Sunday, June 30, 2013

Sunday Snog #84: Serpent's Kiss

I was scanning my past Sunday Snog posts today, trying to decide what book to excerpt for you this week and happened to notice that I've published a total of 83 previous snogs! That's a bit amazing, to me, and testifies to the trend-setting talents of Ms. Victoria Blisse!

Anyway, I've got a brand new kiss today, from years back - my Mayan-themed paranormal erotic romance Serpent's Kiss.

From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gates of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power.

Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos. She and Jorge fall in love, despite his dire predictions. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind - and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.

When you've finished savoring my snog, click on back to Victoria's page, for more succulent kisses.

He squeezed her hands. Desire raced through her, sharp, irrational, irresistible. “I’m sorry that I had to return and place you at risk once again. But I left something behind. Something important.”

“I know. I have it, hidden safely away.”

He searched her face, apparently trying to determine how much she knew about the feather. “Give it to me, then, and I’ll leave you in peace.”



“No—I don’t want you to go. I’ll give you the feather, but only if you promise to spend the night with me.” Listening to herself, Elena was appalled. What was she saying?

She had not planned this. She was keeping the feather for him and had honestly intended to return it. But now she wanted him, with a single-mindedness that drove out all reason. She would do anything to satisfy this uncharacteristic desire. She could not let him escape again.

He cupped her cheek in one of his strong brown hands. Elena nearly swooned.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Elena. It’s not possible.”

“I know what I want. What I need. And I won’t turn over the feather until you give it to me.”

He removed his hand, leaving her mourning for his touch. “I could force you.” His soft voice rang with power.

“Go ahead and try.” Elena’s words were defiant, but there were tears in her eyes.

“You don’t understand what you ask. If we couple, you and I, we will open the gates of chaos.” He hovered close, leaning over her, gazing into her eyes. His scent made her dizzy.

“I don’t care. So be it.”

His strong arms snaked around her body and pulled her to his chest. “So be it,” he whispered. “As the gods will.”

His mouth captured hers. He sucked away her breath, drained her of her strength. Then he swept his tongue across hers and everything flowed back—strength, breath, awareness, pleasure. She felt his tongue everywhere, on her aching nipples and in the liquid gap between her thighs, tickling the tender lobe of her ear, dancing in the hollow at the base of her throat. Yet she knew, with the tiny kernel of rationality that remained, that his lips had not left hers. This exquisite ballet of sensation was nothing more than an illusion. 

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Whipping Up a Hero

By M.K. Schiller (Guest Blogger)

Sorry if the title is misleading, but I hope I got your attention! I want to chat with you all about one of my favorite aspects of writing…creating characters, especially palatable protagonists. When I read a book, I want to identify with the heroine, but I desperately need to fall in love with the hero. I want a visceral reaction of my own – one that may induce swooning, sighing, and smirking when taken in large quantities. The substance of a great hero is a culmination of many internal and external factors, and the choices are like an endless buffet. It’s like your mother always said, ‘you won’t know if you like it, unless you try it.’

Recently, a critique partner told me the hero in my current work-in-progress was somewhat beta. I disagreed, choosing to view him as a gentle bodice ripper. The kind of man who will defend the heroine to his death, but does not actively look for a fight (he is a college math major after all). However, the comment made me think about how to marinade and season the perfect alpha/beta male specimen, so I started a list.

In my humble opinion, the ultimate hero is muscular, but not overly so... more swimmer than weight lifter. His eyes can be blue, green or red for all I care, but they have to be sparkling or mischievous. Sprinkle in some unique character traits like jagged scars, meaningful tattoos (not overly done), or boyish dimples to add zest. As for danger, it has to make sense or it will overpower your creation. He’s not dangerous because he’s stupid. He’s dangerous because he’s protecting someone (probably our heroine), or he works in a field that commands it. I’m not into bad boys without a purpose.

My hunky hero is savory and sweet. He’s incredibly smart and successful, but occasionally silly and spontaneous too. The kind of guy that can laugh at himself. He’s loyal even if he doesn’t realize it. He’s cocky enough to be confident about his sex appeal, but not conceited. He’s the jealous type, but not obsessive. He has angst…lots and lots of angst to pepper his character. Women are nurturing in general, and this ingredient makes the final dish more mouth-watering. Then again, maybe he’s just normal and has the right amount of sugar to cure our acidic heroine. Add in a heaping cup of charm, a pinch of fury (for drama), a teaspoon of selfishness (to make him real), a hearty dash of rebellion (I like my food spicy), and there you have it! My recipe for a yummy hero, Witches of Eastwick style. It’s pretty cool to be an author!

It’s not enough to just describe him though, because I think many women would have similar ingredients in their cupboards, and we don’t want all our dishes to taste the same (most embarrassing when you’re at a potluck). So, let me give you some examples. If you’ve ever seen Jerry McGuire, I love Tom Cruise’s character…yes, he had me at hello. He was a self-absorbed, fickle man that didn’t see his flaws, until he meets the heroine and her adorable little boy. Then there’s George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life –I know it’s not a romance, but I love this movie. A very different hero who sets aside his own life for others, yet he always felt cheated by the sacrifices he made, until a certain angel crosses his path. Finally, there is Christian Grey from Fifty Shades of Grey fame. I know there are some differing opinions here, but there’s something to be said about a man who’s both powerful and vulnerable. If you had told me a few years ago I’d find a man who got off on dominating woman and had mommy issues irresistible, I’d say you were crazy, but that’s exactly what E.L. James did. She made me fall for that man. Now, I love dominating men as much as fiery shrimp Gumbo. 

Isn’t that what a good story should do - make you think outside the box, or in this case, the casserole pan? The three examples above probably have you wondering if I’ve lost my mind, but the reality is, like the food we eat, the hero we choose to love is subjective. You may not love my hero choices, and if they were placed in another time or setting I might not love them either. It takes too much or not enough of one ingredient to spoil the whole pot. That’s what’s so great about an enticing hero - he’s flavorful, but everyone’s taste buds are different. No matter what your preference is, always heat on high and serve piping hot!

I am honored that Lisabet asked me on her blog. I am new employee at the hero factory, with my debut novel set to come out on July 26th from Total-E-Bound, but I do love a tasty hero. I would love to hear from all of you. Please leave a comment about what traits you like in a protagonist either physical or emotional. Give specific examples if you can. One lucky commenter will receive a $10 US Amazon gift card. Just send me an email (make sure it’s the same email you want the gift card sent to) to mk @ mkschillerauthor dot com with a copy of your comments and link. I’ll enter you in the drawing to take place on July 13. Please note I won’t keep your email addresses unless you specifically ask to be on my email distribution list.

Also, please consider picking up a copy of The Other C-Word, my debut novel and let me know if you think my hero is a recipe worth passing around.

The Other C-Word will be available from Total-E-Bound on July 26th and all other sites in late August.


Can she overcome her consuming desire for him? Can he make her comfortable with the other C-word…commitment?

Marley Mason is dreading the arrival of the new business consultant. After all, this man will most likely outsource her job to China. The last thing she would expect is a case of mistaken identity, leading to false accusations of kidnapping when she attempts to pick up the wrong man at the airport, or worse…that she would have such a visceral reaction to the right man.

Rick Randy is super sexy, scandalously flirty and perfect masturbation material, but a relationship is out of the question. Rick is contracted on a temporary basis to fix Marley’s ailing company, and then pull out, although as he expresses to Marley, pulling out is difficult for him, in more ways than one! Marley’s feelings range from utter confusion to intense contemplation as Rick charms his way into her life. All of those C-words Marley can control, but it’s the other C-word she fears—commitment.


MK Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. Every evening, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, and conjures up handsome heart-warming heroes and the vivacious heroines they love. Although she loves to write, she is a reader first and enjoys nothing more than curling up with a good book and some tasty Italian (the food, of course!).

Friday, June 28, 2013

No Gentleman is He

By Carly Bauer and Lynette Willows (Guest Bloggers)

[I asked my guests Carly and Lynette to talk about women in Colonial times. Is their heroine Cassandra, who takes on a job as an estate steward, realistic? Could a woman have done that sort of work in the Revolutionary period? ~ Lisabet]

When Lynette Willows and I began writing the Sons of Liberty series, Cassandra and Colton were our first characters. She created Colton Rolfe along with his background, while I created Cassandra Brooks and her background. As an interesting aside, we did not discuss the type of characters we would create. We work very well together when we throw each other a curve ball. When the idea of Cassandra began to take shape in my mind, I knew I wanted a strong heroine. One who understood the rules of the time, and yet was able to have wiggle room. I gave great consideration to her constitution and mettle in No Gentleman Is He as being a believable character during 1775 Virginia.

Cassandra's background was the daughter of a titled Englishman. That allowed me to create her as young woman who was taught to manage a large estate at the elbow of her mother. Training which would have secured the position as the wife of a prosperous Englishman. A position she likely would not have questioned had the Englishman not been an aging man of little interest to her. Her love of the equine created the background necessary to push her into the head stableman's arms, and eventually to the shores of Virginia. It is certainly no stretch that our heroine arrived in the colonies a new bride, nor would it be out of the ordinary for her husband to die, leaving her near destitution.

The era only partly allows this character to interact believably. The location plays a large part, as well. Cassandra, though knowing how to adhere to societal rules, could not have broken them in such a blatant manner had the setting been New England. On a rural Virginia plantation however, she could cast some of those rules aside with less outrage. Later in the book, it becomes evident where she inherited her adventurous spirit.

Colton, our hero is a dark, mysterious man whose past is only spoken of in bits and pieces. His life is his work at Varina Farms, his only true love, the horses he raised. That Cassandra was left with the four American Horse breeds when her husband dies, the opportunistic Colton saw favorable circumstance that would allow him to attain those horses for the foundation of his new breeding line. Cassandra, in dire straits, was the perfect target of his scheme. That she was not as naive as he might have believed, adds to her intelligence. I loved bringing into light our heroine's savvy.

Her work on Varina Farms fits in well with adoration and training with horses. That the war for independence is on their heels, catapulting her into a few dubious situations is no more than what many women faced during those hard, raw times in America.

It is also worth noting that Lynette and gave as much consideration to our characters plausibility as we did to the facts of the timeline we chose.

Young, adventurous and widowed in a new land, Cassandra Courtney Brooks finds her dream of raising a superior breed of saddle horse slipping away with the death of her husband. Left with four horses, living in a tavern attic, and her scant savings depleting, she resolves to see her vision through to fruition by accepting the scandalous position of steward at Varina Farms.

Born in the image of his native ancestry, Colton Rolfe’s savage blood runs through his veins. Scorned by his father, Colt grew into a man of ill temperament whose only interest is the wild equine beasts on his plantation. His desire to breed his horses with the superior Thoroughbreds of the newly widowed Cassandra Brooks leads him to abandon societal rules. Colt’s growing resentment toward the Crown and his assistance to Sons of Liberty missions is complicated by the discovery that Cassandra’s father is a titled English nobleman.

Cassandra is soon forced to question the wisdom of her decision when she finds herself enamored with her employer. As fiery passion grows between them, Cassandra realizes her own spirit of independence, love of the land, and the savage man who is so much a part of it.
As the threat of war comes ever closer, wills are tested through gunfire, treachery, danger, and kidnapping. Does Colt dare trust Cassandra with Sons of Liberty secrets? More importantly, can he trust her with his heart? And will Colt ever trust Cassandra enough to love her as she longs to be loved?
Let me go!” she screamed. “You…you gargoyle!”

Colton’s arm wrapped about her shoulder, pulling her head in close as he moved his mouth over hers with a deep, insistent kiss. Despite her protests and beating against his chest, she found herself weakening. Damn him, damn him all to hell for the power he has over me.

He kept hold of her when their kiss ended, his eyes looking into hers. “See how much more pleasant this ride can be?”

You are a madman, Colton Rolfe. You have completely taken leave of your senses.” She seethed, as angry at herself for giving in as she was at him for such madness.

No.” He smiled at her. “I have come to my senses.”

Are you going to share with me where you are taking me?”

You will know soon enough. Now kiss me again, woman.” He leaned in to enjoy her taste.

She leaned in too and bit his bottom lip.

Crazy woman, what the hell!” He yanked his head back, his tongue gingerly checking for blood.

Serves you right!”

You are incorrigible.” He wrapped his arm around her, lifted and put her over the saddle like a sack of potatoes. “If I had known you would be so troublesome, I would have thought twice,” he grumbled.

About the Authors
Lynette Willows
I’m Lynette Willows. I live in rural Alberta, Canada. My debut novel, No Gentleman Is He, the first in the Sons of Liberty series, is co-written along with my partner in romance, Carley Bauer.
Some have mentioned I have a very interesting past. Not only was it unusual, but some would even say reckless. I’ve lived on an Indian reserve in a teepee with my young son for three months in the winter, I’ve chased storms, and worked as a social services aide on one of the most troubled and dangerous reserves in Canada, where I met great friends as well as made a few enemies.
I enjoy camping, movies, especially historical bio dramas, strange dogs, stranger cats, exclamation points, coffee mugs with stupid sayings, friends, the crazier the better, family, as long as they are crazier than I am, and I have a huge collection of shiny, outrageous earrings. Yes, I’m a magpie. I’ll only play chess with my husband because he’ll let me win.
If you’re curious about my favorite reading material, it’s very eclectic and varied. I’m extremely picky about what I read, so check out my “to read” list on Goodreads. You can also follow me and Carley, my talented, patient, and illustrious co-author at our fan page on Facebook at “Lynette Willows & Carley Bauer”. I’m also on Twitter under @LynetteWillows, as well as Pinterest, though I’m still figuring that out. You are welcome to also visit me and chat at “Lynette Willows, Author” at

I have enormous respect for the reader. They are able to take symbols from a page that an author has invented, and turn them into images in their minds that create an enduring story. If that’s not artistry, I don’t know what is.”-Lynette Willows

Carley Bauer

Carley Bauer enjoys life on the eastern seaboard of the U.S. with her husband and their blue eyed feline, Noelle. After 30 years as a state contractor in a self employed capacity, she decided to try her hand at her first love, writing. 
She loves being an empty nester, free to travel with her husband. Still involved with her children and grandchildren, Carley loves big family events. Some of her other hobbies are home decor, fashion, graphic arts, and the occasional bite of the Big Apple where the excitement feeds her natural love of city life.


Email: carleybauer210[at]

No Gentleman Is He available for purchase at:
[This post is part of Carly's and Lynette's blog tour. There will be two winners drawn at the end of the tour. Winner 1 will receive a lovely pair of colonial era  earrings (U.S. only please due to shipping constraints); Winner 2 will receive a $100 Amazon GC.]

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Down with DOMA!

I woke up this morning to some excellent news. The United States Supreme Court has ruled that the infamous Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is unconstitutional. I haven't read the detailed arguments so I don't know how sweeping a change this decision involves. I gather that the legal challenge was based on the fact that LGBT couples who are legally married in states that permit gay marriage have been denied federal benefits normally available to spouses.Talk about unfair!

In any case, it's one more brick torn from the wall of discrimination, and I'm definitely celebrating! As are many same-sex couples around the country, I'm sure.

To celebrate, I'm sharing a gay marriage excerpt from my M/M paranormal novel Necessary Madness.  And for every comment, I'll donate one dollar to the Lambda Legal Defense Fund, a group that has been in the forefront of the struggle for marriage equality.

Elspeth had decided to marry them in the sunroom. The big glass panes were laced with frost filigree. Candles flickered on all the sills. Outside, the half moon turned the fresh-fallen snow to a glittering blanket of white.

The witch and justice of the peace wore a long red skirt and a white blouse with an antique silver brooch at the throat. She stood with her back to the yard, holding her book. Kyle and Rob faced her, holding hands. The guests clustered around on both sides, some sitting, some standing, all of them smiling. Crowley surveyed the proceedings from his usual spot in the rocker.
Elspeth looked around the room. The murmur of conversation died away. Silence reigned. Kyle’s heartbeat was loud in his ears, but as the moment of peace lengthened, his pulse slowed, his breathing deepened, and his anxiety evaporated. This was not a dream, not some product of his fevered imagination. This was real, his true future. He could trust it. It would not fade away.
Rob squeezed his hand. Kyle looked up, into eyes so full of love he thought he’d drown. Yes, he broadcast to his lover. Anything. Always.

Robert Francis Murphy, do you take this man, Kyle Dylan McLaughlin, to be your lawfully wedded spouse…” Elspeth began.

I do,” Kyle heard Rob say, in a firm, confident voice, for the assembled and for the world to hear.


Wednesday, June 26, 2013

The Truth Behind the Tiger – and a Giveaway!

By Bebe Balocca (Guest Blogger)

My latest release is a paranormal romance called The Curse of the Tiger. It features an evil witch, shape shifting, a tiger refuge in Colorado, and plenty of hot erotic scenes, naturally. The inspiration behind the book, though, started south of the border.

We’ve vacationed several times in Playa del Carmen, south of Cancun. It’s a fun tourist town with fabulous shops and restaurants, and of course those gorgeous Caribbean beaches. Cruise ships pop in and deposit visitors, too, so the locals all vie for those tourist bucks.

It’s pretty common to see a dude with a huge iguana, offering to let people pose with the lizard for a little cash. The great big reptiles are a little off-putting, but they’re also all over the place in Mexico. We saw them sunning on ruins and slipping through the shrubbery.

Less commonly, vendors would have other, more exotic photo ops: baby monkeys, jaguars, and tigers. There would be a poster offering an explanation, something to the tune of “Poor little orphan, found and lovingly tended by this caring individual.” Except that’s rarely, if ever, the case. Many people believe the young, non-orphan animals are captured in the wild to be displayed while they’re manageable and cute. When they get too big to be useful, they’re killed or kept in cages as status symbols for the rest of their lives. It’s not a happy situation for the animals, any way you cut it.

As with just about everything, there are two sides to the story. I get that people need to eat, and I do value people more than animals. The practice gets food on tables for people who might not otherwise have it, and yet… I don’t like it. I want it to stop. So, we refrain from interacting with and giving money to the animal handlers when we travel. When the opportunity arises, we encourage others to do the same, in the hopes that people will decide it’s not worth the bother to capture a jaguar cub for tourist snapshots.

In The Curse of the Tiger, a witch runs a roadside exotic animal zoo next to her gas station. She buys some of her animals, but has more unsavory means of procuring exhibits, too. True to her witchy nature, the animals are kept in deplorable conditions. The animal abuse theme in “Curse” is light handed, but it’s definitely there.

And what’s all this got to do with erotic romance, you’re wondering? Most of us can agree that animal cruelty is a bad thing, but it’s certainly not sexy. True, true. It is, however, a topic worth thinking about. I’ve touched on over-development ruining the flavor of a small Kentucky town in Bubbles and Troubles, and my second release, A Ghost on Two Wheels, deals with the crushing pain of grief. Serious topics, sure, but I see plenty of other erotica and erotic romance authors who sometimes get into deep, dark themes in the books and stories. I value lighthearted reads that make me laugh, scare me, and turn me on, but I also savor a book that brings up the serious stuff. The erotica and erotic romance genres have room for everything.

Do you like it when an erotic romance or erotica book brings up serious topics, or is it a total turn-off? I’d love to know in the comments—and I’ll be sending a FREE ebook copy of The Curse of the Tiger to one lucky commenter. Be sure to include your email address so I can find you if you win!

Thanks so much for stopping by, and many thanks to Lisabet for inviting me over.


She knew that being close to tigers was her destiny, but she never thought she'd be riding on top of one…
Faline Hopper owns and runs a free-range tiger refuge in northeastern Colorado. She loves the animals and the mission of Kat’s Crest, but the sanctuary is on the verge of financial disaster. A mysterious stranger with deep pockets comes to its rescue.
Hunter Cartwright is one tall, cool drink of Alabama water. Sparks fly immediately when he shows up at Faline’s door. He’s ravenous for the blond beauty, but there’s something he needs to make Faline understand before he can really sink his teeth into her.
Something that happens at sundown, when the tigers roam the sanctuary and the nightly hunts begin…
The curse of the tiger was cast by a Native American witch. Abetzi rejects the Great Spirit and worships a powerful demon instead. Faline is determined to free Hunter from the witch’s spell and to stop Abetzi from abusing exotic animals, but at what price?
Will Faline risk everything to put a halt to Abetzi’s cruelty—And will it be worth it?


Faline threw the door open when he knocked. Hunter guessed by her wide smile that she’d assumed that one of her workers had returned. “Oh, hi,” she said, her buoyant smile replaced by a slightly abashed expression. “Hunter, right? Come on in.”

He nodded, running his eyes up and down her slim figure. Still in her sweatpants and hot pink tank top, Faline’s body was athletic, toned and lushly curved, and her hair was a tantalising blonde mop of bedheaded perfection. How many days had he gone without being around a beautiful woman? The hag had made his captivity seem like years, but it had been only a matter of weeks. Still, the way the thin ribbed cotton hugged the toned curve of her belly and the tender undersides of her breasts made him want to pounce on her and rip every shred of clothing from her body.

Clearing his throat, Hunter answered with a lopsided grin. “Yes, indeed. I slipped out while you were resting, but I’d like to talk with you about a possible position.” He suppressed a chuckle. I’d like to talk about having you positioned on your stomach with your legs spread wide…

“Oh, yes,” Faline answered. “Honestly, hiring someone new hasn’t been a remote possibility for some time, but it seems our situation has changed a great deal.” Her hazel eyes sparkled. “What sort of position were you considering?”

“Oh, I’m open to just about anything,” Hunter replied. “But I’ve had more than my fair share of dealings with tigers. I feel that I have a unique understanding of them.” The scream of a soaring hawk drew his attention to the window. “Be dark pretty soon,” he noted. “Guess those tigers will be up and about, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Faline answered. “They hunt at night.” Hunter felt her gaze on him and knew that she was both intrigued and wary about the stranger in her home.

“I don’t need any money, so you don’t need to worry about that. I’d just like to volunteer my services and let you decide how best to use me.” Hunter let his eyes wander down to her slim, tanned neck. She looked so vulnerable and sweet. He imagined that she’d taste of honey and salt. He wondered if she was even stronger than she looked—would she enjoy grappling with him while they made love? That could be, he thought, incredibly fun. His cock began to swell and stiffen inside the coarse fabric of his blue jeans.

“I will need somewhere to stay, though,” he murmured, and took a step toward her. “Maybe we can work something out between us.”

“Oh, um,” Faline stammered and licked her lips. “We could talk about your options, I suppose. I’d say I probably do have a place for you, now that you mention it, seeing as you’re comfortable with tigers.”

“I don’t know if ‘comfortable’ is the right word.” He took his hand in hers and brought it to his lips. “’Experienced’ is better, I think. I’d say I’m pretty experienced.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles and watched for her reaction. “Would you say that you’re experienced, too, Faline?”

About Bebe Balocca:

I live in a teeny-tiny town in the southeastern United States, surrounded by rolling hills and lots of cows. My house is brimming with my rowdy sons, hot husband, and more pets than I can shake a stick at. When I close my eyes, though, I’m in a white stucco villa on the Mediterranean, sipping red wine and watching the turquoise waves crash at my feet. Next to my hot husband, naturally.

Bebe’s blog:

Bebe on Twitter: @BebeBalocca

Bebe on Amazon:

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Congratulations to my winners!

I want to thank everyone who participated in my Rajathani Moon blog tour. I had a fabulous time - I hope you did too.

Major congratulations go to Linda B., who won the grand prize, a $50 bookstore gift certificate. I hope she'll spend at least some of that loot on books written by me LOL!

I also gave away free ebooks to Andra, Renee, BN100, H.B., Penumbra, Mary, Karen, Catherine, Jen, Desiree, Erin and Erin.

Want to get first notice of all my giveaways? Join my Yahoo group Lisabet's List

Or, if you'd rather stay away from YaHell, send me an email at lisabet -- at -- lisabetsarai -- dot -- com and ask to be added to my private email list. I guarantee not to share your email with anyone else. If  you decide you want to be removed, all you have to do is ask.

By the way, my tour was organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. If you're an author looking for promo help, I recommend that you contact them. They did a great job, in my opinion. (This is an unsolicited plug.)

Monday, June 24, 2013

Welcome the Queen of Suspense

[Today I'm hosting a blog tour by my fellow Books We Love author Joan Hall Hovey - the queen of suspense. Read on for more about her fabulous work! ~ Lisabet]

Nowhere To Hide by Joan Hall Hovey
Eppie Winner ~ Best Thriller - 1992

She dared to challenge a merciless killer.

Raised in an atmosphere of violence and unpredictability, Ellen and Gail Morgan have banded together, survivors of a booze-fertilized battleground, forming a fierce united front against an often cold and uncaring world. When their parents are killed in a car crash, Ellen becomes the mother figure for Gail.

When fifteen years later Gail is brutally raped and murdered in her shabby New York basement apartment, practically on the eve of her big breakthrough as a singer, Ellen is inconsolable. Rage at her younger sister's murder has nearly consumed her. So when her work as a psychologist wins her an appearance on the evening news, Ellen seizes the moment. Staring straight into the camera, she challenges the killer to come out of hiding: "Why don't you come after me? I'll be waiting for you."
Phone calls flood the station, but all leads go nowhere. The police investigation seems doomed to failure. Then it happens: a note, written in red ink, slipped under the windshield wipers of her car, 'YOU'RE IT.' Ellen has stirred the monster in his lair … and the hunter has become the hunted!

Defective by Joan Hovey Hall

Therapist Melanie Snow is driving to her office when her Honda is struck by a dark-colored van and sent spinning into a ditch, where it catches fire. The driver never stops. A passerby pulls Melanie from the car just seconds before it explodes.

Waking from the coma nine days later, she is devastated to find she is blind.

As Melanie struggles to cope with her new reality, life as a blind woman, her fragile state of mind is further threatened by a madman who is stalking and strangling disabled women. The first two victims were mentally challenged and Detective Matt O’Leary, who carries a torch for Melanie, (even though Melanie is engaged to someone else) tells himself she is not the killer’s targeted prey. But then a woman who lost a leg to cancer is murdered, and another physically disabled woman is stalked. Even with a whole town in terror, Melanie refuses to live her life in fear and reopens her practice in the basement of her home. She has a living to earn.

And Detective Matt O’Leary must find a way to keep Melanie safe until the monster is caught. But how? Her door is now open to the public and the killer can just walk through anytime he chooses.
And he does.

Excerpt from Defective

It was mid-afternoon, overcast, and The East End Mall in Kingsdale was crowded with shoppers. The Eraser, as he liked to think of himself, sat at one of the molded plastic tables by himself, nursing a Pepsi and eating fries from a small cardboard plate, and people watching. It was one of his favorite things to do, especially in nice weather when the girls wore shorts or tight jeans, some with their tanned midriffs bare, skimpy tops that showed off their boobs and skinny jeans that accentuated their tight little butts. Why not? He was a normal guy, he told himself. He avoided looking at the ones with flab hanging over their waistbands. He had girlfriend once or twice, but it didn't last. The last one said he was weird and just stopped returning his calls. Well, to hell with her.

His eye strayed momentarily to the big screen monitor advertising Nike sneakers. Then it changed to a rent-a-car commercial and on to something else, but he'd already looked away. Idly dipping a French fry in the small pool of ketchup on his plate, he popped it in his mouth and went back to girl-watching. They did little for him today. His hand moved to cover the scratch that the retard left on his cheek, though it was fading now. That Polysporin ointment was good stuff.

Music played over the sound system, competing with the jabbering of shoppers, nothing he recognized. Probably supposed to keep people shopping, buying junk they didn't need. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly as a young girl with a silver ring in her lower lip and wearing black eyeliner got up from a table not far from him and limped heavily to the waste bin and dumped in the remainder of her meal, a half-eaten hamburger, fries. She sat the tray on top of the stack. Behind her, someone called out, "Hey, Lana," and the girl turned in his direction and took a step forward so he could see her full-length; she looked past his shoulder and waved. He felt his heartbeat rev up, his throat go dry.

She had short dark hair, and was wearing a khaki skirt and cream-colored blouse. Her dimpled smile, the gleam of white, even teeth barely registered on him. He didn't even glance behind him at the woman who had called out to her. He had no interest. As he had no genuine interest in the woman who returned the wave, really.

No. It was her foot in its big brown shoe that drew and held his attention. Not brown exactly, but like tea when you put milk in it. Taupe. Yes, that was what his mother called that color. It was all he could see when he looked at her: that big clunking shoe. So ugly it offended him, as deformities of any kind offended him. Even horrified him. A chill had crept down his back. He had to work extra hard to keep the disgust and pity from his face. She was a mistake. A blight, a tragic spawn. She must be erased. Like when you're a kid and you draw a picture of something and it doesn't come out right. You just erase it. Or rip out the page, and start again.

He was the eraser of mistakes. The good Lord had chosen him to do this work. Not that he was blaming God. No, there was no blame to be handed out here. Some small voice told him his reasoning was flawed, that that wasn't why they had to die. But he wasn't listening. As people were born of sin, women carried the faulty limbs, twisted features and minds within them. Carriers. As his mother had been a carrier, her womb spewing forth a defective, barely human—thing. Not the defective's fault either. But since the flaw couldn't be repaired, the whole issue had to be erased. The burden lifted. The Eraser held that kind of power; he could end suffering, change lives for the better. He remembered well the very moment he had changed his own life but no time for that now. She was heading for the exit doors. He rose casually from his chair, tossing the remainder of his own fries and drink into the trash, dropped his tray on top of hers, and followed. He was really following the 'shoe'. His eyes were riveted on the shoe. It filled his vision, his consciousness. That big, ugly shoe that rose and fell, rose and fell, her left hip dipping in sync, the shoe dragging it downward, seeming an entity in itself. When she stepped through the automatic doors into the grey, drizzly day, he was right behind her. Close enough to touch her. He buried his hands deep in his pockets to stifle the urge.

The bus pulled up with a hiss of air brakes and a belch of exhaust, and she hitched herself up onto the step. He followed, paid his fare. His bike was chained and locked in the parking lot; it would be fine. She took a side seat near the driver, and he sat himself two seats behind her and pretended to look out the window.

In the grayness of the day, his reflection in the glass was faint, but almost at once he could see his reflection begin to morph into that of another, as she had once been. A raindrop ran down the window and caught one corner of her mouth like the drool he remembered, couldn't forget, and he could not tear his eyes away. The small voice in his head spoke to him, sending the familiar chill through him, as if his heart had just received an infusion of ice water. The voice could form words now, where once it was capable only of mindless gibberish. "You know it's me in there, don't you. I'm watching you. I've come back. I'll always come back. I'll never leave you."

"No! No!"

Fearing he had cried out, he jerked his head around in sudden panic, but no one on the bus was looking at him. One man was reading a newspaper. A woman was talking and smiling at her little boy. Relief swept through him, but he was trembling just the same. A Chinese man seated across from him turned the page in his paperback, paying him no mind.

The girl had put earphones in her ears and her lips were moving to a song only she could hear. Her legs were crossed, the shoe swinging in time, mocking him.


In addition to her critically acclaimed novels, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Toronto Star, Atlantic Advocate, Seek, Home Life Magazine, Mystery Scene, The New Brunswick Reader, Fredericton Gleaner, New Freeman and Kings County Record. Her short story "Dark Reunion" was selected for the anthology Investigating Women, Published by Simon & Pierre.
Ms. Hovey has held workshops and given talks at various schools and libraries in her area, including New Brunswick Community College, and taught a course in creative writing at the University of New Brunswick. For a number of years, she has been a tutor with Winghill School, a distance education school in Ottawa for aspiring writers.
She is a member of the Writer's Federation of New Brunswick, past regional Vice-President of Crime Writers of Canada, Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.

Defective on Amazon:

Nowhere to Hide on Amazon:

Praise for Joan Hall Hovey’s Books

“…suspense that puts her right up there with the likes of Sandford and Patterson..." Ingrid Taylor for Small Press Review

 "...Alfred Hitchcock and Stephen King come to mind, but JOAN HALL HOVEY is in a Class by herself!…" J.D. Michael Phelps, Author of My Fugitive, David Janssen

"…CANADIAN MISTRESS OF SUSPENSE…The author has a remarkable ability to turn up the heat on the suspense… great characterizations and dialogue…" James Anderson, author of Deadline
"...a gripping style that wrings emotions from everyday settings. Oh and by the way your door locked?" Linda Hersey - Fredericton Gleaner

"...will keep readers holding their breath until the very end..." inthelibraryreview, Melissa Parcel
"This one is a chiller - you won't be able to put it down - guaranteed!"- Rendezvous Magazine
"If you are looking for the suspense thriller of the year-look no further…you will find it in Nowhere To Hide..." Jewel Dartt Midnight Scribe Reviews

By the way - Joan will award one randomly drawn commenter a $50 gift certificate for sunglasses at Sunglasses Shack (US/Canada only).

The more you comment; the better your chances of winning. The tour dates can be found here:

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Last Excerpt, Last Chance to Win

Greetings, everyone, and happy Snog Day!

My Rajasthani Moon tour officially finished on Friday, but I'm giving readers an extra day or two to catch up before I pick my winners. You'll find direct links to all the tour posts (including bonus posts) at the end of today's entry.

Meanwhile I've got one last excerpt for you - a rather filthy bit of BDSM that includes the briefest of kisses.

Leave a comment (with your email) and I'll add that as an entry for the tour grand prize!

And don't forget to visit Blisse Kiss Central for more sexy snoggery!

“Are you sure you can you take it, Cecily?” Amir taunted. He didn’t wait for her answer, though. His probing fingers disappeared from her rear, to be replaced by a hard, solid bulk that felt much, much larger. He rubbed it back and forth across her sphincter, letting her feel how well lubricated it was, then pushed.

For a moment, nothing happened. An awful pressure built against the loosened ring of muscle. “Ooh…Aye…”

“Open for me, pet. Let me in.” She wanted to open to him, she really did. The plug was just too big, though. There was no way it could ever make it inside. And it hurt, stretching her tender orifice as he increased the pressure, unyielding, relentless…

Amir relaxed for an instant. She sucked air into her lungs, hovering between relief and regret. Then he gave a vicious thrust and the obscene thing breached her portal, filling her with shameful delight.

At the same instant, the devil twisted her clit, sending her crashing into climax.

Cecily released a wail that echoed from the high ceilings. Convulsions racked her body—she would have tumbled off the bench had she not been secured. Fire raced back and forth in a circuit from her arse to her clit and back again. Pleasure and pain reverberated through her, each stoking the other.

Amir didn’t touch her again until she lay quiet, shivering and gasping like a beached fish on the sweat-slicked leather. Then he pushed the plug deeper into her rear channel, scraped his fingernail over her clit, and sent her back into awful, glorious crisis.

“No more,” she begged, when she recovered from her latest spend. “I can’t bear it.”

“Enough?” Amir’s mockery had no power to touch her. She was too far gone to care. “Are you sure?” Very, very gently, he ran a slick finger through her folds, drawing her just to the edge. The plug seemed to vibrate inside her, though she was fairly sure the device wasn’t motorised.

“Enough for now,” she replied, her voice weak as a ghost’s.

He crouched by her side, blocking the view. “You’re doing well, pet.” When he brushed his lips across hers, her pussy clenched around emptiness and she thought, for an agonised instant, that she’d come again. “I’m going to leave you for a while, here with the plug in your anus, so that it can stretch you out. Just an hour or so.”

“An hour? Oh no—no, please don’t go away…I don’t want to be alone, Amir, not when I’m bound. Remember what happened last time…”

His handsome face darkened briefly before he nodded. “Very well. Let me go get the book I’m reading, then I’ll stay with you until it’s time to remove the plug.”

“Thank you,” Cecily breathed, closing her eyes. Her limbs felt like jelly. Indeed, she was glad to have the security of the bonds, just as Amir had promised. “Thank you, sir.” 


Here are direct links to all the posts in my tour. Every comment (with your email) counts as an entry toward the $50 grand prize!

June 10
June 11
June 11 - Bonus
June 12
June 13
June 14
June 17
June 18
June 18 - Bonus
June 18 - Bonus
June 19
June 20
June 21

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Love, and Grey’s Anatomy

By Genevieve Bergeron (Guest Blogger)

It’s been almost ten months—my how time flies—since I’ve been a contributor on “Beyond Romance.” First, a warm “thank you!” to the lovely Lisabet Sarai for inviting me to post about my debut erotica last year as well as another “thanks!” for inviting me back to announce the release of my second novella, Sorry, Bro, a steamy M/M/M from Total E-Bound.

Since Sorry, Bro’s release about two weeks ago, a number of friends have asked me why I had chosen to write a medical-themed romance. “It’s so weird,” said one well-meaning friend. I was surprised by the question—aren’t a good number of romances set in hospitals?
I provided a two-word answer: Grey’s Anatomy.

Yes, I’m that girl. Everything I know about doctors and hospitals is based on a single television show. Yet, I think Grey’s Anatomy, with its runaway popularity among television viewers the world over, teaches us a valuable lesson about life and love. The show presents love and apathy (and hatred) and life and death, two universally experienced dichotomies, side-by-side. And as we see our favorite characters struggle daily with life and death, we recognize how much more important love and relationships are.

Hence, my story, wherein it takes a life-threatening accident to bring two best friends back together—and to recognize the love they’ve always shared.

Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment (with your email) and I'll enter you in a drawing for a free book from my backlist!




Still aching from the mistakes and denials of his past, this ER nurse could heal anyone but himself…until now.

Handsome, athletic and intelligent, twenty-six-year-old Bryce should be living the high life.

But he’s far from it.

After shunning his best baseball buddy in high school, dropping out of medical school and fleeing New York to put down roots—if only shallow ones—in New Orleans, Bryce is uncertain about both his past and his future. Working long hours as a low-level nurse and confined by a sexless relationship with a questionably devoted girlfriend, Bryce can’t shake the feeling that things should be somehow better now he’s escaped the confusion and indecision of his former life.

Yet when the ghost of Bryce’s high school past, the handsome and charismatic Tim, shows up injured in the ER, Bryce’s already turbulent emotions engulf him in a vortex of confusion and regret. Haunted by his own insensitivity towards Tim eight years before, Bryce first finds comfort in the powerful arms of a resident surgeon he barely knows, then gives Tim the explosive, cataclysmic relief he had denied him in high school. 
As Bryce comes to terms with his sexuality and recognises his undeniable attraction to both men, he must decide, once and for all, where his fidelity—and his desires—lie. 


Bryce’s chest and abs retained the tell-tale glisten of the balmy New Orleans weather. As the cool air of the hospital locker room washed over him, goosebumps spread across Bryce’s back, prickling the short, dark hairs on his forearms and in the valley between his pecs. He shivered, and his nipples hardened as he pulled his white V-neck swiftly up over his head.

"Fuck," Bryce breathed.

He could dry at least of a few of the droplets of cold sweat from his body before he got dressed. Bryce ran his damp shirt roughly across his shoulders and around his lower back before balling the fabric in his hands and tossing it into the bottom of the open locker in front of him.

Bryce had ridden his rusted, hand-me-down bicycle up Esplanade Street, across North Rampart and a mile into the Central Business District, and the whole way, his body had seemed to pull humidity towards it. An otherwise leisurely ride had left him completely damp and uncomfortably chilled once he had arrived at the hospital to change into his scrubs. By now, the bumpy journey across the glass-littered, cracked sidewalks and potholed streets had become a well-practiced performance.

Summer in New Orleans made Bryce yearn for a beach—even a desert, anywhere without so much sticky humidity. Or better, for a job that would afford him a car, with air conditioning, to ride to work in.

Bryce’s hard nipples burned in the chilled air, and his skin tingled. He and his girlfriend, Tatum, hadn’t had sex in over three weeks—and his body knew it. His bed—now, at least—was colder than the artificial chill in the hospital locker room.

Bryce had come to New Orleans from New Jersey to escape two things—a routine life and the cold.
Against his parents’ wishes, he had followed his high school girlfriend, Jennifer, to medical school in New York. Soon afterward, he’d dropped out to study nursing. In New York, so close to his family, and so close to the same girlfriend he’d had since he had been fourteen, it was hard to escape routine. Work, subway, sleep, tired sex, work, subway, sleep, more tired—and unfulfilling—sex.

After finishing nursing school, Bryce had figured he could find a new beginning in New Orleans. Everything was different—different scenery, different people, different weather, a different hospital. That had been nearly a year ago. "Damn," Bryce breathed. An entire year.

Nothing had changed. Not really. Maybe the food was richer in the south, and maybe the weather was hotter and balmier. And maybe his girlfriend was named Tatum and not Jennifer, but everything was fundamentally the same. Work, bike, sleep, tired sex. Maybe a quick fuck in a seedy bar bathroom if he could get Tatum to shoot enough tequila.

But New Orleans should’ve been different.

At the very least, Tatum could’ve been different. She had been a real firecracker—in the beginning. Sex three times a day had turned into one drunk fuck a week, if that. And if they weren’t drunk fucking in the back of a bar, they weren’t fucking at all. For the past few months, Tatum had spent Bryce’s off night drinking and weekends taking trips to Biloxi with the Uptown sorority girls. Hell, they were seeing so little of each other now that it would be no surprise if Tatum were fucking tourists on Bourbon and Ole Miss fans at the cheap casinos in Mississippi.

Tatum would say, "You work too much. You’re so boring sometimes, hon, and I need excitement."

There was no changing it.

Bryce shook the sweat from his head and smoothed the moisture back through his short, dark hair before pulling on the top of his scrubs. He wrapped a red bandana around his head, just above his sunburned ears.
Bryce fumbled at his belt and unzipped his fly. Just as his nipples had sprung to life as the cool air washed over them, his penis hardened slightly. "Fuck," he whispered, glancing surreptitiously up and down the row of lockers. A moment before, the room had been empty.

Now, at the opposite end of the row, a tall, shirtless man had just tossed a striped polo into a navy blue gym bag. He turned just as Bryce looked his way.

About Gen Bergeron

Genevieve Bergeron has been an avid reader and writer of digital fiction for nearly two decades. A journalist, children’s author and professional communicator, Genevieve now spends her time reading and writing hi-tech inspired romance and erotica, in addition to working a fast-paced day job as a communications director at a Washington, D.C.-based national nonprofit. With her time, Genevieve does her best to avoid any steamy political scandals while collecting flavored condoms, cooking for friends, and sampling boxed wines.

Gen’s website and blog


For all Gen’s books published with Total E-Bound, visit her page at