All of the Above (#variety #branding #erotica)

1. What's your favorite ice cream flavor?

a. Vanilla

b. Coffee

c. Pistachio

d. Butter crunch

e. All of the above.

2. Who's the sexiest guy on the silver screen?

a. Clive Owen

b. Jake Gyllenhaal

c. Hugh Jackman

d. Robert Downey Jr.

e. All of the above

3. What's your favorite genre?

a. BDSM

b. M/M

c. M/M/F

d. M/F/M

e. M/F

f. F/F

g. Paranormal

h. Scifi

i. Thriller

j. All of the above...

I don't generally have trouble making decisions. I don't agonize about things like which car to buy, or which job to accept, or where to take my vacation. I gather the necessary information, weigh the advantages and disadvantages and choose the alternative that seems to offer the best balance between the pros and the cons. I'm convinced that there are no wrong decisions in any case. Each choice will send the path of my life off into a different direction, but I have a strange confidence that any direction will have its satisfactions and rewards.

When someone asks me to choose a favorite in some dimension, though, I find myself stymied. I have two possible answers: "it depends" (on how I'm feeling on a particular day) or "all of the above". Unfortunately those kinds of questions pop up all the time in author interviews. What's your favorite food? Your favorite author? Your most romantic memory? Your favorite genre?

Well, I'm rebelling. I refuse to choose. Or rather, I choose variety. If I had to commit to a single genre (or two), I'd lose the creative spark. Writing would stop being fun.

I'm probably hobbling my writing career by not specializing. I recently penned a blog post about building a brand as author. A brand is based on distinctiveness, quality and consistency. I think I've got the first two components under control, but consistency? No way.

I mean, I like to think that my writing is consistent in its craftsmanship. But I've written pieces in practically every genre, with every combination of genders and orientations. I like to mix things up. My first novel includes M/F, M/M/, F/F, and M/M/F/F scenes, as well as a scene that I can't express using short-hand that involved three guys and one woman. In one book.

I've written contemporary, historical, paranormal, noir, even comedy. I haven't written any chick lit—yet—but I've got several chapters of a 1950's satire. I've written about vampires, monks, millionaires and bums. One of my favorite ideas (which I haven't pursued because I suspect I won't be able to sell it to anyone) involves a romance between a woman and a hermaphrodite.

If my main goal were to sell lots of books, I'd have to settle down and choose one content configuration that would define "Lisabet Sarai" for my readers. Most likely I'd choose BDSM, a genre which pushes my personal buttons. But would I write M/M BDSM? M/F? BDSM ménage? Each sub-genre has its own dedicated readers. Choose one and I lose the rest.

I can't seem to even get my mind around writing a series. Once I've written one book about a set of characters, I'm eager to move on to something different. I want to stretch my abilities, exercise them by staking out new writing territory. Right now, for instance, I'm roughing out the plot and characters for my first sci fi romance. I'm also turning over some ideas for an erotic mystery.

So I guess "Lisabet Sarai" is unlikely to become a household world. You can't package me into a soundbite. My tagline is "Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac". It identifies the main constant in my work, my fascination with sexual desire. Beyond that, anything goes.

What's my favorite genre? All of the above.

Addicted! (#gameofthrones #amreading)

In general, I’m not very tuned in to cultural trends. I don’t watch television—in fact, don’t even own a TV. The music I like best was considered “classic” three decades ago. I buy clothing mostly based on function, rather than fashion. Plus, as I’ve discussed in a previous blog post, I’m a non-conformist by nature and education, deeply suspicious of anything that “everyone” likes. Popularity is something of a negative value for me (except of course, when it comes to the popularity of my own books!)

Hence, it’s a bit embarrassing to realize that I’ve become addicted to a wildly successful popular phenomenon—the Game of Throne series.

Not the TV show. As I said, television plays no role in my life. I’m talking about the fat, juicy, deliciously detailed books by George R.R. Martin, on which the HBO series was based.

I picked up the first book (A Game of Thrones) back in April, when I was preparing for an overseas trip that involved a sixteen hour flight. Experience has taught me that the best way to endure that sort of ordeal is to lose myself in a book—preferably something long, so I don’t run out of material, with enough action and emotion to keep me interested, but without too much philosophical or intellectual complexity. (My head gets kind of fuzzy after eight hours in the air!) I’d heard about the Song of Ice and Fire series, and it sound like just the right thing. I was delighted to discover that even though the initial volume was 800+ pages, the book didn’t weigh much.

It took no more than a chapter or two to get me hooked. I read all through the flight, except when I was sleeping, and had enough story left over to carry me halfway back home. I was so sorry when the book ended! And I knew I’d have to go buy the next installment before too long.

I resisted the impulse for about a month. Then another trip gave me an excuse to pick up A Clash of Kings. This flight was shorter (only nine hours), and mostly at night, so I was still only halfway through when I returned a couple of days ago.

And now, I can’t get the book off my mind. I have lots of other reading on my TBR stack, including beta reads for friends and books for promised reviews. Instead of distributing my reading time, as I normally do, I find myself returning to the world of the Seven Kingdoms, night after night. I’m embarrassed at how excited I get about the prospect of plunging back into Martin’s complicated society.

Why do I find these books so addictive? One major reason is the characters. Martin has made me care about the people he’s created: Arya Stark, the tomboy princess fighting for her life; Tyrion Lannister, the selfish, hideous dwarf with a brilliant mind and a surprising streak of humanity; Jon Stone, bitter bastard and reluctant hero; Catelyn Stark, a voice of wisdom and honor in a vicious, power-mad world; Daenerys the Dragonmother, enduring anything to reclaim the throne of her ancestors. Even the minor players are vivid and engaging. Although the characters lie at various positions along the dimension of goodness, each has strengths and weaknesses. Each chapter presents the point of view of a different character, and we come to feel some sympathy even for the more villainous of Martin’s creations.

The author has no compunction about killing people off. Heroes are not guaranteed to survive or thrive in this saga. That lends a sense of terrible urgency to the story, since I realize that even the people I love the most may well die.

Then there’s the magic. I admire the author’s delicate hand in imbuing his world with supernatural elements. So many fantasy series go overboard, losing their sense of reality. In Martin’s world, magic hovers at the fringes of the story rather than taking over center stage. The wonder is more potent because of its rarity.

I sometimes lose track of who’s fighting whom. I can’t necessarily keep all the family relationships straight. That doesn’t matter. There’s something about these books that keep pulling me back.

I’ve still got a good three hundred pages to go in A Clash of Kings. After that, I suspect I’ll be haunting the local used bookstore, looking for the next volume.

Review Tuesday: Writing Naked by Mike Kimera (#erotica #lust #literature)

Writing Naked by Mike Kimera

Samba Mountain Press, 2005

What is the essence of erotica? There are as many answers as there individuals - readers and writers. Erotica is writing that arouses the reader. Erotica is words to wank to. Erotica celebrates our sexual selves. Erotica is escapist, letting us experience vicariously the fantasies that we can't fulfill in real life. Erotica is political and subversive, writing that challenges the dominant cultural view of sex as something shameful, sinful, and evil. Erotica is personal and psychological, exploring the sexual sources of human conflict, motivation and emotion. Erotica is transformational, leading us to new visions of our sexual selves.

Mike Kimera has stopped writing and publishing under that name. In the days when I knew him, though, he used to wonder in his blog postings whether what he wrote should be called "erotica". Based on the sampling of stories in his stunning collection, Writing Naked, I don't think there is any doubt. Mike writes graphic, honest, revealing, and sometimes painful tales about believable and mostly sympathetic humans in the grip of sexual desire. Writing Naked is bold and arousing. At the same time, it delves deeper and exposes more of the psychological realities of sex than most erotic writing.

The slim volume hangs between the poles of two multi-part stories: "Writing Naked: Letters to Myself" (the highly deserving winner of the 2005 Rauxa Prize for erotic writing) and "American Holidays". The former is the intricate self-dissection of an acknowledged porn addict and sexual adventurer. The latter follows a set of interlinked characters through a set of emotional and sexual crises that coincide, as crises so often do, with holidays: Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and so on. Each is a tour de force of erotic writing. Reading about blindfolded Peter being used by his dominant wife and her much-desired best friend is an incredible turn-on. However, there's more here than that. The characters feel extraordinarily real. They are ordinary people except perhaps for being more sexually voracious than average. They are confused and guilty and consistently, overwhelmed by lust.

If there's one theme that unites the stories in Writing Naked, it is the concept that intense sexual desire is somehow foreign, inscrutable, uncontrollable, and irresistible once it is given free reign. Kimera's characters do things they know they will regret later, burning as they do in the superheated furnace of lust. In the brief but totally arresting "Happy Hour", a character muses:

"I wonder how many other women have sweated and moaned their way to slick release upon the tightly woven beauty of this rug? In the beginning I thought it a magic carpet, carrying me to

new heights; I rode it while Gerald rode me. Now I realise that both Gerald and I have been abducted by some poltergeist of lust. We are now so high we can find no way to reach the ground."

And then later:

"This thing we have, whatever it is, is not friendship, or love. It doesn't make us stronger or better. It consumes us. We are burning in each other's arms.

"I hope that when the fire goes out we will not be hollow."

It's not that Kimera's creatures don't know love. They do. When they are lucky, as in the opening story, "I Want to Watch You Do It", the romantic short "Kneading", or the slyly seductive BDSM tale, "Other Bonds Than Leather", their emotional attachment coincides with the object of their lust. All too often, though, their hearts and their genitalia are headed in totally different directions.

"I felt like an alcoholic who everyone thinks is sober; the fact that he isn't drinking doesn't mean he's sober, it just means that he's managed not to be drunk today. Every day that I refused to listen to the wilder side of my nature was a victory, but I didn't expect to keep on winning forever."

("Happy Anniversary")

It may sound as though Kimera's stories are dark, and many of them are. I couldn't read the two hundred pages of this book in a single session; the emotional impact was just too overwhelming. However, there are gems of raunchy humor in this collection, most notably the tongue-in-cheek "Friday Night at the Adult Bookstore", the delicious fantasy tale "Go Large", and the truly inspired "Mating Calls":

"I made the mistake of phoning Kyle, my most recent ex, to ask him if I was a noisy fuck. Cue one fucked up conversation.

"'Babe,' he said (I hate being called babe and he knows it), 'when we fucked, I only knew you were awake because you made no noise. As soon as you fell asleep, you'd start snoring.'

"'Oh, yeah?' I replied (okay, so I'm not always calm on the phone). 'Well, the only reason I knew I was awake when we fucked was because sex was always fun in my dreams.'"

("Mating Calls")

There are also a few stories of sweet redemption through the flesh. "Newton's Laws of Emotion" traces the emotional tectonics that bring a woman scientist to the point of introducing her artist husband and her physicist lover. "Eve's Freedom" is a simple tale about the healing power of love, even when unrequited. And the lyrical "Tiger Tiger" reaffirms that even when we don't will or comprehend it, there may be something transcendental about sexual union.

There's a trend in erotic writing these days toward the edgy and extreme: violent, shocking, completely transgressive. You might wonder if Mike Kimera's stories fall into this category. In fact, they do not. Mike's characters often behave badly. They fuck roughly, deceive freely, break taboos left and right. However, they never lose their humanity. Somehow there's always a spark of empathy—even for the ugly millionaire who gets his kicks by paying women to be degraded in "Fucking Money".

Mike pretends to distance himself from his characters, to survey their actions and unflinchingly report their foibles. His bio notes that he took a degree in psychology "out of sheer self-indulgence". He likes to assume the pose of the analytical observer, the chronicler of lust. It's just a pose, though. He cares about his characters far too much to be a clinician.

If you're looking for light entertainment, no thought or emotion required, then skip this book. On the other hand, if you're ready to experience desire in all its complexity and intensity, don't miss it.

Another Adventure in Pickwicks Coffee Shop (@jennykaneauthor #romance #newrelease)

Following on from the bestselling novel, Another Cup of Coffee, and the seasonal Christmas novellas Another Cup of Christmas, Christmas in the Cotswolds, and Christmas at the Castle, Jenny Kane brings you the final installment in the Pickwicks Coffee House adventures.

Blurb

A warm-hearted, contemporary tale about a group of friends living in a small corner of busy London, by bestselling author Jenny Kane.

Forty-something Amy is shocked and delighted to discover she's expecting a baby - not to mention terrified! Amy wants best friend Jack to be godfather, but he hasn’t been heard from in months. When Jack finally reappears, he's full of good intentions but his new business plan could spell disaster for the beloved Pickwicks Coffee Shop, and ruin a number of old friendships...

Meanwhile his love life is as complicated as ever and yet when he swears off men for good, Jack meets someone who makes him rethink his priorities...but is it too late for a fresh start?

Author Kit has problems of her own: just when her career has started to take off, she finds herself unable to write and there's a deadline looming, plus two headstrong kids to see through their difficult teenage years...will she be able to cope?

A follow-up to the runaway success Another Cup of Coffee.

Buy Link: http://mybook.to/AGOChampagne  
(universal Amazon link)

Excerpt

‘My goodness, woman, you look like the proverbial beached whale!’ Amy grinned at the teasing smile on her former boss’s face.

‘Thanks, Peggy. I know I can rely on you to be ready with a huge compliment!’

‘Huge is the word, and you are more than welcome!’ Taking advantage of a lull in custom, Peggy followed Amy to where Kit was working, and pulled out a chair for her friend before sitting down herself. ‘So how long have you got to go now?’

‘Only two months, which is nothing like as long as I need to get ready, or even get my head around what's happening to me! I have far too much to do before the baby comes, although we’ve almost finished decorating the nursery at last. I haven’t even managed to find anyone to cover my job at Home Hunters yet.’

Amy thanked Megan, Pickwicks’ chief waitress, as she delivered a tray of drinks and half a huge carrot cake for the three friends, before asking Kit, ‘I don’t suppose that lovely husband of yours fancies coming back to the business while I’m on maternity leave?’

Kit shook her head. ‘Not a hope. It did cross my mind after Phil gave up running Home Hunters that he might have withdrawal symptoms and want to go back, but he took to running the bookshop like a duck to water. I can’t see him ever going back. And he wouldn’t have the time, to be honest. Did I tell you that they’re so busy now, he and Rob have employed a guy to help them with their new educational courses at Kew?’

Amy beamed. ‘No, you didn’t. That’s fantastic! I bet Jack would be thrilled for them if he was here.’ Suddenly pensive, she picked up her cup, ‘I don’t suppose either of you have heard from Jack?’

Peggy shook her head as Kit said, ‘Not a word. I thought he’d keep in touch with you though, Amy, even if he went quiet on the rest of us.’

‘Paul says he’ll turn up eventually, but I’d rather like to be able to tell Jack about this bundle,’ Amy patted her stomach, ‘before he or she stops being just a bump in my jumper. I might ask him if he wants to be godfather.’

Kit nodded. ‘Jack is godfather to the twins, and although he’s a dreadful role model on the morals front, both Thomas and

Helena have always found him great fun, and say that having a gay godfather is, and I quote, “Well cool”.’

Peggy had never understood the loyalty Jack’s two ex-girlfriends felt for him considering how appallingly he’d treated them both. She certainly wouldn’t want anyone who’d stood her up on her wedding day – albeit only in the role of usher – to be a godparent to her child, but she simply asked,

‘How long has he been AWOL for?’

Amy frowned. ‘It must be more or less four years since I last saw him, and about twelve months since I last spoke to him.

It’s not so much being AWOL as missing in action. How about you, Kit?’

Peggy and Amy exchanged glances as they saw Kit staring blankly into her soup bowl-sized cup of black coffee. ‘Kit? You with us?’

‘What? Oh, sorry, guys. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I phased out for a minute. What was the question?’

Peggy had noticed how distracted Kit had been lately, although instinct told her that she shouldn’t ask her friend about it yet. ‘When did you last hear from Jack, honey?’

‘I’m not sure, must be at least a year. That is very Jack though, isn’t it. I bet he’d get a kick out of the fact that we’re all back here wondering where he is and if he’s OK.’

Amy, who’d had similar thoughts herself, grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised – although I’d like to think that at his age he’s finally grown out of playing those games.’

Kit and Peggy laughed in unison. ‘No chance!’ ‘I assume he’s either still travelling around the world – or working in someone’s garden, using that horticultural qualification he got after Paul and I got married.’

‘Sounds possible, and of course,’ Kit let her inner storyteller go in a way she wished she could on paper, ‘if Jack has spent all the inheritance his grandfather left him, he could have got a job in the grounds of some posh house, had a torrid affair with the heir to the manor, and be in the middle of a society scandal.’

Amy smiled as Peggy divided the carrot cake into mountainous slices. ‘That sounds entirely possible, and I sort of hope it’s true! The boyfriend bit, I mean, rather than the scandal bit.’

Pulling her cake plate closer, Kit shrugged. ‘I’m not sure he’d risk another relationship, not after Toby hurt him like that. I suspect he’s reverted to full-on sleeping around mode.’ Realising she had sounded rather curt, she added, ‘I’d like to be wrong though. If he settled down a bit, he might come home...’

About Jenny

Jenny spends a large part of her time in the cafe’s of Mid Devon, where she creates her stories, including the novels Another Glass of Champagne, (Accent Press, 2016), Abi’s House (Accent Press, June 2015), Romancing Robin Hood (Accent Press, 2014), the best selling contemporary romance Another Cup of Coffee (Accent Press, 2013), and the novella length sequels Another Cup of Christmas (Accent Press, 2013), Christmas in the Cotswolds, (Accent Press, 2014), and Christmas at the Castle, (Accent Press, 2015).

Her next full length novel, Abi’s Neighbour, will be published by Accent Press in Summer 2017. She is also working on a short historical novel, which will be published in November 2016.

Jenny Kane is also the author of quirky children’s picture books There’s a Cow in the Flat (Hushpuppy, 2014) and Ben’s Biscuit Tin (Hushpuppy, 2015).

Keep your eye on Jenny’s blog at www.jennykane.co.uk for more details.

Twitter: @JennyKaneAuthor

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JennyKaneRomance

 

Sunday Snog 232: Nasty Business (FF) (#LGBTQ #BDSM #oral)

I have something different for today’s snog—a very raw and intense FF oral excerpt from Nasty Business. That novel’s main plot follows a M/F relationship, but there is also a F/F BDSM subplot.

After you’ve finished my excerpt, head over to Victoria’s for more Sunday orality!

If you enjoy lesbian erotica, read on!

“You're so beautiful, Margaret,” she murmurs, dipping once again into the well of honey between her legs. “I want you so much. Don’t you want me?” She holds her hand out to me, appealing, almost waif-like. Without thinking, I take her proffered fingers into my mouth.

Her taste is simultaneously strange and familiar. Pungent, salty, rich, wild, embarrassing, and forbidden. My own juices spill over in response. She sees the evidence of my excitement and smiles at my silent answer. Lightly, she gathers a droplet from my thighs and licks it off her finger. Her eyes close as she savors me, and I am reminded of some flaxen-haired medieval angel, consumed by mystic ecstasy.

Sudden, fierce lust shatters my dreamy composure. I want her, want to take her, use her, devour her. Slipping off my chaise, I kneel at her side and take her face in my hands. Then I suck her into a long, violent kiss that leaves us both breathless. With one hand I am twisting her nipple, while the other probes her drenched pussy. I’ve never done anything like this before, and yet I know what I am doing, know from touching myself how to touch her.

Luna whimpers under my assault, arches her body and tries to force my fingers deeper insider her. “Oh, yes, please, yes…”

“You like this, Luna?” She can’t answer, she’s too far gone, but I know that I am giving her what she wants. I’ve found the slippery nub of her clit. I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, kneading and twisting, pulling until her hips rise right off the chaise trying to follow. I am not gentle; she does not want gentleness.

I release her clit, giving her a moment’s respite, then press my palm against her mound and push all four fingers into her cunt. She screams and I feel the shudders gathering in her flesh. I remove my hand completely. She whimpers in frustration, then sighs as I slip my index finger back into her folds and wiggle it playfully.

Her depths are lined with slick velvet. As I explore her, she shivers and moans. “More, please! More!” I lean down and take a cherry nipple between my lips, marveling at the nubby texture of the swollen flesh against my tongue. So sweet, so juicy, I cannot help biting down on that lush morsel. Luna yells and writhes against my hand. She grabs it by the wrist and tries to force all my fingers into her soaked cunt.

“Nasty girl,” I say, pulling away from her. Her nipples pout insolently. On a whim, I slap one breast with an open palm. My own skin stings as I watch hers redden. Her eyes are closed, her lips half-open. As an experiment, I lay stinging blow on the opposite breast. Her pelvis jerks and grinds in response.

She wants it hard, wants it rough. I see this with sudden clarity. And I want to give it to her. “Knees up,” I say brusquely, amazed at the authority in my voice. “Feet on the chaise, thighs spread wide. And don't you dare to touch yourself.” Luna hastens to obey and I know that my intuitions are correct.

The undersides of her thighs are a creamy gold. I remember Liu’s leather strap and wonder what marks it would make on that succulent flesh. I’m just looking, not touching. Luna rotates her hips obscenely, inviting me.

“Little slut,” I whisper, “be careful what you wish for.” I lean down and hold open her lower lips, breathing deeply. Her fragrance makes me ache. I can see her clitoris, shiny with her secretions. It juts out, yearning, just below the champagne-colored down on her pubis.

Saliva gathers in my mouth. I’m hungry for her. I capture the sensitive little nub between my lips. She shudders at first contact. Then I sink my teeth into her, at the same time forcing three fingers deep into her vagina.

Luna lets out a long wail of pain, pleasure, or both. Her muscles convulse around my hand. Hot liquid drenches my fingers. For long minutes her flesh quivers around me, as I continue to worry her clit with my mouth.

My own sex quivers in sympathy. I am far from climax, but I am incredibly aroused by this woman, and by what I am doing to her. I remember Liu telling me that power was the ultimate aphrodisiac. I did not understand him then, but I think I am beginning to see what he meant. I slide my fingers out of Luna’s sex and lean back, watching her.

Luna’s breathing has slowed. She opens her eyes and gazes at me with something like adoration. “Oh God! That was wonderful,” she murmurs. “Thank you.” She reaches for me. “Now let me please you…”

I pull away from her, rising to my feet. “Not here. Let’s go to your room.”

“Of course,” she says, leading the way into the dim interior. I gather my clothing as I pass, some part of me realizing that I want to keep this a secret, for now.

Her room faces the hillside. This late in the afternoon, it is quite dim. She lights several candles and I catch the scents of vanilla and clove. She stands before me, eager and strangely innocent. I ache with desire for her, desire fed, strangely, by the notion that she is Rick’s lover.

“Luna.” My voice is quiet but commanding. “Eat me.” I seat myself on her bed and spread my legs wide. I am barely in position before she is kneeling before me. Delicately she parts my fleece and leans forward, breathing in my aroma. She sighs in delight.

I thrust my fingers into her tangled locks and raise her face to mine. “What are you waiting for?” I draw her face into my crotch. She needs no further encouragement.

Her tongue is hot and agile. I can feel every motion, every gesture. She swirls it around my clit, spreads my labia with broad, wet strokes, makes little plunging thrusts into my cunt. I grind my sex against her face, soaking her with my secretions, smothering her in my heat. My forcefulness only makes her more eager. She nips at me like a little dog, then lovingly licks and slobbers all over me.

I tremble, on the verge of orgasm, hovering there for long frustrating minutes. She senses my imminent climax and works harder. I try to relax, to let go of my thoughts, my stubborn inhibitions. I feel guilty, keeping her from satisfaction by not taking my own.

She doesn’t seem to mind. Taking a moment for breath, she gazes up at me, face slick with my juices. Her angelic smile refuels my lust. “I told you to eat my pussy, slut,” I tell her, forcing her head back down. Her pliancy thrills me. She attacks my cunt with renewed vigor, until I’m twisting and screaming under her mouth.

I’m so close now, I need just one push to topple me into oblivion. Then she gives me that push. Without preamble, she reaches between my splayed thighs and slips one wet finger deep into my anus. It’s pain and it’s bliss. It’s a violation and ultimate intimacy. It’s enough to make me explode, finally and utterly. 

 

An Interview with Sexy Seth! (#eroticromance #GetYourSexyOn @ElodieParkes)

By Elodie Parkes (Guest Blogger)

Dishy Seth Callahan relocates one of his business offices to a pretty Louisiana town. He's lonely and discovers an emptiness inside him he just can't fill ? that is until he starts his house parties, where he fills the hollow with sultry encounters.

Four years later, his house parties attract lonely people looking for sensual comfort from far and wide. 

Rosanna Pyne arrives in town seeking solace after a bad relationship, and her neighbors take her to one of Seth's parties.

Seth notices her right away. He approaches her, but Rosanna backs away from Seth's steamy advances. Seth falls into fantasizing in a most erotic way about the lovely Rosanna until one night she makes a move on him.

Rosanna is looking for someone to love her. Is there any chance it might be Seth?

An erotic romance with HEA to make your summer sizzle!

Visiting today we have Seth Callahan from the new Evernight Publishing erotic romance release, Leave me Breathless.

Hi Seth, thanks for coming along to the blog today

Hi, thank you for inviting me. I have to say it's a little embarrassing seeing my story published, although it's great too.

What's embarrassing about it?

Well, without giving too much away, the way I fantasize about Rosanna before we really get together is unusual, I think...

Okay, so, Seth, tell us something about Rosanna, and why you fantasize about her.

She's pretty, intelligent, she has her own business, designing wedding dresses, bridesmaids dresses and stuff. She's sexy and strong. It took me ages to get her to live with me and agree to marry me... (smiles) that's maybe a spoiler, I should be quiet. Why do I fantasize about her, well, I guess I fall for her right from the start, but mostly she turns me on ... more than I've ever felt before.

What are the house parties, mysteriously referred to in the book blurb?

Well now, they're parties where people can meet and have sex. I mean ... not necessarily sex per se, but flirt, make out ... there's only one way to understand and that's to read the story. (smiles)

A sex club, then? (He stares at me intently for a moment with his gorgeous blue eyes.)

Yeah I guess so. (Now he's smiling again)

Okay let's have some quick questions.

What's your favorite, jeans, or a suit?

I wear suits and jeans. I don't have a favorite because I have some cool suits for work and some great faded denims that I throw on when I'm not working. It took me a while to get those jeans just the way I like them, ripped and faded. Rosanna especially likes the tear in the upper thigh part.

Do you ever go commando?

(He grins and his eyes twinkle)

Er, yes, sometimes in my favorite jeans, the ones I just described.

Do you like making love with the lights off or on?

Both, either, it depends ? Rosanna likes candlelight (He smiles)

Coffee or Cola?

Has to be coffee. Are you offering me a cup ? I didn't get breakfast!

In bed, toys or no toys? (Okay, he's laughing now.)

The answer's the same as lights on or off, both depending on the situation. I seriously need coffee now.

What can we expect to read when you fantasize about Rosanna?

Hell, that's kinda personal, but sex and what I want to do to Rosanna, or with her, mostly. Let's just say it's hot as hell male fantasy stuff because by the time we do get together I'm desperate for her. The story has a happy ever after, I mean-I love her.

Thank you for being here today. We'll get some coffee now ...

Thank you for inviting me. I hope you enjoy Rosanna's and my love story.

Read a teaser

She molded her body to his, returning his kiss with so much hunger and passion, Seth moved a hand along her back to cup her ass and ram his aching cock on her stomach. He kissed her toward one side of the room, and with each kiss, she moaned low, clinging to him, her arms pushed up around his neck. He picked her up and jammed her against the wall.

She lifted her legs to circle his hips. The hem of her dress rose and fell away on each side of her hips in a slick of silk.

Seth pressed between her thighs. The warmth from her pussy penetrated his suit pants and made his cock leak. He thrust his hips in long, slow, movements, plundering her mouth with his tongue. His heart pounded and he drifted in a haze of such desperate desire that he broke the stream of kisses to whisper against her lips. "Come with me to a private place. This is killing me. I need to fuck you. I have to fuck you. I want my tongue in your cunt and then my cock pounding into you. I want you coming on me moaning. I want us fucking and coming over and over, until we can't stand up."

Rosanna pushed against his chest with her palms and slid her legs to the floor. She slipped her arms around Seth's waist and leaned her head against his chest.

Her softly voiced words tore into his lust-fogged mind.

"I've made a mistake. I don't think I can do this - not - not right now - when I've only just met you."

Seth stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. His cock was painfully hard, and disappointment washed his haze of lust away.

"It's okay, but just so you understand about this club. That's what we do here in the house parties. We come here so that we can have sex without knowing each other." He lifted her face tenderly with a hand under her jaw and kissed her softly. "Your friends should have told you that."

He moved away from her gently so that she wouldn't think he was angry. He turned and walked away. Nothing had ever felt like the kisses he'd shared with Rosanna. He'd never experienced such intense desire. It wasn't just the urgent need to fuck and come, but an overwhelming need to kiss every part of her body, to trail his fingers over every inch of her skin, please and tease her, love her until she knew she was loved. Seth sighed despondently at the nature of his desire. This was unexpected. He wove through the room full of people to the front door.

©Elodie Parkes 2016, Evernight Publishing

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About Elodie

I'm a writer who is in love with happy endings, currently based in southern UK.

I love: music, art, flowers, trees, the ocean. I work with antiques by day and words by night. Like a vampire, darkness is my friend, that's when the silence is only broken by an occasional hoot of owls in the woodlands opposite my home, and I write.

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Lust on the Fells: Landscapes (@kd_grace #mm #pnr #erotica)

Blurb

Vampire Alonso Darlington has a disturbing method of keeping landscaper, Reese Chambers, both safe from and oblivious to his dangerous lust for the man. But Reese isn’t easy to keep secrets from, and Alonso wants way more than to admire the man from afar. Can he risk a real relationship without risking Reese’s life? And if Reese finds out the truth, will there be any relationship left to risk?

Note: Landscapes was released as part of the Brit Boys: On Boys boxed set.

Excerpt

It wasn’t that Reese Chambers made my cock hard – though he did. It wasn’t that he was beautiful in a rugged, leather and stone sort of way – though he was. It was that Reese Chambers moved me in ways I had not been moved in a very long time, in ways that I, who never lacked just the right words to express myself, found my vocabulary inadequate to the task. Talia would call it an obsession, and maybe it was; from my first sight of him mantling his sketchpad like a bird of prey over a fresh kill, alone in the midst of the crowded pub, I could think of nothing else. It was my first night back on British soil. It is said that you can never go back home, and it had been a very long time for me. But the need to come home was in my blood like fever these past years, as were so many needs that never left me, but only sharpened with the passing of time.

Next to me, Talia droned on about suitable residences in Cumbria, about the leasing of a car and the making of necessary renovations. The Two Dogs was busy for a Monday night with tourist season past, but being invisible was sometimes easier in a crowd.

***

‘Find out who he is.’ I nodded in Reese’s direction. Before Talia could protest, I continued. ‘I have a roof over my head, and I’ve fed. There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’

Talia’s cheekbones flushed with the rush of blood, and heaven knew how beautiful she was in such a state, porcelain pale skin, midnight blue eyes and hair, which was so close to black that no one but I would have noticed all of the other colours in her silken tresses. She knew what it was I asked of her, and she knew the delicate line she tread on the rare occasion when I did ask. A tremor passed up her long, straight spine, and a bloom of tiny goose bumps textured her bare arms. It would not be painless, what I asked, and I knew she feared it as much as she longed for it. I could hear the thud thud of her pulse in the thin, silken skin of her throat as she swallowed the sudden dryness of fear. ‘What do you want to know?’

I leaned forward to rake the tip of my thumb against the pulse point in her temple. ‘Everything, Talia. I want to know all of it. And when you know, come directly to me. I don’t care what time it is when you return.’

*****

It was nearing dawn when Talia returned to our accommodations smelling of sex, as I knew she would if she were to obtain for me what I wanted. By then my blood burned in my veins, and my body felt too close to me, as though the flesh that I dwelt in suddenly conspired to crush me with its demands. And though I knew that Reese Chambers could not have refused her even if she had come to him as a toothless, foul-smelling hag, I hated her that he had poured himself into her body while I had been left with only my fantasies kindling my lust to an inferno.

Though my need was such that my flesh was fevered and my cock an insistent throb, until she returned, I held myself contained within skin that felt too thin. When she saw the state that I was in, she pulled the heavy drapes with an efficient tug, then with a nod of her head, motioned me to follow her down into the basement room that had been prepared for me. When she turned to me at the foot of the bed, before she could opened her kiss-bruised lips to speak, I took her mouth, starving for the first taste of him, the taste of his saliva, the taste of his blood, mixed with hers. She’d bitten him; he’d bitten her back. He was rough, and he liked to be treated rough, but he kept that to himself. He was embarrassed by it. His lips were slightly chapped from so much time in the sun and wind, and they’d slid against hers, suckling and stroking and pressing until her mouth opened to his. With ravenous laps of my tongue, I tasted him in her mouth, and she held back the moan of response, so I could hear the echoes of his groans, heavy with need he’d not satisfied in awhile, and I felt kinship in my own unsatisfied needs. Images of him flashed through my head. Christ, his eyes were green, dark green like the evergreen forests of the north, and he kept them open when he kissed her, taking her in with his eyes.

I shoved aside the silk of her low bodice exposing her breasts, breasts that his hands had cupped. My nipples peeked to sharp aching points at the feel of his calloused thumbs raking, pressing and releasing. I breathed in his scent on her breasts, burying my face in her cleavage, licking the taste of salty, slightly picante maleness, sniffing and tasting until I could stand it no more. In one violent jerk, I tore the dress all the way down and shoved it off her shoulders, away from the flesh he had licked and kissed and mounted. I cried out at the feel of him, weight on one elbow, knee spreading her thighs, fingers opening her heaviness, anxious to penetrate, anxious to relieve his need. And then, with Talia free of clothing, Reese Chambers’ essence filled the room. Talia’s panties were still wet with his semen mixed with her humid desire, and I tore them from her and forced her onto her stomach, onto her hands and knees, so that it was not her face I saw, but his that I imagined. With hands on her hips, I raised her bottom in the air and spread her still swollen, still slippery folds with fingers made awkward by my arousal, letting the scent of his hot bread and honey release intoxicate me. Then I buried my face in her snatch and, as I ate his lust from her, I knew him.

He was Cumbrian born and bred, and his accent was the soft lilting sound of the fells. He was a landscaper and a gardener by trade. His hands held the magic of the earth and his mind conceived ideas for beautiful outdoor spaces; those he liked best were patterned after Renaissance and medieval gardens. He was homesick and heartsick. He’d gone to Surrey to work with his father because the money was good. But his father had died recently and he had returned home to Cumbria. He didn’t care if he had to work in a pub or muck stables. He wanted to be home. He missed the people and he missed the fells. He missed the simpler, more honest rhythms of life. He was shy, even a bit reclusive. He read voraciously and widely, he liked astronomy and he was afraid of snakes, though it embarrassed him to admit it. He hadn’t had sex in a long time, and found it better to have a wank session than a meaningless encounter. The facts of him, the details of his life raced at me in a flood I consumed ravenously with each lap of my tongue.

As I ate Talia I felt the shape of his face, the curve of his chin, the rise and fall of his chest as he had done the same. I felt the soft tuft of bronze curls nestled between the hard rise of his pecs and the courser, deeper curls that caressed his testicles and his cock when it was at rest, but it hadn’t been at rest. How many times had he taken her? He was thick enough to fill her and the friction of him inside was delicious and maddening. The shape of him – I wanted to caress the shape of him, with my hands, with my mouth, and the taking of his essence from Talia was an act of ripping away something that should have been mine. As I bruised her arse with kneading fingers and, as I licked the last of his release from her, she managed a breathless moan. ‘Take the rest. God, Alonso, take the rest, and release me.’

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About K D Grace/Grace Marshall

Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

KD has erotica published with SourceBooks, Xcite Books, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Sweetmeats Press and others.

K D’s critically acclaimed erotic romance novels include, The Initiation of Ms Holly, Fulfilling the Contract, To Rome with Lust, and The Pet Shop. Her paranormal erotic novel, Body Temperature and Rising, the first book of her Lakeland Witches trilogy, was listed as honorable mention on Violet Blue’s Top 12 Sex Books for 2011. Books two and three, Riding the Ether, and Elemental Fire, are now also available.

K D Grace also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall. An Executive Decision, Identity Crisis, The Exhibition, Interviewing Wade are all available.

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Websites: http://kdgrace.co.uk/

http://www.thebritbabes.co.uk

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