Come as many times as you want – #KinkyChristmas #SaturdaySpanks

I haven’t done a Saturday Spanks event in a really long time. For those of you who like things kinky, I’ve got a sexy BDSM scene – holiday style. This excerpt is from A Contract for Christmas, one of the stories in my boxed set Comfort & Joy. The book is free on Kindle Unlimited.

Blurb

Isabella plans to surprise her husband Greg with an intimate Christmas Eve dinner. She’s left with only her fantasies of Greg’s dominance, though, when a blizzard strands him a thousand miles away. Then Greg’s best friend James shows up at her door, tempting her to surrender to his quiet authority. This Christmas Eve will alter their three-way relationship forever.

Kinky Excerpt

Stripping off his shirt with typical economy and ease, he folded it on the vanity stool. His jeans followed. Before he set them down, he extracted his belt from the waist. “I’m going to want this,” he said, laying it alongside my outstretched body so I could smell the leather. “And these, of course.” He dropped five or six condoms onto the bed table.

I couldn’t help laughing. “How many times do you plan to fuck me, James?”

He kneeled between my legs, his engorged cock bobbing as he moved. “As many times as you can handle, woman.” He picked up the belt, running it over his palm. “Then I’ll fuck you some more.”

He loomed over me, fierce and unsmiling. A burst of fear tingled through me.

“But first, I’ll beat you. Do you agree?”

I closed my eyes, momentarily overwhelmed. No one but Greg had ever inflicted the sort of pain I knew the belt would produce. Even in our three-way scenes, my husband had always taken the lead when it came to punishment. I was scared. What if James couldn’t read my signals? Would he know, the way Greg always did, when I’d had too much?

He sensed my uncertainty, at least. His voice was gentle when he spoke again. “What’s your safe word, Bella?”

“Artichoke. But with Greg I never…”

“Use it if you need to. I think I know you well enough walk that fine line between not enough and too much, but don’t be afraid to stop me if I’m wrong.”

“And if you really don’t want me to whip you,” he added with a grin, “just say so. I have lots of alternative ideas.”

“No, no—I want it—I want your belt—it’s just that you—you…”

“I’m not Greg,” he answered. “I know. But I am your master, at least for tonight. You’ll know that soon.”

Without warning, he brought the belt down just above my right knee. A line of fire stitched its way up my thigh, then jumped to ignite my sex.

“Oh, God—James!—oh—” I bit back my words, afraid he’d misunderstand, that he’d stop. Instead, he lashed at my other thigh, a strong, pure blow that only fanned the conflagration.

I’m not a pain slut like some subs. Mostly I endure the hurt in order to please my master. This beating, though, was different. The leather played across my skin, cutting, bruising, heating me to a fever that was like nothing I’d never felt before. Pain, but somehow not pain—not when I watched the flow of muscle under James’s skin, the graceful arc of the strap as he prepared another stroke, the dark energy dancing in his eyes.

He had perfect control over his instrument. Every lash landed exactly where he intended. For the most part he concentrated on my thighs, but occasionally he’d flick the leather across my nipples. I screamed, thrashed, strained at my bonds, driven higher each time the belt connected with my flesh.

James whipped me into a frenzy. Between my legs the ache built and built, and built some more. I needed to come, more than I needed air. Yet still he whipped me, and I let him. I understood that was what he needed—what only I could give him.

The belt edged closer to my cunt. Dazed and drunk with lust, still I guessed how this would end. Yet his final stroke took me by surprise—the one that kissed my clit and sent me spinning into climax.

Pleasure poured through me in a flood that cleansed me of the pain. It left me stranded. I lay on the bed, limp in my bonds, gasping and shuddering as though I’d just escaped drowning.

“Are you all right, Bella?” James peered down at me, looking concerned.

“Oh, yes,” I sighed. “Wonderful. Thank you, sir.”

This time, that felt right.

My new master broke into a grin. “Don’t mention it.” He reached across my body to retrieve a condom from the table. His cock grazed my belly, smearing me with pre-cum.

“But you haven’t come yet.”

“I plan to remedy that shortly.” I watched his deft movements as he rolled the latex down his shaft. I wanted nothing more than to feel that hardness inside me.

“By the way, when you’re with me, you don’t need permission to come. Come as many times as you want. As you can. Starting now.”

Buy Links

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P2CM6KL

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08P2CM6KL

Welcome to the Asylum – #HistoricalSuspense #Review #Giveaway

Blurb

For decades, Roy Orville fleeced money from fools. Now reunited with his grown daughter, he has found new purpose and a use for his particular set of skills beyond his own needs. But in the midst of the Great Depression, even an experienced con man has difficulty finding work.

Then, a golden opportunity: a wealthy target who could secure his daughter’s future. One hitch—the mark is locked in Greystone Asylum for the Insane. Undaunted, Roy dives in, certain that his talents will seal the deal. But Greystone hides dark secrets: predators masquerade as healers, and the stakes soar beyond his wildest bets.

In a race against time, Roy pits his wits against a sinister foe; a man holding more than one innocent life in the balance. It’s a gamble that will take him to the edge of his sanity.

Excerpt

“It all seems quite reasonable,” he said just before taking a small bite of his unseasoned boiled chicken.

Roy blinked. After all that, he had fully expected a polite refusal. To hear the contrary came as a most welcomed surprise. Perhaps it would be a productive day after all.

“Quite so,” he replied brightly. “We’re not greedy, after all, but we do know what we’ve got. Now, may I presume we can put you down for-”

“It’s this line here that’s giving me heartburn.”

And there it is.

“Eh?”

Chauncey shifted in his seat, turning the paper and indicating the offending line. Surprisingly somewhere halfway down the page. He had actually read the blasted thing.

“You don’t have the manufacturer lined up yet?”

“Oh, as to that…” He scrambled. “You see, we’re only modifying the chairs. Yes, Charlie’s cousin was able to acquire warehouse space late last year and there they remain until it’s time for the workers to go in and make the modifications – simple changes that may be performed with hand tools.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

The brute stared at him blankly. It took nearly five full seconds for the two electrodes between his ears to make a spark.

“Oh, yeah. Ah… Mickey’s got your stuff.” He wound up, about to elaborate more, but Roy cut in, somewhat to the man’s chagrin.

“So, there you have it, Chauncey. I assure you, sir, this isn’t my first rodeo.” That part, at least, was the truth, albeit not the way the mark understood it. Roy had parted more fools with their money than he could count. Though, admittedly, this one was proving to be a singular hard nose.

Review by Lisabet Sarai

Roy Orville makes his living as a con man. For decades he has worked diligently to separate prosperous but overly trusting individuals from their money. He’s quick-witted, observant, well-spoken, a shrewd judge of character and a master of social disguise. In the midst of the Great Depression, though, he’s barely surviving, despite his impressive skills. Living in an abandoned rail car, he eats at the cheap local diner and stays awake at night worrying about how he’ll manage to pay the hefty college tuition fees for his formerly estranged daughter.

Searching for his next mark, Roy zeroes in on an heiress who is locked away in the imposing Greystone Asylum for the Insane. Annie spiraled into acute depression when her bankrupt husband committed suicide and her child was still-born. After months in the asylum, her psychological state has improved, but Dr. Corbran, the powerful and corrupt Chief Attending Physician, keeps her prisoner for his own twisted enjoyment.

Desperate to get Annie’s signature on the papers that will transfer her inheritance to his pockets, Roy impersonates a psychiatrist and infiltrates Greystone’s wards. With his easy-going personality, active imagination and natural charm, he soon becomes enmeshed in the lives of both patients and staff. As he discovers more of the Asylum’s secrets, he comes to realize that George Corbran is more than just an inconvenient obstacle – he is a mortally dangerous enemy.

It took me a while to get into The Gold in the Grey, but by the time Roy donned his white coat and began his masquerade as Dr. Calvin Young, I was hooked. Flawed and morally compromised, painfully aware of his own weaknesses, determined to take advantage of other people but unable to suppress his empathy for them, Roy is a fascinating, likable and believable character.

Corbran, on the other hand, is so thoroughly villainous that he’s almost a cartoon. Almost, but not quite. The author occasionally gives us a chapter from the doctor’s point of view. We learn a bit about his unfortunate background, which helps provide some motivation for his evil intentions and actions. Certainly it allows him to personally feel justified in what he does.

Annie serves as a third voice in the novel, giving us a first-hand sense of her terrifying lack of control over her own fate. Institutions like Greystone can strip their occupants of humanity, turning them into playthings and pawns for their cruel or unscrupulous warders.

From a literary perspective, these three voices could have been more balanced. Roy is clearly the focus character, but his perspective is periodically interrupted by chapters featuring Corbran or Annie. In particular, the novel both begins and ends in with sections from Corbran’s point of view. The author seems fascinated by his own villain, perhaps because the doctor makes concrete the sinister possibilities of the imposing and mysterious asylum.

As I mentioned earlier, the book begins a bit slowly. Once the plot has been set in motion, however, the pace picks up, speeding along to a thrilling and suspenseful climax. Wes Verde does an excellent job bringing together the different threads to tie up the story in a satisfying, if somewhat gruesome, manner.

Overall, I found the The Gold in the Grey to be original and engaging. I was particularly interested to discover in the Afterword that the Greystone Asylum was a historical edifice – though one that has since been dismantled. I can appreciate how this might have inspired the author to weave it into a story.

About the Author

Wes is an engineer by trade, a busybody by habit, and a lifelong Jersey boy.

Writing has been a hobby in one form or another since 2006 when he started drawing 3-panel comics. When he is not putting words down, he is picking them up; the “to-read" pile only seems to grow larger.

A fan of nature, he spends as much time outside as possible.

Insta: https://www.instagram.com/wesverde7/

X: https://x.com/WesVerde

Website: https://wesverde.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/239923058-the-gold-in-the-grey

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FMFDNCBN

Wes Verde will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner.

The Perils of Plotting – #FirstNationsRomance #TimeTravelRomance #Giveaway

By Maggie Blackbird (Guest Author)

You know, I always start with a plot in my head, but by the time I get to writing, and I begin to really know my characters, I find they direct the story. I call myself a typist taking dictation for the two main characters, since they tell me which direction to take the story LOL.

Sometimes I even have the blurb already written, and then it requires changing or tweaking because the characters, while drafting, have changed the stakes, or added stakes, or deleted the main stakes. Hah.

I wish I could write a novel entirely plotted that fits the blurb I’ve written, but that has yet to happen. My characters come alive strongly in my head and direct me on the path they wish the story to take.

I guess this means I’m a pantster. I try to plot, and then the characters turn up their noses at the plot and hand me a new one.

Blurb 

She went back in time to rescue him.  She never counted on falling in love…

Alma Whitecrow prefers hunting and fishing with men, not romancing them. But hearing about the roguishly handsome coureur de bois, who saved her sister from the Dakota, haunts her thoughts and dreams. Well-versed in surviving the wilds, Alma resolves to travel to the mid-eighteenth century, as her sister once did, to save the man from impending death.

Charlot Baudelaire thumbs his nose at society’s expectations, content living as a loner, trading with people he calls the Saulters. If he needs a woman for the night, there is always a willing maiden. What he doesn’t expect is a spunky and stubborn female warrior to challenge him.

Charlot is not the man Alma dreamed about, and Alma is not the kind of woman Charlot pursues. But the longer they are together, the more drawn to each other they become, until Alma faces the biggest decision of her life. Stay with a man who may never reciprocate her love, or return to her Ojibway home and bland existence.

Book Links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FYR2YQWF/

Apple: https://books.apple.com/ca/book/born-like-this/id6754779332

B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/born-like-this-maggie-blackbird/1148648985?ean=2940182602631

Indigo: https://www.indigo.ca/en-ca/born-like-this-maizemerized-2/bc03c982-9d06-34f6-9923-17ec5f92ffa7.html

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/born-like-this-1

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/born-like-this-by-maggie-blackbird

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/243417458-born-like-this

Excerpt

Alma had expected to step into a battle. Reality set in. The only killing she’d done was animals when hunting with Grandpa. But if she didn’t shoot, she risked her own life and Theodore’s as she faced six Dakota sporting arrows.

Theodore growled, waiting for her command.

The Dakota didn’t fire at her, though. They seemed to fire everywhere else, hollering in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The fear in their eyes indicated she’d terrified them.

Maybe they assumed she was a ghost when she’d emerged through the flickering flames.

As the Dakota scattered, she tracked their moccasin footprints, but one set stood out. Grandpa had told her about the spread of the toes, and these toes weren’t spread. They came from a person who walked in shoes or boots. Someone who later in life had switched to the footwear of the Indigenous people.

She followed the footprints with Theodore beside her, sniffing. She used the end of her rifle to move aside the thick brush, which was why her homeland was called the bush at her reserve. There was nothing to call a forest or woods about Northwestern Ontario.

The thick underbrush kept trying to snag her clothing. Clothing she longed to remove. When she left home, she’d donned an outfit for a cold Halloween night. But summer bloomed here. She could remove her jacket since she had a sweater underneath, and beneath that a tank top.

A groan came about ten feet from her, and she aimed her rifle in the direction of the sound. She moved through the many twigs and branches but didn’t spot a blood trail. Whatever lay beneath the berry bush had been hit there.

Another groan.

Whoever was hurt wasn’t an animal. That was the sound of a human being. Maybe one of the Dakota?

She edged in closer until she caught the moccasins sticking out, along with breeches. This wasn’t a Dakota or warrior from the village under attack.

Her heart held its beat.

Had she found Charlot?

What Readers are Saying

“This novel is true to history while still spinning a lovely tale of love. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves historical and time travel romances.” –Goodreads Reviewer

“The story had me glued to the pages from start to finish. Loved and recommend this book.” –B&N Reviewer

“Based on prior reading from the author, I knew this would be a great book. I had no idea just how much I’d love it.” –BookBub Reviewer

“Once I started reading, I was not putting this book down.” –Goodreads Reviewer

This is one of the best romance novels I’ve ever read in my entire life. This book will pull you in full force and make you feel so many different emotions.” –Goodreads Reviewer

About the Author

An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes. When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush, teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with the people she loves most.

Author Links

Website: https://maggieblackbird.com/

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

X: https://x.com/BlackbirdMaggie/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/maggieblackbirdauthor/

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/maggieblackbird.bsky.social

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/maggie-blackbird

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Maggie-Blackbird/author/B07KQP1FFG

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18176196.Maggie_Blackbird

Giveaway

$20 Amazon or Paypal

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

https://sdbook.promo/BornLikeThis

Enter the Born Like This Giveaway Here

Charity Sunday: Women lead change -- #Empowerment #Leadership #CharitySunday

Welcome to this month’s Charity Sunday blog hop. This month I’m supporting another small but influential charity: the Harpswell Foundation.

Harpswell supports and nurtures young Asian women as they strive to educate themselves and acquire the skills they need to succeed in life and contribute to society. The Foundation hosts events that bring together aspiring female leaders throughout the region. Their most visible activity, however, is developing residential communities in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, for women attending university in the city. In this conservative and poverty-stricken country, safe and affordable housing allows female students to take advantage of educational opportunities they would otherwise have to refuse.

As it happens, some close friends of mine are members of the Harpswell board of directors. Since I live in Southeast Asia, I had the chance to visit a Harpswell dorm and meet some of the residents. It was an exciting, inspiring experience that left me feeling tremendously hopeful. As I noted in my last Charity Sunday post, positive change starts with individuals. These women will, I believe, make a difference.

Anyway, until the next Charity Sunday which will be December 28^th, I’ll be accepting comments on this post. I will donate two dollars to Harpswell for every comment I receive.

For my excerpt today, I’m sharing a bit from my short story Citadel of Women, which is set in Cambodia. The title comes from the Banteay Srei temple near Angkor Wat, which due to its smaller scale and delicate carvings of goddesses is sometimes called the “citadel of women”.

Blurb

Passion flares among the ruins of an ancient empire

When her lover severs their relationship just before a long-planned trip to Angkor Wat, Doa stubbornly decides to travel alone. The marvelous sights of the ancient Khmer empire do little to heal the rift in her heart. Che, the mercurial young tour guide, senses her loneliness and offers her comfort and passion. Their connection is far more than physical – but how can two people from such different worlds share a future?

Excerpt

The bus parked under an enormous banyan tree. Che led the way up the gravel path. We walked east about a hundred yards, through a gap in a tumbled down wall. The group gave a collective gasp at the scene that was revealed.

The jagged towers of Angkor Wat rose before us, dark against the rose-streaked sky. As the sun climbed above the horizon, the gray stone flushed a pinkish gray. The central peak and the four flanking turrets glowed, jutting above the squat galleries that formed the outer perimeter. They were perfectly mirrored in the moat surrounding the whole enormous complex.

The temple, still a quarter of a mile away, filled our vision. A laterite road led from our current position, straight as a ruler, across a causeway to the central gate of the shrine.

“Angkor Wat,” Che intoned. “The largest and most magnificent monument to Khmer power. It was constructed by Suryavarman II at the beginning of the twelfth century. The square moat is two hundred meters wide and fifteen hundred meters on a side. The temple complex itself covers more than twenty-one hectares.”

The size and scope of the edifice were truly awesome. I heard the pride in Che's voice as he continued to describe the wonders of the temple to his attentive knot of followers. As we traveled the road to the temple, I walked behind him admiring his loose, balanced stride. My clit throbbed against the seam of my jeans as I remembered his passion.

He led us through the galleries, interpreting the famous bas relief carvings. The battle of the devas and asuras, the angels and the demons. The Churning of the Sea of Milk. We climbed the steep stairs to the great, conical towers at the heart of the complex. They loomed over the ritual bathing pools where the king had purified his body before prostrating himself in front of Vishnu. All the while I held back, watching Che as he worked his magic, my heart and my clit aching in equal measure.

We spent three hours in Angkor Wat. The time flew by. Finally, our stomachs reminded us we'd had no breakfast. Che herded us into a local restaurant, where we feasted on pungent pork noodles and fresh mangoes. Then we piled back onto the bus, headed for the shrine of Banteay Srei, twenty miles northeast of Angkor Thom. No one talked much; we were still awed by what we'd seen during the morning.

Che slid into the empty seat next to me. Surreptitiously, he squeezed my hand. “So, what did you think of Angkor Wat?”

“Truly amazing. It made the journey worthwhile, all by itself.”

“I hope that's not the only thing you'll remember from this trip,” he said, lowering his voice. He placed my palm on his crotch so I could feel his swelling cock.

“Behave,” I scolded, snatching my hand away, but secretly pleased he wanted me. “What will the rest of the group think?”

“Do you care?” he asked, quite serious. “After tomorrow, you'll never see them again.” He didn't need to add what we both were thinking. We'd never see each other, either.

“I've got condoms,” he whispered in my ear.

My stomach did a dangerous flip. I laughed, trying to keep things light. “You're outrageous! Go flirt with the Misses Montblanc.”

“I just wanted to warn you,” he said. But he followed my instructions. Soon their high-pitched giggles echoed through the bus.

Angkor Wat was a testament to male power. Banteay Srei, I discovered, was a meditation on female beauty. The temple, nicknamed the “Citadel of Women,” was fashioned of roseate sandstone, far warmer than the gray stone used for most of the Khmer monuments. Banteay Srei was built to a woman's scale, the courtyards a few yards across, the doorways barely tall enough for me to pass without ducking my head. Instead of phallic towers, it offered intricately carved walls and pediments. Graceful, voluptuous devatas served as guardians to the shrine, their smiling faces eloquent and serene.

I stood gazing at one of these figures, admiring her round, naked breasts with their eternally rigid nipples. I thought about Laurel and her refined little tits, so different from this sandstone goddess. My old lover seemed very far away.

Silently, Che came up behind me. “She reminds me of you,” he murmured, bringing his hands up to cradle my breasts. He tweaked the tips, sending currents of electricity racing for my pussy.

“Che! Please! Someone will see.”

“Everyone's out in front, having a cold drink and recovering from the heat.” His hands slipped to my thighs. His thumbs sought the crevice between them.

“Che...” He turned me to face him, silencing my protests with a ferocious kiss. “We shouldn't,” I murmured, my knees already weak.

“Why not?” He cupped my buttocks in his palms and pulled me against the swelling in his groin.

“I'm old enough to be your mother. Or at least your older sister.”

“Nonsense.” He rubbed his cock against my jeans, making me squirm.

“What would your people think? Your family? You getting it on with a big black American woman ten years older than you?”

His face darkened. “I don't have a family. They all died in the killing fields.”

Be sure to leave a comment. Every one helps support young women leaders.

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Another Sapphic Adventure – #HistoricalRomance #LGBTQ

My new lesbian scifi romance Free Fall is doing really well (at least by my standards). Perhaps I have underestimated the size of the Sapphic market!

With that in mind, I’m sharing a scene from another of my FF titles, By Moonlight. This historical love story is a riff on one of my favorite poems, “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes. Unlike the poem, though, my story has a happy ending.

Enjoy!

Blurb

She risked all, loving an outlaw – especially a woman

In her eighteen years on earth, Bess has never traveled more than twenty miles from her Devonshire village. The raven-haired innkeeper’s daughter has little time to dream of adventure as she labors from dawn to dusk to keep her abusive father satisfied. Then, at the weekly market in Tavistock town, she meets a handsome dandy who claims her with a single stolen kiss.

Excerpt

Hours past midnight, the village slept, dappled in silver moonlight and inky shadow. Bess kept watch at her bedroom window, lost in a waking dream. The breeze freshened as dawn grew closer. Occasional gusts sent clouds scudding across the sky like sheep before an impatient shepherd. The full moon sailed high above the moors, sometimes revealed, sometimes obscured by a veil of wind-tossed mist.

The road wound away from the village into the purple distance. She watched and waited, waited and hoped, strained her ears for the clip-clop of hooves that would mean her lover had finally arrived.

Her hair hung loose, nearly to her waist. When it stirred in the rising wind, she imagined long, sure fingers combing through the jet-black tresses, easing out the tangles, flinging the luxurious waves back over her shoulders to bare her breasts. The first time, she’d blushed and hung back, but now she raised them proudly to her lover’s lips. Under her shift, the nipples were already round and hard as river-polished pebbles. The river itself flowed between her thighs, as she pictured how she’d be taken, used and cherished by the gallant bandit who had stolen her heart.

Warmed by lush memory, Bess kept her solitary vigil in the chill October night. The moon sank lower. The stars paled. Yet still that ribbon of darkness remained empty. Had Kit been captured? Or injured? Could her beloved even now be lying in a ditch, chest sliced open by some poxy lord’s dagger?

Bess had stopped believing in God when the fever took her mother, but she prayed anyway.

She must have drowsed, despite her determination to remain on guard. She heard no hoof beats clattering in the inn yard, no tapping on the barred shutters, only a soft whistle under her window that had her instantly alert.

She leaned out, her hair spilling over the casement. “Kit!” she cried, heedless of anyone hearing. “You’ve come at last.”

“Well met, my fair lady.” The lithe figure below gave a little bow. “Did you doubt me?”

“No doubt, my love, only fear. Your fame has spread wide. There be many who’d delight in spilling your blood.”

“Even more after tonight, I’ll wager. I’ve had rich takings along the high road. A fat, dyspeptic earl and his broomstick wife contributed generously to my cause.”

“Lord Haverstock? Oh Kit, he has the King’s ear.” She shrank back into the shadows of her bedroom, then peered anxiously into the distance. She almost expected to see His Majesty’s troops mustering on the country lane. “Why must you take such risks?”

Kit chuckled. “Without risk, life wouldn’t be worth living.” The bandit grasped the gnarled ivy vines that clung to the old inn and clambered up to the second floor. In moments, Bess was face to face with her beloved.

What was her Kit thinking, to ride in such finery against the wealthy and powerful? The coat was burgundy velvet, worn over a pure white linen shirt with a ruffle of lace at the throat. Supple doe-skin boots rose half-way up those strong thighs. The jeweled hilt of a dagger glittered at Kit’s waist. The hungry light in the bandit’s eyes burned brighter still.

“Oh, Bess, how I’ve missed you!” Kit seized her, crushing her against the velvet, and captured her mouth. Bess pressed her soft body against her lover’s harder form, savoring the heady mixture of familiar comfort and forbidden arousal she always felt in Kit’s arms. A brazen tongue ravaged her mouth while knowing hands slipped under her shift to palm her buttocks and pull her closer still.

“Take this off, girl, before I rip it from your limbs,” Kit gasped, tugging at the fabric that hid her flesh. “I cannot wait another instant.”

Not so long ago she’d been a bashful virgin, but there was no shyness in her now. She pulled the garment over her head and tossed it onto the chair, shaking her long hair free. Moonlight from the window made her pale skin glow. Kit’s eyes roamed over her nakedness. She’d never felt so beautiful, or so needy. “Now you,” she urged. She reached for the brass buttons, fumbling in her eagerness.

Kit chuckled. “Little minx! You’ll be all night at that.” In the space of a few breaths, the showy waistcoat and soft breeches lay crumpled atop the boots. Barefoot, Kit stood with hands on hips and legs sturdily apart, wearing nothing but the long, loose, ruffled shirt. The white linen was startling against sun-darkened flesh. The gallant intruder flashed a saucy grin.

“Pray do not tease!” Bess moaned. “’Twill be morning all too soon.” She settled onto the bed and spread her legs to release a flood of her scent. “Please, my love.”

The outlaw slipped out of the shirt and discarded it with her other clothing. Kit’s small, firm breasts were tipped with earth-colored nipples as tight and hard as Bess’s own. Moisture beaded the triangle of amber-hued curls that nestled between her lean thighs.

Still, the older woman held back for a moment. Perhaps she was enjoying the sight of the formerly chaste innkeeper’s daughter turned wanton, writhing upon the sheets and exposing her wet cunny.

Bess didn’t care how she looked. “Kiss me,” she pleaded. “Touch me, Kit, before I die of longing.”

Buy Links

Kinky Literature – https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/1183-by-moonlight-/

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C99C59RY

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C99C59RY

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1413596

Barnes and Noble – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/by-moonlight-lisabet-sarai/1143711659?ean=2940166073495

Kobo - https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/by-moonlight-8

Apple Books - https://books.apple.com/us/book/x/id6450718058

Add on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/180643788-by-moonlight

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A little dose of reality and a whole lot of imagination – #CrimeFiction #Italy #Giveaway

Lisabet Sarai: Welcome to Beyond Romance, Mark, and thanks for sharing a bit about your new novel. When I read about your tour, I wondered whether there really was a Bologna massacre. If so, what prompted you to base a novel on this event? If not, where did the whole idea come from?

Mark Hill: In 2019, I was teaching a group of judges and ex-judges in Bologna. It was one of those state sponsored courses that certain Italian institutions organise for privileged social groups, and during those lessons, we started to talk about the Bologna massacre of 1980. In that year, there was a bombing of Bologna Central railway station, which killed 85 people and injured over 200. At 10.25 explosives, which were concealed in an apparently unattended suitcase, were detonated in a waiting room of Bologna station. This explosion destroyed a wall and consequently caused the roof to collapse, destroying most of the building. The Ancona-Chiasso train, which was at rest on Platform 1, was impacted.

Being the summer time, Italy was on holiday, unprepared for a disaster of this type. Countless passers-by and travellers provided first aid and help to victims who were buried beneath the rubble. With so many casualties, there were not enough ambulances available. Therefore, private citizens and emergency services used taxis, buses and private cars to take the victims to the hospitals. Italy closes in the summer! Many hospital departments were on holiday at that time of year. They had to be reopened to accommodate those that had been injured in the blast.

It was Italy’s most serious terrorist attack. Several members of the neo-fascist terrorist organization Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (NAR, Armed Revolutionary Nuclei) were subsequently sentenced for the bombing. Further investigations revealed that members of the P2 Masonic lodge and the secret society Propaganda due were behind the attack. Throughout the investigations, elements within the secret services provided several false leads, depistaggi, which created further uncertainty surrounding what had actually happened. We still do not know who was actually responsible.

I did a deep dive through YouTube watching the television news reels from that time, I did some reading around the subject, making sure that all of my reading was in Italian. I read Morando’s “La Strage di Bologna” and “Dossier Strage di Bologna” by Parisi et al. a couple of times. I read up about other terrorist events that occurred around that time in Italy. I decided that the whole period was so compelling and there were so many conspiracy theories that revolved around it, that there was probably enough material for a novel; I think I was right.

With a little dose of reality and a whole lot of imagination, I started writing. I created the classic private investigator character, the villain, Carlos the Jackal, the corrupt Italian politician couldn’t go amiss. Who’s not going to identify with that? A little bit of love interest and off I went.

I disciplined myself to recount a straightforward narrative in chronological order, with a basic structure, using simple ideas and style. It is an attempt to narrate events in a more disciplined way than I had in the past, trying to eradicate any complex descriptive passages in a more high-flown poetic style. When I edited and it sounded like I was showing off, I just eliminated the offending paragraph and rewrote it as I actually perceived it, like I saw it happening step by step.

Recently I have been reading in public from the book here in Italy. I have had to go back to the two books I mentioned before and read up on the actual events of that time. People here in Italy are understandably still interested in trying to understand what went on in that period of Italian history. Although the book is 95% pure fiction, I believe that people have appreciated my interest in the subject. Moreover, the public have been willing to offer questions about my motivation in writing the book, still keen to interpret and understand what actually went on that day.

Blurb

Mitchell Rose and the Bologna Massacre is a crime story that explores the last fifty years of cross-fertilisation between the Italian criminal underworld, its secret services, politics and the judicial system.

When Mitchell Rose is called to Milan by Remo Rhimare, a local judge who wants him to investigate the Bologna bombing of 1980, he knows it would make more sense to turn the job down.

To make things even more complicated, Rhimare also wants Rose to rein in his errant daughter, who is becoming increasingly wayward.

As Rose begins to investigate, the two missions surprisingly become one, culminating in a dreadful dramatic climax.

Excerpt

I was just turning to leave the study when Remo caught me by the arm, causing me to turn and face him.

“There was one other thing.”

“What’s that, Remo?”

“My daughter.”

“Benedetta?” I queried. “Don’t worry about her, she looks like she’s grown up just fine and if she’s lonely any time, I can always give her a call.”

“Not Benedetta.” He shot me a look that was meant to discourage my interest, but only stoked the fires. “Clara.”

“Clara?”

“Yes, my other daughter. She’s not at all like Benedetta. In fact, I’m afraid she may be passing over to the wild side.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, she isn’t working and she isn’t studying, but she always seems to have money to hand and she spends it like it’s going out of fashion. I’d just like to know where it’s coming from and where it’s all going.”

“So, you’re asking me to sit in on a local terrorist and do some babysitting, see where your little girl spends her days?”

“And her nights; sometimes she doesn’t even come home.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What’s the priority call on these two things?”

“Equal priority, Mitchell. Here’s a copy of her I.D. She normally leaves the house early in the morning before we get up and doesn’t come back till late.”

I continued toward the door and when I opened it, I found Benedetta waiting outside. She accompanied me to the main gate, her head bowed low to the ground. I noticed that the two workers I had seen before were now busy rigging up a state-of-the-art alarm system. I nodded a goodbye in their direction and motioned to leave. They ignored me, preferring to meddle with the wires, the filaments that triggered power.

About the Author

Mark is a novelist, poet, translator and English teacher. He has lived in Cagliari, Italy for 33 years.

His poetry has been published in The UK Poetry Library’s Top Writers of 2012 and the Live Canon 2013 Prize Anthology. In 2016, one of his poems was commissioned, published and performed at The Victoria and Albert Museum, London, for the anniversary of hakespeare’s death. In 2024, he was published by Pierian press, Dreichmag, Cerasus press and Southlight 36 edition. In 2025, he has been published in the Penumbra Journal of Literature, Rituals, Art at California State University Stanislaus, Book of Matches and And Other Poems.

He is the winner of the Azerate poetry prize and his debut poetry collection, “Death and the Insatiable” was published in September 2025. https://hiddenhandbooks.com/azerate-poetry-prize His first novel, Mitchell Rose and The Bologna Massacre, was published by Wallace Publishing in July 2025.

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Buy Links

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Mark A. Hill will be awarding a $15 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner.