Sunday Snog: Butterfly

My snog today comes from my short story "Butterfly", one of the first erotic tales I ever published. It was originally written for a theme challenge, a call for stories about multicultural miscommunication. The tale revolves around the relationship between an engineer working in Thailand, and a dancer in a Bangkok gogo bar.

This story is romantic erotica, not romance. I don't think most people would consider its ending happy. But I think you might enjoy it anyway.

After you read my snog, hop on over to Blisse Kiss central for lots more sexy lip action.

***

My room was cooler than the muggy night outside, but still humid. The whisper of the air conditioning drowned out the traffic noise from the street. As soon as the door was closed and she had slipped off her shoes, Lek was kneeling in front of me working at my zipper.

I tried to make her rise. "No, you don't have to do that."

She looked disappointed. "You don't want my mouth on you?"

"Of course I do, but..."

"Then let me," she said softly. "I want to." With the hooker, I had to pay extra for a blow job. Lek acted as though I was doing her a favor. As soon as my fly was open, my penis popped out, full and solid as a sausage. She pursed her lips and mouthed the tip, leaving traces of lipstick on the bulb. Then she slithered her tongue down my length, circling the base with her thumb and forefinger while cupping my balls in her other palm. I groaned. It has been a long time since I known anyone's touch but my own.

"Your cock very nice, Pat," she murmured, in between mouthfuls. She took me deep into her throat and kept me there, sucking hard, nursing my cock like a baby at its mother's tit. I'd never felt anything like it.

Already I could feel the come boiling up in me. I began to thrust, jerking my hips, banging the tip of my cock against the back of her throat. She responded by sucking harder, till I felt that her hot vacuum would literally pull the come out of me.

I wanted to stop. I didn't want to come so soon. I wanted to be inside her, those graceful, muscular legs wrapped around me, when I came. But she wouldn't let me go, and finally, I didn't want her to. I twined my fingers in her hair and pulled her head into my crotch, fucking her face until I could bear it no more. The semen surged up my shaft, filling her mouth and overflowing.

She kept licking me gently as my dick shrank back to its normal size. Then she looked up at me and smiled, an angelic smile made sweetly perverse by the creamy remnants of my come on her lips.

"You like that?" she asked archly.

"What do you think?" I pulled her to me and embraced her, tasting my own bitter fluid on her ripe mouth. "That was amazing, Lek."

After a while, I released her and looked down ruefully as my limp penis. "Unfortunately, I was hoping to use that to explore some other parts of your anatomy."

"Never mind," she said. "Long night. You lie down there and watch me. You'll be hard again pretty quick."

 ****

You can read the entire story on my website, which, I am happy to announce, is back on-line after being targeted by hackers.

And if you find the setting of this story interesting, you might enjoy my novel Raw Silk or my novella Bangkok Noir, both of which are set in Thailand.

On Turning Twenty One

By Emily Wells (Guest Blogger)

So, this is my first ever guest post and I wasn’t really sure what to write about. I was going to write about the book I’m writing, but due to unforeseen circumstances, I’m currently taking a break. So then I decided that since I’m celebrating my 21st birthday on the 30th, that I would talk about that.

I’ve always been a bit of an odd person. Most people assume I’m much older than I actually am because I act more mature than my age. I’ve always been that way. When I turned 18, my fellow students were excited about being able to go clubbing and smoking, two things I have no interest in. I’ve tried to smoke, didn’t like it (and according to my smoker friends, I don’t smoke correctly). I’ve never been clubbing, and don’t have a real desire to do so. I was most excited about being able to finally vote. Yeah, definitely different. And my 21st will be different as well.

One of the things most people have been asking if I’m looking forward to is the drinking. I’ll finally be legal. But I’ve already had alcohol over the years. The mimosas on Christmas Day, sips of different beers over the years, that one night in college...you get the point. This isn’t my first rodeo.

Ironically, my first really big drinking experience has already happened. That milestone occurred when I was 18. I went to Jamaica for Thanksgiving with my family, where the legal drinking age is 18. Since I’ve gone back twice since then, I’ve had some chances to experiment. In fact, I  discovered something I’d kind of noticed over the years; I’m not a huge fan of alcohol. And I discovered something else. I absolutely love margaritas. And salt. While I’ve never gotten drunk, there was the one night (I was 18 at the time) I had dinner with my family and in the course of about 2 hours, managed to down 7 margaritas. As well as take an extra one up to my room.

That was my first experience being tipsy, and I remember my mother and my brother following me up to my room (we were next door to each other) laughing at my antics. Because evidently, I’m a very happy, carefree person when I’m tipsy. All I can remember is laughing, feeling good and having a tad trouble walking straight. And then having the worst stomach ache and headache that night. So, no more downing margaritas for me.

I also remembered trying a scotch because I had just read a book where one of the heroes drank scotch at night and had one of those cool little globe bars, so I wanted to try it. Worst. Idea. Ever. I am definitely not a scotch fan. My family and I ended up passing it around the table, daring others to drink it. Have I mentioned that I really love my family sometimes?

So, I don’t really have any big plans for my 21st. Most of my friends are out of town, or underage, so I’m not planning a party. In fact, on my actual birthday, I have a doctor’s appointment, work, and then a church meeting all night. So no partying for me. But my family and I are going to celebrate together, and my brother’s already hinting that I’m going to be getting an awesome present from him. I’ve also had 30+ authors stop by my blog and help me celebrate all month long, so I’ve already been partying to some degree. Plus, I just got the news that my grandfather is okay and out of the hospital, which to me, is the best birthday present ever.

So all things considered, here’s to my 21st birthday. Here’s to another year of wisdom and life, and while it might not be the typical 21st birthday experience, it’s my 21st, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thanks for listening to me ramble, and thanks to Lisabet for having me over for my first ever guest post. And from now till May 7, you have the chance to enter my birthday giveaways on my blog, Sharing Links and Wisdom. Come and meet some great authors! Lisabet’s also a guest over on my blog, so stop by!

[PS -Emily's blog is http://sharinglinksandwisdom.blogspot.com - lots of fun! ~ Lisabet]

Ephermal

A couple of days ago, I read a blog post by romance author Melodee Aaron, entitled "Writing for the Future".

http://melodeeaaron.com/blog/2013/04/23/writing-for-the-future/

Melodee's thesis was that our writing is important, because the books we write today may become the classic literature of tomorrow. Where would our civilization be, she argues, without Shakespeare, Dickens, Jane Austen, Jules Verne? Our cultural achievements - literature, art, music - are every bit as valuable as our scientific ones.

Now, I'm always delighted to see someone defending the significance of fiction. However, the post left me in serious doubt. Perhaps her thesis holds true for authors a century - even a few decade - ago. With the advent of ebooks and the explosion of publishing, though, I think books have become ephemeral.

Will my work survive me? Of course I'd like to believe what I've written will still be read twenty, fifty, a hundred years in the future, because I've poured my heart and soul into my books. But what are the chances?

Electronic formats and media are subject to rapid change. Can you play a VHS video tape today? Can you read a 3 inch floppy disk? Some of my younger readers might never have even seen one. PDF, Epub, Mobi - I'll bet that ten years from now, nobody will use those file formats for books. Titles published in these formats will be orphaned, unless someone takes the time and effort to convert the content to whatever format replaces them. And let's be honest. Who's going to convert hundreds of thousands of stories about vampires and werewolves getting it on with one another?

What about print? That's how authors in the current canon have survived, their books physical artifacts to be treasured from one generation to the next. Indeed, one never knows where a hard copy volume will turn up. Someone is sell a first edition of Raw Silk (Black Lace, 1999) on Amazon for almost two hundred dollars, and a Blue Moon edition (2002) for nearly four hundred dollars. (Of course, if these volumes sell, I won't see a penny...!) So perhaps a few copies of my work will be preserved into the future, especially in a world where paper books have become rare and precious as the forests are destroyed. This doesn't give me much comfort, though, when I walk into a bookstore and see piles of brand new books discounted to nearly nothing because they haven't really sold.   

Due to ease of digital publishing, the number of books released annually has grown by orders of magnitude - and continues to increase as everyone and his brother tries to cash in on the ebook revolution. The odds that my books will remain available and popular become smaller every day.

I'd like to imagine I'll have readers in the future, but if I am honest with myself, I have to admit that the chances are slim. I need to focus on gaining readers now, today. Change is the only constant. Our books, like our lives, might disappear tomorrow.

A Trace of the Unnatural

By Gail Roughton (Guest Blogger)

Has a story ever haunted you? I don’t mean as a reader. Or as a writer. I mean you, personally—that tale from the campfire at summer camp. “See, there was this guy with a hook where his hand used to be…” The whispered tales from childhood spend-the-nights, told under covers because it’s 2:00 a.m. and you’re supposed to be asleep even if it is a-spend-the night. “My Granny, she says don’t nobody go into Hoot Owl Holler, not ever…” The urban legends bandied about amidst shrieks and screams at a teen-age slumber party, without much regard to how loud it gets because you’re teenagers now and nobody expects you to be asleep at a slumber party. “Didn’t you know? There’s a man buried in Graceland Cemetery with a stake through his heart…”

I heard those tales, of course, and I told my share of them. But most of all, I read them. I read them in the most fitting location for such stories imaginable. I grew up by the banks of Stone Creek Swamp, squarely in the middle of the state of Georgia. Beautiful? Oh, yes. Deadly? Oh, yes. Not a place you’d care to get lost in. Don’t believe me? Try it and see. As a backdrop for tales of terror and suspense? Unequalled. The perfect place to produce a writer who always has a trace of—shall we say—the unnatural—in her stories.

But how to blend that trace of the unnatural into the natural? How to tell a story that takes the unbelievable and transforms it into the utterly believable? Ah. There’s the rub. A writer takes a little of this story, a little of that history, and blends it together in a new recipe. But why did that particular recipe pop into their brain in the first place? What made them even think of it?

In my case, it happens when things just—converge. See, I grew up with one of those urban legends. My home town has a very old, very historic cemetery. A beautiful place. They have tours every spring and every fall. And I grew up on the story of a man buried there with a stake through his heart. I don’t have any idea if there’s any basis in that story, I don’t even know if it’s a well-known story or one that only a few people bandy about. But to the little girl who read Edgar Allen Poe and H. P. Lovecraft and Bram Stoker on the banks of Stone Creek Swamp, it was fascinating.

That little girl grew up and went to work in a law office. Actually, she’d planned to be a lawyer but knew she’d have to work her way through law school and figured being a legal secretary would be on-the-job experience, so to speak. (After she spent a few years in the legal world, she became terrified she’d turn into an attorney, and so kept her niche as legal secretary/paralegal and turned into a writer instead.) But I digress. During the course of this journey, she answered her boss’s phone one afternoon when said boss was out of the office. “This is Jim Smith from Graceland Cemetery.” (Not really, names changed to protect the guilty, in this case, that little girl who grew up and became a writer rather than a lawyer. Me.) “Please have him call me.”

No problem. I wrote the message right up. “Jim Smith, Graceland Cemetery, 555-5555. Has a vampire in one of the mausoleums and would like him evicted.” Don’t ask me why that popped into my head. Seemed like a good idea at the time. My boss came in, picked up his messages, read same, and hollered “What?!” out the door and we all had a good laugh. But that’s when it lodged in my brain, that a short satire, a “Night Court” sort of thing would be hysterical. What would happen if a cemetery tried to evict a vampire? From his own mausoleum?

Somewhere along the way, the whole idea ceased to be a satire and it damn sure ceased to be short. It became an obsession. How to showcase this story, these characters, this backdrop? Because by that time, it had become a family saga, set against the backdrop of the small city I knew best in all the world, flipping from 1888 Macon, Georgia to modern day Macon. Using real street names and business names and landmarks. A love song to my own heritage. And of course, being a love song to my heritage, it absolutely had to showcase Stone Creek Swamp as well, now didn’t it? I finished the first draft in 1993. It took me three years. I threw away more pages than I kept. And I thought it was wonderful. I put it in the closet (about all I did with any of my books for years) and left it there for about fifteen years. I pulled it back out and decided it wasn’t wonderful but it was pretty close and re-worked it a bit and put it back in the closet again. A few years ago, when I entered the world of professional writers and realized how amateurish my early work actually was, I pulled it out and recognized it was very, very far from wonderful. So I re-worked it yet again, from start to finish. And I used everything I’d learned in over twenty years of writing. More important, I used everything I’d learned in the two years since I’d been an actual published author.

And finally—I presented it to the world. My love song to Stone Creek Swamp. To Macon, Georgia. To the history that made me who and what I am. So come. Follow me. Into shades and colors you’ve never thought of before. Like The Color of Seven. Like The Color of Dusk. Follow me into Dark. The Dark Series.

Because the past, like evil, never dies. It just—waits.

Excerpt:

Cain strode the river bank. His bare chest gleamed with oil. Amulets of gold and necklaces of bone draped his neck and shoulders. He paced in growing fury. Alone.

“Cowards!” he muttered under his breath. “’De fools! De stupid fools dare turn dere backs on me!” He stopped suddenly in mid-stride.

“Where are you?” he shouted, his voice echoing back into the trees. “Where are you, fools?”

They would pay. The whole town would pay. He swayed in concentration, moving among the seven fires burning in the clearing.

“Sebben. My color be sebben. Color be sebben … sebben … sebben….”

He knelt before the skulls of his grisly sentries, their glowing eyes powered by the demons imbuing them with sight. His demons. He’d call them forth, yes, and all their brethren, and send them streaming through the town, darting though open windows. Feasting till they burst.

He reached down and lifted two skulls high, one in each of his huge hands.

“Last chance, fools!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

“Here I am.” And almost instantly, from the opposite side of the clearing, the words repeated.

“And here. And here.” Shifting, ever-moving. “Here … and here … and here.” The voice, human, held silvery overtones of inhumanity.

Cain twirled around in circles, following the voice. A voice he recognized. Except he didn’t.

Because it was impossible.Wasn’t it?

“White man!” he shouted. “Dat you?”

“And here … and here … and here … here … here….”

Cain swirled in a dizzying circle as the voice cat-called, moving, floating, seemingly coming from all directions at once.

“Come out! Show yo’self! Like a man!”

The taunting ceased, replaced by laughter floating in the air from everywhere at once. The laughter stopped. Echoes bounced back from river.

A tall figure materialized directly in front of Cain. It smiled a terrible smile and curled its lips. Four incisors, honed to razor sharpness, gleamed in the mingled moonlight and fireglow.

“I’m not a man, Cain. Not anymore.”

Paul advanced toward him and Cain fell back, fear rising from the lower reaches of his stomach. It moved up his spine, accelerated and raced upward, leaving his body almost numb. This man was dead, executed by his demons. Dead! But wait! If dead, he belonged to the regions of darkness Cain ruled. Confidence rekindled. He could control this being. He halted his retreat and stood tall.

“You can’t do nothin’, white man! I made you! I control you! You does whut I says you do!”

“You keep right on thinkin’ that.” Paul smiled. His arm flashed out and caught Cain by the throat. His hand squeezed. Cain’s eyes bulged under the pressure.

Cain curled his fists, raining blows on Paul’s head and face. But Paul’s head didn’t snap back.

His lips didn’t split. He loosened the pressure on Cain’s neck a bit, allowing a trace of air to flow back into his windpipe.

“Who are you?” Cain croaked. “What are you?”

“You don’t know?” Paul released Cain’s throat, immediately grabbing both his arms. He threw him across the clearing like a sack of feed. The impact of landing knocked the breath from his lungs. He tried to suck in enough wind to stand and fight.

From nowhere, Paul fell on him again, hauling his bulk off the ground as though it weighed nothing. He tossed him into the middle of the clearing. Cain’s right arm landed in the center fire. His left arm twisted and bent beneath his great weight with a snapping sound. Cain screamed. He jerked away from the flames, trying to shift his body, his right arm a running river of agony. Fire fed on flesh.

Paul reached down and grabbed the charred skin, jerking and twisting. Bone snapped again as he hauled Cain free of the flames and loomed over him, wicked incisors coming closer, closer.

“No! No!”

Cain felt the blood leaving his vessels, draining from the valves of his heart, the pit of his stomach, the chambers of his lungs, the smallest capillaries of his body. As it left, it burned, burned with an intensity so hot it was ice cold. Finally, the clearing held only dying moans and the wet, sucking sounds of Paul’s mouth.

Paul floated, then soared with an exultation unlike any he’d ever experienced. He felt the power of hot blood as it rushed throughout his body. Sated, he dropped Cain’s bulk to the ground like an apple core and laughed. He laughed and laughed until laughter turned to sobs. He raised his hands and wiped the blood from his lips.

He looked down at his hands, at the bloodstains gleaming black under the moon, and rushed to the banks of the river, down to the water. He leaned over and gazed into the slow-moving eddies of the river. Moonlight glazed the water, turning it to a shimmering mirror.

He stared at his reflection and curled his lips, showed his teeth. His hand flashed down, breaking the surface of the water. He cupped his hand and scooped water to his mouth, scrubbing viciously.

He was still perched on the river’s edge when his clean-up crew arrived at the scene to pick up the trash, engaged in an endless, repetitive cycle. Hand to river water, river water to mouth, scrubbing and scrubbing as though his lips would never be clean again.

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Links to Gail Roughton’s books:

Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Gail+roughton

Barnes & Nobles

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Gail-Roughton?keyword=Gail+Roughton&store=book

Kobo:

http://www.kobobooks.com/search/search.html?q=Gail+Roughton

Omnilit

https://www.omnilit.com/product-darkseriesthecolorofsevenandthecolorofdusk-976976-139.html

https://www.omnilit.com/product-thecolorofseven-975687-139.html

https://www.omnilit.com/product-thecolorofdusk-975686-139.html

Smashwords

http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=gail+roughton

Giveaway Winner and Other News

Just popping in to announce that Normandie Allen won my drawing on Sunday. Congratulations, Normandie!

Also, over the weekend I finally finished my story for Tied to the Billionaire - a tale of BDSM connections set in the Gilded Age. I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out, though of course I won't know whether it has been accepted for a while.

Next up on my writing schedule is Rough Weather, a companion piece to my novella Hot Spell.  The latter book revolves around the relationship between an Earth Elemental and a Fire Elemental. At the very end, I introduce two additional characters, a Water Elemental and an Air Elemental. Rough Weather gives them their own story, full of drama and magic - with, I expect, a bit of D/s thrown in for good measure!

Sunday Snog: Rajasthani Moon

Hello, everyone!

I'm back from my international ramblings (fabulous trip!) and it's Sunday, so that means it's time for a traditional snog. Today I've got a snippet from my upcoming release (May 9th!) Rajasthani Moon. If you want to be one of the first people to read this opus - and get a hefty discount - you can pre-order the book now just by going to Total-E-Bound.

Before we slide into the snog, I want to thank all of you who visited and commented here while I was away, as part of my Back List Blast event. I hope you enjoyed all the excerpts. I've drawn the winners. Collen is the grand prize winner - she'll get a $25 bookstore gift certificate. Laura and Debby won second prizes - autographed print books from my back list.

Congratulations to all of you!

And just to keep things interesting...I'll do a giveaway today, too! Leave a comment on this post, and you could win your choice of The Understudy (M/F BDSM) or Serpent's Kiss (M/F paranormal).
And finally - don't forget to visit BlisseKiss.co.uk, for lots more sexy kiss excerpts!


Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.

Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to the rugged, arid land of the Rajputs to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire's embrace. Instead, she's taken captive by a brigand who turns out to be the ruler's half-brother Pratan and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.

Cursed before birth by Amir's jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen's hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathising with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual—offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan's amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colourful land behind and return to constraints of her life in England?

Reader Advisory: This book instantiates kidnap/captive fantasies. It includes robot bondage devices, animated nipple clamps, electric play, clockwork dildos, flogging, spanking, anal sex, double penetration in a dirigible, a small amount of F/F intimacy, scenes of MFM and sex with a werewolf in shifted human form.

Excerpt

She awoke at dawn, feeling anxious and irritable. An eerie quiet suffused the palace. After washing and dressing, she tiptoed down the spiralling marble stairs to the ground floor and out to the garden, seeking some sort of balm for her ragged spirit.

Verdant creepers twined along the stone balustrades, studded with pastel blooms just opening to the new morning. Despite the arid climate of the kingdom, dewdrops sparkled like diamonds on the velvety petals. Gentle winds rippled the lake and whispered through the foliage. Snowy gardenias peeked out from bushy clusters of shiny green leaves. Cecily plucked one and inhaled its intoxicating fragrance. She felt her tension ebb a bit as the first rays of sunlight slanted over the palace rooftops down into the leafy space. Closing her eyes, she filled her lungs with the perfumed air and let the sun warm her cheeks and forehead.

Some slight sound drew her attention. There, at the far end of garden, stood Pratan, gazing out over the water. He wore nothing but loose white dhotis and the white turban of a pilgrim. The breeze stirred his ebony hair. Even from where she stood, Cecily could see the rise and fall of his tanned, sculpted chest as he breathed deeply.

Sudden joy swept through her. “Pratan! You’ve returned!” She hastened to his side, snagging his arm as he tried to turn away. “Don’t go. Please.”

He looked weary, haggard, ten years older than the last time she’d seen him. “Best to keep your distance from me, lady. I can feel the beast move inside, every time I catch a whiff of your scent.”

Cecily ignored his admonition. She pulled his body against hers, revelling in the luscious hardness of him pressed against her soft, pillowy flesh. “Tonight we’ll put that beast to rest forever.”

“If the gods will it.” His gruff voice held such despair that she cringed in spite of herself. However, he did not move away from her.

“The gods will smile on you—on us. I’m certain. You are innocent and deserve redemption.”

“Innocent? I’m a murderer twice over. Tonight I may well claim my third victim.”

“Hush. Your brother has sworn he will protect me. And I am more than ready for the worst you can do to me.” She cradled his cheeks, stubble pricking her palms, and pulled his face down to her level. “Kiss me, Pratan. Kiss me and forget your pain.”

She expected him to refuse, to push her away. Instead, he allowed her to press her lips to his and wrap him in her arms. Docile and unresisting, he opened to her questing tongue, but at first he did not respond in kind. She drank him in, pouring all the longing of the past week into her kiss. She was on fire, his touch and scent kindling a passion so fierce she could scarcely breathe. Ravaging his mouth, she sought to ignite an answering fever.

She let her hands wander over his bare back, discovering the raised scars of his harsh life in the mountains. She slid her palms down to his taut buttocks, cupping the firm flesh and pulling his pelvis against hers.

His passivity was a lie. Under his thin cotton garment, he was like stone. Cecily ground her pubis against that lovely hardness and mashed her lips frantically against his. Love me, my poor cursed bandit, she thought. Take me.

As though she’d struck a match, her companion burst into fiery activity. Suddenly he was devouring her, licking, nipping, suckling her tongue then thrusting his own deep into her mouth. His fingers roamed over her curves, slithering under her garments to stroke her bare skin, pinching and probing. Pressing her against a moss-cushioned wall, he slid his thigh between hers, stimulating her aching clit while his erection throbbed against her leg. Meanwhile his teeth and tongue were busy, alternating bites and kisses from below her ear to the hollow of her throat.

More Sex, Please...

By Lynn Cahoon (Guest Blogger)

Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about my personal journey in the wonderful world of physical contact, just writing about it. 

Temporary Roommates, which releases today with Passion in Print on April 20^th started as a sweet novella. I was at a pitch workshop when the publisher I’d expected to pitch to didn't show up at the event. (Bad form, that.)

Anyway, another publisher, Passion in Print, stepped in and loving my pitch asked for the full. When the contract offer came, they explained, there needed to be one on-screen sex scene in order for them to buy the story. But they had lots of energy and seemed to love the novella as much as I did. So I agreed to add a sex scene.

When the edits finally came, my editor felt I needed to up the sexual tension even more. More one-on-one for the hero and heroine. More compromising positions. Troy, the hero, was fine with the changes. In fact, he welcomed the increased physical relationship. My heroine, focused on her career, felt like she was selling out to the more conventional and expected role she’d been raised to lead. 

And it ticked her off. 

So what’s an author to do when your editor wants more hanky panky but your heroine is acting like a kid refusing to try something new at the dinner table? 

You let your character take the lead. Annie didn’t have any expectations from her time with Troy. In fact, she knew that building a career and a life took priority over finding a husband. No matter what her mother and supervisor thought. 

I put her in charge and gave her the aggressor role. Sex as power is usually portrayed as a bad thing. But sometimes, having gratifying, meaningless sex gives a woman perspective. And that’s not a bad thing, either in fiction or in real life. 

Now I hear the groans. For me, sex without commitment or meaning, isn’t powerful, it’s scary. But I’m not my character. I think about stuff too much. (Just ask my husband.) And even when I was wild and crazy after the divorce, I expected a night of sex to lead to a relationship. Like a girl. 

I wanted her to think like a guy. To enjoy herself for a few hours, then go on with her life.

But Troy keeps bringing their situation up in the days following. And she’s caught.

Reversing the role expectations allowed me to really play with the idea of when is just sex okay? And I had to challenge my own insecurities and deeply held beliefs. But in the end, the story was better because of my own discomfort.

So have I told you too much of the story? Or just enough to tease your appetite? Check out TemporaryRoommates and let me know what you think. 

Blurb

When a determined nurse and a hot intern find the perfect apartment, the same perfect apartment, they must find a way to share it for ninety days, without killing each other.

Annie Baxter has her dream job. Now, all she needs is a cheap apartment close to the hospital. Troy Saunders knows his life as an intern is all about the long hours. He doesn’t have time to play doctor to some Nurse Barbie. So when his sister finds a great apartment walking distance to work and next to the best running paths in the city, he’s sold. Two leasing agents, two prospective renters, one apartment. Can they co-exist without fireworks?

About Lynn

Lynn Cahoon is a contemporary romance author with a love of hot, sexy men, real and imagined. Her alpha heroes range from rogue witch hunters, modern cowboys, or hot doctors, sexy in scrubs. And her heroines all have one thing in common, their strong need for independence. Or at least that’s what they think they want. She blogs at her website www.lynncahoon.wordpress.com

Passion in Print website - http://www.passioninprint.com/ShowBook.php?CR=LC_TMPRMATES

Back List Blast: Just a Spanking

Just a Spanking by Lisabet Sarai

Tales of dominance and submission

How kinky can things get?

Just a Spanking collects eight of Lisabet Sarai's hottest BDSM stories, including three previously unpublished tales. From the light-hearted fantasy "Ruler" to the raw intensity of "Limbo", these stories explore the many variations of power exchange, demonstrating how whips, canes, candles, ropes, or handcuffs, as well as the classic palm on a bare bottom, can open doors to the ultimate erotic experience.

Is a pure spanking, stripped of any sexual manipulation, enough to make a submissive come? Can a Dom turn a woman into his slave using just his voice? Can a banana split be an instrument of torture? Find out in this lively, arousing collection.

Excerpt

He meets me at the airport with a kiss tender enough to reassure me that I'm more than just his slut. His lips wake every inch of my flesh. By the time he releases me, I'm flushed and tingling all over. After that initial embrace, however, he doesn't touch me at all.

He leads me to the parked car. I remember him taking me once in a sweltering parking lot, his fingers crammed into my cunt while he whispered all the indignities he planned to inflict on my poor body. As I fluttered helpless around his hand, I knew that he could ask anything of me and I'd obey. Now he is asking something new, a kind of restraint that I find more difficult than any bondage.

I am dressed as he requires, short skirt with no panties, silk blouse with no bra, and my favorite lace-up boots. I fidget on the seat as he drives up 101. The plastic is sticky against my bare skin and getting stickier by the minute. He stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road.

I part my thighs. The car fills with the ripe scent of my pussy. His nostrils twitch but otherwise he ignores me. My nipples feel huge and hungry as they do when he winds them with rubber bands. I try to keep still. Each whisper of silk across my breasts makes my cunt clench and weep.

He opens the car door--a gentleman Dom--and helps me out. The brief contact of palm on palm makes me shudder with want. I follow him up the stairs to his apartment, watching his strong buttocks shift in his trousers as he climbs. I think about how they tense and relax when he fucks me. I'm panting by the time we reach the third floor, but not from exertion.

The door swings open. He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. Normally he'd have me pressed against the wall, knee in my crotch and hands under my blouse, before the lock clicked shut. Today he simply stands beside me, a half-smile on his full lips, as I survey the familiar room.

He has already set things up. In the dining area, the table has been pushed out of the way. Two of the chairs face us, side by side, flanked by the ottoman that normally sits in front of the armchair. That armchair is the usual location for his spankings, but I can see that tonight will be different. He's trying to minimize my contact with his body. Clever man.

Take a walk on the wild side with Just a Spanking.

Back List Blast: Hot Spell

Hot Spell by Lisabet Sarai

M/F paranormal erotic romance

The flames of passion are more than a metaphor

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? 

Excerpt 

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.

Read Hot Spell today!

The Beast in Me

[Hi everyone! I'm still on vacation, but meanwhile you can enjoy this sneak peak from Beast in Me, a great new paranormal romance from Sommer Marsden. ~ Lisabet]

Blurb

Weather worker Cameron Bale rolls into Divination Falls after being prompted by Spirit and Brother Lighting. He discovers that the small, hidden town full of shifters and magical types is suffering a series of unsettling events. There’s speculation from the town seers that he could be the answer they’ve been looking for. Cameron’s willing to try and help: he’s got nowhere to go and nothing to lose. His life is simply about loneliness and it turns out that Trace, a grumpy wolf with stunning eyes, knows just what that feels like. Cam finds himself wishing maybe they could be alone … together. Oh yeah, and battle whatever evil it is that still lurks in Divination Falls.

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Excerpt:

A dragonfly zipped past and Cam watched it go. What next? Bluebirds and butterflies and singing cartoon woodland animals? It was all too nice, too perfect … Surreal.

‘You OK?’ The voice was deep and dark and full of secrets. That was his first impression.

Cameron jumped, clutched at his pounding chest. Inside his heart was going berserk and he felt a little lightheaded with it.

‘I was. Jesus Christ, you scared me.’

Trace grinned with half his mouth. Somehow that little smirk made Cameron think of the big bad wolf. Made him flash back to that body sprawled, lean and powerful, over a small, lumpy bed. Made him remember one of those huge hands on a powerful, hard cock. He licked his lips.

‘Careful, lightning rider. I can smell your emotions.’ Then the wolf chuckled, bending to tie his work boot.

‘I – I’m sorry I spied on you.’ It was all Cameron could think to say.

Trace shrugged. Cameron watched his big shoulders flex with power. He was stunning with his huge body, big, fat attitude, and purple eyes. Just being so close to him made Cameron feel slow-witted and thick-tongued.

‘It was the most excitement I’ve had in ages,’ the wolf said and started to walk.

Cameron watched him go off, his heart sinking. He wanted the man to take his apology seriously. He also admitted to himself he wanted to be close to the wolf. There was no hope of anything happening between them. There was very little hope of anything happening for Cam with anyone. He’d come to terms with that long ago. But still, he could just be near Trace. Remembering the sight of his body and the sound of his voice just outside Cam’s barricaded bedroom door as he brought himself off.

Wolf at the door, he thought, and then shook it off.

Fifty feet away, Trace stopped, and Cameron felt his spine go rigid, his pulse pick up. The man turned to him and shielded his eyes from a bright beam of sunlight between the thick tree branches. ‘You gonna stand there all day admiring my ass, or are you coming?’

Cameron blinked, feeling a wild urge to laugh but pushing it away. ‘Yes! Right!’ he called, bouncing on his toes like one of those perky, hyper dogs. He blushed, but refused to let himself feel silly or embarrassed. He very much wanted to go along.

He hurried along the path until he was almost even with the wolf. Then Trace turned and continued to walk, Cameron right on his heels.

‘Why are you here?’ Trace asked.

The question stunned Cameron but he swallowed hard and tried to focus enough to answer. ‘Good question. I … work with weather. Lightning to be specific. I guess the best way to put it is I was nudged here.’

‘Like with voltage?’ Trace asked with a gruff laugh.

‘Yeah. Sadly, I do get nudged with voltage.’

The wolf turned those deep purple eyes on Cameron and said, ‘What for? What’s here?’

How did eyes get that colour? Cam wondered. Had he been born with them or was it a shifter thing? He had no idea; all he knew was they were the most amazing eyes he’d ever seen. And they were attached to one of the most amazing bodies he’d ever seen.

Trace cocked his head, giving a half grin. ‘Hello?’

‘Sorry! I was just looking –’ He flushed, caught in the act. ‘Your eyes, they’re amazing.’

That closed the bigger man down. He’d had a nice amused and open expression on his handsome face and that fast, it shut down like someone turning the lights off in an empty house. ‘Thanks. I guess. They’re the product of a very bad infection when I was a kid.’ He turned on his heels and kept walking without further explanation.

Cameron had to force himself to swallow. He had just complimented the first man he’d lusted after in goodness knew how many years on some sort of mutation? Something that clearly upset him when discussed. Good going, dumbass!

Cameron hurried along the patch, ducking reaching branches and praying there was no poison ivy to be found here in Divination Falls. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t know. And I don’t know what’s here. Or why I am,’ he gasped, finally catching up.

The wolf shrugged. He shot Cameron a sideways glance and said, ‘Why would you know what’s here?’ He stopped fast and Cam found himself almost crying out from the sudden shift in motion. ‘As for why you’re here, how could you not know that?’

‘I never really know until it’s revealed,’ Cameron said. He kept his gaze pinned at Trace’s chin so he wouldn’t get mesmerized by those stunning eyes that clearly upset the custodian.

‘Was it me, maybe?’ Trace asked, his lips twisting into a grin. ‘Was it secretly watching me jack off? Was that your big mission?’ He took a step toward Cameron which forced the lightning rider to step back. Or get crushed against an angry wolf.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cam breathed. ‘It wasn’t my intention and then I couldn’t …’ He shook his head. His skin was tingling and he wondered if he was going to get struck. Or worse yet, if Trace would strike him. ‘You might want to step back,’ he said without thinking.

‘Why is that?’ the wolf asked, taking a step forward. ‘Am I invading your space?’

‘I get it,’ Cam stammered. ‘I invaded your privacy. I’m no better than a pervert. I know! But you could get …’

The wind kicked up. It often did when he was frightened or excited and his blood leapt in his veins and his heart beat fast with arousal. His last lover had been zinged by energy one too many times and when some of his hair had actually caught fire, he’d bailed. Calling Cameron a freak in the process. Cam wasn’t up for either Trace being hurt or thinking him a freak.

‘I might get what? And it’s OK – you invaded my privacy, now give me an excuse to invade yours.’ He pushed his face closer and Cameron caught a flickering of animal shine in the man’s eyes. They turned golden around the very iris and a fast, steady pulse beat at the base of Trace’s neck. When he took Cameron’s wrist in his big hand and squeezed, Cam felt the air rush out of him. His cock pressed eagerly to his jeans and he tried his best to focus on something – anything! – besides the wolf so maybe his hard-on would abate. No such luck because Trace took his warm hand and very briefly cupped the evidence of arousal in Cam’s pants. ‘Looks like you’re still a bit worked up from last night.’

‘You were watching me in wolf form.’

‘I was.’

‘You heard me.’ It wasn’t a question. Very briefly, Cam wished for Trace to put his hand back. To touch him.

‘I did. I also smelled you and tasted you on the wind. Do you know when you come your breath does this shuddery little sigh thing?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it does.’

Beast in Me: Book 2 of the Divination Falls Trilogy is available now from:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

  

Bio

Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler), “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen),and "Erotica royalty..." (Lucy Felthouse).

Her erotic novels include Restless Spirit, Boys Next Door, Big Bad, Learning to Drown, Wanderlust and the Zombie Exterminator series. Sommer currently writes erotica and erotic romance for Xcite Books, eXcessica, Ellora's Cave, Pretty Things Press, Resplendence Publishing and Mischief Books. The wine-swigging, dachshund-owning, wannabe runner author writes work that runs the gamut from bondage to zombies to humor.

Sommer's short works can be found in well over one hundred (and counting) erotic anthologies. Her short stories have also been included numerous adult and romance magazines--both in print and online.Links

 
Blog: http://sommermarsden.blogspot.com
Goodreads: http://goodreads.com/sommer_marsden
Facebook: http://facebook.com/sommermarsden
Twitter: @sommer_marsden
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/sommermarsden

Back List Blast: Monsoon Fever

Monsoon Fever by Lisabet Sarai

M/M/F Historical Erotic Romance

Divine temptation lies in wait in an ancient and mysterious land.

In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs. Far from the bustle and distraction of London, left alone to endure the monsoon rains while Jon struggles to complete the final harvest, Priscilla realises how much she misses Jon's touch.

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

Excerpt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get your own copy of Monsoon Fever - also available as an audio book!

Back List Blast: Citadel of Women

Citadel of Women by Lisabet Sarai

M/F Multicultural Erotica

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

Excerpt

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

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

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

"Good?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read Citadel of Women now!