Accidental Alpha #29

By Amber Kell (Guest Blogger)

[To celebrate her birthday, Amber has been writing a new werewolf tale and distributing pieces of it all over the 'Net! The final story, when published, will benefit Autism Speaks. For more information, see Amber's blog. ~ Lisabet]

After Fenris’ father picked himself up off the floor the two families sat down for some amazing Italian food. Stanley moaned with each bite. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fenris wiggling in his seat.

Licking some red sauce off his lips he leaned forward and talked in his mate’s ear. “Are you okay?"

Fenris shuddered. “Could you please hold down the moaning? I’m going to come in my pants.

Stanley gave him a sheepish smile that went straight to his heart. His beautiful Alpha was at heart still a shy accountant beneath all his bluster. “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” Fenris squeezed Stanley’s leg.

“When are you introducing Stanley to the pack?” The Overseer broke into their moment and Fenris wanted to growl. His mate’s eyes lit up with amusement as if he could read Fenris’ mind.

“This full moon,” Fenris answered, not looking away.

“Ooh, how exciting. Can I come?” Fenris’ mom asked. “I love a good party.”

“No.” Fenris said without hesitation. He didn’t need to worry about her on top of everything else. “We think Sebastian is going to challenge Stanley.”

“Then he’s a fool,” Fenris’ father said, rubbing his throat.

“If you hadn’t had him changed he’d never be in danger,” Millie snapped at the Overseer.

The older man ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice. You could have said, 'Hmmm. I won’t lead the psycho shifter to my son'.”

“I had to!” The Overseer snapped. “I promised his father.”

The silence at the table was deafening.

Stanley cleared his throat. “My father? You always told me you didn’t know my father.”

The Overseer avoided Stanley’s eyes. “And you still think I’m an honest person after all this? I’ve been lying to you your entire life. Your father was my best friend. Your mother died at childbirth and your father soon after from losing his mate. He made me promise to have you changed and find you a proper mate because although her death killed him, his days with her were the happiest time of his life. You were of the proper age to change and the opportunity presented itself. Your mother didn’t know anything about it.”

Fenris couldn’t even hear Stanley breath beside him. “Why not tell me after all this time? Why keep my father’s identity away from me?” The hurt in his mate’s voice stabbed at Fenris.

“He was a Prime Alpha too wasn’t he?” Fenris’ father spoke up.

Shit! A Prime Alpha’s children were often killed when they were young by the parent’s enemies because some pack members worried they’d become to powerful when they grew up. Fenris gripped Stanley’s hand. “He was keeping you safe.”

Fenris saw the look of raw longing on the Overseer’s face. The man might be a ham-handed bastard but he truly loved his son. Anyone looking at him could see it in his eyes.

“Who was his father?” Fenris’ father asked.

“Stevan James.”

A chill went up Fenris’ back. James had been the strongest alpha born in a millennium. His wife’s death and subsequently his had shaken the werekin community because he was practically an idol in their world.

“I thought their baby had died,” Fenris father said.

“I spread the word of his death because Stevan wanted to give him a normal life. When Millie lost our son it was simple enough to put Stanley in his place.”

Fenris cast a look at his mate. Stanley focused on his pasta with a frightening intensity.

“Stanley?” Fenris whispered.

“What?”

Fenris rubbed his mate’s back feeling the tension in his muscles. “Are you all right?”

Shattered eyes looked back at him. “I don’t know.” He could feel the sorrow emanating from his mate. “If you’ll excuse us, Stanley has a lot to think about.” Fenris needed to get his mate out of there before he broke down.

With a nod to the family, Fenris wrapped an arm around Stanley’s waist and dragged him off. They made it all the way to the pack house before Stanley lost it.

Paul, unfortunately, was the first to greet them.

“I wondered where you two lovebirds had gone off to fornicate at. Did you have fun out in the wild?”

Fenris didn’t even say a word when Stanley chucked Paul through the air like a discus, a crumpled discus that ricocheted off the far wall.

“He’ll learn one day,” Sandy said shaking her head at the pile of wolf lying in an unconscious heap. “He just needs a mate to balance him out.”

Stanley gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe I should just give him to my dad. He thinks he’s a matchmaker.”

“He meant the best.” Fenris rubbed Stanley’s back.

“He’s a controlling bastard,” Stanley growled.

“He still loves you,” Fenris argued.

Stanley marched over to Fenris and wrapped him in his arms. “The only person I’m positive has my best interests at heart is you. You’ve helped me through this entire change.” Fenris moaned beneath the lips of his mate as Stanley licked at his lips, coaxing them apart. “You are the best part of this entire debacle.”

A sound of a throat clearing pulled them apart. “As pretty as you two are together. I don’t think I can handle watching you two go at it without having a serious case of envy.”

“No one gets to see my mate naked but me,” Stanley snarled.

Fenris sighed. With all the other things revealed today he hated to mention that everyone got naked at the full moon hunt. Even alpha mates.

Three Part Harmony

My music-themed ménage Wild About That Thing is out today from Total-E-Bound as a single title. Check out my X-rated excerpt below. Then leave a comment to be entered into my new release contest. I'll draw the winner on the 30th of November, whom will receive her choice of this book or Hot Spell, my other November release.

For yet another chance to win (and a different excerpt), hop over to Ann Siracusa's blog today and leave a comment there, too.

Blurb

There's more than one way to beat the blues.

Two things are important to Ruby Jones: her teenage son and her struggling club, the Crossroads Blues Bar. Her love life comes as a distant third, despite the efforts of Zeke Chambers to convince her otherwise. Zeke's the lead singer in her house band, a devoted friend, and an occasional lover. He can drive her wild with desire, but can't get her to make a commitment. Deserted by her cheating ex-husband, Ruby's determined she's going to make it on her own. She's hot-blooded like her bluesman daddy, happy to satisfy her physical cravings, but she's not about to let any man into her heart.

The stranger who takes the stage on the Crossroads open mike night upsets the delicate balance in Ruby's world. Remy Saint-Michel inspires irrational, irresistible lust as well as inexplicable sympathy. Overwhelmed, confused, guilty and worried about her prized independence, Ruby decides that the only way to deal with her two lovers is to push them both away. Zeke and Remy, though, have other ideas.

Excerpt

Ruby sank down onto the bed, suddenly unsure. Without a word, Zeke began to undress. She swallowed hard, her pantyhose growing more sodden by the instant as he revealed his blond-furred torso and muscled thighs. He stepped out of his briefs, setting his erect cock free. It reared up from the red-gold tangle at his groin, swaying a bit, like a tree branch in the wind. Sporting a wicked grin, he stroked it once or twice to coax a bead of moisture from the fat bulb. Ruby clutched the bedspread, her heart slamming against her ribs. Was this really happening?

No sooner was Zeke naked than Remy began to disrobe. He kicked off his boots, then dragged his shirt over his head and tossed it into a corner, to be followed by his jeans. Gone was the composure that had first drawn her attention... Was it really less than a week ago? Urgency and impatience vibrated in his every gesture. His swollen penis arced towards the ceiling in a graceful curve, bobbing with his pulse. He struggled for control, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His skin gleamed like polished oak, smoothed over the sculpted curves of his hairless chest and lean flanks. Revealed to Ruby for the first time, his naked body was every bit as compelling as his face. She fought the urge to literally throw herself at his feet.

Her suit jacket felt hot and constraining. She shrugged it off her shoulders. The silk of her blouse revealed her taut nipples, straining through the lace of her brassiere. Her musk escaped the confines of her panties and hose. She was dying for them to touch her, but neither man moved. She was the one in charge.

"Please," she managed to choke out, holding out her arms. "Don't make me wait any longer!"

In an instant, they were both by the bed. Remy crouched down to remove her shoes. He kneaded her insteps and arches. She tingled all over. He worked his way up her legs -- massaging her calves, working his thumbs into the pressure points above her knees, stroking the insides of her thighs with a light touch that shot straight to her pussy. As he worked, he pushed her skirt up into a crumpled mess in her lap. She didn't care. She leant back to give him access to the elastic circling her waist. In one swoop, he relieved her of her underwear and stockings.

Meanwhile, Zeke knelt behind her on the bed, his thighs flanking her hips, his chest against her back, and his erection flattened against her spine. He reached around to unfasten her buttons, his blunt fingers brushing against the heated skin below her bra. The transient contact made her yearn for more. He removed her blouse, taking care not to damage the delicate garment, then addressed himself to the hooks of her bra. By the time she released the breath she was holding, he had bared her breasts. Her plentiful flesh spilled out of his palms. Zeke thumbed the swollen tips and lightning streaked down to her clit.

"God, you've got gorgeous tits, darlin'! Juicy and firm as Georgia peaches!" Zeke gave the aching nubs a pinch, making her squirm. At the same time, Remy's slender fingers parted her labia and warm breath stirred her moist folds.

"Oh..." She hardly had time to moan before Remy's mouth fastened on her pussy. "Oh -- oh, my God..." He burrowed into her, sucking her flesh into his mouth while swiping the flat of his tongue across her clit. Sensitised by days of self-imposed celibacy, her hungry cunt spasmed with pleasure under his expert attention. She tilted her pelvis and parted her thighs, trying for more contact. Remy probed her crevice, making her crave deeper penetration, before returning his attention to her clit. Her whole being concentrated on the tongue dancing in her pussy. A climax curled in her belly. Remy's mouth coaxed it closer to the surface.

All at once there was heat and wetness from a new source. Zeke's ripe lips surrounded one nipple. He swirled his tongue around the engorged bead of flesh, then applied delicious suction. His moustache brushed her bare skin, soft and sensual. Just when she thought she'd burst from the pleasure, he transferred his mouth to the other breast, leaving the first soaked with saliva, chilled and tingling. He used his teeth but Ruby felt no pain, only a brilliant stab of delight.

Remy reacted as her body tensed. He drove his face into her sex, plunging his tongue into her hole, mashing her clit against his nose. The duelling sensations, above and below, drove her into a frenzy. Her lovers worked together to brink her to the peak. That realisation -- that the two men were collaborating in her pleasure -- was what finally pushed her over the edge.

Sunday Snog: Fire in the Blood

Ooh! I have a truly intense snog for you today, from my vampire ménage Fire in the Blood!

Don't forget to visit Victoria's snog page, for her weekly kiss and links to lots more snoggery. And speaking of Victoria, I want to remind you that Blissemass starts in just a few days, with tons of prizes including your chance to win a Kindle! I'll be offering my Blissemass post on the fifth of December!

She expected ferocity, his power unleashed. She imagined him forcing that awe-inspiring cock deep into her body. Instead, he bent his head and flicked his tongue along the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee.

“Ah…” Pleasure rippled through her, converging on her pussy. He licked again, moving upward, painting her with his cool saliva. She squirmed under his mouth, wanting to feel those thick lips on her aching clit. Gradually he came closer to her centre, yet still he lingered on her thighs, kissing, nibbling, lapping up the juices that spilled from her hungry, empty sex. She arched up, pushing her pelvis towards him. Without effort, without removing his mouth, he forced her back onto the bed.

He rasped his tongue over the gash she’d received during her wild ride through the forest. Pain sliced into her cocoon of pleasure. The rum had probably disinfected the cut, but her bath had prevented it from clotting. His touch made it throb. When he licked again, the pain intensified.

“Ow! What are you doing?” Etienne ignored her. It felt as though he was probing the wound with his tongue, opening it further. “Wait! Don’t…”

All at once there was a hand dabbling in the moist folds at the entrance to her pussy. A bolt of pleasure seared her. A finger rocked her clit back and forth, making her shudder and moan. Her lust flooded back, washing away the pain. She felt an odd pulling sensation at the wound site, and her nipples responded, as though he were sucking on those sensitive nubs instead of her thigh. He pushed several fingers deep into her pussy. She clenched around him. Delight rippled out to her extremities as the pull of his mouth intensified. Now she felt the suction in her clit as well as her breasts. Her whole body trembled, balanced on the edge of release.

Etienne plunged what felt like his whole hand into her depths. Something sharp tore into the flesh of her thigh. Her climax hit her, as sudden as a breaking storm, thundering through her, scattering every thought in its wake.

Before she could recover, he was on top of her, his cock nudging against her still-quaking opening, his face inches from hers. His eyes glowed with a fierce, wild light. His lips stretched wide in a grimace of triumph, exposing the pointed teeth of an animal. Blood smeared those lips—her blood. Its rusty scent mingled with his aura of roses. She shuddered, even as her pussy wept tears of new desire. “Do you still want me, cherie?” he growled. “Now that you know what I am?” He ground his rock-hard erection against the softness at her centre, striking sparks that burned away her fear. “Yes,” she had time to whisper, before he fastened his gore-stained lips on hers.

She tasted iron, mingled with the crystal freshness of new fallen snow. His tongue snaked into her mouth, savouring her as though she were some exotic delicacy to be consumed. His teeth raked across her lip. The metallic flavour grew stronger. One hand cupped the back of her head, bringing her face to his. The other traced a ghostly path down the side of her neck, from her earlobe to her collarbone. The feathery touch made her nipples throb and her pussy clench.

His fingertips came to rest against just below her jaw. Her heartbeat quickened as she realised he was seeking her pulse.

He broke the kiss, rearing back and locking his eyes on hers. Raw power burned in those eyes, naked and inhuman. Madeleine had no choice but to surrender. She did so gladly.

You're Never Too Old for Romance

By Ginger Simpson (Guest Blogger)

Stories come from so many places. Usually, mine develop from a character who shows up in my head with a tale to tell, and most of the time, accompanied by a title and an entire roster of cast mates. However, my latest release from Muse It Up Publishing came from someone else.

My high school friend, Caryl, and I reconnected several years ago…in a mall of all places. We’ve kept our friendship alive with emails, Facebook posts, and phone calls, and enjoy sharing out lives’ happenstance with one another.

On one particular night, Caryl, who is single and has been for a number of years, called and shared her excitement at meeting a handsome older man in a shoe store. Since it hadn’t been that long since my divorce and remarriage, I remembered how we old gals can still get butterflies. While men can chase younger women, if we dare look at someone our junior, we suddenly become cougars. Trust me, if I wasn’t married and looked a little more alluring, I’d choose being a cougar over fishing in life’s throwback pond. I’ve already been there, done that, and I’m so fortunate that out of all the castaways, I happened to find one that is a treasure. His ex was a dope, or my last nerve he’s hanging on is a lot stronger than any she had, but I digress as usual.

That night, an idea for a story came to me, but not from a character, but from my friendship with Caryl. I imagined how she felt, meeting someone who might turn out to be more than a friend. I used my emotions with her story, and of course, the title, Just The Right Fit, materialized and is most appropriate. There aren’t a lot of romance stories out there with older heroines, but this is my second. Luckily, Muse It Up Publishing had just opened their “Persephone” line, which calls for a more mature leading lady, so… I’m not sure why Persephone, the goddess of the underworld who is usually depicted as a young goddess holding grain sheafs and a flaming torch, is appropriate for stories about older broads, but I’m not asking.

So now that you know the story behind the story, I’ll thank Lisabet for allowing me to visit on her blog today and share a sample. Hope you enjoy:

Blurb:

When Carolyn Sloane walks into her favorite shoe store, she’s pleased to see the display isn’t limited to sandals and pumps. The new, handsome salesman is a tantalizing addition for an older, single woman, and she’s bound and determined to catch his eye. Is he divorced, married, gay? Carolyn wants something besides a pair of shoes, but who’s the woman he’s escorting from the back room, and why does he have his arm so snugly around her waist?

Excerpt:

“May I help you?” The timbre of his voice matched the broadness of his shoulders and made her jump. His tall silhouette blocked the light filtering through the front window, and her dipped chin seemed frozen in place.

She forced her head up. “Y-es, I-I…” The words she sought lodged behind a lump in her throat.

“I assume you’re holding the shoe you’re interested in.” His smile dimpled his cheeks and displayed white, even teeth. An air of charisma hung about him while she felt caught up in a bubble of ridiculousness.

She forced a smile and with trembling fingers, handed him the shoe. “Yes, size seven please.”

Why in the world did this man have such an effect on her? Could the draw be the splashes of gray at his temples? It couldn’t be the slight limp she detected when he walked through the curtain to the storeroom. But there was something—definitely something. She thrummed her fingertips on the chair’s arm and fidgeted in her seat, waiting for his return—almost dreading the feelings he stirred and unsure how to handle them.

“Here we go.” He appeared through the split material in the doorway with a beige box bearing the familiar logo of the footwear she’d learned to love. With one hand, he hiked up his khaki slacks before kneeling in front of her. He removed her left shoe, his grasp warming her heel when he slipped off her worn pump.

The personal service kept her coming back to the store. Almost no one waited on customers anymore—especially clerks this yummy. She fanned her fingers across her heated face and fixed her gaze on the top of his head, noting he still had plenty of dark brown hair—not even a bald spot. The man was definitely eye candy, and she wasn’t on a diet.

While he slipped on the other walking shoe and tied the laces, Carolyn searched his left hand for a wedding band. His naked finger caused a little squeal to bubble in her throat, but it quickly slid back down when she considered he might be gay. That would be just her luck.

“They look very nice. How do they feel?” He stood back and flashed that selling smile—anything for a sale, she supposed.

“F-fine.” She jutted her legs out and stared at her feet. “I like them.”

“Perhaps you should walk around the room.” He offered his hand and helped her stand. “Make sure they don’t pinch those pretty little toes.”

She hadn’t had tummy butterflies in ages, but he set a flurry loose with a wink of his azure eye. The touch of his palm sent an electric jolt up her arm, and her benign attraction to him turned terminal. Could she sashay across the floor in tennis shoes and a skirt and still look alluring? She craved perfection in his eyes.

***

Well, that’s all I’m sharing with you. If you want to know how the story turns out, you’ll have to buy Just The Right Fit. Like I said, you can find it at Muse It Up Publishing, (http://www.museituppublishing.com), probably on sale as a new release. And, when you have time, I’d love to have you stop by Dishin’ It Out (http://mizging.blogspot.com) and see what’s cookin’ on my blog. I just started a second one, Cowboy Kisses (http://cowboykisses.blogspot.com) for those of you who enjoy western romance. You can mosey on over there, too, if you’d like.

Flexing my Bicep [sing.]; or, Showing Off My Back-Formation

By Jeremy Edwards

In embarking on an erotocomedic novel set in 1930s Hollywood, I knew that part of my mission would be to avoid glaring anachronisms. This, of course, is a basic requirement faced by any conscientious writer setting work in a past era—not counting deliberately anachronistic steampunk authors, or humorists wielding choice anachronisms for comic effect.

To begin with, there were times when I had to give some thought to the risk of material anachronisms in drafting The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio. Yes, there were automobiles, but who would or would not own one? Where were swimsuit fashions at in the mid-thirties? What was a 1930s department-store mannequin made of? (Believe it or not, that question was of some importance for my book.) My dictionary (Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.) did not document the existence of step-stools, of all things, prior to 1946 (at least not under that name). Thus I revised to “little ladder.” And before you congratulate me on having had the perspicacity to check whether step-stool (of all things) might be an anachronism, I should explain that in this case, though I can’t remember for sure, I probably did not look it up with that concern in mind; I probably looked it up only to see whether my dictionary treated it as a closed or hyphenated compound—and the date jumped out at me. But all roads lead to Rome (1391).

Then of course there were questions to explore regarding the conventions, business practices, and infrastructure of the era. Was there Spanish-language radio programming in Los Angeles at this time, and if so who provided it? Where did the streetcars run? When did Culver City become a moviemaking district? Thanks to the Internet, researching such questions was easily manageable, for the most part. Oh, I’m sure I’ve overlooked things here and there—but hopefully nothing egregious. Sometimes I knowingly tampered with historical reality just a touch in order to make something work artistically, relying on the well-informed reader’s willingness to suspend disbelief. And certainly, I’ve willfully utopianized things where sexual mores and freedoms are concerned. As befits the nature of my book, my characters exist in a happy, liberated bohemian world of their own making, a type of world that may perhaps have existed here and there within pockets of the Hollywood subculture, but which definitely was not—and still is not, alas—the prevailing societal norm.

But what I found most interesting were my adventures in avoiding anachronistic language. The step-stool affair (and I use the term advisedly: my characters do use their “little ladder” to further their relationship), though it may have been more about patents than parlance, hints at this area of authorial concern. There were many terms that, unlike step-stool, I deliberately checked on with an eye to avoiding linguistic anachronisms.

One element that was fascinating to me was observing which of the terms that I checked were of postwar origin; which had been around a hundred years or so; and which were centuries old. It turned out that placeholder and opt out and laundry list (used metaphorically for a list of something other than laundry items) were off limits, showing first documented use dates in the 1950s; whereas fan (i.e., enthusiast) and the interjection wow are traceable to the seventeenth and sixteenth centuries, respectively—which really wowed me. (N.B. the verb “to wow” shows documented usage only beginning in the 1920s.)

I did have to keep in mind that when a dictionary gives an “earliest documented” date for a term, it’s likely the term was in use for some time prior to that. Coinages, adaptations, idiomatic expressions, and new uses of words are most likely to occur in oral discourse before becoming enshrined in print. Furthermore, documenting usage depends on the lexicographer’s ability to access a written source. When one considers how many documents of yore have disappeared from our collective archives—and how many might be lying in the far corner of a lone library or private collection with only very limited accessibility—it seems reasonable to conclude that the earliest source the lexicographers have found is quite possibly not the earliest source that included the usage in question. Thus, when my dictionary told me that the singular back-formation bicep can be traced to 1939, I chose to believe that it might have been used in conversation at the time of my novel, which is set a mere five years earlier. And even though Merriam-Webster dates the phrase “dead air” (i.e., radio silence when a station is supposed to be broadcasting) only back to 1943, I took the liberty of deciding that people in the radio biz might have been using this lingo during the thirties, before it gained more mainstream currency:

“He could be in competition with any other program—or dead air, for that matter—and he’d still be every bit as lousy and listenerless.”

As noted in The New Partridge Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English, slang may be especially slow to surface in print. For obvious reasons, I assume this to be particularly germane where “underground” vocabulary such as sexual slang is concerned. Thus I did not hesitate to use words like rubber [i.e., condom] and head [i.e., oral sex], despite Partridge’s inability to document them quite as far back as the 1930s.

Incidentally (or not so incidentally), though in theory my faceless third-person narrator did not have to be “of the time” in the way the characters are—I mean, the story is told in the past tense, and for all we know the narrator could be telling the story right now—it was obvious to me that he (I’m saying it’s a “he”) should in fact conform to the era’s vocabulary as well, so as to blend with the dialogue and be part of the novel’s world. Partly, I think, this choice was dictated by the fact that although it’s a third-person narrator, he is a limited-omniscient type, relating things from the point of view of Artie, my male protagonist (with the exception of two chapters told from other characters’ POVs); with the narrator thus anchored inside characters’ heads, it would have felt strange for him to sound like he was speaking down through the decades at a distance. The tone of The Pleasure Dial also, in my opinion, demands a narrator who is “immersed” rather than “removed.” And, after all, though my narrator is “faceless,” he certainly isn’t voiceless; and I wanted his distinctive voice to be compatible with the era.

Now, a good dictionary gives an answer, if not necessarily a definitive one, where the age of a precise, single-meaning word like upcoming is concerned. But the dictionary (my dictionary, at least) is not always helpful in differentiating the age of a metaphorical or other specialized usage of a term from the age of the literally used term. It seems that while all well-established meanings, from the earliest to the more modern, are listed, there is sometimes only one date given. For this and other reasons (e.g., idiomatic phrases that don’t appear in the dictionary per se), I often turned to Google’s book-searching function—searching on terms and restricting the scope, say, to 1920–1935 or 1900–1940.

But one must be careful! While naturally the phrase “I mean” (which does not have an entry in my dictionary) shows up in Google Books, it takes attentive reading of the search results to differentiate between a literal usage like “I mean the house on the corner, not the one next to it” and the colloquial usage pattern (“I mean, why not just ask her?”) that I was looking for—and, happily, found. Low-key, by contrast, foiled me: while M-W dates this adjectival compound to 1907, I was not able to document it in use pre-1935 with our present metaphorical meaning. (It was, as I learned from M-W, originally a typesetting term.) Similarly, I could not ascertain when check, to mean “yep,” came into use. (How would one search on that, after all? I’m pretty creative as far as search strings go—“I kid you not” to find kid, the verb, and weed out all those pesky kids [n.]—but separating check, the interjection, from a huge stack of personal checks, acts of checking things, and loud clothing patterns, I confess, stumped me.) However, since the verb phrase “check off” was in use in the nineteenth century, I gambled that this interjection, clearly a logical offshoot, might have been current by the mid-twentieth:

“Damn, what a statuesque bottom that woman has.”

“Check.”

“Mickey could caress that bottom all night.”

“Remember, she went to see him during the day.”

“All right, then, all day. I can visualize her creamy flesh as he sculpts it. I can feel how warm it is.” He gestured, his hands poised as if to squeeze two magnificent cheeks. “The hue drifts a bit toward pink as he stimulates every inch of her skin there. And when he tickles the crack she dances for him, grinding her mound into the mattress while her derriere does the rumba in his face.”

With the ironic retort “you should talk,” however, I felt I had to take the cautious path. Unable to verify the expression’s use in my era, I substituted the verifiable “you’re a fine one to talk”:

“I didn’t know it was formal,” Mariel teased, indicating Artie’s black trunks. The other men’s swimsuits were a lush forest of plaids. “I guess you can take the boy out of New York . . .”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” he quipped back. “Aren’t you going to get undressed like the rest of us?”

One more caveat: I discovered in the eleventh hour that the dates attached to documents in Google Books are not always reliable. (I specifically ran into trouble when trying to bring up early usage of the term Art Deco. Space considerations do not permit me to give full details, but suffice it to say that Google Books showed multiple cases of faulty data on this score.)

I’ll conclude with some additional short excerpts that show off some of my “acceptable language” finds. But first, a general disclaimer about the language in The Pleasure Dial: I have no illusions that I have totally avoided the ever-present pitfalls of anachronism; I claim only that I did my best to catch them and research them, especially where they might jump out at the historically savvy reader in a blatant way. So if you happen to catch an anachronism that slipped through—or that perhaps I knowingly left in, exercising a little poetic license—there’s no need to tell me about it. That steamship (1790) has sailed.

***

“How fascinating,” said Mariel evenly. “And this switcheroo was your idea?”

switcheroo: documented back to 1933 (per Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.)

“Isn’t it interesting how you can always tell when a comedian is without a writing team?” Mariel said loudly to Mickey. “The recycled material goes stale so quickly.”

recycle: documented back to 1926 (per M-W)

Mariel shrugged. “Why do big businesses do half the crazy things they do? No one will question it. All we need to do is come up with an idea for a company that makes something that other companies use.”

“I’ve got it!” said Artie. “Mannequins.”

Mariel laughed. “Oh, you and your Trixie.”

“Who’s Trixie?” asked Nanette.

“Trixie is Artie’s best mannequin back home.”

come up with [with the idiomatic meaning illustrated above]: in use by mid-1930s (per Google Books)

He led her into the corridor and toward a small office that Mickey had shown him earlier, which, though unoccupied after business hours, was left unlocked in case anyone needed pads, pencils, and the like.

“Need any pads or pencils?” asked Artie, after they’d locked the door.

“I need a pencil, all right,” said Mariel. “A big, fat, jumbo pencil right up my—”

Before she could even finish the line, he had her bent over a desk. “Hold that thought—and that position,” he said.

and the like; jumbo [adj.] both in use by mid-1930s (per Google Books)

The Pleasure Dial - Summary

Available now from OC Erotic Books!

The year is 1934, and amiable New York gag writer Artie Plask has taken the West Coast plunge. His first day on staff with a top radio show introduces him to the irresistible Mariel Fenton, a wit among wits who immediately takes an interest in all aspects of Artie’s life—especially his private life. As Artie finds his feet in a world of blustering comedians, pansexual sex goddesses, timid screen legends, exhibitionistic scriptwriters, and self-infatuated geniuses, Mariel leads him on a zany journey up and down the pleasure dial—a giddy romp through Hollywood that’s chock-full of airwaves showdowns, writing-room counterplots, devious impersonations, naked meetings, and a sensuality-drenched assortment of erotic escapades.

Bio

Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off (Xcite Books, 2010), the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (Xcite Books, 2010), and most recently The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio (OC Press, November 2011). His quirky, libidinous tales have appeared in over fifty anthologies, including three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series, and he has read his work live at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at www.jeremyedwardserotica.com .

The Last Taboo

By Robin Wolfe (Guest Blogger)

Ask someone to list common kinks, and you’ll usually hear the same answers over and over: domination, submission, exhibitionism, pain play, fetishism (of objects such as high heels, corsets, stockings, etc), cross-dressing, or other responses in that vein. The more adventurous may well list things like “adult babies”, macrophilia, sissification, water sports, or “puppy play”. But there’s some kinks that I rarely hear people discuss, and that’s because those kinks refer not to concrete objects or acts, but to concepts.

I started thinking about this a few weeks ago when I was chatting with a friend. We were discussing the publishing company I co-founded, Freaky Fountain Press. (FFP is, as one reviewer affectionately referred to us, “the dark alleyway of erotica” – we publish all the unconventional things that tend to leave mainstream publishers cowering. Part of the reason we do this is because we want to take away the stigma of being into the freaky side of sex, and show people they aren’t alone in their darkest desires.) My friend listened to me talk about how society is doing people a disservice by stigmatizing these kind of fantasies, and then she commented, “But what about the people who get off on stigma? You de-stigmatize everything, they won’t have anything left. When everything is mainstream, nothing is hot.”

I can’t say I agree with all of my friend’s comment, but I see her point. For some people, it isn’t the act itself that’s sexy; it’s that the act is forbidden. The kink is transgression itself, and the sexual practice used to transgress is secondary. If washing clothes on Tuesday was a widespread taboo, these people would be doing their washing in broad daylight on Tuesday afternoon, their crotches getting more wet every time they hung another shirt on the clothesline.

Many activities that were once wildly transgressive have now entered, or are entering, the mainstream. Floggers and paddles can be found even in the most innocent, couple-friendly sex shops; there are reality TV shows focusing on drag queens; shibari has been used in art shows; even The Simpsons had an episode on outdoor sex. Yet there are still some things that are far from reaching mainstream acceptability. Despite Lady Gaga’s best efforts, the fetishization of religion is one of those.

The power of the religious kink comes back, once again, to transgression. Judeo-Christian religions are very heavy on controlling sexuality, at the risk of eternal damnation. What could be more transgressive than discovering or emphasizing sexuality within the religious texts themselves?

Our most recent anthology, Erotica Apocrypha, does exactly that; it features erotic reinterpretations of religious mythology. It ranges from Christianity to Norse religion, Hawaiian creation myths to the origin of the Mormon faith, drawing inspiration from sources as wide as the Bible to Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Whether you’re into religious kink, transgression, or you just want to enjoy some damned hot erotica, I invite you to give it a read.

Excerpt:

“Can I…can I make a request?”

“You may ask anything of me, young Joseph.”

There was another shiver of delight. I say shiver, but it was more of a quake. I felt it in my back and my chest and my loins.

“May I kiss you?”

“You may.”

I reached for him before he could rescind the invitation, cupping the bottom of his foot as delicately as one might cup a bird with a broken wing. I exhaled, my warm breath bouncing off his flesh and back to my lips. How was he solid? I didn’t understand it, but I couldn’t deny it. I was holding him while the light streamed over me, illuminating my skin and nails and every mortal imperfection I possessed. I wanted nothing more than to be pure in that light, but where it touched me, it showed only endless flaws. I wasn’t worthy to kiss this beautiful, divine being, even if he offered me nothing except the top of his foot.

My lips brushed him, and I thought of kissing a flower petal. I thought of kissing a cold stone. I imagined burying my face in a rushing river, sticking my tongue out to catch the snow, napping in the sun on a Sunday afternoon. I thought of the girls who let me kiss them and finger them under their skirts. The way their flesh folded so sweetly over my curious fingers, and the way they throbbed and writhed and begged me to stop while they gripped my hair and pressed my face between their legs. Desire stabbed through me, hot and sharp as a sword piercing me from shoulder to groin. I hardened, my manhood jutting from beneath my sleeping gown. I had only received permission for one kiss, and so that was all I dare take, but I let my mouth linger. Even when I had to take a breath or risk passing out, I couldn’t force my head up.

“Joseph.” The love in his voice was undeniable now. How could he love me? Did he not know me?

“I’ve sinned,” I whispered. “I’m not worthy to receive His message.”

“You’ve been chosen to bear this burden. He loves you that much.”

“I’m unworthy,” I repeated, my groin stirring even as the tears splashed against his feet, my lips not quite touching him. I inhaled deeply, longing to absorb his essence. “Make me worthy. Please.”

I released his foot finally and fell to the floor again, my brow touching the cool wood, my spine bowed in supplication. I’d experienced carnal desires many times before, and perhaps I had indulged in those carnal desires too many times. Perhaps I was far too physical to be used as a spiritual vessel, my flesh too solid, my skin too sensitive and my mouth too eager to find pleasure in new textures and tastes. But simply prostrating myself at Moroni’s feet provided more vexing ecstasy than a lifetime of languid afternoons with the dairy maids.

“You must submit to your God, Joseph. Body and soul.”

Bio:

Robin Wolfe is the co-founder of Freaky Fountain Press, a small publisher of literary erotica dedicated to exploring the dark and freaky. Come dance in the Fountain at http://www.freakyfountain.com.

Everyday Miracles

I talked on the phone yesterday with my brother and my sister. Now, that might not seem like news, except for the fact that my sister lives in California, my brother's in Massachusetts, and I'm located in Southeast Asia. Furthermore, because of Skype, the hour-long call didn't cost us a nickel.

It was my little brother's birthday, and we'd arranged the call so we could personally convey our celebratory wishes. Let me tell you, when you have to coordinate a conference call across three time zones, it takes a bit of work! The effort was more than worthwhile, though. It was so wonderful to chat with them both; honestly it felt like we were all in the same room, something that hasn't happened for two or three years at least.

Afterwards, I felt a glow that lasted all day. And I started thinking about how amazing it is, that we can do this. Honestly, it's a kind of miracle. That realization pushed me further, toward a recognition that every day, I experience these incredible gifts - some due to technology, some not, but all worth acknowledging.

It's just too easy to take things for granted. My husband's blood pressure medication, that so effectively guards him from the dangers of a stroke. The hip surgery that I had last year, which stripped at least five years off the age that I feel. My wonderful job, which offers both freedom and challenge simultaneously. The ability to write (when I can find the time) and be published, to share my visions with the world (or at least a small segment thereof ;^) ). Broadband Internet so I can keep in touch with my far flung friends and family. (I lived for years with 32 Kbaud dial-up!)

Everywhere I look, I see these miracles. I was going to write "little miracles", but you know, there's no such thing. A smile from a stranger is just as much of a gift as an unexpected tax refund.

Today, I'm going to try keeping my eyes open, to make sure I notice all the everyday miracles. Maybe you can, too.

Sunday Snog: A Breed Apart

My snog today is taken from A Breed Apart, published by Coming Together in their Tabooty series. After being seduced by the rakish son of her aristocratic employers, Joan has no hope of obtaining another place as a governess with a respectable family. Despite the peculiar wording of the advertisement ("seeking a woman of experience - no references required"), her desperate circumstances force her to accept a position at isolated Hawthorne Manor, on the wild West Yorkshire moors. Rachel and Peter Hawthorne, her new employers, turn out to be a handsome couple who are far younger than Joan had expected. Joan cannot decide whether the impropriety of their public behavior toward one another is real, or a product of her own lustful imagination.

All sales of A Breed Apart benefit the Coalition for Positive Sexuality.

Don't forget to visit Victoria Blisse's Snog page, read her offering, then follow the links to the other author snogs!

I stood before their door as I had on previous nights, transfixed by the crest and fall of their passion. "Harder! Faster!" Rachel cried. I imagined her spread-eagle under Peter's lithe form. I could almost feel the force of his manhood driving into the hungry space between my legs. I plunged my fingers into my soaked quim, wishing that I were she.

My imagination took over, painting lurid pictures of my own ravishment. My fingers simulated the rough thrusts I imagined Peter delivering. In my mind, his wife watched eagerly, playing with her breasts while her roguish spouse despoiled me.

Lost in my fantasy, edging ever closer to my crisis, I did not notice the lull in their salacious symphony. Only when the door opened, revealing my gasping, half-clad form to Rachel's amused eyes, did I realize that my own vocalizations had given me away.

"Joan," she murmured. Shame leaped up to consume me. I snatched my hand from my cunny, miserably aware that my woman-scent hung in the air like the exhalation of a beach at low tide. "Come in, darling. We've been expecting you."

She grasped my wrist and drew me into their chamber. I was too stupefied by embarrassment to resist. Her skin was pure satin on my bare arm, the most delicious sensation I'd ever experienced. It was some moments before I realized that she was completely and gloriously naked.

"I - I - I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I didn't mean...um - please excuse - the door...."

"Hush," she said, enforcing her command by pressing her lips to mine.

Lightning arced down my spine. Thunder beat in my ears. I would have collapsed had she not crushed me to her pillowy breasts. Her ripe mouth tasted of strawberries and rain. Her tongue wriggled between my lips like the Biblical serpent, tempting me with new knowledge. A part of me watched, horrified, as I allowed her to deepen the kiss, screaming warnings when I circled her trim waist and stroked the silken firmness of her swelling buttocks.

I refused to listen. When she slipped her hand inside my wrap and pinched my nipple, I moaned into her mouth and ground my pubis against hers. She laughed like a naughty child. Taking my hand once more, she guided it to the soft curls that shielded her sex. It was like touching myself. I burrowed into that damp nest, seeking the hot, hard bead of flesh I knew I'd find there. She gasped, sucking my breath into her lungs, as new liquid gushed around my probing fingers.

Don’t Get Me Wrong…

By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)

…I'm not writing your truth. Whoever ‘you’ may be. I'm writing mine.

It all started way back when I was born a Libra: a natural peace keeper. It's one of those things we're known for. And really, I have to say, there is a very large part of my being that absolutely abhors conflict. So much so that growing up I tended to just not mention things that I knew would bring conflict on. I just didn't tell my family things they didn't want to hear.

Don't get me wrong on this point, either. I have never doubted that they love and care about me, I just decided early on it was easier not tell them things about myself that might bring that love or acceptance into conflict.

My thought process went like this:

-I don't like the unspoken pressure of being among the youngest and having to follow in the academic footsteps of seven straight A students before me.

-People wouldn't like to hear that I don't like that pressure, so I won't tell them I don't like it.

-I just won't be a straight A student. They'll never know if I'm capable of it or not, I just won't do it when I don't feel like it, and they'll think this is what I'm capable of and not bother me.

Okay, well, maybe it wasn't that well reasoned out at the time, but an older and wiser version of me can look back on those years and know that I was deliberately not working to my full potential because I didn't want to

A) admit I hated the pressure, or

B) field the arguments and disappointments if I failed to live up to it after I proved once I could do it.

Some people might call this behavior lazy, looking at it from the outside in. Those people wouldn't understand the depth of how much I hate fighting, or how difficult I find it to put myself in a position that might bring on conflict.

An older and wiser version of me also can see that I likely cheated myself out of advantages I could well have enjoyed were I to push myself and live up to my potential. Maybe. Probably. Oh well. What's done is done.

The point is, this is one of many examples, many things I kept quiet about in order to keep the peace. A person can't live like that forever, and eventually, older and wiser, I came to my senses, found safe outlets, safe places, safe people to be myself around, and I'm happier for it. But all that hiding and ducking left it's mark, and when I write a story, like my current WIP, it might look, on the outside like a story about a young cross dressing college guy trying to explain himelf to his boyfriends and his uncle, but at it's core, its more than that.

It truly is a reflection of my own struggle, my own fears, and my own hopes for a brilliant outcome. They say write what you know. I do. I might layer it in a veneer of not being even remotely anything like me, but that doesn't change what it is at the heart of it: an emotional experience I know I lived through. And really, it's a human experience, and isn't that universal?

And since I brought it up, I thought I'd share an exclusive little first (highly unedited, mind you) taste of the WIP in question.

****

“Where were you?” Uncle Jase asked as he slipped in the door. Fitting the show’s centerpiece had taken longer than either he or Mitchell had anticipated, and it was well past even bar closing time.

Caleb let his bag drop with a thud to the carpet. “Out, Uncle Jase.”

“Left some ‘za in the fridge for you.”

“I hate pizza, Uncle Jase. Pretty sure I’ve told you that before.”

“Listen, kid, I promised I’d take care of you, right? So eat some supper. You’re thin as a rail, you.”

Caleb turned from where he’d been hauling himself up the stairs. “You don’t have to look after me, Uncle Jase. I’m a grown man.”

“A grown man who’s moped about this house for the past month like an emo teenager, maybe. What’s up with that?”

“You wouldn’t understand, remember?”

“You ain’t even tried me yet, Son—“

“Not your son, Uncle Jase.” Caleb spread out one hand and rubbed at the palm with the fingers of the other. He rubbed all the color away, chasing the pink with the flat of his thumb, watching it come back each time. “Not even family, really. Not seriously. You can’t stand to look at me, to see me.”

“Caleb—“

"You try so hard to make me someone else, someone you can bear to look at. An accountant, for god’s sake. When I’m a musician. You want me to eat pizza. Gluten makes me sick. You want me to kiss girls, and I prefer dick. You want things the way you want them, and that isn’t the way I am.” He lifted his gaze finally, to find Jason standing over him.

Uncle Jase sank onto the step beside him. “Maybe a few weeks ago, I would have said I wanted you to get your head out of your fucking ass and see that you’re only going to get that ass kicked if you don’t forget all this shit and be a real man.”

Caleb stood. “You can try and do the honors, Uncle Jase. I will throw your fat ass down, and I’ll still want to fuck my boyfriend after.”

Uncle Jase laughed. “You see? Now that’s what I want to see. You standing up. Being tough, like I know you are. Right as rain, Caleb.

“Right as a whole lot of gay ol’ tap dancing in the rain, Uncle Jase. You know that. Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know.”

“Of course I know. I know that. I know it all, kid. I’m not blind, not stupid.” He curled his hand around the back of Caleb’s neck, like he had the day Caleb had found out he was no one. His voice dropped to quiet; soothing, and Caleb wanted to close his eyes, lean on the older man. “I got eyes, kid. I hear people talk. I know about bar fights, and like any good parent, I snoop in the back of my kid’s closet.”

Caleb jerked his head up, his heart skimming over actually beating, right into explosion. “What?”

****

So, what do you think? Is it worth it to read a book someone wrote about a person they could never possibly be, because at the heart of it, there might be something bigger and more important? I think it is.

Look for more about Jaime at her website: www.jaime-samms.net, or on her personal Livejournal: dontkickmycane.livejournal.com You can also follow her on twitter: JaimeSamms or look her up on Facebook.

News, Free Reads and Giveaways - My November Newsletter

Steamy ménage

Paranormal erotic romance

Welcome to my November newsletter! Read on for news about my latest releases, free reads, work in progress, contests and other fun!

New and Upcoming Releases

I've got two long-awaited releases this month. Hot Spell is a literally sizzling paranormal novella featuring a Rubenesque heroine and a lithe, muscular outsdoorsman hero. In addition, my blues-themed ménage novella Wild About That Thing is now available as a single title ebook. (Actually, it will be released on the 28th of November - but you can order it now...) As usual, you can read excerpts from both of them by visiting my books page.

Speaking of my books page, I've added a category based index to help you find exactly the sort of book you're looking for. Are you in the mood for some BDSM? Paranormal? Gay romance? Just go to the corresponding section of the index. Many books are listed in multiple categories. When you click the link for a book, you'll be taken to the primary book page, where you can read the blurb, click over to the excerpt, and even -- gasp! -- buy the book if you're so inclined! Note that anthologies that include one of my stories aren't included in the index. That would just be too darned much work! But you can always review the Anthology page directly.

Total-E-Bound will also be releasing a free holiday Hot Shot by me in their December newsletter. It's a M/F/M BDSM ménage entitled Silver Bells. Just to tease you, I've posted a snippet on my Free Reads page. I'll link to the full story after the newsletter comes out.

Speaking of snippets, I've added an excerpt from Shorn to the site. Alas, we have to wait until May for that book!

In a few days, charitable erotica publisher Coming Together will release the fifth volume in their series of single author collections, Coming Together Presents: Teresa Lamai - edited by yours truly. Teresa is an incredibly talented author who is donating her work to benefit Amnesty International. You can read about the author, and pre-order the book, here. The stories in the collection all revolve in some way around the theme of dance, and many have BDSM flavor.

Other News

Want to win a Kindle? Of course you do! I'm participating in Victoria Blisse's second annual BlisseMas event. Basically it's a kind of blog hop, where each day a different author presents a holiday-themed blog post. Your comments enter you to win the grand prize, as well as other gifts from Ms. Blisse. You can find out about the details at http://blissemas.co.uk/. My day is December 5th. Don't worry, I'll remind you! Many of the participating authors - including me - will be giving away their own prizes. But you'll have to visit me on the 5th to find out what you can win!

And speaking of blog tours, if you're on my mailing list you already know that I'm doing a lot of guest blog appearances this month to promote my new releases, and giving away copies to commenters. Check out the sidebar of my blog for dates and locations. Every comment gives you one more chance to win. Your next opportunity is tomorrow (November 17th) at Hitting the Hotspot. I hope you'll join me!

In addition to Silver Bells, I've added a new free read entitled Refuge of the Road, a brief tale about wanderlust - with the emphasis on lust. I've also added a new review to my compendium of favorite books, of K.D. Grace's outrageous erotic fantasy The Initiation of Ms Holly.

On the WIP front, I've sworn to myself that I'm going to finish Quarantine before the end of November. Hopefully I'll keep that oath! I'm also working on a sexy short entitled "Turning on the Switch". Stay tuned!

Contests!

Actually, most of my "Other News" seems to be about contests. But why not have more?

Congratulations to Colleen, who was the randomly chosen winner of my Halloween contest. I got very few entries, though. I'm not sure why. Perhaps people were too busy getting their costumes for this year together to tell me about the past!

Anyway, I've got an idea for this month that I hope will excite you. It's a contest called "Everybody Wins". Here's how it works.

To enter, you need to publicly review some book of mine that you've read. You can post your review on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads, All Romance Ebooks, or the Total-E-Bound web site. Then send an email to contest [at] LisabetSarai.com with the subject line "Everybody Wins". In the email, send me the link to the review. In return, I'll send you a free book. The first twenty or so people to enter will receive print books. The remainder will receive ebooks. What could be simpler?

Of course, you get your prize regardless of whether your review is positive or not. You can say you hated one of my books (though obviously I'd rather you didn't!) and I will still send you your book.

Lisabet's Pick of the Month

My Pick for November is Marie Sexton's and Heidi Cullinan's fabulous blog "Cup 'O Porn" (http://cupoporn.net/). To quote the owners: "This blog is about men, and coffee, and porn, and sex, and wine, and music, and intelligence, and fun, and women, and really hot photos, and giveaways. And it's about how all that stuff is absolutely normal and we will no longer apologize for any of it."

If you like any or all of the above, do drop by this very original site!

Wow, That's Ironic

By Cari Z (Guest Blogger)

Actually, the current situation is both ironic and funny, for me at least. Last year during this month, I blogged for Lisabet about the concept of feast or famine. I was experiencing a lull in my life, both in my writing and in the rhythm that was working in Sub-Saharan Africa during any season that wasn’t the rainy season. It was a dry, windy, dusty, generally dull kind of time that left me spending a lot of hours lying on my cot and contemplating the overall nature of the universe. Yes, imagine that esoteric joy. What did I wish for? Maybe a little excitement? Maybe something to talk about other than the fact that I didn’t have anything current to talk about?

Let that be a lesson to me! The world has turned, the pendulum has swung back the other way and I now have so much going on in my life that it’s almost impossible for me to parse it out in a palatable way for you, so I’m not going to try. That would be boring, possibly even whiny. Just let me assure you: between getting back to America, getting a job/apartment/car, rolling around with hot, sweaty men on mats (jiu jitsu classes, to clarify for the pervy-minded) and copious amounts of writing, I’ve been busy.

I would describe the situation as a definite improvement, though. Last year I had no new releases in November to talk about. This year, I just published my longest erotica story to date with Dreamspinner Press, titled A Blinded Mind. Funnily enough, this is the story that I spent all of last November writing when I wasn’t counting the threads on the aforementioned cot. It’s a futuristic, semi sci-fi adventure set in a post-World War 3 Europe, but when you read it you can definitely see places where the life I lived in Africa bled into my fantasy world. For those who have read the book, how do you think I became so knowledgeable about the bird scene? Yeah, done that. Life really does inspire art. For those of you who haven’t read the book, maybe you’d like to! Here’s the link to my book at Dreamspinner Press: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2587.

Last year I had a good excuse for not having an awesome website. This year I don’t, so much, but I do still have a blog and all sorts of good stuff happens there, including a lot of free fics, occasional contests and plenty of links to all my work. I love hearing from people, particularly people who have something to say about writing or something to share about travelling. And while my website isn’t solid gold, Lisabet’s is, and so I thank her on bended knee for the opportunity to blog in this beautiful space again. The synchronicity of it makes me smile. If the timing works out, who knows what I’ll be talking to you about next November?

Meanwhile, here's a snippet from A Blinded Mind for you to enjoy.

****

“You’re thinking way too hard,” Sam grumbled in Jonathan’s ear as he shifted around on the cot, trying to find a position that wouldn’t irritate his already irritable upper back. “I can’t sleep when you think like that.”

“Well, I can’t sleep when you roll around the bed like a ball,” Jonathan replied. “And you can’t hear my thoughts. You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“I can see it on your face,” Sam said gently, finally finding a position that would do for a while. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“If you say so.” That was one of the nice things about Sam. When you didn’t want him to pry, he didn’t pry. Of course, that wasn’t a virtue when Jonathan suddenly realized that he really did want to tell Sam what was wrong.

“Are you going to change your mind?”

Sam frowned. “What?”

“Are you going to change your mind? About me? I understand if you will. I did force you into this situation, and I don’t deserve your sympathy, but….”

"Will I change my mind about leaving you be when I’m healed up, or about sleeping with you right now?” Sam asked.

“Either. Um, both.”

“I haven’t done a good job of convincing you of my sincerity,” Sam said easily. One large, strong hand reached out and began to stroke Jonathan’s chest, rubbing in soothing circles right over his wildly beating heart. “That’s my bad. I’m used to being taken at face value.”

“And I’m used to verifying everything by swimming through people’s heads, so if anyone’s to blame for lack of clarity, it’s me,” Jonathan sighed, relaxing under the touch. “It’s a rude habit to have developed. I never did it when I was with PsyCo.”

“You’ve got a lot more to worry about out here than hurting someone’s feelings, Jonnie. It’s no problem clearing the air.” Sam’s hand slowly moved south, smoothing over ribs and onto the skinny, hollowed planes of Jonathan’s abdomen. “I’m not going to do anything to give you away when I go. I don’t want you back in the Bureau’s hands, not knowing what you can do. You’re scary talented, man, but you do a good job of regulating yourself. I don’t think you’re about to try and take over EuroCo or assassinate hapless civilians or anything like that. I worry about leaving you alone more for your sake than anyone else’s. It’s still a fucking war zone out here.” His fingers clenched briefly before continuing their rhythmic caresses. “Lots of shit could happen to you.”

“I did fine for ten years before you came along,” Jonathan reminded him, defending his pride even though the thought of being alone again did make him feel unsettled, and not just for reasons of safety. He was getting dangerously used to company, good company, someone he actually enjoyed, someone he… liked. Yes. Liked.

“I know,” Sam agreed. His face was relaxed, but his eyes were very serious. “I know you can handle yourself. I’m living proof of that.” His mouth quirked in a half smile, taking away the sting that came with the reminder of what Jonathan had done to him. “But that doesn’t mean I can stop myself from thinking about it. As for the other worry….” Sam changed tacks quickly, his smile becoming full and genuine and more than a little lascivious as he leaned over Jonathan and let his questing hand slip further down, over hips and under cloth until his fingers ghosted against needy flesh, teasing ruthlessly. He kissed Jonathan, his lips staying soft as his grip became harder, and Jonathan reached his arms around those broad shoulders and tried to make Sam be closer, faster, harder, anything.

“As for the other,” Sam said breathlessly when he pulled back a few moments later, “I think the pros totally outweigh the cons sleeping with you. Don’t you?” They kissed again, and Jonathan carefully pulled Sam on top of him, mindful of Sam’s wound but hungry for him, for the warmth and the weight and the feel of him holding Jonathan down.

Bio: Cari Z is a Colorado girl who loves snow and sunshine. She just got back from two years of living in West Africa and is still delighted by the magic of hot running water and the glory that is Wi-Fi. Check her blog for info on new releases, upcoming projects, and works in progress at http://carizerotica.blogspot.com.

You can contact Cari at carizabeth [at] hotmail.com. In fact, please do. She’d love to hear from you.

Ready for Some Steamy Weather?

Is it cold and blustery today, where you are? Can you feel the winter breathing down your neck? Pick up a copy of my new release, Hot Spell. I guarantee this sizzling paranormal will warm you up!

The city swelters in the grip of an unseasonable heat wave. Sylvie endures her solitary urban existence for the sake of her career, but the prospect of a hot, lonely three day weekend proves unbearable and she flees east to the pine-shrouded mountains. Far more at home in nature than in the city, Sylvie doesn't mind being alone in the wilderness, but she's not the only being haunting the glades and the trails.

Aidan is fiercely attracted to the voluptuous beauty he finds sun bathing nude in a high meadow, but he must resist his overwhelming desire for the sake of her safety. The sun-bronzed man with the red-gold hair is cursed with power he knows will destroy her if they give full rein to their passion. Can Sylvie refrain from tempting him? Or will she risk being being literally consumed by love?

Did I hear someone ask for an excerpt? Here you go!

***

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.

The gurgle of water tumbling over stone grew louder as she approached. The very sound was refreshing. A few feet from the edge, she stripped off her clothes, draping them and her towel over a convenient boulder. She was about to step out of the woods, when an unexpected movement caught her eye.

There was something splashing in the creek, a bit downstream from where she stood - something, or someone. Sylvie shrank back into the shadow of the trees.

Directly opposite her, the stream rushed over river-polished rocks, flecked with white froth. To her right, though, it widened into a calm pool, black as the sky above. The unexpected noise came from there.

She peered into the night. All she could see at first was a round, furry mass that seemed to float upon the surface. Ripples stirred as a figure rose from water. At the same time, the half moon climbed above the crest of the trees. Its pale rays revealed the form of a naked man.

Sylvie caught her breath. His back was to her, a gleaming, sculpted expanse that swept down to a narrow waist, then flared into taut buttocks. A wet curtain of golden hair clung to his neck and shoulders. He took a step forward, water swirling around his lean thighs. The grace and power revealed by that small motion made Sylvie ache inside. She'd never encountered such beauty in a man.

He turned then, and the ache deepened to an agony of want. Sleek skin stretched over his muscled chest and abdomen, strewn with glittering drops of moonlight. He turned his face to the sky and Sylvie caught a glimpse of features that seemed carved from marble: soaring brow, chiselled jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a broad, resolute mouth. The man's eyes were closed, as if he were praying to the moon.

Then she noticed his hands, clasped below his belly in a firm grip around his erect cock. His luscious penis reared up from a matted tangle at his groin, hard and smooth as the rest of his body. Her nipples snapped into tight peaks as she watched the stranger knead his rampant flesh. Slow and deliberate at first, then with a quickening pace, he stroked from the glistening bulb down to the root. His cock grew longer and fatter as he worked it, hand over hand. His full lips drew back and his brow furrowed as the pressure and the pleasure built. He kept his eyes shut.

Sylvie licked her lips. Dampness painted her inner thighs. Her clit tingled and throbbed, crying out to be touched. Her empty pussy hungered to be filled. In a flash of memory, her dream returned - not the details, just the fevered arousal. Her body was on fire again.

She sank to her knees on the mossy ground and plunged her fingers into her wetness. There was no conscious decision. She simply couldn't help it. Her folds felt slippery and burning hot. She cupped her hand, four fingers deep in her cleft while she rubbed the back of her thumb over her clit. Pleasure shuddered through her. The swollen nub was hard as a pebble, so sensitive that she could scarcely bear to touch it. When she backed off, though, it screamed for more stimulation.

With her other hand, she massaged her breasts, cradling the lovely weight in her palm. She flicked her nipple, striking sparks, then pinched it with all the force she could muster. Her pussy clenched in response. Waves of sensation fanned out from her centre.

A low moan dragged her attention back to the stranger in the stream. With one hand he jerked his cock, fast and rough. The other was hidden behind him, moving in the same jagged rhythm. From his spread thighs and straining muscles, Sylvie guessed he had at least one finger pumping his rear hole. The lewd notion made her own anus twitch and tingle.

He was obviously close to coming. The realization sizzled through her, pushing her to the edge herself. She dug in, mashing her clit against the heel of her hand and rocking back and forth, keeping her eyes on the gorgeous man jacking off barely a dozen feet away.

His biceps corded with tension, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, he clawed his way toward orgasm. Sylvie climbed with him, matching him breath for breath, groan for groan.

****

My mini blog tour for Hot Spell continues today over at Maggie Nash's blog. Leave a comment on my post there and you're entered to win a copy of either of my November releases - your choice! I'll be doing more posts over the next few weeks, and you can enter for those too. You can find a complete schedule in the left sidebar.

Oh - and I'll enter you if you leave a comment on this post, too. So today you have two chances to win!

If you're the impatient type, you can buy your own copy of Hot Spell by clicking here.

Sunday Snog: A Very Naughty Kiss from "Red Eye"

I almost forget it was Sunday! Fortunately Victoria Bliss sent out her usual reminder! Here's a quick kiss from my short story Red Eye, which was recently published in Cole Riley's anthology, Too Much Boogie: Erotic Remixes of the Dirty Blues

Don't forget to hop over to Victoria's and read this Sunday's other snogs!

***

Then, just as the first climax subsided, the plane hit a pocket of bad air. It bucked and rocked, slamming her back against the rod of flesh embedded in her ass, then forward onto the dildo. She came again, a delicious shattering that left her hanging limp on the two poles that impaled her.

The 747 continued to shake. He grabbed her hips and fucked her hard, using her body to bring himself off. The plane dipped suddenly, leaving a hole in her gut. What a way to die, she thought, delirious with pleasure. With one cock in my ass and one in my cunt.

With a grunt, he slammed into her one last time. She felt the heat of his come in her bowels, even through the latex. Every sensation seemed to be heightened after her dual crisis. When his cock slipped out of her, she reveled in the feel of his half-hard penis slithering over her cheeks. When he reached to remove the toy, she ground her clit against it, and exploded a third time.

The plane still tossed like a feather on the transcontinental currents. She heard a ding; a red light came on near the ceiling.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing some severe turbulence. Please return to your seats immediately and fasten your seatbelts."

She turned, seeing his face for the first time since he'd entered. He looked more serious than she would have expected, without his usual teasing grin.

"You'd better get back to your seat. If one of the other stewardesses notices that you're missing..."

He stopped her with a kiss, grabbing her shoulders, smearing KY all over her blouse. His mouth was as forceful as his cock. His tongue was brazen, taking her over. She relaxed into his embrace, floating on a pink cloud of happily ever afters. He devoured her as though she was his last meal.

The plane shook itself like a dog after swimming. The force of it pulled them apart.

He gazed at her, his dark eyes brimming with emotion. "Alison - thank you."

Why Write for Many Publishers?

By Suzanne Rock (Guest Blogger)

Hi Everyone! Thanks so much for having me here today. When I put the call out on my facebook and twitter friends as to what I should write about in this blog post, one reader came back and said that she never understood why authors seem to write for more than one epublisher. If you sold a book to one epublisher, why don't you sell the second one there, and the third? Why do some authors seem to write for five or six different publishers?

I go into detail about this in my class "Ebook and Digital Publishing, Is it for me?" online class (http://suzannerock.com/?page_id=752), but since the class is geared toward writers, I thought that it might be nice to put together a little summary, geared toward readers, as to why many authors like to publish with more than one epublisher.

Now I should state up front that not every author writes for more than one publisher. In fact, some authors have made very good careers out of writing for one epublisher. Unfortunately, the reality for a writer is that writing exclusively for one epublisher (or print publisher for that matter) is risky. Here's why:

1) Unstable market. There is no denying tht publishing is in a state of change. Publishers can come and go, and this is especially true in the ebook market. If the epublisher an author is working for is no longer viable and files for bankruptcy, years and years of her work could be tied up in the courts. All of her books could be pulled from the shelves until the mess is straightened out, potentially leaving the author with no means of an income while all of the paperwork goes through. By writing for more than one publisher, the author guarantees that at least some of her books will be available to readers should something happen.

2) Increased exposure. Some authors start out writing for small epublishers with little or no marketing department, and a very lean staff. Once they hone their craft, they try to submit their work to larger publishers with a larger or different audiences in order to gain more fans. Even though their career path is moving forward, they still feel some loyalty to the smaller publisher and will continue to put out books through them periodically.

3) Submission guidelines. Every once in a while an author will write a sotry that doesn't fit the guidelines of their current publisher. The story will either be too long, too short, have too much sex or not enough. In these cases, if the author wants to see the story published, they will submit it to a different publisher.

4) Courting. Sometimes editors will court writers from other publishing houses to come write for them. This doesn't happen very often, but it does happen. It happened with me and Elloras Cave. My editor had read one of my Loose Id titles and wrote me a letter saying how much she loved the book and how she wanted me to come and write for them.

5) A chance to work with a new/more popular editor. As I mentioned previously, I was courted by a well-known editor at Elloras Cave and knew that she had worked with some big-named authors. Different editors have different strengths and weaknesses and having fresh eyes look at a story can help make an author’s writing stronger. Will I stop writing for Loose Id? Of course not. I love my editor there will continue to work with her.

6) More creative control. Sometimes working with a smaller publisher will give an author more creative control. For example, the author will be allowed to make their own cover art, or be more actively involved with the distribution process. More control over their book is a huge appeal to many writers, so they may reach out to smaller publishers that give them more freedom.

7) High turnover with colleagues. When things are going great with an epublisher, life is good. The epublishing industry has a high turn-over rate, however, and the people who you started working with may not be the people you keep on working with. If an author finds themselves with in a position where she is dealing with people that she doesn’t get along with, or who don’t share her vision, she might decide that it’s time to move on.

8) Different/better contract terms. When a publisher acquires a story, they form a contract with an author. This contract is negotiable. Many of these contracts are for defined periods of time. When the time frame is over, the contract is up for renewal. The publisher may try to change some things in the contract, such as royalty rates or option clauses. The author may not like the terms and decide to change publishers.

9) Their current publisher doesn’t want their story. The author may have tried to place a story with her current publisher, but it was rejected. This may have nothing to do with the writing, but rather that the publisher feels that they have too many ghost stories, or doesn’t like a particular boundary being pushed. The author’s choices at that point would be to either bury the story on their hard drive, or to submit it elsewhere.

10) Submission calls/lure of print. Certain publishers have certain submission calls centering on a theme, and some of them may offer to put those collections of stories together in a print book. A certain theme may inspire an author, or perhaps it is the thought of having their work in print. Regardless of the reason, an author may try to submit to a publisher’s submission call if they feel that they have the perfect story for an anthology.

So that’s it – my reasons of why some authors choose to work with different publishers. Do you agree, or do you think there are other reasons? Tell me about it in the comment section of this post. In the meantime, here’s some information about my newest release from Ellora’s Cave.

Buy from publisher.

Buy from Amazon.

Buy from All Romance Ebooks.

Buy from Barnes and Noble.

Book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0tVxVJmTuc

Blurb

Darien let his guard down once, and Arianne stole the demon stone from under his nose. Now he has to get it back, no matter what the cost. It doesn’t matter that the feisty redhead calms the voices in his head, or that her body tempts him beyond reason. Only the stone will ensure his survival. He decides to appeal to her feminine side and use gentle seduction to get it back. As he begins, something inside him changes, and the voices in his head compel him to use pain to heighten desire.

As Darien’s touch turns dark, Arianne’s lust escalates, and a connection forms between them. Yet despite her need, she can’t let the sexy FBI agent have what he wants. If placed in the wrong hands, the stone would release an unholy force intent on destroying everything she loves—including him.

Excerpt

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” Arianne ran her fingers over Darien’s chest. “Don’t think or over-analyze, just feel.” She bent down over his body. Her warm breath fanned out over his skin and her clean, floral scent filled his nose. He relaxed his muscles as her tongue and lips danced over his skin. She started at his collarbone and worked her way down, setting his chest on fire wherever she touched.

Then she flicked her tongue over his nipple. Darien sucked in his breath as pleasure tingled over his body and numbed his mind. Ari, his sweet Ari. There was no one like her. She could be both strong and gentle, both kind and hard. Her tongue felt like the finest silk against his skin. Nothing ever felt better.

She did it again, this time drawing lazy circles around his nipple before giving the tip a final flick. Pleasure rose up from a deep, dark place inside of him, threatening to burst out from his core.

He arched his back, pressing his hard, swollen cock closer to her wet heat. He could hear her breathing quicken, smell the scent of her arousal. Desire surged through his veins. He wanted to bury himself inside of her, to feel her muscles contract around his shaft. He moistened his lips and rolled his hips, moving himself up, back and forth through her slick folds.

“Mount me,” he ordered. “I want to feel inside of you.”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

“Are you sure?” He hooked his feet into the mattress and arched his hips up off the bed, taking her with him. Fuck, she felt so wet and hot. He needed to feel more, to have her inner walls grip his shaft as she shivered with ecstasy. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her and blank his mind in pleasure. If only he could remove those damn handcuffs.

Arianne groaned and slid her tongue once more over his sensitive nipple. He gasped and fell back onto the bed, his mission forgotten in a haze of pleasure. She then took his taut tip in her mouth, rolling the hard nub between her lips. The pressure felt fantastic and tingles of pleasure sparked out over his skin.

He groaned and wiggled beneath her, eager for more. She continued to lave and tease, creating a swirl of sensations running through his body. First she’d move in circles, coming close but never quite reaching his tip. Around and around she’d go, creating a madness inside him.

“Please.” He arched his back, pressing his sensitive nipple toward her mouth. She nipped it, creating a flash of pain that made his inner darkness hum with approval. He moistened his lips as his body heated and the air became charged with sexual energy.

She moved to the other nipple and continued the same, sweet torture. The circles were maddening. He both loved and hated the attention. He moved his hips beneath her as she worked, and was satisfied when she had to stop and groan her pleasure. She slid her wet pussy over his shaft, creating an urgency deep inside his core. He tightened his muscles and focused his mind on one single thought.

Mine.

He had to take her, had to consume her. Darien wanted to drag her body down next to his and join them in a fast and furious coupling. Yet she continued to circle his nipple with slow, steady movements, making him dizzy with anticipation. With each rotation she inched closer and closer and yet refused to place her tongue where he needed it.

The blindfold had slipped and he could peek out around the edges. Darien raised his head from the mattress and watched her. He could only see the top of her head and he watched it move from side to side as she first nipped, then licked his chest.

“Please,” he said again, his voice a mere whimper of emotion.

She chuckled and bit his sensitive tip, sending a blast of pain through his body. He bucked beneath her as his mind numbed and focused on the pain. His inner darkness sighed with satisfaction.

Then she moved back to his other nipple.

He closed his eyes and groaned, focusing on the sensations she was creating inside of him rather than his eyesight. Her hair felt so soft and smooth against his skin. He wanted to touch it, to let the strands flow through his fingers. He contented himself on the sliding of those silken strands over his chest, the feel of her tongue against her nipple. She was so focused on his pleasure, his comfort. The knowledge increased his desire and made him hot all over.

Mine. The voice in Darien’s head was captivated by her. It wanted to give her pain and pleasure, it wanted her to give those things to him. Only in her presence could Darien managed to keep the voice under control. There was significance in that, but at the moment, all rational thought seemed to be slipping from his mind.

He continued moving his hips back and forth until his shaft slipped deeper in between her folds. He groaned as her heat surrounded him and her wetness spread over his cock. He moistened his lips as she continued to tease and stroke his nipple. This woman was going to cause him to come apart at the seams.

Around and around her tongue moved in teasing motions, with each flick, each rotation, his inner darkness growled and his desire rose. In all of the times he had sex, he was the aggressor, but with Arianne… He loved the fact that she liked to switch roles, be both dominant and submissive, depending on the situation and need. Life with someone like her would never be dull, that was for sure.

With the blindfold on, his sensations heightened and the feel of her hot, wet tongue on him was magnified ten-fold. Every nerve ending tingled and a deep, dark need rumbled in his core. She felt good, so damn good, but he needed more. He wanted to give her pleasure, wanted to make her lose herself in pleasure.

His mind drifted back to the tree and how he had buried himself deep inside her core. She had been so tight, so wet. Never before had he felt anything so wonderful. It was as if he was finally arriving home after a long journey.

The next time she raked her teeth over his sensitive tip, she bit harder than before. Pain stabbed his chest, and the darkness within him purred with pleasure.

“Mother Earth—that feels incredible,” he said after he recovered.

“Good, because there’s more where that came from.” She did it again to the other side. She circled his nipple, the sweet torture making him come apart. Then pain lanced through his body and beat his deamhan into submission. He cried out with both pain and surprise, as she had bit harder than before. His inner darkness sighed with happiness, allowing him to relax deeper and to focus fully on her.

Then she ran her velvet tongue over the bite, soothing away his pain and increasing his need. Soon his mind blanked to everything but how her delectable mouth teased and her hot, wet pussy slid along his shaft. He groaned as his body bathed in the sensations she created, how good she made him feel.

If only it could be like this forever.

His heart beat quickened, thudding in his ears and causing his cock to jerk beneath her. He wanted to touch her, to hold her head to his skin. He pulled against his bindings, but they didn’t budge.

“I want to touch you,” he said.

“Soon.”

"Now.”

“Soon.” She bit him again, hard. Pain shot through his body as she sat down on his lap and pressed all of that sweet, wet heat against his shaft.

His deamhan roared in frustration. It stomped and paced through his mind and body, demanding release. Mine, take her.

Then he felt something cold, hard and metallic pinch his nipple.

What the—he cried out as pain blasted through his body. His deamhan roared with him, the noise almost deafening in his head. Then it fell silent.

When the pain finally passed, he found himself panting like an animal. His quick intake of breath echoed off the walls and filled the room.

“What was that?”

“Something I had in my bedroom.”

“In your bedroom? You use this?”

“Sometimes.” She flicked the metal object, sending a ripple of pain through his torso. “When I’m lonely.”

Fuck, she used this? The beautiful woman must love pain as much as he did. What did she do after she clamped her nipples? Did she flick the metal or did she play with her clit? Perhaps she’d be impatient and slide her fingers into her core.

Yes, that’s what she’d do. The thought of her alone in her room, clamping her nipple and sliding those long, delicate fingers into her pussy, was almost too much to bear.

Fuck.

“The queen assigned me to look after you and sometimes, after a long day of watching you from afar, I needed to find some release, to relax.” She ran her soft fingers down the middle of his chest. “I thought you might enjoy them as much as I did.”

“I do.” His throat felt dry and rough. When Ari pleasured herself, did she use one finger or two? Perhaps she’d use three or four. An image flashed through his mind of Ari sprawled out on her back, clamps on her nipples and fingers in her pussy as she strained for release, a release she couldn’t find on her own, a release only he could give her.

She flicked the metal once more, causing him to hiss. “Is the pain too much?” she asked.

“No, it’s perfect.” More than perfect. The pain appeased his deamhan, cleared his head and made him able to feel more like himself. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he felt better than he had in months, since before he entered the portal into hell.

“What are you planning to do to me?” he asked. God, he needed her, needed her bad.

“You’ll see.” She leaned over his body and ran her velvet tongue over his other nipple.

Again? He gasped and pressed his head back onto the pillow, the movement causing the clamp on his nipple to move and a burst of pain to slice through his body. The deamhan purred with delight as a mixture of pleasure and agony rolled through him. Sweat beaded on his brow, and dampened the blindfold. Sweet Mother Earth, he wasn’t sure if he was going to survive this.

Bio: After over a decade in the scientific world, Suzanne needed a creative outlet. She tried scrap booking, cooking, crocheting, painting, and piano, none of which held her interest for very long. Then one of her friends suggested writing. Thrilled with the idea of creating her own worlds, she opened up her lap top and never looked back.

When Suzanne’s not writing, she can be found playing with her two daughters, testing her husband’s latest kitchen creations, or curled up with her favorite romance novel in her central Massachusetts home.

Website: www.SuzanneRock.com

Facebook: www.Facebook.com/suzanne.rock

Twitter: www.twitter.com/suzanne_rock

Online Workshops: http://suzannerock.com/?page_id=64