Saturday, October 31, 2015

Halloween Treats!

Happy Halloween to all my readers and visitors!

I know you’re probably busy putting the final touches on your costumes, or stocking up on Hershey bars and Tootsie Rolls. (Do these still exist? That’s what comes to mind when I remember my Halloweens!) If you’re looking for some reading to get in the mood, though, you might be interested to know that Totally Bound and Pride Publishing are offering a 25% discount on seasonally appropriate titles—paranormal and horror at Totally Bound, and vampires and shifters at Pride.

I’ve got some suggestions...

Fire in the Blood (M/M/F vampire ménage)

In the heart of darkness, eternal passion burns.

The Eyes of Bast (M/F cat shifter)

Trust your heart. Follow your dreams.

Necessary Madness (M/M paranormal – psychic powers)

Both power and love can lead to madness.

Rendezvous (M/F ghost story)

By the time midnight tolls, Rebecca has come face to face with more magic than she had ever imagined.

I’ve also got a Halloween treat for you. Leave me a comment telling me about your favorite type of paranormal story. I’ll randomly choose one person to receive a $5 bookstore gift certificate, for Totally Bound, Pride, All Romance, Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

(Don’t forget to include your email address!)

While you’re here, comment on my post from yesterday, about my new Halloween release Coming in Costume, and you could win a copy of Rendezvous.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

New Release for Halloween! Coming in Costume by Lisabet Sarai

Just in time for Halloween!

Looking for a quick Halloween read to get you in the mood for costumes, trick or treat and other seasonal naughtiness? Grab a copy of my brand new Halloween-themed BDSM ménage erotic romance, Coming in Costume!

No costume can hide who you really are

When her dominant husband Greg proposes that they attend a company Halloween gala, Isabella is too excited to be suspicious. Unlike her introverted master, she adores parties and dressing up. Greg provides the perfect costumes―a schoolgirl and her stern professor―outfits that are not too revealing or risqué while still celebrating the nature of their relationship. Only after they arrive at the party does Bella learn her Dom has planned a kinky, semi-public scene involving both pain and pleasure―a Halloween masque that includes a starring role for Greg’s best friend James.

This volume includes two bonus stories featuring the same characters. In Silver Bells, Greg gives his long-time friend James a spectacular Christmas gift―Isabella’s body and obedience. In On the Beach, the two dominants join forces to chastise Bella for her lack of self-control in coming without permission―and to reward her for her willing surrender.

Here’s an exclusive excerpt, not available anywhere else. Leave a comment (with your email) and you could win a free copy of my other Halloween BDSM story, Rendezvous.


I tried not to fidget as he stalked around me. “So here we are. Again. Honestly, Miss Archer. I’m at my wit’s end. You’re simply incorrigible.” Frustration rang in his voice. His critical stare made my cheeks burn and my nipples ache. Under his scrutiny, I became uncomfortably aware of how my breasts strained against the inadequate bra and the overly tight blouse. If I took a deep breath, it seemed, the buttons would simply pop off of their own accord.

Look at you. Dressed like a little slut. Your skirt’s at least three inches shorter than the regulations prescribe.”

I’m sorry, sir. I grew last summer, but I’ve been studying so hard I haven’t had the time…”

No excuses! I know you’re a good student, but that doesn’t exempt you from the dress code.” He paused long enough to flick at my taut nipple with his thumb. Heat streaked through me at the brief touch. “You love to show off, don’t you? You give every boy in the class a hard-on the minute you walk into the room. Even I’m not unaffected.”

He dragged my hand to the bulk swelling his trousers. A wave of lust washed through me as I pictured his hidden cock, massive, engorged, implacable and lovely. Oh, the glory of being impaled by that magnificent hardness! My squeeze was involuntary, an act of need, of worship.

He jerked away. “Oh no you don’t! Don’t try those tricks on me? Do you really think you can soften me up that way, girl? I’m not some horny teenager, or a susceptible lecher like Mark Samson. You’re going to get the punishment you deserve. With extra strokes for trying to corrupt me.” He retrieved the pointer from where he’d left it, leaning against the wall, and ran his palm down its smooth length. “On the desk, Miss Archer. Arms out, palms flat.”

Please, sir …” I began. My heart slammed against my ribs even as my pussy grew damp. I could tell that pointer was really going to hurt.

Greg cocked an eyebrow behind his fake glasses. “Arguing with me? Every objection buys you another stroke, Miss Archer. Get those outrageous tits on the desk and that delectable rear end in the air. Now!”

Uneasy excitement coiled in my belly as I obeyed. It’s always the same, the weird thrill that comes from anticipating a beating from my beloved master. Can I really be agreeing to this? Because I do consent, despite appearances. I could call off the scene in a moment. I’m fully complicit in this deviance. Some part of me wants to be punished.

I don’t like pain, as I gather some subs do. Nothing takes me higher, though, that offering myself to Greg—allowing him to wreak his sadistic worst on my body. Surrendering myself to his iron will. I could almost come from the mere thought.


Don’t forget to comment! And get yourself a copy of Coming in Costume... before Halloween!

Buy Links

iTunes, Kobo, B&N – coming soon!

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Writing a Victorian Heroine

By C.M. Fontana (Guest Blogger)

Writing mystery novels set in the Victorian period throws up problems for how one might write a heroic female lead. And writing Victorian erotica with a strong woman at the fore has its own problems.

Writing a Victorian erotic mystery with strong female characters therefore becomes doubly difficult.

Mystery novels need heroes who can be proactive, who can go out and confront, investigate and engage with whatever crimes or secrets they are investigating. And in a Victorian setting, realistically that means that they almost certainly have to be male - and especially so if they are middle or upper class.

The Victorian period was the most rigid and unforgiving in Western history when it came to the roles of women. The "gentler sex" were supposed to be meek, self-sacrificing creatures, "domestic angels" who stayed in safe, homely environments, did not go out unchaperoned, did not express strong opinions, and supported the males in their lives. Not only were business and professions barred to women, and the doors of many institutions closed to them, but even actions which we might consider common today - like going to a restaurant alone - would have been considered scandalous.

The idea of the "separation of spheres", in which women were socially shunted into the private, supporting sphere of nurture and domesticity, make it very difficult to write strong investigative characters. How can a woman go out and get stuck into some dangerous investigation when everyone around her expects her to stay meekly at home? A cosy murder-mystery could doubtless be written about a Victorian lady who (perhaps Miss Marple-like) solves cases while chatting over tea and crumpets, but something edgier or more action-packed becomes very hard.

And then in erotica we also have problems. It is extremely limiting if all the female characters have been socially conditioned to think that they should be meek and accommodating: there may be people who want to read about women who want nothing but to meekly do what they are told, but for a range of hot, intriguing erotic situations we need women who are more varied in their outlooks, and often confident, both socially and sexually.

Of course there is fun to be had in playing with conventions and assumption. In the short novella, The Heir's Mistresses, I have two characters (the aforementioned mistresses) who seem ideally, perhaps unnaturally, dedicated to the needs and wants of the patriarch in their lives. Readers should immediately sense that all is not right, and will be unsurprised when the man is rudely (and violently) confronted by the truth that his doting mistresses were not, in fact, as meek and selfless as they seemed. But that is an aside. The issue remains that we need to be able to include, involve, and ideally focus on female characters who are very far from the Victorian ideal, or the Victorian reality.

So, to make for exciting erotic mysteries focusing on female characters we need characters who are freer to move around socially, more confident, and more, frankly, powerful than is realistic in a Victorian setting. So how do we approach this?

There is an easy answer. And that is to ignore the whole issue. We could just create a character who is, essentially, a 21st century woman, and put her in a situation that seems superficially Victorian but which is, really, the 21st century with set-dressing. And this is easy for the writer and for the reader. To have modern characters and settings, but in pretty costumes, makes everything very easy to understand, to relate to. But is it the most interesting solution? And having made the decision to set a story in the Victorian period, do we really want to water it down?

Each author needs their own solution to this. But I'll attempt to explain how I handled this for the Sexual Sorcery series.

Sexual Sorcery focuses on the investigations of a small group of accomplices - two women and one man, informally led by a lady named Catherine Wolseley. It is an erotic mystery, but it also has a supernatural edge, being set in the occult underworld of Victorian London, where sinister scholars and charlatans conspire and plot as they delve into shadowy secrets.

The setting, therefore, gives us our way to empower Catherine Wolseley. In a world where intelligence and secret knowledge are prized, she has access to a wealth of information, and has the brains to use it. So, while the wider society expects men to tell women what to do, in this context she is able to lead the investigation, directing her hapless male colleague's efforts - not only because she is cleverer than him, but because she knows much more about the situation that they are in.

Further, a story about occult conspiracies immediately brings into play other characters who are not typical, conventional Victorians, in a range of situations which are equally unusual. As the seductive Signora Cenci tells Catherine's hapless male accomplice, "You have been taught to be a gentleman by following a set of rules. And now you find yourself in situations where the rules do not seem to work; situations for which no rules have been written." Catherine also gains freedom to act because she, unlike him, does understand these situations and their unspoken rules: just as he is baffled because it is not enough for him to behave as a conventional gentleman, she is liberated because it is unnecessary for her to act as a conventional lady.

This creates a situation in which unusually confident, capable female characters can take a proactive role. This in turn makes the story much more interesting for the reader, and means that our plot doesn't have to be dominated by male characters.

The next step, then, is to introduce to this situation characters who are unusually proactive without falling into the trap of making them modern people in fancy-dress. Each needs their own past, their own motivations.

This is where there are no rules - each character has to be freed to develop honestly, plausibly, without me, as the writer, imposing on them.

Catherine and her female accomplice, Emma, are both unusual enough women to thrive in this shadowy Victorian subculture. Emma has her own novella, Charity and Deception, which explains how she came to prosper in this unconventional environment. Catherine's story is being revealed more slowly, with references in Sexual Sorcery to an unusual and privileged family background, but the details remaining, at present, vague. But in both cases, these are women who have grown out of their setting - who are products, however unusually, of the Victorian world - rather than being modern characters parachuted into the story.

In this way it has been possible to create female heroines for Victorian erotic mystery novels. And they should be convincing, interesting characters. Indeed, the fact that the situation requires them to be such remarkable women makes them, I hope, better heroines.

Sexual Sorcery: An Erotic Tale of Sex, Mystery and the Occult, in Victorian England by C M Fontana

An unwitting academic stumbles into the erotically-charged occult underworld of Victorian London. With a cast of characters including an investigator with a talent for seduction, a mesmerist collecting a harem of beautiful ladies, and a woman who believes she has had sex with Satan, Sexual Sorcery is a sizzling story of decadence, conspiracy and carnality.

When a collection of books go missing from the University's collection, Fredrick Clifford travels to London in search of the likely culprit, an apparently respectable gentleman named Victor Braystone. But he soon finds that he is not the only one with an interest in Mr Braystone, and the manipulative Catherine Wolseley soon draws him into her own schemes.

As he, Miss Wolseley and their seductive accomplice begin to unravel Mr Braystone's plots, Fredrick Clifford finds himself both confused and entrapped in a shocking world of of sex and duplicity. And as the trail leads him from the seductions of a London club to a Satanic altar in the wilds of the Welsh borders, he struggles to make sense of both the dark uncertainties of the occult, and of an unfamiliar realm of debauchery and sex.


By Saturday morning, Fredrick had still not had time to visit the agency to advertise for a new domestic servant, and he was becoming heartily sick of bread and marmalade for breakfast – or, indeed, for any other meal that he could not reasonably eat out. It was also an irritation that he had to answer his own front door, and now he found himself greeted at his front step by a small grubby boy, in bare feet and ragged trousers, presenting him with a sealed envelope.

He took the letter, tipped the boy a coin, and closed the door.

The paper was expensive, that handwriting feminine. Inside, a note simply read:

Two o’clock. My carriage will collect you. We cannot have gaps in your education as a gentleman. Please be an attentive student. Such classes are not inexpensive.

And that was all. He assumed that it was from Miss Wolseley, and resigned himself to having to follow her cryptic instructions. In the meantime, he thought, he would finish his newspaper, and then visit the agency to and see if they could alleviate his domestic difficulties.

And so, soon after lunchtime, after a satisfactory visit to the agency he found on returning to his house a familiar carriage parked outside.

My good man, am I late?”

Not at all Sir,” the gruff coachman tipped his hat. “I’m early. Take your time, Sir. We aren’t due til ‘alf past.”

Fredrick re-emerged promptly at two o’clock, and climbed into the carriage, and sat back while it bounced and swerved through the city’s congested streets. Out of the window he saw gentrified houses, and, as the traffic moved slowly on the main roads, although the journey was barely two miles, it took over twenty minutes. He was relieved to find that they stopped in a fashionable West End street.

He stepped down from the carriage, and the coachman indicated the door across the road.

He crossed the street and rapped with the brass door knocker.

Promptly, the door was opened, and a short, grey haired maid opened the door.

Fredrick Clifford,” he introduced himself. “I may be expected?”

Of course,” the maid curtseyed, with a hint of an accent, perhaps Italian or French, and stepped back to let him in.

She took his coat, hat and cane, and then led him up the stairs, and into a well furnished sitting room. Tall windows let light flood into the room through lace curtains, the room was decked with a range of plushly upholstered chairs and settees, the largest of which, unusually, seemed to be the size of a single bed, but with ornate arms and a high back.

The maid motioned him to take a seat in a plush chair by the window. She assured him, “I will say that you have arrived,” and then withdrew.

As he waited, he looked around. The décor was, the more he considered the details, eccentric.

Not only were the chairs unusually deeply upholstered, and the main sofa far wider than was needed, but there were numerous sturdy hooks, which looked like they might have hung chandeliers before gas lighting was installed, both in the ceiling and also, inexplicably in the skirting board at the foot of the wall. There was also a faint but spicy scent in the air, which he suspected might be incense – an unusual scent to encounter outside of a High or Catholic church.

The door opened, and he turned to see a tall, graceful woman step into the room. She wore a red silk robe like a dressing gown, and around her neck an ornate necklace of black beads. Her brown hair hung loosely in flowing curls, cascading over her shoulders, and Fredrick’s eyes were drawn further down, to the sides of her firm breasts, indecently visible where the two sides of the robe met.

I’m so sorry!” he instinctively stood up and turned his back on her, to stare fixedly out of the window.

And why, Mr Clifford, are you sorry?” The voice was soft, the accent unmistakably continental.

I am… that is to say…” He could barely hear her approach, her bare feet on the carpet. “Perhaps I should return when you are properly dressed.”

Her voice, now just over his shoulder, chided, “Mr Clifford, I was told that you were a gentleman.”

Well, yes!” he replied, indignantly.

And is it polite, when a lady enters a room, turn your back on her, and then proceed to criticise her choice of clothing.”

Well, I… there is a question of what is appropriate!”

Your lessons today,” she corrected him, “are to deal instead with the question of what is courteous – gentlemanly. You may be quite right about what is appropriate. But this afternoon, that is not our subject.”

To Frederick, what was gentlemanly and what was appropriate seemed intimately connected. But Miss Wolseley had, presumably, some purpose in sending him here.

I apologise,” he conceded, turning to face her. It would be a shame to argue with such an attractive hostess.

She smiled and inclined her head. “Then shall we start again?”

Fredrick nodded.

The woman turned and walked softly back to the door. He watched her robe sway against her legs, and was impressed by her grace. She left the room, and shut the door after herself. Fredrick sat down again, and waited.

After a minute, the door opened again, and the woman returned.

Fredrick stood up, and stepped forwards to greet her. “Fredrick Clifford, Madam. At your service.”

She held out her hand, palm down, and he took it gently, and bowed slightly as he motioned to kiss it. He could not help, bending forward, but appreciate the gentle curve of her breasts, barely draped in thin red silk.

Signorina Maria Cenci,” she replied with a hint of a curtsey. “Charmed to meet you, Sir.”

She motioned him across to the wide sofa, strewn with cushions, and when he sat she took a seat next to him. Her robe fell open at the knee, revealing her slender, pale calf, and Fredrick made an effort not to look too intently.

The door opened again, and the elderly maid entered, carrying a tray, which she set down on the table by the settee.

Milk and sugar, Mr Clifford?” Signorina Cenci asked.

Please, yes.”

Tell me Mr Clifford, she asked, as she poured the tea and the maid withdrew, “how should a gentleman behave towards a lady?”

Fredrick considered for a moment, and then, taking the cup and saucer offered to him, replied: “A gentleman should always be respectful.”

And why is that important?” she asked. And when Fredrick had no ready answer, she clarified, “Why should a gentleman be respectful to a lady, and not, perhaps, to a tree or stone?”

Obviously, trees and stones don’t have feelings!”

So when you say respectful, you mean that you should be aware of the lady’s feelings?”

Quite so,” Fredrick said, taking another sip of tea and then setting the cup aside. “The male is the stronger sex. It is our duty to protect, both physically and mentally, the frailer gender. It shows us to be civilized human beings, and not savages.”

And so,” Signorina Cenci asked, “you see that, if a man turns his back on a woman as she enters the room, she might be upset. In which case, the gentlemanly response is to greet her courteously, perhaps?”

I see your point, Madam,” Fredrick acknowledged, not wanting to argue.

But is it also gentlemanly,” she teased, “as you bend down to kiss her hand, to stare so intently at her breasts?”

Fredrick blushed, “I am so sorry, Madam, I didn’t intend to.”

She laughed, and stood. “Then shall we try again?”

Of course, if you wish.”

She left her tea cup on the table, walked to the door, turned, paused, and then returned towards the sofa.

Fredrick stood, stepped forward, and took her hand when she offered it. This time, as he bent and motioned to kiss her hand, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Again Signorina Cenci laughed.

Mr Clifford,” she smiled, placing her hand on his arm. “Do you really think that if a lady deliberately appears dressed like this – ” she raised her other hand to her neck and let her index finger slowly trace a line along the hem of the robe, down her chest, over the mound of her breast “ – that she does not want to be admired?”

Really, Madam, I protest,” Fredrick sighed, “You say that I should not stare, and now you say that I should stare. What am I to do?”

Mr Clifford, you are to be a gentleman. You are to behave with consideration for the lady’s feelings.” Seeing that he was still confused, she continued. “If you stare dumbly at my chest – “ she turned slightly, so that he could fully appreciate the silhouette of her breasts – “I might consider the stare to be aggressive, or I might worry that you are no longer capable of rational thought. You are still capable of thought, Sir?”

He raised his eyes from the curve of her robe, to look her in the eye again. “Yes, of course.”

But if you ignore me entirely, I might think that I have failed to impress you, or that you consider me ugly. You do not consider me ugly, do you?”

No! Of course not!”

Then, Mr Clifford, please, stop trying to guess what the rules are. There is but one rule to being a gentleman. Consideration for the feelings of the other person. And so, consider my feelings, and act accordingly.”

Very well,” Fredrick acquiesced.

Then shall we try once more?”

She walked back to the door, and again turned to face him. She paused for a moment. “Are you ready, Sir?”

Fredrick nodded.

She ran her finger down the front of her robe, and deliberately opened the gap at her chest a little further, so that the sides of both breasts were quite bare. “Are you certain?”

Fredrick paused for just a second and then answered confidently: “Yes, Madam.”

Buy Links

Author Bio

C M Fontana is a British erotic author, fusing plots of mystery, intrigue, and the supernatural with racy erotica. The first full-length novels, Sexual Sorcery, was published for Kindle in September 2015, with two novellas continuing the series released soon after.

Author Website:
Author Twitter: @mystic_erotica

Details and excerpts of the books mentioned above can be found at Mystic Erotica:

Sexual Sorcery is available for Kindle:


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Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Review Tuesday: Safe Word by Molly Weatherfield

[I have a whole pile of books to review, but just don't have the time, so I'm digging reviews out from the vaults. This one dates from 2003! ~ Lisabet]

Safe Word by Molly Weatherfield
Cleis Press, 2003

When the STORY OF O was first published in 1954, it shocked the world. The secret domain of Roissy and its privileged, perverse masters, the willing self-abasement of O in their hands, were completely alien to contemporary moral sensibility. O's journey to complete surrender frightened and attracted the reader because of its strangeness, its incomprehensibility. O herself was on a path of discovery, gradually coming to understand the depth of her submissive nature.

In SAFE WORD, Molly Weatherfield invokes Roissy both implicitly and explicitly. Her heroine Carrie has been auctioned off to a stranger and committed to a year of absolute servitude. Carrie's new master as well as the master who sold her belong to a shadowy network of wealthy S/M afficionados - the "Association". Times have changed - the association is run by a woman rather than a man - but not that much. The association sponsors gatherings where slaves serve as candelabra, benches, and statuary, not to mention receptacles for the guests' varied lusts. They stage races where human ponies, plugged, bridled, harnessed and urged on by their drivers' cruel whips, compete to avoid the punishment that will come with defeat.

Carrie, like O, thrives in this sort of environment. After a year of harsh discipline, she returns to her original master Jonathan, polished and refined by pain. The elegant curve of her neck, the grace with which she kneels, the eagerness she shows in response to his abuse, enchant and excite him. The novel is structured as a set of stories that Carrie and Jonathan tell each other, as they struggle to comprehend the consequences of their year apart.

Ms. Weatherfield captures the nuances of Carrie and Jonathan's relationship with exquisite clarity. The breath-stealing excitement of complementary fantasies. The heady familiarity of remembered responses recognized. The uncertainty about what the other wants, the desire to please, the aching need for the validation that says yes, you are the one, the special one to whom I am intimately, eternally connected, and I know you feel the same. It is all there, and it all rings true. The book begins with their rendezvous in Avignon, and immediately, the reader is immersed in the subtleties of their interactions. They retreat to a hotel, where they proceed to fuck exactly like two lovers who have been separated for a year, lovers who played the role of master and slave but who are not quite sure now who holds the power. The writing here is sensitive, vivid, and intense.

It is only when Jonathan asks Carrie to tell him about her experiences that the book begins to lose its edge. Carrie is articulate and precise in recounting her trials and adventures. She spares no detail. She shares with Jonathan the many beatings, violations, and humiliations inflicted on or observed by her. Her stories are populated by gorgeous, perfectly-trained slaves, insatiatable mistresses, strict but passionate trainers. Carrie portrays the decadent world of the Association with the skill that one would expect of her, a woman with a doctorate in literature.

Unfortunately, it is not 1954, and such tales have lost their power to shock. Today, leather-clad vixens with whips and stiletto heels are used to market breath mints. Fetish is fashion. The Internet can deliver images that make Roissy look like Sunday school. Carrie's stories, however well told, are hackneyed and by today's standards, unremarkable. This is all the more true because they involve so little emotion.

The members of the Association are for the most part bored, jaded sensation-seekers. The slaves that serve them are beautiful puppets with little sense of themselves. We see a few flashes of personality, for instance, in a scene where Carrie is given over to be abused by two slaves whom she vanquished in a pony race. Overall, though, the participants in these lascivious tales are undistinguished and indistinguishable. With one or two exceptions, they do not really care about what is going on. It is a diversion, nothing more. The core attraction of dominance and submission, in my opinion, at least, is the interplay of emotion between the slave and master. Trust and surrender; the intoxication of power; desire and devotion; curiosity and courage. These are ingredients in the alchemy that transforms pain into pleasure, and more than pleasure.

Carrie and Jonathan practice this magic, particularly early in the book. Jonathan, recalling his first meeting with her, is movingly eloquent. He notices her at a party, "sweet and shaggy-looking, graceful and a little lost and dreamy...Great ass". Following her into a room where someone had put on a bondage video, he discovers her, revealed:

"The girl with the ass was gazing up at the screen as though it were telling her the meaning of life. Flushed face, parted mouth - quivering, guilty, enthralled, spectacular. Her face was a real porn show, and I could gladly have watched it all evening... In the midst of a noisy, unconscious crowd, too -- she was the only one in the room really seeing the movie, and I was the only one really seeing her. She'll look like that for me, I thought. She'll do anything and everything I want.

She did, too. For a year and a half. She took everything I dished out, meekly and silently challenging me to raise the ante."

This is what I look for in an erotic novel, this kind of insight, this thrill of connection that always takes my breath away. SAFE WORD has some of this sizzle, but ultimately I was disappointed. The conclusion, in particular, involved a Dom ex Machina whom I found somewhat annoying.

Nevertheless, SAFE WORD is literate and well-crafted, and certainly crammed with nasty S/M scenes involving every combination of genders. Readers who are entertained more by characters' actions than by their inner lives will likely enjoy SAFE WORD. Readers looking for something more challenging and inventive might, like me, feel that Ms. Weatherfield had let them down.

Monday, October 26, 2015

Sneak Peek: Men of Mercy Series by Lindsay Cross

[If you like sexy, spine-tingling romantic suspense, I've got a triple header for you today—three luscious excerpts from Linday Cross's Men of Mercy series. Enjoy! ~ Lisabet]


Hunter James didn’t want or need redemption.

Until one mission turns his world upside down.

He left Mercy to fight for his country and escape a broken heart. Years later, he is hard. Cold. A man without mercy. Part of an elite Task Force, he tracks a brutal terrorist to his home town. And runs into the woman who betrayed him…

Evangeline Videl was destroyed when Hunter left. Determined to move on, she finds another man, but discovers too late the monster hidden beneath his smooth smile. Struggling to find the conviction to live, Evie finds her life spinning out of control.

Then Hunter returns…

Forced to band together to find the terrorist before its too late, Hunter and Evie must learn to forgive or risk losing the promise of redemption and their lives…


"Hey." His Southern drawl put Matthew McConaughey to shame. Slow. Sexy. And familiar.

Her gaze traveled up the muscled torso to a pair of dark chocolate-brown eyes.

Holy crap.

"Hunter James." His name breathed past her lips on a whisper.

For the second time that night her heart stuttered and her stomach clenched tight.

Hunter blocked her path, his towering six-foot-four frame packaged in a tight-fitting black T-shirt and jeans that showcased his muscles. His arms had to be twice the size they were the last time he’d been here. His gaze twice as intense. Her reaction twenty times that.

According to the town gossips, he’d been back in Mercy for a couple of weeks, but so far he’d avoided her. And she’d prayed daily he would stay away. Every time he came home on leave, he seemed to make it a point to show up here. At her bar. With another woman on his arm. Making sure she saw he’d moved on. And each time her heart broke a little more.

"Need some help?" he asked.

Her brain took a full minute to kick into gear, then another minute to reconnect to her mouth. "What?"

"You look like you could use some help. Can I do anything?" His serious voice passed through lips that were way too tempting.

She couldn't think. The man standing before her had gone AWOL with her heart over five years ago, like the tail end of a twister after a storm. Part of her had been happy he'd left. The other part had been devastated. Their love had been wild and crazy, but ultimately destructive.

She noticed the knotted wood cane leaning against the table beside him. "What's with the cane?"

Hunter grinned and shifted his weight to the side. "What's with the wet clothes?" He extinguished his cigarette and stepped away from the doorway leading to the upstairs apartment, his limp noticeable.

Evie crossed her arms over her chest, the action squeezing more beer out of her bra. Her lips pressed into a tight line and she forced herself to answer, "Wet T-shirt contest. It's a new thing we’re trying."

Evie straightened her arms, clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides in time with the ticking in his jaw. A couple day’s stubble graced the hard planes of his face, only a little shorter than the black hair buzzed close to his scalp. He looked as if he’d been chiseled from steel.

Hunter leaned in close and Evie's stomach knotted. Lust built inside her, pushing against her dam of resistance. "I bet you won."

He wasn't staring at her chest, she had to give him that. No, his target appeared to be her mouth. His head lowered to hers and her mind went blank. If she had been thinking like a full-grown woman, she would have jerked back before his lips made contact. But tonight her brain had pointed and aimed but failed to fire.


Ranger James accepted his best friend’s death like a good soldier. With guilt. Regret. Vengeance. But a forbidden desire keeps pulling him from his mission…

Desire for his best friend’s widow.

Killed in Action. That’s why Rachel Carter’s husband wasn’t coming home.

A war widow, alone and broke, Rachel struggles to revive her family’s crop dusting service to survive. Now she takes to the skies to find escape. Escape from the pain. From the guilt. From the earth-shattering desire for her husband’s best friend.

Rachel and Ranger can’t fight the attraction between them any longer. But one fateful night cleaves their new found love in two...

Can they find the will to fight for true love? Or will an evil so shocking destroy their lives for good?

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Rachel spun around, the yellow airplane a perfect backdrop to her beautiful face. “What are you doing here?”

Ranger let his gaze travel from her scruffy boots, torn jeans and gloriously figure hugging tank, to the top of her dark red head. Her pink cheeks flushed.

Like what you see?”

Ranger approached, her green gaze turned wary. Good. She should be worried. She’d doused him in chemicals. His skin still itched. He reached forward, plucked an oil stick from her ponytail and sent her hair spilling to her shoulders. He caught the brief scent of flowers and oil.

Rachel grabbed her hair, lips parted. Angry. Stubborn. Sexy.

He held up the stick right in front of her face. “Oil stick.”

Rachel snatched it from his fingers and tossed it across the room. “I told you to stay away from me.”

Ranger shrugged, his brain still caught on the image of her jean-clad ass hanging out of that airplane. Forget Sports Illustrated. He had farm fucking fantastic right here.

"Don't you think dropping that all-natural excuse for chemicals on me is a bit dramatic? If you want to get me naked all you had to do is ask." Ranger gestured to himself, sweeping his hand from his head down to his torso, Rachel's eyes followed.

That definitely wasn't desperation or anger in her gaze.

The desire he’d been trying to hold in check for months reared up inside him.

"You think I want to see you naked?” Rachel snorted, lifted her chin. “Besides, I figured anything would be an improvement to your normal smell.” So much for her vulnerability.

The wind picked up, blew into the hangar. Ranger shifted, praying the wind wouldn’t open the fly on his boxers, and almost covered himself. Almost. Until he remembered she was the reason for his stench. Instead, he stood tall. “You’ve never had a problem with the way I smelled before.”

My manners were just too good to say anything.” She strode past him, punishing him with the sexy sway of her hips.

Dammit, he was so hard up for her, even her walk had his mind blanking. He stood there, nearly naked, and drenched in herbicide, and she walked past him like a stranger on a sidewalk.

Running from him. Again.

Rachel Ann.” He didn’t yell, but she stopped mid-stride. Turned. Lips parted.

You did that on purpose,” Ranger said. She’d been hard headed even in high-school, when he tried to break up with her, explaining that he needed a little space to see if life in Mercy was what he really wanted. Jumping on the marriage and kids bandwagon at eighteen years old had scared the shit out of him. But he’d obliterated any chance for reconnecting with Rachel when she’d seen him making out with Tonya at the football game senior year.

He hadn’t thought that leaving her to sow the wild oats of his youth would be a self-fulfilling prophecy of regret. Or that his best friend would move in on Rachel so fast and fill the void that Ranger had left in her heart.

You bet your ass I did.”

What the hell for?” He couldn’t get her smell, her taste, her touch out of his head. But she’d dumped shit on him for the last time.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips flattened. “I warned you.”

Yeah, she’d warned him to stay away from her. He’d stayed with her for weeks, helping her after the funeral. She’d healed physically, but remained an emotional tomb.

I promised Shane, if anything ever happened to him, I’d look out for you.” He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss that angry expression right off her face. He’d wanted her since high-school, but when she’d married Shane, he’d vowed to put those feelings away. Forever. But the attraction hadn’t disappeared. And he knew it never would. “I know the chemistry between us is weird. Scary. But dammit it’s real and it’s here and now. You’re just flying through the clouds because you don’t want to see what’s on the ground right in front of you.”

If he hadn’t been studying every minute expression on her face he would have missed the brief flash of vulnerability in her gaze. Then her anger slid back in place. “The only thing I feel is annoyance. Are you so desperate that you have to chase after what you can’t have? You dumped me first, remember?”

Him? Desperate? No. He’d never had a problem getting women. Until Rachel.

If he hadn’t been so young and stupid he would have been the one she’d married. Not Shane.

Now all he could think, all he could see, was the small sprinkle of freckles across her pert nose. He could be on a mission in a third world country or down the road. It didn’t matter. She affected him.

He had an all-consuming need for his best friend’s wife. He hadn’t counted on lust eating him alive.

But he had honor. He had loyalty. Ranger had vowed over Shane’s grave to take care of Rachel.


They say you can’t go home again. Jared Crowe never wanted to.

Home meant facing memories of abuse and neglect. Of dark closets and evil nightmares. Of his own relatives intent on killing him. But now his brother’s kidnapping forces him to face those demons. Only this time, Jared isn’t a scared little boy. He’s a full-grown Special Forces operative bent on revenge.

As a little girl, Sparrow Pickney risked her life to free two abused boys. As a grown woman Sparrow needs to earn a place in her adopted family’s business or be forced into a life of degradation. The chance to prove her family loyalty comes when she catches Jared spying on the compound and captures him.

When Jared sees his captor, he realizes she’s the girl of his dreams and vows to rescue her from a life of poverty. What Jared doesn’t know is Sparrow may not be the savior he remembers…but the one responsible for abducting and torturing his brother.

Jared is determined to find the truth. But that truth may be more than his heart can take.

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It had been nearly twenty years since he’d seen her, but Jared could never forget those golden eyes. Eyes that had haunted his dreams ever since. Had she joined up with Kay? Or was she simply one of those poor souls struggling to survive?

The thought of Sparrow slowly starving filled him with a sense of guilt. He should have made her leave with them. Even though they’d been children when she’d freed them, Jared had been big enough to drag her out, whether she’d wanted to go or not.

She leaned over him, reaching for his hands. Her floppy hat fell down, blinding her, and she ripped it off and tossed it across the room. Long caramel-colored hair, full of sun-kissed highlights, waterfalled down the sides of her face and tickled his nose. Her scent surrounded him now, flooding his senses. Honeysuckle and wildflowers. His cock swelled in an instant. Jared gnashed his teeth together, trying to quell his intense reaction to her nearness.

Sparrow leaned down further and her loose tank top gaped open, treating him to a glorious view of surprisingly plump breasts cupped in a plain sports bra. His gaze locked onto her beaded nipples through the cotton. Fuck he wanted to rip that bra down and reveal what was hidden beneath. The loose manly clothes she wore made her look stick thin, but womanly curves were concealed beneath them.

Sparrow sighed and sat up straight, leaving rope dangling uselessly on his wrists. Jared gripped the metal headboard with his hands, waiting for her next move. She stood there for a moment and studied him, trying to decide what to do. Well, he wasn't going to help her out one little bit.

"Keep your hands right there, got it?" Her voice was stern.

"Yes ma'am.” He had no intention of acting up. Yet.

She placed a knee on the mattress, and in one swift movement straddled him, settling on his belly. Jared groaned and closed his eyes thankful she hadn’t sat down lower on his body; otherwise, she would have gotten her own surprise. She leaned over him spreading her knees wider up his chest. His eyes popped open, unable to resist another view of her bare skin.

"You can stop with the theatrics right now, I know I’m not big enough to crush you."

If only that were his problem. Her shirt dipped down even more and he fixated on the pale mounds of her breasts straining against the material of her sports bra. It was a crime to lock those beauties up in serviceable cotton.

She should wear nothing but pure silk and lace, perfect for him to rip off her body.

Her hair curtained around him again, and her soft lips parted in concentration as she worked. He was aware of every inch of exposed skin—from the graceful hollow of her neck to her supple forearms peeking out from the rolled up sleeves of her checkered work shirt. Even more aware of the intense heat radiating from her core, pressed so intimately to his chest.

"There. All done." She sat back, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Jared tugged on the rope. He’d completely zoned out on anything other than her straddling him. It didn't give an inch—the knot she’d tied was worthy of a professional. A small ounce of foreboding seeped into him. “Where did you learn to tie knots?"

"Trapping. Working snares. Been doing it since I was a kid." Her words were so matter-of-fact, he had no doubt she spoke the truth. Holy shit. He yanked on the ropes, but they didn’t move.

Impressive.” Jared wriggled his fingers and wrists, testing for any weakness. He found none.

Might as well stop struggling. Nobody’s ever been able to get out of one of my knots. And I used my new rope too, so it wouldn’t snap easy.” She made a snapping motion with her fingers, the emphasis driving in just how stupid his plan had been. He should have used that easy opening she’d given him with the gun.

His foreboding turned to real worry. He had to get out of here to rescue his brother. Hoyt’s life depended on him. If he couldn’t get free… “Nice, now what?”

Now you tell me who you are and why you’re here.” Sparrow sat back on her heels, the curve of her ass grazing the tip of his cock. He clenched his muscles, fighting to free himself from the pull of lust.

Remember, you’re the soldier trained in interrogation techniques. Now he just had to stop thinking with his dick for long enough to find out where Hoyt was being held. "My name is Jake."

She tapped her chin, staring down at him. Once again he was enthralled by the intense color of her eyes. They were golden, almost like a cat’s, with a darker brown ring around the edges. “Jake. You don't look like a Jake."

He enjoyed hearing the name on her lips. Would enjoy hearing his real name even better. Her soft accent and long vowels stretched it out slow. Sensual. "And what do I look like?"

"I don't know. Killer? Tiger?"

"That's what people name their cats.”

"True. Why are you here?"
"Why did you take me hostage?" he countered.

You were spying on my family. Only our enemies do that.” She shifted, brushing against his tip again. Fuck he wanted to rip free of these bonds and throw her down beneath him. Where was his detached logic now? Something about her was making him lose control.

I have no interest in you. I was looking for a family member who went missing, know anything about that?” He studied her reaction intently, watching for any flash of awareness, but she didn’t give away anything.

Haven’t seen anybody new around here in a long time, and I would know. Sorry, but you plopped down on the wrong piece of land.”

He told me he was coming here.” Not really, but Jared knew without the slightest shred of doubt that Hoyt had been taken by the Crowes. Miss Kay wanted to finish what she had started all those years ago, even if Jared didn’t know why. It was bad enough his parents had died when Jared was only nine, Hoyt six, but to have his aunt try to murder them....

Jared yanked on the bonds again, testing the bed frame. It screeched but held firm. Shit.

What does he look like?” Every time Sparrow moved or shifted he felt her. Desire was holding him hostage as much as the damn ropes. Got to get free. Got to find Hoyt.

What do I get if I tell you?”

What do you get? You get to live.” Her brows shot down as if confused.

You won’t kill me.”

Try me.”

How about we make a little trade—you give me something, I give you something.”

"Give? What do you want?" She laid her palms on her thighs, kneeling over his body, the position incredibly erotic.

Blushing aside, maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all. He had a plan and she was part of it. He knew he could get more information out of Sparrow than her giant ass brother. And he’d find it a hell of a lot more enjoyable too. "Kiss me."

She stopped moving all together and her eyes narrowed in on his mouth.

"Give me a kiss and I'll sing like a bird."

Author Bio

Lindsay Cross is the award-winning author of the Men of Mercy series. She is the fun loving mom of two beautiful daughters and one precocious Great Dane. Lindsay is happily married to the man of her dreams – a soldier and veteran. During one of her husband’s deployments from home, writing became her escape and motivation.
An avid reader since childhood, reading and writing is in her blood. After years of reading, she discovered her true passion – writing. Her alpha military men are damaged, drop-dead gorgeous and determined to win the heart of the woman of their dreams.

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