the bed. I switch off the mood light and we’re in total darkness. You have one arm up over my head and the other across my body, holding me close to you. I’ve already warned you that I don’t sleep much. Indeed, I hadn’t expected to sleep at all this night. I was too wound up with the excitement of seeing you again, not wanting to miss a moment. I thought we’d talk all night, about important things and trivial ones. But I feel so safe and natural, curled up against you. I find I have nothing to say, for you know it already. You kiss my hair, then my neck, and give my torso a squeeze with the arm around me. I sigh, and settle. And I sleep.

****

If you like this, you can read the whole story online at http://www.scribd.com/doc/31906471/Transported-Erotic-Travel-Tales-One-Story

Bio: Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. Not surprisingly, her stories tend to feature some aspect of travel--modes of transportation or exotic locales. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Find her on her blog at http://www.sharazade.fannypress.com.

You can buy Sharazade's collection of erotic short stories, Transported, at:

Amazon print

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Barnes & Noble Nook

Ruby's Rules: Excerpt

Ruby Maxwell Chen, the beautiful and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, is used to getting her way. When she encounters American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't finally met her match.

From the trendy clubs of London to the Hollywood Hills, Ruby and Rick compete for ownership of a strategic factory in Malaysia. Neither has any qualms about using sexual wiles to smooth the path to success.

Neither anticipates that their mutual attraction will turn into something more intense and difficult to control.

***

"Bravo." A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. "I'm extremely impressed."

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. "I gather you were spying on me and my admirer."

"Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau." He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. "You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline."

"Hardly," I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. "I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But," I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, "I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners' desires to yield to my power."

"I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him." He pauses and searches my face. "But, do you know what I want?"

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

"Tell me what you want," I purr. "I'm feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request."

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

"I want you to take me home with you," he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

"You seem most enthusiastic," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "But why should I allow you into my personal space?"

"Because you want to," he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. "And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage."

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

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To Protect and Serve – D/s Style

By Amy Valenti (Guest Blogger)

Dominance and Deception’s protagonist is a homicide detective named Zach Pierce. He’s sworn to protect and serve within the police force, but does that mean a little more to Zach than to his colleagues?

Zach’s a Dom, and his oath gets a little more personal when it comes to protecting his submissive, forensic scientist Faye Tate. As well as shielding her from criminals, he takes it upon himself to protect her on an intimate level, ensuring that Faye trusts him to respect her limits within their BDSM games. In return, she serves him – kneels at his feet and obeys his every command.

Well… most of them. Faye can be a little bit of a handful, which Zach finds out very quickly…

***

Try to get free.”

Obediently, Faye writhed on the bed, tugging at the handcuffs that restrained her wrists and the silk scarves I’d used to tie her ankles to the bedposts.

“Can’t, Sir,” she said, half smiling, half apprehensive, as if she was unsure whether the response would lead to reward or punishment. Hell, with Faye, the punishment usually was the reward.

I didn’t keep her in suspense. “Good.”

When I brought the riding crop up into her line of sight, her eyes widened and she bit her lip, a shiver of anticipation thrilling through her body. I paused for a second, giving her time to back out if she needed to, making no attempt to hide the way my eyes swept over every part of her.

“Are you ready?”

She swallowed hard, her eyes on the crop. Shaking a tendril of damp hair from her cheek before answering, she nodded, her words just barely whispered.

“Yes, Sir.”

The way she submitted, unquestioning, to my authority made me want to throw aside the crop right then. I needed to be inside her, needed to hear her beg for release, needed to lose control completely. But not yet. The scene had yet to be played out.

Faye looked from the crop to my face, and from the slight upward quirk of her eyebrow I could tell she’d caught on to my train of thought.

“Or we could just…” she said softly, shifting seductively against the mattress.

Snapped back into my role, I stared her out until she stilled and broke eye contact.

A flicker of amusement remained in her voice as she conceded, “I’m sorry, Sir. I was outta line.”

“You’re damn right,” I said, and without warning cracked the crop down onto her breast, just below the nipple.

She yelled with combined pleasure and pain, attempting to suppress the grin on her face.

I paused to let the blow register, knowing she was hardly even trying to be properly submissive. Most of the time, she let it wash over her, sinking so far into the state that it took time for her to come back from it. Tonight she was in a playful mood of a completely different kind—cheerfully insolent and willing to take all the punishment I could mete out. I already knew she’d let me whip her until she was sore all over, then defy me for just a little longer, setting her tolerance for pain against my willingness to give it.

I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

Faye looked down at the red mark rising on her flesh, then up at me. “That the best you can do, Sir?”

I raised the crop, never letting my pissed-off façade slip. “I haven’t even started—”

Faye’s phone rang, the unexpected sound disorientating us both. She groaned, scowling at the offending object as if it was sentient.

“Damn it! Not now!” She tugged expectantly at her handcuffs. “Okay, let me out of these.”

I stood there, impassive, and she rolled her eyes.

“Zach, seriously. Someone’s probably dead and we’ll have to go to work.”

***

It’s not that Faye’s a bad submissive, exactly – she just likes to test the boundaries, to know that if she steps out of line, there’s a consequence. Not to mention that stepping out of line occasionally yields very lucrative rewards…

Although Zach’s the Dom in the relationship, he learns that protecting and serving on a D/s level goes both ways – at one point, literally! His unruly sub takes an offer of carte blanche and turns it to her own advantage, pulling a switch scene on her Dom, and Zach goes from protecting and serving the citizens of the city to ‘serving’ Faye in a very different way. Mostly with his tongue. ;)

What’s a Dom to do, once he’s out of the handcuffs, at least? The punishment has to fit the crime – and a little sexual revenge never hurts anyone past their safeword limits.

Not only that, but Faye’s idea of service sometimes stretches to unusual limits. When she finds out that a male colleague of theirs is into kink, too, she suggests a little M/M/F action might be just what they need! Once Tommy Santoro comes into their bed, Zach gets about as much service as he can handle, as well as a good amount of kinky voyeurism…

But it’s not all fun and games – there’s an angstier, more dangerous tone to the final third of the novel. How far will Zach go to protect Faye, and how far is too far? You’ll have to read Dominance and Deception to find out!

Buy Link: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=1389

Bio

Amy Valenti is a tarnished tease, and her mind has lived in the gutter since the day she realised what sex was. She hails from England, which she doesn’t find quite as exotic and sexy as the average US citizen seems to, but if people want to compliment her on her accent, that’s all fine with her! Her muses are many, fickle and very demanding.

She has a degree in creative writing and currently works as a proofreader/copy editor. In her free time, she reads, writes and plays video games. On the rare occasions she doesn’t have a laptop on her knee, she loves to curl up with friends and pets – and chocolate – for TV show and movie marathons.

A Kiss and an Invitation

It's Sunday again, and that means it's time for our weekly snog. This week I've come an excerpt from "Fourth World", a vampire tale with a difference that is included in my collection Body Electric.

Before I hand you over to my Thai vampire Mai, though, I want to invite you to join me for the next two weeks, when I'll be hosting my Backlist Blog Bash. I'll be traveling, but I want to keep you happy! So every day between the 26th and the 10th of October, you'll find a new, steamy excerpt from one of my older books or stories. On the 26th and 28th of September and the 2nd and 6th of October, I'll have my usual guest slots.

You could win the grand prize - three autographed print books from my backlist! All you have to do is visit and comment. Every comment counts as an entry. Comments on posts from my guests count double! So please, visit often and leave comments telling me what you think!

Now here's my kiss. Don't forget to visit the snog page created by Victoria Blisse, who started all this. She's got a guest snogger today - my good friend Lucy Felthouse. From Victoria's place you wander on to sample the snogs posted other writers!

I smell her perfume, jasmine edged with something sharper, less sweet. My heart slams against my ribs. “Who are you?” She must be someone’s daughter or wife, a general or a politician. Or maybe the latest pop sensation, though her classic style argues that she’s older than her body would suggest.

“I’m nobody. Just a woman looking for a good time. Sanuk sabai. You understand?”

“Yes, but...”

“Hush, Harry. You talk too much. You should be more like your friend. A man of action.”

I turn to see Jeremy’s hand wandering up her silk-clad thigh. I’m surprised by his daring. Back at school he was always the shy one in our crowd. I was the one who took the initiative.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His trousers rise up from his groin in an imposing peak. Mai cups his bulk and squeezes. Jeremy groans. His hand slips under her skirt.

Jealousy sizzles through me. A red mist clouds my vision. “Never mind,” says Mai, her hand on my thigh, her lips fastening on mine.

Her kiss claims me. I try to take control, to thrust my tongue between her ripe lips, but she playfully forces me back, then plunders my mouth with her own. She tastes sweet but strange, the fruity remnants of her wine not quite hiding a metallic element. My cock surges, painful and eager, trapped in my tight briefs.

Blinded by the fall of her hair around my face, I grope for her breast. Her flesh is firm and elastic under my fingers. Her nipple juts through flimsy barrier of her dress. I circle it with my thumb and she moans into my mouth. I pinch the delightful nub and she bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I want to protest, to push her away, but she’s far stronger than I expect. Her kiss becomes more heated, more desperate. My pierced lip throbs. Something’s not right, I think, but then her hand settles on my cock and all thought vanishes.

Her fingers skitter across the distorted fabric of my trousers, testing my hardness. She settles her palm over my swollen bulk, squeezing in time with her sucking kisses. I feel the tightening heaviness that tells me I’m going to come. I take a deep breath, trying to gain some control. Her scent floods my nostrils. The need for release overwhelms me. The first spurt of cum pulses halfway up my shaft, but then she removes her hand. The urge subsides, becomes just bearable. Her lips graze my earlobe. “Not yet, darling. Save that for me.”

Stories of Our Fathers

By C. Sanchez-Garcia (Guest Blogger)

My son knows I read erotica, much more than that he knows I write erotica, stories that I won’t let him read just yet. I suppose by the time he’s old enough to read his old man’s stuff he probably won’t want to. Or more like he won’t make it past the first few pages before he snaps the book closed and sneers “Gross!” I don’t think my stories are all that gross if you like that kind of thing as much as I do, but what’s gross is the realization your parents are aware of sex. Reading of the act of sex in all its mammalian sweaty stickiness, and souls wrestling in the torment of passion, knowing it emerged from the keyboard tapped by the fingertips of your old man, like evil rays emanating from the fingers of the Emperor Palpatine is just . . . eewww.

But Luke - I’m your father.

Theoretically we know that one night exactly the number of your present years plus nine months or so ago your father knelt over your mother, naked, tumescent and demanding, hungry eyed and primitive as a rampant chimpanzee, and your mother, the one who cooked your dinner and scolded you off to church, who wept when you graduated high school, that woman, rejoiced at having her clothes yanked from her and body spread out nude and eager on the bed while this hovering beast nipped her neck, suckled her nipples and then shoved it right in, unhh! and together launched you into this veil of tears on a celestial fanfare of squealing bed springs, masculine grunts and low feminine groans.

Unless of course, as you suspect, you were immaculately conceived of a virgin in which case you really should aspire to a much higher calling than this one.

Try as I might, grimly at best, I can't imagine my father with a hard on. I can't imagine my mother nude, much less sexually excited. I never saw my father read pornography, much scarcer to come by in his day, and I never saw my mother, who disliked being touched, read a romance novel. She preferred history and crime fiction, and finally at the end as she descended into paranoid fantasies, nothing at all.

My father, always a well read man, when he divorced my mother had a "hippie pad" as he called it, well stocked with the books he'd been uncomfortable to read before when we were around. It was his time of busting out. Scanning his bookshelves I came across Henry Miller and Lenny Bruce for the first time and without hesitation he explained to me who and what they were and even allowed me to borrow and take them home. For intellectual wannabes, explaining Henry Miller to his son would have been the equivalent of taking him on his first mastodon hunt.

I’m not sure why it’s hard to think of our parents in this way or to write of them in this way. I don’t know if it bounces up against incest or what, but there is something definitely cringe worthy of it. The only instance I know of is Anais Nin writing in her endless diaries of her incestuous relationship with her father, whom she had hardly known otherwise as a father. In the end it’s easier to think of them like Barbie and Ken dolls, which, when nude, have nothing so much as a plastic bulge down there.

Sex and story have always been a part of our story telling tradition. As soon as human beings came across the notions of making things from other things, and then making representative art they began making erotic art. There are stone sculptures of huge breasted women, at least one cave painting of an immense cave woman straddling her lover from above. Our earliest Biblical stories, the ones you don’t hear in Sunday school, tell of King David falling in lust with married Bathsheba while seeing her bathe in the nude on a rooftop and then sending her husband Uriah to the front lines to expediently die in battle. Or of Lot’s daughters getting him drunk and committing incestuous acts with their father to make sure the blood line of their family would go unbroken. Joseph being sent to prison for refusing to have an affair with the Pharaoh’s wife. These stories mean more to me than the prophets, because these are the human stories that tell me that even if civilization changes, people are still much the same.

I’m not sure our kids will ever read our stuff, or even if they should. That’s part of the price you pay for suiting up for this game. In our many dialogues and noodlings, I've often said to Lisabet that we don’t choose the genre we write in. The genre chooses us. The book is the boss. Any story can be just a little deeper just as any person can be deeper if you allow yourself to know them. The great writers weren't any smarter than the rest of us; they were more persistent lovers of the story. They looked deeper and then looked again, the difference between making love or just passing a quick hand over life. The story is always deeper than we know.

Bio: At this particular time in a wandering, often bizarre and unexpected life, C. Sanchez-Garcia is living quietly in eastern Georgia, where the size of his personal library is bursting the walls of his little house. He stubbornly believes in passion, God, sensuality and spirituality, and that a good love story is life's finest medicine for melancholy. He is the author of the erotic novellas Mortal Engines and the Color of the Moon. Coming Together Presents C. Sanchez-Garcia compiles some of his best short work, in a charity anthology whose proceeds benefit the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network. Several of his stories have been published in several volumes of the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica and Coming Together anthologies as well as in the Erotica Readers and Writers Association's online gallery and permanent archives. If you would like to meet him, you will find him on Facebook and at the Oh, Get a Grip! writer's blog where Sanchez-Garcia's blog appears hell or high water every Wednesday.

True Heroes

By Karen Cote (Guest Blogger)

I grew up in a small town in Missouri sharing years of romance novels with my mother. We laughed together, cried together, and thoroughly enjoyed our favorite authors. My mother has since passed but her gift of memories will always remain through the pages of each novel I write.

Now other than my mother, I have always perceived a hero to be one with that inner ability to lay down their life for another. It’s why you will most likely find a law enforcement officer of some type playing a lead role in my novel. They are very special people to me and I enjoy telling stories about them.

Thank you, dear reader, for the precious time you will use in journeying with my heroes and heroines. May the echo of their laughter and tears create special memories within you as I have enjoyed from authors past.

About Erotic Deception - Told she’d never have children…abracadabra, she’s pregnant. Would the man she loved disappear when he found out?

Her brother was dead. The sole person she’d had left in this world. He’d practically raised her and stood by her during a miscarriage that left her barren How had Dr. Lily Delaney, with a PhD in Psychology, missed the psychotic signs in Anthony Capriccio, the Kansas City District Attorney and her ex-fiancé? Now at twenty-nine she was on the run from threats to her own life. But on the road to a safe secluded lake community, Lily crashes into the path of a new dangerous element, literally. One with deep blue eyes who totes a badge and carries a gun.

After his experience as a detective in Kansas City, Missouri, Jet Walker enjoyed his life as sheriff of the quiet lake community, Windom Hills. However, when Lily Delaney literally crashes into his car and life, his world erupts into chaos. Couldn’t the woman do anything normal? Between fighting to protect her and fighting against his growing attraction for her, the previous peace Jet had found was now falling apart. And how could he possibly trust another woman after the trick his ex-wife played in trying to pass off another man’s child as his?

Excerpt

“We’re in trouble, Lily. Damn it,” Jet swore softly and clasped his hand around her neck to draw her toward him.

Lily sighed and her eyes slid closed, this time ready to savor the firmness of his mouth.

At first, it was feather light. Then he began playing first with a modest increase before receding. His tongue darted out to skip along the seam of her mouth and the erotic tease ignited Lily’s desire to taste more. She rose up to press against him, but a hand on her rib cage checked the movement. In confusion, she backed away, but he wouldn’t allow that either. His lips remained poised above hers, a hand stroking at the base of her breast.

“Be sure about this, Lily,” he whispered.

He was delegating this decision to her. What was there to think about? Her attachment to him was overwhelming with strong emotional elements. Love? Rational people didn’t fall this quickly. It had to be that entire hero-worship thing.

Anyway, who knew the next time she’d come this close to a little happiness? Tomorrow they’d say goodbye. No harm. No foul.

Her heart called up a soft cry for protection, but she drowned it out and buried her face against his neck. With his scent assailing her nostrils, she touched her tongue to the smooth skin.

Jet stiffened, but didn’t draw away. Encouraged she pressed her mouth over the wet area and sucked. Jet’s throat contracted in a swallow and the pressure of her mouth intensified.

He groaned and pulled her chin up muttering against her lips. “I think you left a mark.”

“Mmm, sorry.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to receive the soul-destroying kiss she’d been craving. The swirl of his tongue made her dizzy from the tantalizing dance and she trapped it to gently vacuum the tip.

He broke contact and said in a thick voice, “Baby, that mouth of yours is lethal.”

He grabbed her hips and straddled her over his lap. Oh yeah. She inched up to get closer, but her knee collided with his holstered gun.

“Undo the buckle,” he said huskily, pushing her back to give her space to access it.

Lily clumsily fumbled with the front of the duty belt and heard Jet’s muffled curse and laughter.

“On second thoughts, better let me do it.”

After unfastening the belt, he shifted forward to pull it from behind him and Lily threw her head back at the frontal collision.

“Steady,” Jet soothed before casting the heavy belt aside.

The loud thump on the floor shattered Lily’s concentration and she jumped with an instinctive turn of her head.

“Your gun could’ve gone off,” she protested.

“A man can only hope.”

Not slow to the innuendo, Lily giggled, but it melted when he pulled her toward him again. She sighed and sank into him, her breasts pushing against his chest only to wince at the hard metal of his badge.

“That’s quite a hazardous uniform you’ve got there, Sheriff,” she muttered, her frustration belying the mocking words.

Jet quickly identified the problem and before she knew it, she was on her back with him above her. He unbuttoned his shirt and Lily gave a small pout at the brown t-shirt beneath. He smiled and pulled the outer shirttails out of his pants to shrug it off and toss it aside. He leaned down to her and Lily ran her fingers up his forearms, to rock-hard biceps and then over the thin cotton that covered his chest.

He kissed her long and deep, his hands making their own way over her body. He pulled one of her thighs up to his waist and stroked the silky backside before trailing up past her hips to her rib cage. His thumb caressed the underside of her breast.

His breathing intensified, thrilling Lily at the effect she was having on him. His kisses escalated to white hot. Strong white teeth took little nips at her bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. The mix of pain and erotic pleasure almost shot Lily over the edge.

Jet, apparently losing the last vestige of his control, slipped her robe off. He paused to gaze down at the firm full globes and small golden patch.

“Beautiful and natural,” he breathed and then lowered his head.

His tongue stroked over her hardened nipple before his moist lips covered the dark areole to suck deeply.

Lily moaned, her hands luxuriating in the thick vitality of his hair. The texture of his t-shirt reminded her she was naked while he still had most of his clothes on. She tugged on it and he shifted to accommodate her frantic movements.

Lily’s breath caught at the wide expanse that greeted her. A dark triangle of hair arrowed down to a flat stomach and from her position, the view was fabulous. Not too hairy, but oh my, testosterone flowed beneath her fingers as she tangled them in the dark hair. She found his nipples and Jet shuddered as he moved forward to kiss down her jaw to the side of her neck. Soft chest hairs brushed against her bare breasts, shooting bolts of pleasure through her.

She squeezed her legs together to signal her readiness, but Jet wasn’t finished yet. He stroked and teased until Lily growled and wrapped her legs around his waist to surge up against his groin.

With a guttural sound, he jumped up and removed something from his pocket. A condom. With an urgent hand, he reached for his belt buckle, but Lily stopped it.

“Let me,” and rose to her knees.

His lids were heavy as he watched her work at the fastening of his pants. She slid both his uniform and boxer briefs down simultaneously and the beauty and bounty of him spilled out in front of her.

“Oh my!”

No small size in the pharmacy aisle for him. Apprehension mixed with fascination at the full extent of his thickness and length. In wondrous desire, she reached out to wrap her fingers around the velvet hardness.

Jet made a negative sound and jerked her hand away. “I won’t last,” he muttered.

In one fluid motion, he pushed her back and slid between her legs. He guided the head of his penis to her entry and Lily eagerly wrapped her legs around his waist.

With a muffled oath, Jet thrust his hips and penetrated causing Lily to gasp at the thick pressure. She panted, urging him on and sobbed in distress at the tight barrier resisting complete copulation.

“Shh. Relax, baby,” he coaxed to calm her, but his voice was strained.

Jet closed his eyes and moisture beaded on his forehead. He bent his head to press slow sensuous kisses against her mouth and the tingling transmissions foraged a path to her core.

“That’s it, honey,” he said hoarsely, “now just put your legs a little higher.”

Lily complied to meet Jet’s flexing muscles as he rocked back and forth to ease his way in. Soon, her body began accepting all of him with a mixture of pleasure and pain as he thrust once more to push himself into the hilt. He allowed her to get used to the fullness before carving a rhythm of penetration with withdrawals and gentle thrusts.

The beauty of Jet inside her thrilled Lily beyond any discomfort. To the contrary, the complete oneness brought her to a higher arousal than before. Warning signals beat a path into her brain, but he felt too good, too right, to stop. She closed her mind to the fear and hailed the moment until it was too late and she willingly surrendered to the spiraling abyss, floating along in sensuous pleasure.

Jet drew out every ounce, letting her ride the waves while she instinctively milked him. With her cries reduced to moans, his movements became harder and faster. His breathing escalated to the pumping of his climax and with a final thrust, he came amidst shuddering and jerking.

Lily reveled in the unity and savored the merging of body and soul as his hot semen spurted into her.

Spurted into me? Uh-oh. The validation of her suspicions appeared in the utter stillness of Jet’s body.

With his forehead dripping sweat, he drew back. Seconds later, he broke the connection and Lily winced at the dragging motion. Warm fluid rushed out to pool onto the cushions beneath her.

“Tell me you’re on some type of birth control,” Jet said, grabbing his pants.

Lily struggled between vulnerability and emotional chaos. “I-I’m not, but as long as you’re healthy it’s okay.”

His exclamation cut off anything else she would’ve said and he swung away to disappear into the adjoining bathroom.

* * * *

Jet flushed the shredded condom down the toilet and went to the sink to wash his hands. He stared blindly at his reflection, unable to believe he was here again.

Of course, it was a different woman and the circumstances weren’t quite the same, but it didn’t dilute the result. He’d put himself at risk to another female.

He should’ve known something like this could happen. Hell, she’d been tight enough to suck chrome off a trailer hitch, how could he expect a condom to weather the pressure? The memory caused a twitch of betrayal in his pants and Jet cursed.

The last time he’d let his dick do all the thinking, he’d ended up married with a baby on the way…someone else’s. He hadn’t found out that particular morsel until Celeste miscarried. The deluge of emotions of a miscarriage with a child that wasn’t his had been the lowest point in Jet’s life.

The coincidence of Lily doing the same thing as Celeste all those years ago wasn’t likely. Especially as he’d had control of the condom the entire time.

Still, this letdown to himself was strong and hard to forgive. Could he handle another unplanned pregnancy even if the child was his? Would he marry her? It was too reminiscent of his previous scars and the excruciating decisions forced upon him then. Decisions no man should have to regret. At least not like that.

* * * *

Lily scrubbed at the small stain with the kitchen towel. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand before that perfect specimen of manhood and admit she was only half a woman.

The bathroom door opened and Lily glanced up to the hard implacability of Jet’s face. His distant and alien facade told her she’d made the right decision.

He began pulling on the rest of his clothes and it wasn’t until he was fully dressed that he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Lily. This isn’t your fault. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

He picked up his gun and finally looked at her, his gaze long and steady.

“You were engaged to be married, how is it you’re not on the pill?”

Lily debated on answering and decided to tell the partial truth.

“Anthony had a vasectomy years ago.”

It had been a factor in Lily’s acceptance to Anthony’s proposal, as she wouldn’t be depriving him of a family.

Jet looked away and drew in a deep breath.

“I’d better sleep in the blazer for the rest of the night.” He seemed uncertain, which Lily could swear rarely happened. “I’ll call you later.”

He walked out of the room and this time didn’t bother telling her to lock the doors.

Author Bio: I live in a California Castle with Prince Charming and a Magnificent Black Stallion. Okay, it’s a bungalow, a corporate husband and a small black pug who totes a sense of humor and lotsa attitude. But it is a dream. A real life dream to inspire the romantic suspense novels I write.

Website: www.karencote.tv

Email: karensromance@gmail.com

A Quick Kiss from WILD ABOUT THAT THING

Since I'm celebrating the release this week of my novella Wild About That Thing, as part of the Treble anthology, I thought I'd share a quick kiss from that book. Visit Victoria Blisse today for more sexy snogging!

****

A gentle knock on her bedroom door roused her from her slumbers. “Ruby, darlin’? You okay in there?”

Zeke. Guilt threatened to drown her. But why should she feel guilty? She was her own woman. She didn’t belong to Zeke or anyone else.

“I’m fine. Just taking a nap. Somebody kept me from sleeping last night…”

Zeke poked his head into the room. “Don’t blame me, you little fox!” A warm grin lit his amiable features. “You were the one who jumped me, as I recall.”

“And you really put up a fight, too,” Ruby countered, sitting up as he settled himself on the bed next to her.

“Yeah, well, why would I do that? I’m not crazy!” Before she could stop him, he swept her into one of his energetic kisses. Today he tasted like the Juicy Fruit gum he chewed while driving his cab. Ruby knew she should resist—Isaiah was upstairs and it was probably close to dinner time, too—but Zeke just felt too damn good. He wrapped his burly arms around her while his tongue burrowed into her welcoming mouth and his moustache tickled her nose. Before she knew it, his string-calloused fingers were busy under her sweater.

“Wait! Zeke baby, hold on!” Reluctantly, Zeke loosened his grip on her body. Desire buzzed through her. She tried to ignore it. “Isaiah…”

“I know, I know.” Ruby detected an uncharacteristic hint of irritation in her lover’s drawl. “The boy. But he’s busy doing his homework. He told me so when he answered the door.” He leant back a bit, eating her up with his eyes.

Despite her determination not to succumb to Zeke’s charm, Ruby’s nipples peaked and her pussy moistened. “You know how I feel, baby.”

“Yeah, I do. You’re just so hard to resist, lady.”

Have You Checked Out a Hockey Player Lately?

By Cassandra Carr (Guest Blogger)

People have asked me why many of my heroes are athletes (specifically, hockey players). Here are a couple of reasons:

o They're in great shape.

o They're alpha males.

o They have money.

o They are (by and large) genuinely nice guys.

Let's look at those reasons in more detail.

First, hockey players – and all athletes – are in great shape, as shown in the pictures scattered throughout this post. Just to give you an idea, hockey players bench around three hundred pounds during their workouts. And because they do all that skating, they have thighs like tree trunks and asses you could…well, you know where I’m going with that. I don't know about y'all, but I love a man with a hot bod. What's sexier than watching your man sweat through a hard workout (especially if you're the one giving it to him)?

Additionally, hockey players are alpha males. Why do we like alpha males? Because they're fiercely loyal and protective. Witness what happens when an opposing player takes a cheap shot at one of their teammates: even the smallest guy on the team jumps on that guy’s back and starts punching. A man like this is much preferred in my book than one who's laissez-faire. We want our men to fight for us and our love!

Athletes have money. As much as the whole "starving artist" mystique lives on and on in our culture, I'd prefer to be fed filet mignon and take awesome vacations. Maybe that makes me shallow, but come on, admit it – filet mignon has it all over tuna fish! First class plane rides are way more comfortable than Greyhound buses, too. Believe me, I’ve tried both.

And last, hockey players are known for being good, down-to-earth guys. I’ll give you an example: there’s an organization called “Right to Play International” that brings sporting equipment and professional athletes to poor areas all over the world. Athletes from many sports are represented, but who leads in participation? Hockey players. From Andrew Ference to Steve Montador to Alexander Ovechkin and Joe Thornton – these guys not only donate money to the cause, they donate their time as well.

So, as you can see, there are a lot of reasons to love hockey players as romance heroes!

As a special treat for you guys, here’s the entire first (unedited as of yet) chapter of my November release, Head Games, featuring two goaltenders. More information on Head Games, as well as my current release, Talk to Me, and my December release, Caught, can be found on my website at http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com.

GIVEAWAY: Comment on which player in the pictures above is your favorite to win a set of signed Romance Trading Cards from Talk to Me! Everyone who comments wins! Just be sure to leave me an e-mail address so I can get in touch with you for your snail mail address to send the cards to.

FIRST CHAPTER OF HEAD GAMES by Cassandra Carr

“I can’t take it anymore!”

Leo Laporte, goaltender for the Buffalo Intimidators, glared at his teammates as they glided past him after the third goal in the first ten minutes of the game was scored. “You guys either play some fucking defense or I’ll jam my stick where the sun don’t shine! You got that?” Crouching down into his stance, he banged said stick on each post just as he did before every faceoff at center ice. Looking up, he saw the head coach, Tom, waving at him. A quick glance to Tom’s left showed his goaltending partner, Scott Schaffer, warming up. “Fuck!”

Tom called a time-out and Leo skated to the bench, bracing for the tirade. “You guys need to get your heads outta your asses, pronto. You’re down by three already and the game’s hardly even ten minutes old. Since you don’t seem to want to play for Leo tonight, we’ll see how you do with Scott in net.” Tom threw a sympathetic look Scott’s way. “Good luck saving anything with these jackasses in front of you.” Tom wasn’t known for mincing words and tonight was no exception.

Leo opened the door to the bench and squeezed around one of the team’s hulking defenseman as best he could.

Slug’s not good for much tonight; certainly not getting out of my way.

Dude was built like a tank and made a much better door than he did a window, as Leo could attest on that third goal. The puck had been in the net before Leo had even been able to react.

Leo clapped Scott on the shoulder. “Good luck, man.”

Scott nodded and took the ice. Performing a few quick stretches in the crease, he raised his catching glove to signal his readiness to continue play. Leo sat down, taking a long pull from a water bottle he’d grabbed from the shelf in front of him. No one said a word to him, which was just fine.

The team responded to Scott being in net and scored two goals by the end of the first. Leo stalked into the dressing room, heading straight for the can. Just as he’d planned, by the time he got out the second period was about to start. Tom told him he was going to continue to play Scott to see if they couldn’t salvage the game, and Leo nodded. It irked him that he’d been left out to dry, but he also knew damn well they’d done the same to Scott in the past. It was one of those weird hockey things no one could put a finger on, and Leo didn’t even try.

After trundling back to the bench for the second period, his stomach growled. The noise caused his mind to wander, straight to the tall, curvy woman with a mess of curls his hands just itched to plunge into. Right now Kelly was probably pulling her famous apple pie out of the oven at the bistro where he and Scott had been going for dinner after games for nearly a year. Thinking about seeing her made his cock harden inside his jock and he willed it down. Having a hard-on when wearing a cup was a pretty damn unpleasant experience – one he wasn’t eager to go through at the moment.

He’d bet she knew he’d been pulled, but he’d also put money on the fact that if anyone made an asshatted comment about why she’d shut them right up. Kelly knew her hockey, and she watched every game on the big screen TV housed behind the counter at her bistro as best she could in between cooking meals for the customers. He could almost smell her special Sour Cream Apple Pie – the pie she only made on home game days when she knew Leo and Scott would be coming in afterward for their post-game meal. She’d even named it after the team: Intimidating Apple Pie. There was sure as hell nothing intimidating about it, but it was definitely sinful – just how he liked it.

Thinking about her and her pie brought his mind to other subjects, like what she was most likely wearing that night. It drove him crazy the way she dressed – in these cute little light pink t-shirts with Kelly’s emblazoned on the front right across her ample breasts. Even her chef’s clogs – also light pink – were cute. But there was nothing cute about her body. She was all bumps and curves, in all the right places. She wasn’t a dainty little thing, standing only about an inch shorter than his five foot ten, and he loved that about her – gave him something to hold on to should he ever be blessed with the opportunity to get into her checkered chef’s pants.

Leo was jerked out of his lust-hazed stupor by the “heads up” shout from his teammates. A puck was sailing right for him, and he automatically knocked it down with his blocker before it could do any damage. He didn’t wear his goalie mask on the bench and if his reflexes weren’t lightning quick he would’ve taken a puck right to his grill. Head in the game, Leo.

Settling back, he watched his team tie it up by the end of the second. During intermission, Tom took both him and Scott aside and said he wanted to put Leo back in. Scott shrugged – he’d always been the more easy-going of the two men. Their combined personalities meshed well, which translated into a successful goaltending partnership and a friendship that had spanned nearly eight years.

Leo stretched out and took the ice for the third. Their opponent seemed momentarily surprised by another goaltending change, but recovered quickly and gave the Intimidators a challenge. In the end, Leo got the win by one goal. After accepting the congratulations of his teammates, he bopped Scott on the head as they left the ice together. “Kelly’s is on you tonight, bro,” Scott said.

Leo snorted. He’d been expecting no less. “Not a problem. I hope she made apple pie.”

“She always makes apple pie if there’s a home game.”

They rushed through their post-game interviews and hopped into the shower. Only a half-hour after the buzzer they were climbing into Leo’s Range Rover on their way to Kelly’s. When they walked in, she turned from behind the counter to greet them. Leo caught sight of her luscious tits straining the material of her t-shirt and his dick twitched. He quickly ran his hand over it.

Down, boy.

“Hey guys. Good game – both of you.”

“Thanks,” they answered in unison, sliding onto stools.

“How about some apple pie?” Leo said, licking his lips already. An image of him nibbling pieces of it off of her flew into his head. Man, was he horny tonight…

Kelly put her hands on her hips. “You know better than that. I never let you have apple pie until after you eat a good meal.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Perusing the specials written on a chalkboard underneath the TV, he ordered Shepard’s Pie. Scott asked for a chicken souvlaki wrap and they settled back to relax as Kelly went into the kitchen to make their food. “I fuckin’ love those t-shirts. I’d give up a mil of my salary just to be that t-shirt for a day.”

“Don’t I know it…” Since it was late, Kelly was waiting tables herself in addition to cooking, and both of them tracked her as she bustled around behind the counter. Coming back over, she poured them both ice waters and plopped silverware in front of them before going into the back once again. There were still a few customers, but everyone gave the Intimidators their privacy here – it was one of the reasons Leo and Scott loved to come here so much. The primary reason, of course, was Kelly herself. Both Leo and Scott wanted her, and had ever since they’d laid eyes on her. It had only been in the past few months, though, that they’d realized their feelings ran deeper than lust.

Scott had come to him one night and asked him what his intentions toward Kelly were. He’d told Leo if all he wanted was a quick lay he intended to go after her himself. At first, Leo had thought about giving his best friend the green light, but it just didn’t sit well with him, so he’d asked for a few days to think about it. When Leo had made his decision, he’d told him he couldn’t stomach the thought of Scott having her for himself and for a little while after that the two men had been at a stalemate.

Then one night as they were heading home from a game Leo had asked Scott if he’d consider sharing Kelly. At first Scott had misunderstood, thinking Leo was referring to sex, but Leo had explained that no, he’d meant a permanent ménage relationship. Once Scott had wrapped his head around the idea he’d really started to warm to it. Both of them felt it was the best of both worlds – both would have Kelly and neither would be eaten up inside watching her with another man. It was then that they’d begun to send subtle signals of their interest to Kelly to gauge her receptiveness. Though she hadn’t exactly tackled the both of them, she flirted with them every time they came into the bistro, even when the men had purposely steered the conversation toward the idea of sharing her between them.

A few minutes later she backed out of the kitchen, her arms laden with plates, and both men paused to admire her ass in her tight chef’s pants. She caught them staring and just shook her head, laughing.

They were done waiting for her to come around. It was time to put Operation Seduction into action.

***

Don’t forget to comment to win!

~Cassandra

BIO: Cassandra Carr lives in western New York with her husband, Inspiration, and her daughter, Too Cute for Words. When not writing she enjoys watching hockey and hanging out on Twitter. Her debut novel, Talk to Me, was released by Loose Id on March 22, 2011. For more information about Cassandra, check out her website at http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com, "like" her Facebook fan page at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCassandraCarr or follow her on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/Cassandra_Carr.