Monday, April 30, 2018

More Secret Pleasures from @PortiaDaCosta - #EroticRomance #sexy #secretpleasures

[Anyone who follows me knows that I am a huge fan of Portia Da Costa. It was reading one her books that got me started writing erotica and erotic romance. Here's a delicious new book from Portia's pen! ~ Lisabet]

HER LOVER’S SECRET - Portia Da Costa

Secret Pleasures #4
When twenty-something office worker Rachel spills wine all over herself and a devastatingly handsome older man at her friends' wedding reception, she little realises that it's the beginning of a heart-stopping journey of emotional discovery. Or that the gorgeous hunk she’s just dowsed in house red is the owner of the very company she works for!

Lawrence Brady is stunned to discover his state of weary ennui shattered by the beautiful woman who upends her glass of wine all over him. Rachel seems bold and eager for a sensual adventure… and he’s just the man to show her new horizons, in a thrillingly intense but short-lived no strings affair.

But what if their fling becomes more? Will Lawrence's secret sorrow destroy their chance of happiness and a future together? Or will Rachel’s troubled past make it impossible for her to give her heart to him?


Chapter 1

Oh no! I’m ever so sorry! Your beautiful suit. Please forgive me!’

Oh bollocks, there was splattered wine everywhere! Mainly all over her front and surely far more than one medium glass could ever hold! Why on earth hadn’t she stuck to champagne instead of trying the house red?

Rachel Harding stared up at the man she was trying to apologise to—the tall, grey-haired, scrumptiously broad-shouldered man who was the most stunning piece of crumpet she’d set eyes on in a long time. Clad in an expensive-looking mid-blue linen suit, this imposing hunk was now adorned with a selection of tasteful red blotches that matched the ones that also decorated her own front.

But wine or no, he was a dish to tempt all womankind. Handsome in a weathered, slightly craggy mode, he was even more of a lure with every second that passed. And that hair.

Under closer scrutiny it was iron grey at the base, heavily frosted with purest white and cut short but with a slight curl. A bit of a Roman emperor style, which chimed well with his confident, imperial bearing.

Uh oh.

Luckily most of the wine in her glass seemed to have landed on her. Her rather nice wedding guest outfit, a rose-coloured lacy number, was a total mess, but it was almost worth it to invoke the glorious amused grin that lit the face of this fabulous silver fox.

I… um… I’m so sorry,’ she burbled on, feeling pleasantly gobsmacked by him. He was turning her to jelly and he hadn’t said a word yet.

No, no, no, it’s my fault. I jogged you.’ His broadening smile revealed dazzling white teeth. He was like an amiable, edible predator, an edifice of sexy male pulchritude.

HER LOVER’S SECRET is a sequel to His Secret [#1], Their Secret [#2] and Her Secret [#3].

Amazon :: US :: UK :: CA :: AU
Also from :: Kobo :: iBooks :: Nook

About the Author

Portia Da Costa is a British author of romance, erotic romance and erotic fiction. Published since 1990, she’s written more than 30 novels and novellas, plus many short stories. In 2012, her saucy, library-set erotic romance IN TOO DEEP reached #5 on the SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLERS list, outsold only by E L James & Sylvia Day.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Sizzling Sunday: Hot Spell -- #pnr #elementals #nature

Sizzling Sunday banner

Happy Sunday! I’ve got a literally steamy excerpt for you today, from my paranormal erotic romance novella Hot Spell. I figured this was appropriate, now that we’re well on our way to spring.

Here’s the blurb:

The flames of passion are more than metaphor.

The city swelters In the grip of an unseasonable heat wave. Sylvie endures her solitary urban existence for the sake of her career, but the prospect of a hot, lonely three day weekend proves unbearable and she flees east to the pine-shrouded mountains. Far more at home in nature than in the city, Sylvie doesn't mind being alone in the wilderness, but she's not the only being haunting the glades and the trails. Her plans for a midnight dip are interrupted when she discovers a handsome stranger in the stream near her camp site. Hidden in the shadow of the trees, she can't help watching as he pleasures himself – or indeed, surreptitiously joining him in auto-eroticism. By the time she recovers from her climax, however, he has vanished.

Aidan finds her the next day as she sun bathes nude in a high meadow. It's obvious that his desire burns as fiercely as hers, yet he resists his own lust, refusing to make love to her. The muscular, sun-bronzed man with the red-gold hair is cursed with power he fears will destroy her if they give full rein to their passion. Can earthy, voluptuous Sylvie refrain from tempting him? Or will she risk being being literally consumed by love?

And the excerpt:

The gurgle of water tumbling over stone grew louder as she approached. The very sound was refreshing. A few feet from the edge, she stripped off her clothes, draping them and her towel over a convenient boulder. She was about to step out of the woods when an unexpected movement caught her eye.

There was something splashing in the creek a bit downstream from where she stood—something…or someone. Sylvie shrank back into the shadow of the trees. 
Directly opposite her, the stream rushed over river-polished rocks, flecked with white froth. To her right, though, it widened into a calm pool, black as the sky above. The unexpected noise came from there.

She peered into the night. All she could see at first was a round, furry mass that seemed to float upon the surface. Ripples stirred as a figure rose from the water. At the same time, the half moon climbed above the crest of the trees. Its pale rays revealed the form of a naked man.

Sylvie caught her breath. His back was to her—a gleaming, sculpted expanse that swept down to a narrow waist, then flared into taut buttocks. A curtain of wet hair clung to his neck and shoulders. He took a step forwards, water swirling around his lean thighs. The grace and power revealed by that small motion made Sylvie ache inside. She’d never encountered such beauty in a man.

He turned then, and the ache deepened to an agony of want. Sleek skin stretched over his muscled chest and abdomen, strewn with glittering drops of moonlight. He turned his face to the sky and Sylvie caught a glimpse of features that seemed carved from marble—a soaring brow, chiselled jaw, sharp cheekbones and a broad, resolute mouth. The man’s eyes were closed, as though he was praying to the moon.

Then she noticed his hands, clasped below his belly in a firm grip around his erect cock. It reared up from a matted tangle at his groin—hard and smooth as the rest of his body. Her nipples snapped into tight peaks as she watched the stranger knead his rampant flesh. Slowly and deliberately at first, then with a quickening pace, he stroked from the glistening bulb down to the root. His cock grew longer and fatter as he worked it, hand over hand. His full lips drew back and his brow furrowed as the pressure and the pleasure built. He kept his eyes shut.

Sylvie licked her lips. Dampness painted her inner thighs. Her clit tingled and throbbed, crying out to be touched. Her empty pussy hungered to be filled. In a flash of memory, her dream returned—not the details, just the fevered arousal. Her body was on fire again.

She sank to her knees on the mossy ground and plunged her fingers into her wetness. There was no conscious decision—she simply couldn’t help it. Her folds were slippery and burning hot. She cupped her hand, four fingers deep in her cleft while she rubbed the back of her thumb over her clit. Pleasure shuddered through her. The swollen nub was hard as a pebble, so sensitive that she could scarcely bear to touch it. When she backed off, though, it screamed for more stimulation.

With her other hand, she massaged one breast, cradling the lovely weight in her palm. She flicked her nipple, striking sparks, then pinched it with all the force she could muster. Her pussy clenched in response. Waves of sensation fanned out from her centre.

A low moan dragged her attention back to the stranger in the stream. His right hand jerked his cock, fast and rough. The other was hidden behind him, moving in the same jagged rhythm. From his spread thighs and straining muscles, Sylvie guessed he had at least one finger pumping his rear hole. The lewd notion made her own anus twitch and tingle.

He was obviously close to coming. The realisation sizzled through her, pushing her to the edge as well. She dug in, mashing her clit against the heel of her hand and rocking back and forth, keeping her eyes on the gorgeous man jacking off barely a dozen feet away.

His biceps corded with tension, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, he clawed his way towards orgasm. Sylvie climbed with him, matching him breath for breath, groan for groan.

Even drugged with lust and poised at the precipice, she noticed a peculiar phenomenon Wisps of steam rose from the pool, twining around the stranger’s taut limbs. Hot spring, she thought as the water churned in a slow boil. The moon lit the mist, painting his flesh with an unearthly glow.

A choked cry escaped him. A pearly fountain of cum arced from his cock and rained down into the pool, hissing as it struck the water. The stranger’s eyes flew open. His gaze found hers, despite the shadows in which she hid.

The sense of recognition shocked her. This was no stranger. Deep in Sylvie’s belly, the last barrier crumbled. Molten pleasure surged through her, drowning rational thought. In its wake came a trembling quiet, a profound peace. For a long while, there was nothing else.

~ ~ ~ ~

You can get your own copy of Hot Spell here:

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Saturday Seven: Favorite Poems - #SaturdaySeven #Verse #NationalPoetryMonth

We still have a few days left in National Poetry Month (celebrated every April since 1966!), so I thought I’d share seven of my favorite poems.

I was introduced to poetry at a very young age. My dad, who was a musician (among his many other talents) composed poems for my siblings and me, then set his cute doggerel to music. Both my parents read to us—poetry as well as prose—before I learned to read myself. I guess it’s not surprising that I started writing my own poems at the age of six or seven.

Anyway, here are some of the poems that are special for me. Some I encountered in the distant past; one, only a few days ago.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Alice books were among the first novels I read. I loved Lewis Carroll’s verse as much as his fantastic stories. This classic poem illustrates how the patterns of English grammar can convey meaning even when the words themselves are nonsense. We can tell that “brillig” is a time of day (or maybe a description of the weather); that “toves”, “borogoves” and “raths” are creatures of some sort; that “gyre”, “gimble’, and “outgrabe” are actions; that “mimsy” and “mome” describe the creatures.

This poem comes from Through the Looking Glass (or more correctly, “Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There”.) As the mirror above her fireplace dissolves into mist, Alice steps through to find herself in a similar, but distinctly twisted reality. She picks up one of the books from the shelves, to find it’s written backwards, but is able to read the poem by holding it up to the now solid mirror in the looking glass room.

Like me, she manages to get some sense from it, despite the made-up vocabulary!

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas...

I don’t remember where I first encountered this tale, but I’m pretty sure I’d read it before I reached puberty. Nevertheless, the tragic romance embodied in the poem deeply touched me. Only now do I realize it’s actually a paranormal romance!

This poem clearly shows the relationship between poetry and music. Its strong rhythm and repeating refrain are like a song.

I recently returned to this poem, finding I liked it as much as ever. Actually, I have a plan to write a story based loosely on “The Highwayman”—but with a much happier ending!

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

In seventh grade, we had an activity in English class called “recitation”. Basically, the goal was to give us practice in public speaking. For some assignments, we had to teach the class how to do something. For others, we had to make a logical argument. The assignments I recall best, though, are those where we had to memorize a piece of verse and declaim it to the class.

Barter” was one of the poems I chose to recite. I can still do so. The message in this brief, poignant poem resonates with me, decades later.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells

I studied this poem in high school English class. It was possibly one of the first pieces of verse that I approached from an analytical as well as an emotional perspective. The sensual, nostalgic, gently erotic imagery in this poem have stuck with me all my life, though only now as I grow old, like the poem’s narrator, can I fully appreciate the world-weary beauty of it.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand

I’m embarrassed to say that I’d never heard of Mary Oliver, until I noticed a close friend using the stunning last lines of “The Summer Day” as her email signature. This poem is a gem, capturing the breathless beauty of a single moment then showing the deep truth it contains.

for some
it is stone
bare smooth
as a buttock
into the crevasse
of the world

I first read this poem only a few days ago, posted by one of my high school friends (a poet herself) on Facebook.

How few words are necessary, to make a miracle.

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Reading Clifton’s poem—which I believe is partly about what it means to be a poet— inspired me to look up what is perhaps my favorite poem about poetry.

Alas, I aspire to these heights but don’t come anywhere close. Still, if you’d like to read some of my poems, most of which are love poems, you can find them at my website on the free reading page.

By the way, be sure to check out the other Saturday Seven posts, all linked to the Long and Short Reviews post today. Just to sweeten the pot, LASR is giving away the seven books they're listing!

Friday, April 27, 2018

Three Reasons to Write a Book About the U.S. Navy - #Navy #Romance #Duty

Naval Maneuvers cover

By Dee S. Knight (Guest Blogger)

I was raised as a Navy brat. That's the long and short of it right there. My dad loved the Navy!! When he left home as a teenager, the Navy became his home and he wasn't shy about letting people know how proud he was to serve. He didn't have an easy job—he was a boiler tender, one of the men who worked in the bowels of the ship and worked with the giant boilers used to power the ship. Lots of noise, heat, and (we found out later) asbestos everywhere, used as fire retardant. He was gone at least eight months out of every year, except for his two tours of shore duty, a total of 6 years out of the 24 he served. It wasn't an easy life, but still he loved it. The reasons why are part of why I wrote Naval Maneuvers. I really wanted to highlight these three factors about military life, and especially about the Navy.

1. Military service isn't only hard on the men and women who leave their families, it's hard on the families. When a spouse is gone for months at a time, the person at home is responsible for the children, the home, the vehicles, their own jobs (because pay in the military is often not enough to support children, homes, and vehicles by itself), and everything that stuff involves. On the one hand, it's an honor to represent the service member, but on the other hand, it's like having a fist fight with one arm tied behind your back. Then, after handling everything for months by yourself, your service member comes home and expects to take back have the responsibility. That is very hard! It's difficult to hold a relationship together and those who do deserve a lot of credit and respect.

I highlighted the family situation especially in “Weighing Anchor”, when Mel Crandall refused to fall in love with a serviceman because of her childhood memories. Her father seemed to miss all of the important events in her life because he was away. Yup, that really happens. My dad missed holidays, birthdays, and my mom's serious illness.

2. The military isn't just a job, it's a lifestyle. On our block in Virginia Beach, only one neighbor was not in the Navy. So a certain camaraderie developed. We all knew when ships had to be met or farewells had to be made. A wife at home had support from others who went through the same trials. It wasn't the same as having the spouse at home, but every wife (or now, husband) knew there was a lifeline of sorts in others experiencing the same thing.

I highlighted this in “Weighing Anchor”, also. Mel's mom reminds her of the "family" they had in the service families they had around them.

3. Someone has to do the dirty job of keeping the nation safe. This has been a truth since countries first had boundaries and armies and navies to defend them. I wanted to highlight that service members are not social misfits who can't do anything else so they entered the service. Unfortunately, that is a view held by a lot of people—that if you can't get into college or learn anything else, you can always go into the service. In each Naval Maneuvers story—“Weighing Anchor”, “Dropping Anchor”, and “Anchor Home”—I wanted to show that whatever you do in whichever service you join, the job is an important one. A necessary one for the existence of a sovereign nation. If not our service members—and in Naval Maneuvers, obviously, our Navy—where would we be?

Now, I know that every serviceman or woman isn’t a saint. The military is, after all, a microcosm of the general population. But I also know the sacrifices members make to go to foreign lands to guard and protect our interests, and I know through experience the difficulties their families go through while they’re away. While I tried to make the book fun to read, and yes, sexy (because after all, that's fun!), I also wanted to show the three points made above.

I am unashamedly patriotic and pro-military, despite its problems and shortcomings. I was raised in the service and married a man who also was raised in the service. And, yes, I'm proud of that fact.


Men and women of the armed forces experience desire and love pretty much like everyone else. Except, well, there is that uniform. And the hard-to-resist attraction of "duty, honor, service" as a man might apply them to a woman's pleasure. All things considered, romance among the military is a pretty sexy, compelling force for which you'd better be armed, whether weighing anchor and moving forward into desire, dropping anchor and staying put for passion, or setting a course for renewed love with anchor home.

Buy Link:

Available in ebook and print!


"And what is your name, pretty?" Mel Crandall addressed the dinosaur bones in an undertone, bending nearly to face level. The skeleton displayed an open mouth and rows of fierce, sharp teeth.

"Roger," a man standing next to her said in a low voice. Startled, she looked up. Up being the operative word. She stood a decent five feet ten inches, and he beat her by a good half foot. She studied him. He ignored her.

The guy had a solid profile, strong chin, chiseled cheekbones, and a straight back with muscular shoulders. Short brown hair. He wore glasses and stared straight ahead, but glasses couldn't disguise the laugh lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes. His posture was near perfect and he was not overweight, as evidenced by the trim fit of his jeans and red polo shirt that clung enough to give evidence of a low body/mass index number.

As a doctor, she immediately noticed body characteristics before actual looks. But with this guy, examination in lieu of admiration was hard. Men were often put off by the fact that she paid attention to whether they looked sallow or flushed, or if their hands were cold or warm before she "saw" them. She noticed if a man's eyes were dilated or glittered with fever before she registered eye color. Dates started with mini examinations before she relaxed enough to enjoy personalities, but that's just the way she was. Men had to take it or leave it. Sadly, most left it. Which was why she talked to dinosaurs at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History all on her own.

Mel moved on to the next exhibit, a shorter built specimen but still tall and with a nasty spiked tail. "I wonder what you looked like," she murmured. "What color were you, what did you eat, and what's your name?" She bent to read the exhibit information.

"Gray. Grass." That same guy had followed her. Rather than having a strong profile, she was beginning to think he was a weirdo. "Annnd, roger."

Quickly, Mel moved to the next exhibit. "And you are–"


He stood beside her again! Mel started to look for a museum guard but saw none. Great. Planting her hands on her hips, she turned to him. "Stop following me," she said loudly enough that people in the general area turned to see what was happening.

The guy said, "Hold it."

Hold it? Hold it, as in "Wait a minute, little lady?" She opened her mouth to lay into him when he turned and removed his glasses, showing her the richest, most chocolatey brown eyes she'd ever seen. The words stuck in her mouth.

"I'm sorry, what?"

In a lower voice she said, "You're following me from exhibit to exhibit and talking to me. I want you to stop."

"I didn't realize…" He wiggled the glasses at her. "I'm working here and I'm afraid I didn't notice you."

Well. What was worse, that he was a pervert following her place to place, or that he wasn't a perv and hadn't even noticed her?

His brow furrowed while he studied her. "Yes. Yes." Then he shook his head. "Roger."

Again with that Roger.

"Gotta go. Later." Then he smiled at her. "Just a minute, okay?" He folded the glasses and put them first in a protective case. Squatting, he placed a briefcase on the floor and opened it. He stored the glass case inside a pocket. Then he removed something from his right ear—an earbud?—protected it and also put it in the case.

Mel watched all of this with curiosity. He expected her to wait for him? What arrogance. And yet, wait she did. When he stood, holding the case in his left hand and smiled once more, her heart stuttered. The guy was drop dead gorgeous—at least to her understanding of the word. Normally, she appreciated the male form, mostly from a medical viewpoint. This man she enjoyed with pure pleasure.

And Good God. He hadn't been talking to her, he'd been talking to whoever was on the other end of that earbud. Embarrassment flooded her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were…" She slid her hand between the two of them and then to the exhibits.

"No," he said. "I apologize. I shouldn't be testing this stuff around people. The last time I did it a kid thought I was calling him Roger." His voice had a soft drawl to it. Western Virginia or North Carolina, maybe? Somewhere in the mountains. It felt like a cool stream as it ran over a body hot and tired from hiking: refreshing and invigorating, at the same time soothing and relaxing. She wanted him to talk more.

Stop that! She laughed. "I thought you were naming each dinosaur." He smiled and dimples indented his cheeks. His eyes crinkled and Mel's breath caught. This guy should come with a warning label. Approach with caution. Could bring on lustful intentions and ultimately, broken hearts. Take only in small doses and in public places.

He held out his hand. "David Stimson."

She took it gingerly, half expecting lightning to bolt between them. Nope. Nothing. So much for romance novels. He had a nice hand, large and warm with healthy pink nails, and she grasped it firmly. "Melissa Crandall."

"Nice to meet you. Do you mind if I wander along with you?" Grasping the briefcase with his left hand, he deftly, he moved to the left of her.

"No, please. It's a free country." She walked to the next dinosaur re-creation. "And this one is…" She half waited for his pronouncement.

"Not Roger," he said, stopping her heart with that killer smile again. He leaned over to read the information. "Torosaurus latus. It says here that these bones were dug up in North Dakota, but that the Torosaurus roamed from Canada to Texas, and that he had the biggest head of any land mammal."

"Well, I guess that's something to be proud of," Mel responded. David laughed and she found herself smiling back. When she moved to the next exhibit, he strolled along with her, hands behind his back.

He pointed to the next specimen. "Poor guy. Starved to death."

"Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

"Can't you tell? He's all bones."

About Dee

A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. Writing was so much fun Dee decided to keep at it. That's how she spends her days. Her nights? Well, she's lucky that her dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy, and nights are their secret.

Find her at:

Thursday, April 26, 2018

My Quirky Trait in Behind the Bench - #MedicalRomance #HockeyRomance #RomCom @LindaOConnor98

Behind the Bench cover

By Linda O’Connor (Guest Blogger)

Lisabet, thank you so much for hosting me today!

As a physician, Im always concerned (okay completely anal :D) about infection control. I taught my three kids to wash their hands whenever they came home from school, after playing outside, really anytime they walked into the house. We all have separate toothbrush holders, and we each have our own tube of toothpaste. And dont even get me started on sharing drinks. Infectious mononucleosis, influenza, herpes simplex, even hepatitis A lurk everywhere. So imagine my chagrin when, now that theyre older, they taste-test each others beer or share water bottles on the bench when theyre playing hockey!

This crept into my romantic comedy Behind the Bench, the second book of the In the Game Hockey Romance series. Dr. Danni Angelo is the team physician for the local professional hockey team. Shes forever chirping at the players to use their own water bottles. The players tolerate the advice, even appreciate her concern, but they pretty much ignore her. Shes not giving up thoughand shell add her two cents about the merits of full-face shields while shes at it.

Behind the Bench (In the Game Hockey Romance series, Book 2)

Dr. Danni Angelo is the team physician for the Clarington Quakes hockey team. She’s worked hard to earn the players’ respect, but the new coach, Trey Mason, is stirring things up, and Danni’s worried her job may be in jeopardy.

Trey finds Danni…distracting. Beauty, brains, and sexy moves on the ice have him uncomfortably attracted. He’s the new guy on the block. He has a reputation to build and a standard to set. The last thing he needs is a complication.

When the team spirals out of control and Danni and Trey get caught up in a drug scandal, things heat up on and off the ice. Its a whole new game planBehind the Bench.


Danni debated for a moment and then took one of the water bottles Dave had just filled. Hopefully Todd Webb wouldn’t miss his. It wasn’t as if they each used their own, she thought with chagrin.

She hustled back to the clinic, ducking around the corners and looking over her shoulder, hoping to avoid Cliff and Dave. When she passed the treatment room, Ben called out to her. “Do you want to come and take a look at this ankle?”

Danni looked at the two drinks in her hands. She’d been hoping to stash them, but she couldn’t just ignore Ben. Resigned, she walked into the treatment room.

Ben looked up and smiled at her. “Thirsty?”

Danni rolled her eyes and didnt answer. She set the bottles on a counter and went over to the player sitting on the examining table. She chatted with Nate as she did a thorough exam and was satisfied that the ankle was strong enough to play. He could be shifted to a healthy scratch, and would be able to join the practices.

Danni finished up and, taking the bottles, made her way through the dressing room to the clinic. A handful of players were getting ready for the pre-game skate.

Hey, Doc. Thats my water bottle,Todd Webb pointed out from across the room.

Danni’s forehead broke out in sweat. “I’m doing an experiment to see if you actually use your own,” she said sardonically. “Good job, Webber.”

He laughed. “That’s okay. I’ll use Veet’s.” He grinned, gesturing to the player sitting nearby.

I prefer NickNacs anyway,Veet said, poking Nick with his stick as he checked the curve on the blade.

I usually grab Wattys,NickNac chimed in, sitting on the bench sipping a Score.

Danni shook her head and shut the clinic door as their laughter filled the air.
Well, she’d had the samples she wanted, but she’d better stick to medicine. She made a terrible spy.

Buy Link

Behind the Bench is one of 16 medical romances in the Coming in Hot: Rescue Me  collection.

About the Author

Linda O’Connor started writing a few years ago when she needed a creative outlet other than subtly rearranging the displays at the local home d├ęcor store. It turns out she loves writing romantic comedies and has a few more stories to tell. When not writing, she’s a physician at an Urgent Care Clinic (well, even when she is writing she’s a physician, and it shows up in her stories :D ). She hangs out at

Laugh every day. Love every minute.