Monday, July 15, 2019

Making a Guest-List - #shortstories #LGBTQ #giveaway @JeanRoberta

By Jean Roberta (Guest Blogger)

Those of us who write short stories tend to collect piles of them. I have stories that were published once, but then the journal or the e-zine or the publisher went out of business. (Alas, this has happened to a lot of erotic publishing outlets since 2000.) I also have stories that I started writing in response to a call-for-submissions, but missed sending them in before the deadline. And I have stories which were rejected for anthologies, for one reason or another.

I whined on social media about my large number of homeless, orphan stories. I got a response from an editor/publisher who had published Obsession, an earlier collection of my short pieces. She asked me to send her my available stories, and we could discuss a way to publish them as a new collection.

I suddenly felt as if I had to make a guest list for a party. Who would get along with whom else? Do stories with hot-and-heavy sex scenes mix with stories of erotic romance, in which two people have to overcome obstacles to reach a happy ending? And do same-sex pairings (usually F/F in my stories) mix with ménage scenes?

My new collection has a loose theme of women-loving women getting acquainted, falling in love, losing their illusions, and regaining hope for the future. Some of these stories have been published before, and some are still virginal. Some are about desire, and some are about satisfaction.

For those who like variety, this collection includes erotica, erotic romance, a previously-published ghost story, a steampunk mystery that is still under consideration elsewhere (the publisher said he would consider it as a reprint). There are two fairy tales.

There is a story about a lesbian courtship that first appeared in 2010, in a charity anthology that was sold to raise legal funds for same-gender marriage equality in the U.S. The prospect of offering that story to a new audience warmed my heart.

Regarding gender, all the major characters in these stories are women. Never fear. The men don’t take over. Our progress is currently challenged by a rising tide of hate toward everyone who is not a heterosexual white man in the top income bracket, but just as an exuberant bag of popcorn can’t return to being a handful of kernels, lesbians or queer women aren’t likely to go back to the invisibility of yesteryear. 

What can be imagined can’t be unseen. Welcome to the world of my imagination.

Here is a scene from the title story, “Spring Fever,” in which a divorced mother realizes that she might just have a romantic future:

Did Amanda, caretaker of the tragic life of the artist Erica Rasmussen, really want to hear the kitchen-sink drama of my daughter’s relationships? At that moment, I didn’t care. I needed a witness.

I told Amanda the story of Katie’s green hair, trying to make it as funny as possible. Amanda laughed as though tickled to the core.

Don’t worry, Mary. Some kids do a lot worse. When I was that age – well, we can save that for another day. Your daughter is very lucky to have a mother who cares what happens to her.”

I couldn’t stand it. “I started reading her diary after that episode. I gave her that diary so she could keep her own secrets, but I went through her bureau drawers to find it, and I read it.” Mea culpa, I have sinned.

Amanda looked smug, as though she had found my own hidden diary. “I bet it’s a page-turner.”

Oh, it is. Teenagers live in their own world, with their own language and culture. I know I’m invading her privacy, but I wish she would just tell me what’s going on in her life. I feel shut out.”

Poor Mary. All children break their mother’s hearts sooner or later. If you can tough out this phase, I’m sure you’re the one she’ll always turn to for help when she needs it.” I wondered whether Erica Rasmussen had turned to her mother for help, or if she was too afraid of being lectured and blamed.

I’d like to meet your daughter some time.” Amanda smiled. “You can read my high school diaries if you’d like.” She leaned forward to make this offer, as though offering me her breasts as well. “I dumped a lot on my parents when I was sixteen, then when I was eighteen. After that, I was pretty much on my own.”

It came to me that Amanda’s parents had probably wanted her to marry well and continue the family dynasty. Visions of sexual rebellion floated through my mind before I could censor them out.

Amanda, are you flirting with me?”

I’ve been trying to get your attention for months, girlfriend! You’re a tough nut to crack. I really want to know you better. Are you up for that or not?”

I smiled, showing her my teeth. “Um. It’s against my policy to date anyone I work with, but – yes, I’m willing to try it. With you. We should go out again when I have more time to spend.”

Amanda removed my hand from the stem of the wineglass I was clutching, opened my palm and kissed it slowly. The sensation was a shock to me. The heat of her mouth went right from the sensitive skin of my palm to my neglected crotch, and I felt an orgasm sneaking up on my clit.

Amanda let her eyes travel slowly up from my waist to my well-covered breasts to my chin, my hair and my eyes. “You won’t regret it, baby.”

Oh. My. God. The electricity that flew from her to me was like lightning, like a short in the wiring of the old house I lived in, like a jolt of understanding. Any lame beliefs I might have had about the sexual incompatibility of two women melted away like cheap plastic in an oven.

About the Author

Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of land and sky encourages daydreaming. She teaches literature, composition and creative writing in the local university. Her diverse fiction (mostly erotic) has appeared in over one hundred print anthologies, in three single-author collections, and in The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (also in audio), set in the 1860s. A revised, expanded version of her out-of-print erotic novel, Prairie Gothic, is upcoming from Lethe Press (U.S.).

She loves historical and speculative fiction, and has written stories in the fictional worlds of Shakespeare, French fairy-tale writer Countess d’Aulnoy, Lewis Carroll, horror writers Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, nineteenth-century operetta composers Gilbert and Sullivan, and science-fiction writer Jules Verne.

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@JeanRoberta on Twitter

JeanRoberta” also has an author page on and

Contributor to these blogs:

The first three people to comment this post will receive free copies of SPRING FEVER AND OTHER SAPPHIC ENCOUNTERS. So far, it’s only available for sale on Kindle, but if you can’t read it in that format, something else can be arranged.

Sunday, July 14, 2019

Now on sale! Hearts & Handcuffs: Romantic Kink - #BDSM #Romance #HalfPrice

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Today I’m showcasing my short story collection Hearts & Handcuffs: Romantic Kink. Like all my indie-published books, it’s half off at Smashwords this month.


Kink can be life-changing, cathartic, a spiritual experience. Sometimes, though, it’s just plain fun—particularly when your partner is someone special. Hearts & Handcuffs presents the lighter side of BDSM—the naughty joy to be found in exploring your pervy fantasies with someone whose desires complement your own—in six sizzling short stories that showcase Lisabet Sarai’s famously sexy prose.

In “Spank-o-gram”, a grumpy birthday boy receives an unexpected gift from his distant lover. “Wired” shows the extremes a woman will go to in order to get the attention of the man she wants. A neglected and frustrated slave turns the tables on her master in “Domestic Goddess”. In “Spank Me Again, Stranger”, a city gal learns how they celebrate birthdays out in ranch country. A case of mistaken identity leads to a dream come true in “Routine Maintenance”. The title tale “Hearts and Handcuffs” is a Valentine’s Day role playing romp, complete with costumes.

Open the cover, dive into Lisabet Sarai’s imagination—the ultimate aphrodisiac—and savor these gems of romantic kink.

From Hearts & Handcuffs

I pull into the parking lot at seven ten, just ten minutes late. Ten strokes of the crop, if I’m lucky and he doesn’t choose the cane instead. I feel wetness gathering between my thighs. I’m not a pain junkie, but if Theo wants to cane me, I know I won’t object.

My pulse quickens and my nipples tighten under my jacket as I stand on the landing, fumbling with my key. He hasn’t told me exactly what he has planned, just that we’ll do some role play, but by now I have a pretty good understanding of Theo’s kinky mind. I know that whatever we do, I’ll love it.

Theo, I’m home.” My voice echoes through the modest apartment. It feels empty. But he should have been back by now. A fist of worry clenches in my chest. What if something happened to him? 
Theo?” I head down the hall towards the bedroom.

Freeze, lady!”

Cold metal prods my ribs. I feel the chill right through my suit. An answering shiver races down my spine. A tall figure steps out from the shadows of the darkened office to my left. Rough fingers clamp down on my wrist.

Hey! That hurts.”

Too bad. Get used to it.” He drags me into the office and forces me down into his desk chair before snapping on the light. “It’ll hurt a lot more if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

What?” I scan the blue-clad figure looming over me. Where did Theo get a policeman’s uniform? In any case, he looks fabulous wearing it, the trim fit accentuating his powerful chest and the tight pants showing off his muscular thighs. A silvery badge shines on his shirt pocket. Shaggy hair falls into his eyes, which are dark and intense. He has ditched his glasses—I guess he must have relented and tried the contacts I’ve urged on him, because I know he’d never try to top me without being able to see me clearly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Embezzlement. Extortion. Industrial espionage. Sound familiar?” His mouth is set in a hard line. Gimme your hand!” In fact he grabs me without waiting for me to comply.

He pulls a glittery set of handcuffs from his back pocket. They’re obviously genuine. I try to swallow my nervousness. This is Theo, I remind myself. Your lover. Your master.

It takes him no more than a few seconds to cuff me to the chair. “Now then, missy,” he growls. “Spill. Or I’ll make you.”

Really—officer. I have no idea what this is about. Are you sure you haven’t confused me with somebody else?”

No way. The informant was very specific. Wild red hair and the body of a slut.”

I am as thoroughly conditioned as Pavlov’s dog. My pussy gushes whenever he uses that word.

Theo leans over to unbutton my jacket. He reaches in to claim a nipple, his fingernails biting into my taut flesh.

I gasp at the sudden pain and the burst of bliss that follows.

I don’t think he did you justice. You’re a fucking wet dream. But never mind.” He straightens and props himself up against the desk.

My job is to get you to talk.” He pulls a nightstick from his belt and runs his palm along the polished wood cylinder. “Whatever that takes.”

This story features Rachel and Theo, the main characters from my erotic romance novel, The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. That book is also 50% off at Smashwords!

Get your copy today!

Friday, July 12, 2019

It’s Complicated - #Sexuality #Awakening #Poem

Bridal gown
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

During my third year in graduate school, I blossomed sexually. Or to put it more crassly, I started to sleep around. The shy, studious mouse I’d been up to that point burst from her chrysalis (inflicting severe violence on a metaphor) to become a gorgeous butterfly, flitting from flower to flower.

I realize now that hormones contributed to this explosion of sexuality. I was in my mid-twenties. My body was trying like crazy to procreate. (Fortunately, modern contraceptive technology thwarted this biological imperative.) At the time, though, the experience felt like magic, a kind of liberation from my past self-image as nerdy, socially awkward and unappealing. All at once, it seemed, I was desirable. Potential lovers were everywhere. I could indulge myself. If I wanted someone, I could act on that desire. If someone wanted me, I could say yes, without hesitation or guilt.

Was I over-sexed? I reject the judgmental tone of that question. Looking back at those years, I feel a bit embarrassed, realizing how slutty I must have seemed to anyone observing me, but indulgent. I was learning, growing, changing—and having a marvelous time, for the most part. Isn’t that what youth is for?

I wasn’t just scratching a physical itch. This wasn’t primarily about getting off. My lovers weren’t faceless, interchangeable bodies. I wrote page after page in my journal after each encounter, poem after poem.

Here’s one of them, a particularly detailed explication of one day in my sex-drenched life. It’s not a very good poem at all—starts out well, but degenerates into adolescent hyperbole by the end—but I’m offering it as a historical document, not as a literary effort.


by Lisabet Sarai

1. greg
   and when you,
   firm, assured, proud,
   began your vows
   a summer cloud
   misted my view
   and I couldn't help
   recalling you
   between my legs.
       but the spicy tears
    and the hungering lump
    in my throat passed
    and I let you go
    (will you ever know?)
   I came to your wedding
   dressed like a bride
   in starched summer white
   and with pity and pride
   took both your hands,
   wished you the best,
   felt myself blest
   by your chaste kiss.

2. matt
   and champagne...
   I chose
   to follow my hormones
   to your motel
   knowing full well
   your precocious mind. 
    another adventure
 in technicolor,
 in sun-burnished flesh,
 in salty moans,
  hunger, humor...
 strange but sweet
 it was
 if not for this 
 icy torrent of voices
 (which one my own?)
 drowning the moment.

   in your nineteen years
   have you known regret?
   and why should I wonder?

3. bob

   yes, yes!
   so totally right for the time,
   my fantasy 
   flourishing, blooming,
   a porch-full of roses,
   this june rejoicing
   I'll press and save
   till the end of my days.
    bob, it was better
 than ever imagined,
 real and deep,
 comfort and caring,
 effortless sharing,
     god-given fitting--
   words cannot tell
   my grateful wonder,
   but hearts can 
   (and bodies as well --
    or better)
   from my dreams,
   I thank you,
   bless you,
   release you,
   but hold the memory,

And what’s the back story here? Greg was my housemate, the good-looking, self-confident scion of a wealthy Connecticut family, who teased and tempted me until one night, when my boyfriend (who also lived in the house) was away for a week, I knocked on Greg’s bedroom door. As I have discussed in other blog posts, that rash action ultimately broke up my relationship with my boyfriend. However, all the housemates, including my ex, traveled from Pennsylvania to Darien for Greg’s wedding nine or ten months later.

Matt was the nineteen year old brother of Greg’s bride, in town with his family for the celebration. (I was twenty six.) Clever. Flirtatious. As the poem says, precocious. Enough said.

And Bob? (Who could possibly write a poem about someone named “Bob”?) Given the poem’s assertions, I’m embarrassed to admit that I barely remember him. A friend of Greg’s, I believe, who had shown up at our house parties. There had always been strong attraction between us, but he had a girlfriend. (And where was she that sunny June day? That information is lost to posterity.)

As I reconstruct things, Bob gave me a ride in the evening after the reception, back to the Hartford apartment of the female friend with whom I was staying. She was out. Bob and I shared a joint out on the apartment balcony. One thing led to another.

At the time, I clearly believed I’d experienced some sort of epiphany. And perhaps I did—even if the memory has faded.

My older self wonders whether he deliberately gave me a ride home just so he could get laid. I’d rather think his motives were less selfish. Certainly our connection that night felt more than just physical. But then, all my liaisons did.

I wouldn’t say the day chronicled by this poem was typical. However, it wasn’t some sort of fluke, either. There were other days during that period when I had sex with more than one person.

I’m not ashamed. I’m not sorry. And yes, I miss the breathless newness of sex back in those days.

That’s a big part of what I try to capture when I write erotica now.

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Book Hooks: Damned If You Do #PNR #MFRWHooks #MFRWAuthor #HalfPrice

Damned If You Do cover
My Book Hook today comes from my paranormal erotic romance Damned If You Do.

This is just one of my books that are currently half price at Smashwords. You can get your hands on this humorous, hotter-than-Hades novella for only two bucks, between now and the end of July.

Sometimes romance can be hell

Wendy Dennison is tired of being a starving author. The royalties from her critically acclaimed romance novels barely pay her bills. Her devoted agent Daniel Rochester may be smart and sexy, but he can't get her the sales she needs. Then a charismatic stranger appears at her coffee shop table, promising her fame and commercial success, as well as the chance to live out her dreams of erotic submission. But at what cost?

Nothing you can't afford to lose, my dear.

Seduced by the enigmatic Mister B, she signs his infernal contract. He becomes both her Master and her coach, managing her suddenly flourishing career as well as encouraging her lusts. Under her mentor’s nefarious influence, she surrenders to temptation and has sex with Daniel. The casual encounter turns serious when she discovers her mild mannered agent has a dominant side. As the clock ticks down to her blockbuster release and Mister B prepares to claim her soul, Wendy must choose either celebrity and wealth, or obscurity and true love.

The Hook

Daniel took Wendy to celebrate at her favorite French restaurant, a classically romantic place on Park Avenue South. The molded tin ceiling, candlelit tables and Toulouse-Lautrec posters always made her feel like she was somewhere on the Left Bank.
I think the occasion calls for champagne.” Dan waved, trying to catch the waiter’s eye. “Don’t you?”

Champagne gives me a headache. On the other hand, I’d love a glass of good quality Pinot Noir.” Wendy felt slightly dizzy even without any alcohol. Everything was happening so fast.

As you command, my lady,” he replied with a melting smile. They drank the first bottle with their saumon en croûte and warm goat cheese salad and the second with their entrees, then ordered cognacs with dessert. By the time she’d polished off her crêpes Suzette, Wendy was both very full and quite intoxicated.

Oh dear! I’m stuffed.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I wish I hadn’t eaten so much.”

No sooner had she voiced the thought than the pressure in her abdomen eased. That’s very strange, she thought. She glanced at her companion. His face was flushed and his hair more tousled than normal, but he wore a beatific smile.

Noticing her attention, he reached across the table to capture her hand.

I’m so very proud of you, Wendy. I always knew you’d be a best seller.”

She gave a self-deprecating laugh, but she didn’t pull away. Pleasant warmth flowed from his skin, along her limbs and down to her center. “Let’s not count our chickens. We haven’t even signed the contract yet. And when we do, there’s no guarantee the new series will be a hit.”

It will. I know it will. Radical Restraint’s the best thing you’ve ever written, and I have the feeling that your next book will be even better.”

It is going well,” she admitted. Fuelled by plenty of kinky sex with a master who’s part tyrant, part coach, and part personal assistant. “I shouldn’t have any trouble finishing it by August.”

I can’t wait to read it,” he said. “I’m excited just thinking about it.”

Doesn’t it—um—embarrass you to read my stuff?” She tried to extricate herself from his grip but he just held her more tightly. “Given how explicit it is? I mean, I know most of your other clients write mysteries or suspense…”

Your books turn me on, Gwen.” He trailed his thumb along her wrist while staring into her eyes. “That’s how I know they’re good.”

Electric pleasure shivered through her. Her breasts felt suddenly heavy. Her pussy clenched.


I read your luscious, filthy prose, and imagine myself in the scenes you create. I picture myself as your hero, dominant, in charge, taking what I want from the heroine—what she wants so badly to give me.” He raked his gaze over her. Her cheeks burned as a flush of heat swept through her. “And in every book, in every scene, it’s you I see kneeling before me.”

I hope you’ll visit some of the other authors participating in today’s Book Hooks blog hop.

Tuesday, July 9, 2019

Cover reveal: The Fixer Upper by @magmaegallagher #SheriffStudMuffin #Giveaway #GreatDane

The Fixer Upper cover


Abby Callier is more in love with Shakespearean heroes than any real man, and she’s beginning to wonder if there is life for her outside the pages of a book. It doesn’t help that her esteemed parents tend to view her as they would one of their science experiments gone wrong. On the eve of finishing her dissertation, she escapes her staid existence to live in the house she inherited from her Great Aunt Evie in the small town of Echo Springs, Colorado. Because, let’s face it, when a woman starts comparing her life to horror films, it might be time for a break.

Sheriff Nate Barnes believes in law and order and carefully building the life you want. In his spare time, he has been remodeling his house in the hope that one day it will be filled with the family he makes. But Nate doesn’t like drama or complications and tends to avoid them at all costs. And yet, when Miss Abigail Callier, his newest neighbor, beans him with a nine iron, he can’t help but wonder if she might just be the complication he’s been searching for all along. It doesn’t hurt that he discovers a journal hidden away by the previous tenant and decides to use Old Man Turner’s advice to romance Abby into his life.

Abby never expected her next-door neighbor, the newly dubbed Sheriff Stud Muffin, to be just the distraction her world needed. The problem is she doesn’t know whether she should make Echo Springs her home, or if this town is just a stopover point in her life’s trajectory. And she doesn’t want to tell Nate that she might not be sticking around—even though she should because it’s the right thing to do, the honest thing—because then all the scintillatingly hot kisses with the Sheriff will come to an abrupt halt. Did she mention that he’s a really great kisser?


Abby opened the door to two delivery men wearing Styman and Sons logos on their polos. Greg Styman Junior and Teddy Styman were the sons part of the company. They were both relatively attractive guys in a down-home Mayberry type of way, and were young—far, far too young.
While Abby might be nearing her twenty-ninth birthday, these two reminded her of students—fresh-faced, with that innocent wide-eyed wonder of youth that people tended to lose by their mid-twenties.

One of the things that had drawn her to the local appliance shop, instead of heading into Denver and one of those big-box stores to make her purchase, had been their willingness to haul away the old freezer free of charge. Styman and Sons would strip it and refurbish any of the old parts that weren’t rusted or still viable and resell them online. It made Abby feel like she was doing something good for the environment because the whole thing wouldn’t end up in a landfill.

Abby was standing on her porch, watching the two guys pull her handy-dandy new deepfreeze from the truck, when she was flattened.

She’d barely had time to issue an umphff before she was on her back on the ivory wooden porch, a hulking brute covered in dark black fur towering over her. She lay on her back, trying to assess the damage as a large, wet, pink tongue slobbered over her face. From this angle, she could tell there were a few parts of the roof overhang that needed to be fixed before winter arrived.

Her hands slid into the soft, short fur, attempting to move the massive beast as it said hello with an almost rabid enthusiasm. Abby would have had better luck moving one of the fourteen footers nearby.

Rufus, stupid mutt, get off her.” Abby heard the deep baritone filled with abject horror.

Rufus, the mammoth Great Dane, listened about as well as a toddler playing with his favorite toy and, instead of moving off her, decided he really wanted to cuddle and lie on top of her. Her breath whooshed out of her again at the dog’s impressive weight. He had to outweigh her by twenty pounds.

Jesus, Rufus.” Nate Barnes tugged and yanked the hulking beast of a dog off Abby’s prone form. Rufus seemed to think that meant Nate wanted to play and wrestle around. They skirmished on her porch for a minute or so, until Rufus spied a rabbit and took off after the poor creature.

She was starting to push herself up, mentally assessing the damage, when Nate held out a hand to her, a mask of apology adding a deep line to his furrowed brow. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right? He’s harmless, really. The lamebrain just thinks he’s more of a lap dog and doesn’t realize how big he is.”

Abby felt a few brain cells faint as she accepted his help, placing her hand in his much longer one, noticing that the fingers were rough with calluses.

It’s okay,” she said as she gained her feet, only to be shocked—and a little turned on—as he ran his hands over her, checking for injuries. As much as she tried to rationalize that it was a police-style frisking, a low burn ignited in her belly. Before she did something entirely stupid, like invite him in where he could give her body a private inspection, she batted his hands away. “No harm done. He seems like a big lover.”

Nate smiled sheepishly as he retreated a step, and it did nothing to lessen his impact.

She almost sawed her tongue in half. See? I shouldn’t talk to people, ever. Especially not after Sheriff Stud Muffin put his hands all over her. The action had short-wired and fried her brain, leading to her precarious foot-in-mouth disease. As if he knew she had been talking about him, Rufus loped back up her porch, making a beeline directly for her or, better yet, her crotch, as he planted his wet nose there by way of greeting.

Rufus, get off her. Jesus, I’m sorry. He’s normally not like this,” Nate explained, more than a little flummoxed and embarrassed as he tried to yank him off.

It was nice to know the guy was human. After their initial and rather violent meeting, she’d wondered if he was a superhero in disguise. She had hit him with the golf club with her full force and the guy had barely flinched.

About the Author

Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Maggie grew up listening to Cardinals baseball and reading anything she could get her hands on. She remembers her mother saying if only she would read the right type of books instead binging her way through the romance aisles at the bookstore, she’d have been a doctor. While Maggie never did get that doctorate, she graduated cum laude from the University of Missouri-St. Louis with an M.A. in History.

Maggie is a bestselling and award-winning author published in multiple fiction genres. She also writes erotic romance under the name Anya Summers. A total geek at her core, when she is not writing, she adores attending the latest comic con or spending time with her family. She currently lives in the Midwest with her two furry felines.

Visit her website here:

Visit her on social media here:

Don’t miss these exciting titles by Maggie Mae Gallagher!

The Mystic Series

The Cantati Chronicles




And if you like your romance with a bit of spice and kink be sure to check out Maggie Mae Gallagher writing as Anya Summers on Amazon!

Maggie Mae is giving away $15 Amazon/BN GC to one lucky person who enters her cover reveal drawing!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Sunday, July 7, 2019

Five star BDSM erotic romance - only $2.50! #BDSMRomance #Virgin #Deal

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One of the many books I have on sale this month is my BDSM erotic romance novel The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. Snag yourself a copy of this incendiary five-star tale while it’s half off!

Trust can’t be bought—it has to be earned.

When Silicon Valley entrepreneur Rachel Zelinsky meets reclusive genius Theo Moore, she finds him strangely compelling. Theo is both arrogant and socially awkward, but he has an aura of power that speaks to Rachel’s carefully-hidden submissive side. Disturbed and aroused, she tries to focus on her original objective—a deal to incorporate his Artificial Intelligence software into her company’s popular virtual world. Rachel’s not a woman who lets pleasure interfere with business, but for some reason, she can’t resist Theo’s geeky appeal.

Theo Moore can’t be bought. His past battles with poverty make him deeply suspicious of the billionaire CEO. Still, with her voluptuous curves and brilliant mind, Rachel embodies his ultimate sexual fantasy. Too bad his knowledge about sex derives from extensive research and a stash of kinky porn rather than real-world experience.

That doesn’t bother Rachel, however. In his bed—in his arms—in his bonds—she discovers the bliss of total surrender. Rachel may be Theo’s first lover, but Theo is Rachel’s first true Master—and the first man to truly touch her heart. It seems that love may harmonize their differing goals and values, until Rachel’s unwitting violation of Theo’s trust threatens to tear them apart forever.

Review Quotes

...sweet and romantic but steamy and sexy at the same time. .... I adored it!”
~ Crazie Bettie, Amazon US

This book is one of the top five hottest books I have read. These were two of my most favorite lovers. I was wrung out when I finished it but what a delight!” ~ Sheila, Amazon US

I was completely drawn into this relationship, and the relationship IS the story. The connection Rachel and Theo build between them is vividly portrayed, beautiful and well-written, poignant in some ways and hot enough to melt the pages in others. Which is exactly what I want in erotic novels.~ Lola White, Goodreads

"Do I recommend this one? Oh hell yeah. Realistic D/s with hot as hell kinky sex? Yes, please!" ~ Kayla Lords,

Half off at Smashwords throughout the month of July!

Steamy Snippet

He circles behind me to unzip my skirt. The garment slips over my hips to the floor. Next he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my tights and rolls the clingy material down to my ankles. I imagine him using the elastic garment to bind me—it would be well-suited to that task—but he seems intent only on rendering me naked.

Step out of your shoes. That’s right.” He extricates first one foot and then the other from my hosiery, and tosses the tangled garment away. “Arms over your head,” he commands. In a matter of seconds, my sweater has joined my other clothing on the floor.

He pauses for a moment, apparently to admire me in my state of semi-nudity. My swollen nipples distort the lace of my bra. My sodden panties bunch between my legs. Though I know it’s forbidden, I tense my thighs, seeking some friction to relieve the terrible, pulsing ache between them.

Be still!” I hope he’ll slap my ass as punishment for my infraction, but there’s only his verbal reprimand.

Can’t you speed up a bit, Theo?” His fingers brush my back as he unfastens the bra hooks. Electric currents zap my sex. I moan. “I’m desperate for you.”

That’s good. That’s the way I want you.”

Only $2.50, until July 31st!