Sunday, September 30, 2012

Sunday Snog: An Intense Kiss from Quarantine

Happy Snogday - I mean Sunday. I've got a short but intense kiss for you today, from Quarantine.  By the way, the book is now available on Amazon, both in Kindle format and in print!

After you've savored my kiss, head back to Victoria Blisse's place, for links to snogs from all your favorite authors.

Somehow he and Rafe made it up to their room, tore off their clothing, and collapsed on the bed in each other’s arms. The mattress rocked beneath him like a boat pitched about by a storm. He was safe, though, held tight against Rafe’s solid chest, feeling the swell and dip of Rafe’s breathing. His legs tangled with Rafe’s muscle-corded thighs. Rafe was hard and strong, a man of ebony and steel, yet his lips were tender and pillow-soft as they nuzzled Dylan’s earlobe.

“I love you,” the black man murmured. “You’re my life now.”

“Me, too.” Dylan’s words slurred but the emotions were crystal clear. “I love you too.”

Rafe lavished gentle kisses on his eyelids, his cheeks, his jaw, licking his face like a mother cat. When he claimed Dylan’s lips, though, the usual urgency burned in their connection.

Dylan tasted the fine whisky they’d both consumed, a sweetness edged with darker accents. More intoxicated than ever, he drank deep of his lover’s flavour. Rafe’s potent scent drowned him—long-dried sweat, ripe musk and a hint of semen from Kevin’s sheets. Blood rushed to swell his cock. Rafe’s fingers gripped his ass. He pulled Dylan’s pelvis against his groin, batting Dylan’s erection with his own massive rod.

Dylan’s belly grew slippery with pre-cum—Rafe’s and his own, intermingled. He hooked one leg around Rafe’s thighs to draw him closer. The black man’s mouth was still sealed to his own. Rafe would back off for a moment to nibble Dylan’s lip, then plunge his tongue back down Dylan’s throat, taking full control.

Dylan relaxed into the fierce embrace, more than willing to let Rafe take what he wanted. The black man’s cock, trapped between their bodies, felt huge. Dylan’s imagination ran fast forward to the moment when Rafe would flip him over and impale him. He couldn’t wait much longer. He could already feel the perfect, tearing ecstasy when the fat bulb pushed past his entrance, the ache of fullness as Rafe settled in his depths.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

Blood Will Tell

By Colette L. Saucier (Guest Blogger)

A lovely review of my novel Pulse and Prejudice, the paranormal adaptation of Jane Austen’s classic romance, was recently posted on Amazon under the heading “Mr. Darcy makes the perfect vampire hero.

In an era where some vampires use sunscreen and sparkle (whilst dealing with teen angst), “vampire hero” loses some of its oxymoronic value. Why is it, though, that these beings considered monsters since antiquity have now gained a starring role in our romantic fantasies?

Vampires were something to be feared, not desired. Earlier this year, desecrated graves were discovered in Bulgaria, rods thrust through their chests to prevent them from rising from the dead. In his Dictionnaire Philosophique, Voltaire described the common belief of the time:

These vampires were corpses, who went out of their graves at night to suck the blood of the living, either at their throats or stomachs, after which they returned to their cemeteries. The persons so sucked waned, grew pale, and fell into consumption; while the sucking corpses grew fat, got rosy, and enjoyed an excellent appetite.

The situation became so serious that the Empress of Austria finally sent people out to investigate and declare that vampires did not exist just to allow the dead to rest in peace.

Once (generally) accepted that vampires were not real, the legends still fed the imagination. In 1813, Lord Byron wrote about them in The Giaour:

But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

Hardly the image of the dark, handsome, brooding, conflicted vampire we think of today! That image came from John Polidori, Lord Byron’s personal physician. Ironically, he based The Vampyre on Lord Byron himself. Although still a murderer, Polidori’s Lord Ruthven – a debonair British nobleman – had all the appearances of a gentleman, thus changing the face of vampires forever.

In Dracula, Bram Stoker created a vampire that was both monster and romantic figure. Dracula creates a bond with Mina through blood, and she is powerless to resist. Indeed, many have speculated that, by relieving women of the responsibility of their sexuality, they were also absolved of any guilt associated with their desires. (Le Fanu’s Carmilla explores the relationship between two women – a verboten topic in the Victorian age!) Vampire romances were the ultimate bodice-ripper, with a hero unable to control his desire for the heroine, and the heroine helpless to resist. Swoon!

Being an adaptation of the Jane Austen novel, Pulse and Prejudice does not venture into the bodice-ripping territory (but wait until the sequel!). Although the vampire Darcy has the power to seduce Elizabeth Bennet, would he be too much of a gentleman to use it? Indeed, that is the theme of the novel: Darcy’s struggle to overcome his desire for Elizabeth. He faced such a challenge in Pride and Prejudice as well, but now the stakes are far higher than differences in social sphere.

About Pulse and Prejudice

In this thrilling and sensual adaptation of the classic love story, Elizabeth Bennet and the citizens of Hertfordshire know Fitzwilliam Darcy to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but they never suspect the dark secret of his true nature. He is not a man at all – but a vampire.

When the haughty and wealthy Mr. Darcy arrives in the rural county, he finds he cannot control his attraction to Elizabeth Bennet – a horrifying thought because, as she is too far below his social standing to ignite his heart, he fears she must appeal to the dark impulses he struggles to suppress. Set against the vivid backdrop of historical Regency England, this adaptation of the classic love story follows the cursed Mr. Darcy as he endeavours to overcome both his love and his bloodlust for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.


Darcy leaned in with his hands on either side of the doorframe and let his forehead fall against the door. He closed his eyes and imagined Elizabeth lying on the bed, her hair splayed out on the pillow, the eyes that had challenged him so brightly just that evening now closed in repose. What little effort, how few steps it would take, for him to be upon her, taking what he needed, sating his thirst.

He pushed himself away from the door and leaned back against the wall beside, despair filling him. He had stood watch over Elizabeth and her sister for two nights and had come back to do so again, to protect them from the very thing he now ached to do himself. The irony sickened him but did not staunch his desire. 

Gathering all the resolve he knew it would require to return to his room, he stepped away from the wall. Darcy turned just as the door opened and Elizabeth appeared. They cried out in surprise simultaneously.

Mr. Darcy!”

Eliz-a-Miss Bennet!”

She was dressed in her night-rail and wrapper; and, though more modest than even her day dresses, the sight set his nerves on edge. Her hair hung down as he had imagined. She held one hand to her heart as the other gripped a candlestick.

Mr. Darcy, you frightened me! What do you mean by all this skulking about in the dark? How can you even see where you are going?”

He steadied himself before speaking. “I seem to have mislaid my book. I was unable to sleep and thought to read.”

The Lord Nelson? I believe I saw it in the library on the sideboard.”

He nodded. “That would be a good place for it.”

She smiled. “Indeed. Although if you are looking for the second volume, you may have to wrest it away from Miss Bingley,” she said with a glint in her eye. He smiled at that; but then they both became sensible to the impropriety of their current circumstance and their close proximity. “I was on my way to check on Jane.”

He knew he should step aside, but he did not. He knew he should look away, but he did not. He held her eyes in his stare, his resistance faltering. Another moment and he might have moved towards her, reached his hand to hold the nape of her neck, pierced her flesh with his aching teeth, pressed his mouth upon her lips; but the light from her candle illuminated his face, and he saw his wan reflection in her eyes. As with all those with his curse, he could not bear the sight of his own reflection, a vision of death itself. Her candle flickered out in an instant, and she gasped and broke her gaze.

There...must be a draught,” she said. They were in darkness, save the moonlight from the window behind her, as soft as her voice. Something made her step back from him; then she turned away. “Let me find the tinderbox.” When she looked back, he was gone.

About the Author

Colette Saucier has been writing poems, short stories, and novellas since grade school. She devoted fifteen months traveling to Britain and researching Regency England, as well as vampire lore and literature, to complete her first full-length novel Pulse and Prejudice.

Colette is also the author of All My Tomorrows, a modern tale of pride and prejudice for the twenty-first century. Her current projects include a sequel to Pulse and Prejudice entitled Dearest Bloodiest Elizabeth, set in Antebellum New Orleans. She lives in South Louisiana with her historian husband and their two dogs.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

The Vampires are Coming!

I just sent out acceptances for my charity anthology Coming Together: In Vein. It's going to be a sensational collection, and of course, all proceeds will go to Doctors Without Borders, to support medical and emergency care for victims of disasters and conflict worldwide.

What can you expect from In Vein?

A graveyard tryst involving two vampires and a zombie...

An artist who paints with blood...

Love and death among the ruins of Sarajevo...

Blood sucking in the aftermath of the Civil War... 

Elective nanosurgery to implant custom fangs...

A vampire whose lover's semen releases her from the need to kill...

Life in the fast lane as a vampire learns about recreational drugs...

A vamp muse who offers inspiration in return for sustenance ...

and much more!

The book is targeted for release around New Year's. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted. If you're bored with the vampire tales you've been reading, this is the collection for you!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

But I’m a Cat Lady…

By Aurelia T. Evans (Guest Blogger)

Good day, undercovers, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Aurelia T. Evans, just beginning to make my way into the world of erotic romance and erotica.

My first erotic romance novel, Winter Howl, the first in a trilogy, comes out at Total-E-Bound at the end of November this year. As you might expect, I’m totally psyched. I wrote it for the 2009 National Novel Writing Month under a more tongue-in-cheek working title of Frigid Bitch. Makes me laugh, but only I know the inside joke, so you can understand why I changed it.

I love me a dose of the supernatural, so Winter Howl revolves around an agoraphobic woman, Renee Chambers, who runs a no-kill dog sanctuary that also provides a haven for canine shapeshifters who want to embrace their more doglike qualities. And who better to add a little chaos to that safe little sanctuary and the young woman who clings to it than a rogue werewolf?

As the title of this post suggests, I’m a cat lady. I grew up with cats and I don’t do well without some kind of feline companionship. I probably talked to more campus cats than people during my college years (I’m working on it). And in fact I based the premise of Renee’s dog sanctuary on the Cat House on the Kings.

So why am I writing about dogs?

I’m also vampire girl – the kind that prefers vampires of the non-glittery variety. I fell in love with the (abridged) story of Dracula when I was seven or eight and immediately started looking for all the vampire stories I could get my hands on and writing vampire stories in my early double-digit and teen years. They still push all my buttons. It’s a biting and blood thing.

So why am I writing about werewolves?

I’ve got a theory about the reason we write about vampires and werewolves – and when you think about it, it’s kind of like the difference between cats and dogs. I may be wrong on this, and I welcome your thoughts. It’s just a theory.

The vampire vs. werewolf phenomenon didn’t start with Twilight or Underworld. They’ve resonated for hundreds of years as demons and monsters to fear, but fear in which you like to linger, that little thrill under the covers, the kind of thrill that you’re taught to fear but still excites you in all the right and wrong ways. I’ve always looked at the vampire vs. werewolf phenomenon as representative of one’s personality. More specifically, you choose the monster whose nature is most opposite your own.

Both creatures as they are portrayed today are representative of a desire to break free from repression, usually sexual in nature, although not exclusively so. But they do so in two very different ways.

The vampire is the solitary hunter, cold, cool, calculating. When he (or she) hunts, he is very thoughtful and patient. Seduction takes work and skill. Even when the feeding itself is frenzied and leaves behind a mess, the vampire and its cousins like the incubi/succubi, sirens, and other Seducers require more finesse to lure the prey in, often taking as much pleasure in the patience as in the feed. A vampire cultivating his prey can spend days, weeks, months, years, building up a relationship with the willing or unwilling donor, able to feed without killing if he so wishes or lulling the victim into an ecstatic, compliant state to feed in peace.

The werewolf, on the other hand, is often a member of a pack. It is the Beast, the unrestrained incarnation of the Id. Like any Beast, it feeds when it’s hungry, and it feeds upon the first thing that smells good. It, too, takes joy in the hunt, sometimes in the tracking and the stalking of the victim, but at the core of its nature, the werewolf and other Beasts run hot-blooded and impulsive. They are ruled by their hunger, their passions.

It’s my theory that if you’re being drawn to vampire fantasies, you’re feeling out of control, out of step, out of touch, as though things around you are unraveling. You want someone that’s in control of things, for a dominant personality to give you permission to yield your control to someone else, for someone else to take the reins of taking care of you … for a price, but a price many are willing to pay.

If you’re drawn to werewolf fantasies, however … call it the Jekyll/Hyde syndrome. If you’re wanting a little werewolf action, you’re probably tightly wound, a control freak, an anxious personality. You don’t want someone else to take control. You’re tired of control. You want to lose control.

So, writing about werewolves even though my heart’s with the vampires? That tells me that while I’m a more solitary, uptight person (who understandably relates well with cats), perhaps I’m craving pack. Perhaps I’m tired of schedules and discipline and an overdeveloped super ego. (What can I say? Writing’s excellent therapy.)

I know one thing – writing Winter Howl was certainly a blast, giving a similarly anxious personality type (who is very much not like me, actually, except for the anxiety) the chance to experience being pursued by a werewolf and a canine shapeshifter. And whether it makes sense to me or not, I’m still writing Beasts instead of Seducers, in Winter Howl and beyond. Go figure. Good thing Winter Howl’s the first in a trilogy. Right now, I’m luxuriating in a little bit of fur, but I predict I’ll be looking for a little fang again soon.

Here, have a glimpse of the wolf-shaped fun Renee’s going to have!

Blurb for Winter Howl 

Renee Chambers, a moderate-level agoraphobe, runs a no-kill dog sanctuary that doubles as a sanctuary for canine shapeshifters. Britt, her best friend who also acts as Renee's service dog, persuades an anxious but curious Renee into a romance that has more than a little electricity. With her organization running smoothly and a girlfriend who loves her, life could be worse.

Then Grant Heath, a rogue werewolf, shows up and turns her safe, little world upside-down and inside-out with a side of out-of-control. She knows it's a terrible idea, but when she's with him, she feels different from her tightly wound, tightly controlled self - she almost feels normal. He never does anything she doesn't want, but he also doesn't care how far he pushes her beyond her agoraphobic limitations.

Renee finds herself caught between two different lovers, two different worlds. Should she stay with the shapeshifters and her sanctuary and accept being just an eccentric human being in a supernatural world? Or should she accept Grant's offer to change her and run with him as a werewolf, violent and bloody, but also fearless?


“My goals are completely self-serving,” Grant said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re not good enough for you.”

“And you are.” Renee did not state it as a question, but it was understood. She turned to pick up the box and leave.

He grabbed her by the arms and spun her around so hard that she almost lost her balance. His fingers gripped the flesh to the bone, tight and a little painful. “They can’t give you what you need,” Grant said. “Because you can’t give them what they need, you’ll never get what you need.”

Renee did not even dignify his unfounded accusation with an answer. There was no way he could know what all three of them needed. He was trying to intimidate her, and he was doing a good job just with his hands. What he was saying seemed secondary. She felt the way her heart beat against her lungs before a panic attack. She felt her shoulders begin to turn inward.

“They may think they’re doing right with you,” he continued. “But they aren’t. They know you too well to give you what you need.”

God, this was just perfect timing for a panic attack. A cold sweat was surfacing on her face and palms, and she could feel her tongue become heavy. Everything around her seemed to slow down.

“No,” Grant said, getting in close so that his face filled her vision. “You aren’t going to leave. You are not going to lose yourself. Not this way. Do you understand me?”

“I need…” She needed her Xanax was what she needed, but it was just him. With the scent of dirt and sweat and hair and fur and his unusually dark blue eyes staring straight into her.

“Stop thinking.” His hands tightened even more, sending a stab of pain up and down her arms, which interrupted the progression of the panic attack a little, but she was still on the cusp of falling into something she could not get out of. Why didn’t anyone hear what was going on? Because everything seemed so loud. And there he was right in front of her. Right there.

“Stop thinking. You think too much,” Grant said. “It’s not a bad thing in moderation, but that’s what people like you do. Think entirely too much. Whatever you are thinking… just do it. Don’t think. Act. You live your life in your head, why don’t you just live…?”

She lunged forward, her arms still held tightly at her sides, and kissed him, not even bothering with preliminaries. Just taking him, tasting him, feeling the roughness of the skin around his mouth and the fullness of his lips beneath hers. Then the hot velvet of his tongue on hers as he proceeded to give as good as he got. He was good at what he did, and Renee thought that her legs were going to give way completely as all her blood rushed to the area below her belly in a dizzying wave.

His hands on her arms loosened, pulled her against him hard as one of his hands reached down to feel her ass through her jeans. He was not slow, not careful, not gentle. His teeth were almost sharp when he bit her lower lip hard enough not to draw blood but to make her cry out into his mouth. But not enough to make her pull away. If kissing Britt or Jake felt like becoming part of a whole, or filling a hole that was in her until she was full and complete… then kissing Grant was like falling, drowning, not being able to breathe with everything rushing above you, and you keep opening your mouth to gasp for air, but you only drown more.

About the Author: Aurelia T. Evans is an erotic writer with a fondness for horror and the supernatural. Her short stories are featured in several anthologies, including Amber Dawn’s Fist of the Spider Woman and Mitzi Szerato’s Thrones of Desire. Her debut erotic novel, Winter Howl, comes out November 2012.


Sunday, September 23, 2012

Sunday Snog: An F/F Scene from Exposure

Hello, everyone!

I was working on another blog post, when I came across this very sexy scene from my erotic thriller Exposure. This book is not romance - it has an ambivalent ending and includes both M/F and F/F sexual interactions - but I still think it's one of the best things I've written.

After you've finished here at Beyond Romance, click on over to Victoria's Snog Central for more lip-to-lip action!

"Tell me more, Stella. I want to know everything." She leans forward, her tears gone.
Her eagerness makes me suspicious. Why in the world should I trust her? She has every reason to hate me, the floozy who was with her husband when he was murdered.
"That's it. After that – there was just two dead bodies and a lot of blood." I remember how Tony looked, empty, all his life and power gone. At the time I was too shocked to know I was afraid, but now the horror hits me, full force. I am confused and dizzy, and suddenly I am shaking again, my breath coming in gasps, close to hysteria.
I feel her arms around me. She's comforting me now; my head is on her chest. "Hush, Stella, it's okay. Don't worry. It's over. You're safe. It's terrible, but now you're safe."
I'm sobbing, gulping in air, trying to get control of myself. Still I notice that her breast is pleasantly round and firm beneath my cheek. Her scent envelops me in a sensuous cloud. She runs her fingers through my hair, working out the tangles, while she croons in my ear. I begin to feel a bit better, and then suddenly, she slips her hand inside my robe and begins to stroke my breast with cool, delicate fingers.
I raise my head and look into her eyes. Her lips curve into a half-smile. She leans down and kisses me, open-mouthed. I kiss her back.
It is as if I am watching myself from a distance. I feel the sensations, her smooth skin, her minty taste, the tickle of her hair as she bends to suck on my nipples. I can't understand why her touch arouses me so much. I'm still afraid, still suspicious, but the sensation of her tongue prodding my swollen flesh pushes everything else into the background. She nips at me. My cunt contracts into a tight knot, aching to be undone. She laps more gently, circling my nipples with her tongue. My sex relaxes, opens, trembles waiting for her next assault.
I am eager, wet and ready when her fingers find my cleft. I clutch desperately at her dress, arching my back and humping myself against her hand while she plays with my tits. She finds my rigid clit and works it with her thumb while her fingers play in my pussy. I squeeze my eyes shut, grinding against her, reaching for the climax that seems only a breath away. Pleasure washes over me, each wave more powerful than the last. Her fingers strum and stroke. My whole body vibrates with sensation, ready to shake itself apart, as I teeter on the edge for what feels like forever.
I feel all this and yet I am far away, wondering who this woman is, wondering why she wants to give me pleasure and why I am allowing her to. My orgasm is shattering and yet it seems to occur behind a wall of glass. I am divided from myself in a way that is totally foreign to me. It's a little frightening.
None of it seems real again until I find myself slumped in the chair, still panting, my robe hanging open, my thighs sticky. The kitchen reeks of sex. Francesca seems cool and collected. She smiles enigmatically and finishes her scotch.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

The Escape Artist

By Jordyn McKenzie (Guest Blogger)

Within these margins I find my serenity – armed with a blank page and a pencil, I am set free.”

I was recently asked, “Why do you write that shit?” Well, because I have to. 

No, it’s not my means of income, not by a long shot. It’s far greater than that. It’s the sneeze I can’t stifle, the laughter I can’t contain, the tear that escapes the corner of my eye, no matter how hard I stare toward the ceiling. It’s the story that must be told. I feel the plot bunnies chewing away within the confines of my brain; the whispers, cries, giggles, and screams of characters yet unnamed.

One may think I take myself awfully seriously for someone who’s published only two stories so far, and in a genre that, while gaining acceptance in the mainstream, is still so widely overlooked and dismissed by the more conventional reader and reviewer. To me, this is serious business. This is the culmination of a years-long love affair with reading and writing, and taking it to the next level.

I began reading when I was four. I read my first Stephen King (my favorite author) novel, IT, when I was nine, and was immediately enthralled with his writing style. That marked the end of the Beverly Cleary, Laura Ingalls Wilder years for me. I also attended my first Young Author’s event that year, solidifying for me the notion that I was meant to be a writer. 

This is the part where I’d like to clarify that while people can take a class to learn how to paint, mold clay, play piano, sing like Botticelli, or write well, there are people who are blessed to have that talent in them from the day they were born. All that is needed is the proper opportunity or environment to bring it out from within. I won’t say that opportunity is luck or fortune, because we all know that necessarily isn’t the case with an artist. And I sincerely believe that writing is an under-appreciated form of art.

For me, my books were my escape as a child. My home-life wasn’t the greatest – we were poor and rather dysfunctional and, being too level-headed to pack all my belongings and run away from home, I instead escaped to whatever world I could via the books I retrieved on my visits to the library or the bookmobile (God, how I miss those!). I made my way through the list of Stephen King classics, from “IT”, to “Cujo”, “Carrie”, “The Dead Zone”, and “Firestarter”, to “Stand By Me” , “The Tommyknockers”, and “The Stand”. Of course, all of these had fairly popular movies that came of these stories, but those films never compared to books. I also enjoyed his anthologies – the Richard Bachman (his pen name from the earlier years) books, “Skeleton Crew”, “Different Seasons”, and more, which ingrained in me the belief that just because a story is short, doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave its mark on its reader.

In my early pubescence, I began journaling. I wrote out my heart and soul on loose leaf college rule. Oh, I was still writing stories for class during that time. I always received A’s on my English composition reports, but never before had really thought about writing my personal thoughts and feelings. I was the kind of daughter who did as I was told, didn’t talk back, wasn’t allowed to act out in anger, and we didn’t discuss certain subjects, even though for some reason it was perfectly permissible for me to read graphic content such as that written by Stephen King. We moved a lot when I was young; I had few people I could really talk to and tell my deepest darkest secrets. I was bursting with repressed emotions. So I’d write them down. I’d most often tear those pages up and throw them away, or even burn them afterward, because if what I’d written was seen by the wrong people, the consequences would be unpleasant.

As I grew older, my tastes in reading matured. My love for Mr. King continued, of course, but I also began to borrow my mother’s and grandmother’s romance novels. My friends were beginning to be noticed by boys, even getting boyfriends, while I was plain, studious, and wouldn’t have been allowed to have a date at the time even if a boy was interested. I was cautioned, when I began borrowing these books, that if I came across “inappropriate” love scenes, I was to skip over those while reading. Of course, I did no such thing, and it absolutely warped me at such a tender age as to how love and romance should work in real life. Granted, I learned more about my own body’s reactions from those books than anything else, and I guess that in itself was a worthwhile lesson.

Five years and two failed relationships later, I swore off romance novels for good, deciding it was a waste to invest any further time or emotion into those stories. I ran back to the relative safety of the dark and macabre, journaling only when my mind was at its breaking point and I had no choice but to, as I call it, ‘bleed the vein’.

And then along came a ridiculous story about a broody vampire who sparkled and a silly girl who couldn’t help but love him.

I have no idea what it was about that story that drew me in, but it hooked me good and hard. It owned me for about two years, partly due to the rather handsome cast members of the movie franchise, but mostly due to my discovery of the fan fiction phenomenon. Where had this been all my life?! In re-working that tale into a continuation that went into a direction well-beyond what Ms. Meyers ever intended, I became addicted to writing, more so ever than before. Especially since what I was writing was being fairly well received, and the reviews! I didn’t have to wait months to get a review, or go begging for them – with a handy button at the end of each chapter, the reader clicks, type some words, and boom, a review! And not only that, the website would send a notification to my phone with every new review. Instant gratification. I compare it to a runner’s high, that’s the closest explanation I have for it. Unless, of course, it’s not a positive review, and then I’d want to curl up in a corner and seethe for hours, but thankfully in my case, those were few and far between and I have notoriously thick skin.

My first completed story on the fan fiction website was the equivalent of 321 printed pages, and I wrote it in three months. I still consider it one of my proudest achievements, to be honest, because I have yet to write anything else that long, but I’m working on it. However, since it isn’t comprised of characters of my own creation and premise, I yearned to write something that was mine that I could publish and share with a broader audience. I began to work on my own original fiction and it was something akin to giving birth to a child – joy, wonder, and fear, some nausea, and lots of sleepless nights. As luck would have it, one of my short stories met the description given in a call-for-submissions I came across for the “All Together Now” anthology, released last May by Total-e-Bound. “The Dare” was my very first published story.

It’s been a bittersweet experience, because while it’s the realization of a longstanding dream, holding a book in my hand which contains a story I wrote, I’m once again faced with a very familiar, dreaded situation: if the wrong eyes see what I’ve written, the consequences could be unpleasant. I love writing, I love my style of writing, and I think I’m damn good at it. But I have to be careful about it; out of respect for my family and to maintain respect amongst my colleagues in my profession (which actually pays my bills). I certainly won’t be shredding and burning what I write this time, but I hate that grey cloud stigma for pissing on my parade.

I don’t write to get rich. I do hope some success will come my way out of this, but truly, what I’m hoping is to provide someone else their escape. I want to be the one to provide that get-away, make them dive so deeply into a book that time is of no consequence, worries are temporarily forgotten, and, maybe, if they are unhappy in life and love, I can provide them hope that things still have a way of working out in the end. If nothing else, I can give them something to laugh about and leave them a little hot and bothered while I do so.

I’m hoping my next book, due out this November via Total-e-Bound, called “Tongue-Tyed”, is a step in that direction. It’s the tale of Jasmine, a woman who, on the edge of thirty, finds herself with a divorce on her belt, and a free weekend with naught to do but wallow in her shallow self-esteem until answering her best friend, Laurel’s, call. A weekend away at Laurel’s family’s lake house is in order and Jasmine begrudgingly decides to go, nervous about being reunited with Laurel’s younger brother Tyson, on whom she’s harbored an inappropriate crush since his late teens. Inappropriate in her mind, because she’s nearly eight years older than him. What she doesn’t realize is that recent college-graduate Tyson is not only a grown man, but he knows exactly what he wants and he’s been waiting a long time for the opportunity this weekend is providing him.
Fuck logic. How do you feel about me? Quit over-thinking the rights and wrongs and just tap into what your heart is telling you.”
I’m definitely attracted to you, Tyson. I can’t deny that. You make me feel like a silly teenage girl and that’s what scares me. I’m in the process of getting divorced and having to start my life over. I’m not so sure allowing myself to be wooed by my best friend’s hot younger brother is the right way to start it over.”
And why not let the ‘hot younger brother’ woo you? You are the most amazing, drop-dead gorgeous woman I’ve ever known and you totally deserve to be wooed,” he grinned.
Stop,” Jasmine groaned, teasingly shoving at Ty with her hand but he clutched it when she touched his chest and held it tightly by his heart.
You know this isn’t just a crush, right? Do you not see just how much I care about you, Jasmine? How much I want you for myself? I want you to make me yours. Scratch that, I am yours; I just need you to accept it…”
I’m really excited for everyone to meet these two and the rest of their friends. And there’s so much more I have to bring, to give, knowing that I can’t stop, won’t stop, and I can only circle back to the point wherein I began this blog post.

Why do I write this stuff? Why do I risk personal relationships, and my so-called reputation, for such tales that some in my life would deem tawdry and beneath me? When I write, I’m tapping the vein, bleeding my innermost thoughts, fantasies, and conundrums, real and imagined, onto a Word Doc. It’s cathartic and it’s necessary. Whether silly, sensual, or the most dramatic scene I’ve ever written, that reader has just gotten a glimpse of the inside of my soul. If you know me, there’s no denying you’ll find me within those pages. And if you don’t know me, I trust you’ll feel that you do by the time you’re done.

With heartfelt thanks to Lisabet for the use of her blog,

Jordyn McKenzie

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Volcan de Fuego

If you've read the news in the last week or so, you might have heard about the recent eruption of Volcan de Fuego (or "Volcano of Fire"), the most active volcano in Guatemala. I've always been intrigued (and a bit scared) by volcanoes. I remember visiting the Mount St. Helens museum half a dozen years after the 1980 eruption. The devastation was astonishing - humbling. The closest I've come personally to an active volcano was in Bali, where I saw plumes of smoke belching from Gunug Agung, one of the three volcanic mountains that dominate the island. (The Balinese consider them gods, and I can see why.)

Anyway, I was excited to see Volcan de Fuego in the news, because believe it or not, the mountain plays a crucial role in my paranormal novel Serpent's Kiss. At the book's climax, the forces of good and evil engage in an epic battle near the crest of the volcano, complete with fire and ash galore. I thought I might share a snippet with you - but not too much since I would rather you read the entire book LOL!


The ground lurched under her feet, throwing her down on all fours. A deafening roar welled up from the earth. Thunder answered. Lightning shot through the cloudbank, painting the grey walls a lurid white before plunging everything into blackness. I’m too late, Elena thought, her body tossed about like a rag doll by the unsteady ground. It’s already the end.

Her knees and palms stung, lacerated by the coarse surface beneath her. She opened her eyes. A cloud of sparks exploded into the night sky. Hot ash rained down on her bare arms. The earth shook itself and bellowed like a wounded beast. Red and yellow tongues flared up, hissing, silhouetting the black edge of a ridge in front of her. The air reeked of sulphur.

Volcán de Fuego. She had made it.

She tried to stand, but the frenzied earth kept casting her down. She finally had to crawl to the lip of the crater, ignoring the sharp pumice that abraded her skin. An explosion tore at her eardrums. Flames snapped above her head. New sparks pelted down. Burning embers landed in her hair, but were smothered by her thick mane. Blisters rose on her skin.

Warily, she peered over the raised edge into the broad, shallow bowl of the caldera.

This depression, perhaps fifty metres across, was the remnant of an old eruption that had blown off the top of the mountain. At its centre, a cinder cone belched sparks and flame from the active vent. Clouds of steam and ash swirled above the basin, stained a dirty orange by the seething fires below. The sulphurous stink clung to her nostrils.

The concave space was paved with grey pumice and black ash, interrupted by basalt boulders metres high that had been ejected in past ages. It reminded Elena of a Roman amphitheatre. Within its confines, gladiators fought to the death.

They wore their beast forms. The enormous jaguar, orange as the volcanic flames, circled the winged snake. Quetzlcoatl hovered above the ground, his wing-beats sending sparks circling around them. The were-cat’s roar of challenge echoed across the basin; the earth growled in answer. He lashed out at the serpent with a vicious paw. Even from her distant vantage point, Elena saw the claws flash.

Jorge darted out of the way. The cat’s talons sliced through smoky air. Remorros roared again, this time in frustration. Meanwhile, Jorge drew back his massive head, then struck like lightning. The jaguar tried to evade the strike, but the snake’s fangs raked a pair of deep grooves across his flank. Blood gathered in an opaque pool on the glittering black sand.

Remorros backed away, not taking his eyes off his opponent. Jorge stilled his wings and settled to the ground, awaiting the next assault. The cat limped slightly. He bent to lick at his wounds. Suddenly, he gathered himself into a crouch and launched himself into the air, toward his opponent. His jaws closed on the serpent’s throat.

Elena struggled desperately not to cry out. She knew that distracting Jorge now could be fatal. The snake did not seem badly hurt, however, perhaps due to his scaly armour. He unfolded one of his bird-limbs and ripped into the jaguar’s belly with a dagger-like talon.

Remorros bellowed in agony. Jorge shook him off and whirled away to a safer distance. His wings beat slowly as he watched his antagonist. Elena did not see any wound, but it seemed from Jorge’s tentative movements that he too was in pain.

The jaguar lay on its side, panting. Had Jorge won?As she watched, hardly daring to hope, the cat-form blurred and shrank. The naked body of Teodoro Remorros stretched out on the floor of the caldera, a gaping hole in his abdomen.

He can’t possibly survive such an injury, thought Elena, rising to her knees in order to get a better view. This must be the end. But even as she watched, the man pushed himself to a sitting position, then to a hunched stand. He placed his hands over the terrible wound - Elena could see the blood seeping between his fingers. —and he began to chant in some alien tongue.

The volcano rumbled and belched cinders. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped. Remorros stood tall. He took his hands away from his belly. The wound was gone.

Remorros’ laugh rang out in the sulphurous air. “Kulkulcan! See my power! My god-flesh is indestructible


Want more? You can purchase Serpent's Kiss from Total-E-Bound or

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Urban Fantasy Erotica

By Diane Thorne (Guest Blogger) 

What is it? To answer that question, I'll need to break it down. Urban Fantasy is a sub-genre of fantasy and paranormal romance. Supernatural creatures or elements are involved. Most of the time, the setting is in present day. Usually, stories are in first person point of view, but can be third person. There's always action. Other elements involve a mystery to solve, a bad guy to catch, or the hero/heroine has to save someone or mankind. Those are the basics of Urban Fantasy.

Erotica. I'm sure you can figure this word out. LOL. Some call it porn and they're wrong. It's not. Porn solely strives to arouse. Erotica doesn't. Sex is part of the literature and it's written in a creative way. There's more too. Can you believe erotica isn't all about sex? That's right. There's a story, a journey perhaps. But be clear, erotica is not about a relationship between partners. That is erotic romance, which deals with development of relationships through sex.

So, if you mix the two genres together you get: paranormal elements + action + steamy sex -minus a relationship with partner to further story = Urban Fantasy Erotica. Sounds exciting, right? It did to me.

This is how I define my Sexy & Damned series. The first book is The Deadly Stripper and it's now available. The second is The Complicated Stripper and I hope to release it in late October. I currently have ideas for two more books in the series and I have little doubt I will cross the line into erotic romance. I believe I am already as there is a slight hint of romance. Very small, but I see it. I wonder if readers will too. Anyway, I believe I will have to develop their relationship in one book. Well, I want to. J

How did I come up with Urban Fantasy Erotica? Well, I write erotic romance and I love urban fantasy and paranormal romance. I have an erotic romance available called Demon in Disguise. But it's not a paranormal romance. It's set in modern times with a modern couple. Paranormal elements come into play, but the romance is between humans.

I also have written a few ménages. The sequel to Demon in Disguise is Demons in Disguise. I'm hoping my publisher won't insist I change the title. For now, that's what I'm going with.

Destined for Love is another ménage I wrote and it's set for release this December from Total E-bound. It's a contemporary/fantasy with one woman and two hot genies.

By now, you probably have figured out what I enjoy writing: paranormal/fantastical with sex, or steamy romance. I am planning to write a series of contemporary short stories in the near future. Yes, you read that right. Contemporary--no paranormal or fantasy elements. It's a stretch for me, but I have confidence I can write stories without a vampire, demon, or werewolf nearby. Rest assured, I won't ignore my supernatural friends. They will influence more work in the future.

Thank you for reading my post. Lisabet, thank you dear for having me as a guest!

Mini-Blurb for The Deadly Stripper:
Celee is a stripper trying to survive in a world full of sex, violence, and supernatural creatures. A hot vampire offers her the powerful elixir she needs in order to stay alive in exchange for help in finding a woman. Sexy, armed, and dangerous, Celee places her life in jeopardy to save the human. What she discovers in the end not only shocks her, it gives her a new job to add to her resume.

If you're curious to read the first two chapters for free, check them out on Smashwords.

Blurb for Destined for Love (due in December!):
Valerie is a confident, independent, and cheerful woman with a boyfriend, a great job, and a cozy home. In one day, her life falls into the dumpster. To unwind, she takes a stroll on the beach. She locates a strange looking bottle and removes the cork. When two gorgeous men appear, she thinks she’s died and gone to Heaven.

Cursed to a bottle, Mark and James roam the earth until someone in desperate need of their help releases them. The handsome duo offer Valerie three wishes, but warn her they come with great responsibility. While she ponders over her choices the two hot genies show her love and passion beyond her wildest dreams. She falls in love with them. But do they share the same feelings for her?

Confused, in love, and still needing to put her life back on track, Valerie must decide how to use her remaining wish after she mistakenly uses two. Should she spend the last wish to help herself, or free her two insatiable lovers?

Blurb for Demon in Disguise:
Jennifer is in love with her handsome and charming boyfriend, Brian. Months of kissing and exploring each other’s bodies have left her starving for deeper satisfaction. Yet Brian denies her. Jennifer vents her frustration to her best friend, Sally, and jokingly says she’d sell her soul for one night of passion with Brian. When he shows up later and fulfills her every desire, Jennifer believes their relationship is moving forward.

Life is spectacular, until the next time they consummate their love. Jennifer notices a few differences from their first wild encounter, and when she questions Brian, he denies having sex with her before.

Jennifer turns to Sally for answers, and they soon discover Jennifer unknowingly made a bargain with a demon. Brian loves her. Sally wants to help her. Can love and friendship save her from an eternity in Hell?

Where to find me:

About me:
I am an erotic romance writer. I especially love the paranormal. My interest in the darker side of the world started in my youth. Spooky and mysterious creatures intrigued me. Needless-to-say, vampires, demons, werewolves, ghosts, and fallen angels are my friends. They suck me into their world, especially after I have consumed a little red wine, and their company never bores. Join me and my friends. Pleasure comes in various forms, and is waiting for you.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Heroes Live Forever

[Greetings! Today I'm giving you a sneak peek at Heroes Live Forever by Chris Karlsen. Chris is doing a blog blitz today, all over the web - fifty stops! At every single one, she's giving away a copy of her thriller Golden Chariot to one lucky person who comments, and there's a $50 Amazon Gift Card up for grabs as her grand prize. Enjoy! ~ Lisabet]


Elinor Hawthorne has inherited a house haunted by the ghosts of two medieval knights, Basil Manneville and Guy Guiscard. Basil is the man of her dreams, her knight in shining armor. She falls in love with him and he with her. Basil soon realizes she needs to live a normal life, a happy life with a mortal.

A lifetime later fate intervenes. Basil, still in love with Elinor, is told her spirit lives on in a young woman and he is given another chance at life to find her. 

A tiny snippet to whet your appetite.... 

He turned her around and untied the laces of her dress. His fingers lingered at each sliver of exposed skin the open laces left. The gown fell away from her shoulders and rough palms eased the sleeves down, freeing the arms. He inched the dress over hips, unwrapping her like a gift, the silk pillowing at her feet like a bronze cloud.

Author Bio

I was born and raised in Chicago. My father was a history professor and my mother was, and is, a voracious reader. I grew up with a love of history and books.

My parents also love traveling, a passion they passed onto me. I wanted to see the places I read about, see the land and monuments from the time periods that fascinated me. I’ve had the good fortune to travel extensively throughout Europe, the Near East, and North Africa.

I am a retired police detective. I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement with two different agencies. My desire to write came in my early teens. After I retired, I decided to pursue that dream.

I currently live in the Pacific Northwest with my husband, four rescue dogs and a rescue horse.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Sunday Snog: Something Borrowed

Today's kiss is from my short story "Something Borrowed", one of the tales in my extremely eclectic collection Body Electric.  This M/M/F tale was based on a real life experience - but I'm not going to tell you how much is true and how much is the product of my very active imagination!

When you're done with my snog, please visit Victoria's Sunday Snog page for links to lots more succulent kisses!

The song stretched out forever. Gradually I relaxed into Mark’s embrace, allowing him to take the lead. We moved together, each step flowing into the next, like one being. Everything felt so very right. I was high on the way we fit together, the way I responded to his subtlest cue. Effervescent joy leavened my lust. This was something new, something more than just physical.

I peered up at him. His half-smile, the light dancing in his ocean eyes told me he sensed it, too.

Drunk on his closeness, I didn’t even notice when the music stopped. I was shocked when he released me. My first impulse was to grab him, to press myself against his sweet, lean body once again. I couldn’t bear the loss of contact. Only his firm hand on my shoulder stopped me. He led me back to my chair. I discovered that I was trembling.

Mark seated himself beside me. “Thank you – but I don’t know your name yet.”

I was fascinated by his ripe lips and imagining a kiss. It took me a moment to answer.

“Oh – um – Delia. I’m Delia.”

He caught my hand between his. Blood raced to my clit at the skin-on-skin gesture. “It’s a pleasure, Delia.” 

The sparkle from the cut-glass chandelier overhead reflected in his eyes. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No! No, please, I’m fine.” My other hand was on top of his two. I couldn’t stand the notion of his leaving. I suddenly saw that I was acting uncivilized. Maybe he wanted a drink himself. Perhaps he even wanted to get away from me. “Of course, if you’d like one...”

“No, that’s okay. You just seemed a bit – flushed.” His grin made it perfectly clear that he understood why. I should have been annoyed by his cockiness, but honestly, I wanted him too much.

“Ah – well, it’s a bit warm in here. I expected San Francisco to be cool and damp this time of year.” Right, Delia. Talk about the weather. That’s always a refuge in times of social confusion.

Mark had not released my hand. He brushed a fingertip delicately across my palm. My nipples tightened to the point of pain. “Where are you from?” he asked, tracing a line along the outside of my index finger. I shivered.

“I live in Los Angeles. Santa Monica actually. I teach computer science at UCLA.” I was amazed that I was managing to keep up any kind of discourse. My heart slammed against my ribs and I could feel a dribble of pussy juice inching its way down the inside of my thigh. “Jill was my roommate in college, but we’ve been a bit out of touch. This is the first time I’ve seen her since she moved west.”

“Ah, we’re practically neighbors. I live in Westwood. Junior partner in a law firm.”

A lawyer! I should have known. He was so slick, so sure of himself. But damn it, he was gorgeous.

I made a superhuman effort to pull myself together. Extricating my hand from his, I brushed my damp curls away from my sweaty forehead. “And what about you? How do you know Jill and Dan?”

“I don’t. But my boyfriend Scott – “ Mark gestured toward the dining room, where an athletic blond guy was deep in conversation with Dan – “He’s the best man. I just came along to keep him company.”

For a moment I was sure that the San Andreas fault had finally let go. The earth rocked under my feet. A roaring filled my ears. “Your boyfriend?” I sputtered at last.

“Yes, that’s right.” Mark’s amusement transformed itself into concern as he saw my distress. “Are you alright? Is that a problem?”

I couldn’t look at him. I wanted to sink through the floor. Here I was, creaming over his luscious body and fresh face, imagining that he was my soul mate, for God’s sake, and he was gay!

He cupped my chin and raised my gaze to his. “What’s wrong, Delia? It doesn’t gross you out, does it? The thought of two guys together?”

“No – of course not – it’s just that I thought – I felt – you and me...” I don’t think I’ve ever been so miserable and embarrassed. “I thought you were – interested in me...”

That’s when he kissed me. Wallowing in self-disgust, I didn’t expect the soft brush of his lips against mine, the tease of his tongue flickering across my mouth before he pulled back. I gasped. The fire in my sex flared again at his touch, his taste, the heady scent that swirled around him.

“I am interested. Very much so. I feel like there’s some kind of strong connection between us.”

So he felt it too. “But...”

“I like girls as well as guys. And Scott’s not the jealous type. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there

By S. Dora (Guest Blogger)

Let me start by thanking Lisabet for her warm-hearted hospitality. It’s always such a pleasure to be here.

When I first got the idea for writing what would become Facing the Truth, a story about a man discovering BDSM while already in a committed relationship with another man, the main characters were both in their twenties. Soon enough I realised something: if I made the age difference considerable, it would add another, hopefully interesting, layer to the story.

I’m not just talking about the simple fact that an university student moves in an environment that is quite different from that of an office of an insurance company, or that experience and youth each have their own brand of power. In this case, it means that a gay man having been a teenager in the eighties in England very likely doesn’t have quite the same outlook on sexuality as his lover, who’s eighteen years younger.

Being gay when Isaac Newhouse was a teenager meant he wasn’t allowed to have sex with another boy or man until he was 21. Section 28 stated that a local authority "shall not intentionally promote homosexuality or publish material with the intention of promoting homosexuality or promote the teaching in any maintained school of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.” AIDS was epidemic among gay men. Homophobia wasn’t the hobby of a backwards minority of people, but was deeply rooted in English society as a whole.

By the time Tom, the younger of the two, discovered he was into other boys, attitudes towards homosexuality were already dramatically changing. There’s no longer a different age of consent for straight and gay couples and Section 28 has been moved to its rightful place, the dustbin. While many individuals and several groups are still homophobic, society as a whole started to realise that homosexuality is simply a fact of life and that a legal right like marriage might actually be a good idea.

By the end of Facing the Truth, I knew the story wasn’t over yet and so a series began. Since Calling the Shots is first and foremost a series about romantic m/m BDSM erotica, the social and political background is never really mentioned, but it’s in the back of my head while I’m writing this story. I personally had my first coming-out in 1979, so I know a little about Isaac’s state of mind. That knowledge influenced how I wrote Isaac’s hesitation to start a relationship with a much younger (but fully of age) man and his journey into BDSM and Tom’s “what exactly is the problem?” attitude.

Part two of Calling the Shots, The Right Direction, is now available. Here’s a small excerpt. Isaac and Tom enjoy a weekend full of BDSM fun, in and out of the bedroom. It’s time for dinner and they ordered pizza. The following happens:


Tom wasn’t out of the kitchen for more than five seconds before the doorbell rang.

That’ll be the pizza,” Tom hollered from the living room. “I’ll get it, Sir.”

Use the groceries wallet. And don’t forget to tip the delivery boy.”

Isaac thoroughly enjoyed the small details of Tom waiting to take his first bite until his Dom had given him permission, of his glass being refilled before he had to ask. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that he put his fork down in sudden realisation. “He saw you…”

Who? Oh, the guy delivering the pizza,” Tom finally understood. “Probably a student, just like me.”

He saw you.”

Yeah—he wasn’t blind. What’s the matter, Sir? Did I do something wrong? I didn’t flirt or anything—you know I only go for my sexy Master, because he really knows how to handle both his cane and his cock.” Tom squirmed on his chair to accentuate his words. “There’s no way I’ll ever forget who owns me.”

No, I did something wrong. How could I be this stupid?”

You’re scaring me, Isaac… Sir… Please tell me what’s wrong so I can make it up to you. I’ll accept any punishment, but please explain…”

Your collar. He saw you wearing my collar.”

Tom gaped at him in total incomprehension.

An outsider saw you while you were wearing your slave collar.” Why didn’t Tom understand what he was trying to say? Was it so hard to understand the possible implications?

Uh, he didn’t. He saw a guy of his own age in black sweatpants, a black shirt, messed up hair and, yes, a collar. To him I probably looked like a Goth or an emo or perhaps, if he’s a student too, he might think I’m one of those artistic guys from Arts.” Tom all but giggled. “If he was one of us, he’d know, no matter what I was wearing. But he wasn’t one of us.”

How can you be so sure?”

I would know.”

Silly, naïve boy.

Like you recognise all gay men because you’re one too?” The words hit like a badly made whip in the hands of a sick sadist. Isaac regretted them as soon as he had spoken.

I’m not saying that…” Tom shrugged. Sadness clouded the happiness in his eyes. “You’re ashamed of us and of what we’re doing. Being Dom and sub isn’t our sweet little secret—it’s our dirty big secret.”


Was it really no, and not perhaps a little bit, or somewhat, or even…yes?


What was he supposed to say? Hadn’t his panic spoken more truth than any of the excuses and explanations he’d been planning to use?

Friday, September 14, 2012

Blessed Are the Pure in Heart

By Justine Elyot (Guest Blogger)

Hello, and many thanks to Lisabet for extending her kind hospitality to me today.

One of the many pleasurable aspects of writing my paranormal erotica novel, Saxonhurst Secrets, was the opportunity to weave a number of my own personal fascinations into the plot. Ever since learning in a school history lesson that the Puritans banned Christmas, I've been interested in them. What kind of people could be so joyless? What was their mindset and how did they justify their hardcore approach to life?

The character of Tribulation Smith in the book is a dyed-in-the-wool puritan preacher man, spreading his visions of hellfire and damnation through the seventeenth century village. But he has feet of clay, in the form of his obsession with the comely young witch, Evangeline Lillie. His attempts to 'bring her to God' cast a terrible shadow over Saxonhurst, one which it will take centuries to dispel.

His modern day counterpart, vicar Adam Flint, finds himself troubled by dreams in which he takes the form of Tribulation Smith, battling the same manner of infatuation he has for the village siren, Evie Witts.

Here's a small sample:

She swallowed then, and reached for his face. What ecstasy in her fingertips as they travelled along his cheekbone. He put his hand over them, holding them against his skin.
"If you have lived wickedly," he murmured, "it is because you suffered evil influences to flourish in your life. You did not act against them, and that is your sin. But it is a sin capable of redemption. Allow yourself to be redeemed. Come to me."
"You've a pretty face and you speak pretty words," she said. "I could almost…"
"Consent. And you will be protected."
"I will live," she whispered.
"I promise it."
"And my kinswomen?"
He hesitated, wanting those inconvenient crones out of the way, but he was so close to having her, how could he let them ruin it?
"I will do such as I can," he said.
"Then I shall say yes."
A potent amalgam of happiness and triumph beat in his veins. He leant towards her, breathing in the scent that lay beneath all the blood, sweat and tears – her unique Evangeline Lillie fragrance, that which had driven him wild since he arrived in Saxonhurst.
His lips touched hers, and the flame of desire streaked instantly through him. How she bewitched him, and yet her witchcraft was of a kind he felt he could not live without.
The kiss moved quickly from a tender brush to a raw and salty clash of mouths. Adam felt he could never get enough of her taste, of her warmth, of her tongue. Finally, his increasingly desperate prayers had found their answer, and the answer was yes.
He awoke to find himself snogging the pillow, one hand wrapped tight around his erection. Oh, no Evie after all, no full lips, no slip of tongue, no breasts bared to his eye. But the imprint of her remained on his memory for as long as it took him to bring his cock to complete engorgement.
I should let go. I should turn my mind to other thoughts.
But Evie's hold on him was absolute now. She had slipped past every moral defence, to place herself at the centre of his world, which was no longer a world of cool ascetic pursuits but one of thunder and blood and lust.
He thought of her underneath him, her curves and smoothness, her careless eroticism, her joy in the act of sex. He had to have her, had to, had to.

Here's some more information about the book:

On the surface, Saxonhurst is like every other sleepy English village in the Vale of Parham.
But what explanations are there for its unfailingly bountiful harvests, its amazingly successful cricket team, its bizarre and bacchanalian May Day rituals?

New vicar Adam Flint is bent on finding out why Saxonhurst has the nickname 'most godless village in England'. With the help and hindrance of village siren Evie and the strange and remote Lady of the Manor, Julia, he uncovers closets full of skeletons. And not just skeletons - flesh and blood bodies rich in temptations as well...
Will the secrets of Saxonhurst be Adam's ruin?

It's available in paperback and ebook formats from Xcite Books:

Thanks for reading!