Embracing the Shadows - #Paranormal #TheDarkSide #Power

What makes paranormal romance so popular? I've been pondering this question for a while. Readers, it seems, are happy to consume as many tales about vampires, shape shifters, ghosts and psychics as we authors can produce. You'd think that they'd get bored, but that doesn't seem to happen. Why not?

I've got a theory. We're all tempted by the dark side.

The realms of paranormal romance are vast, but most books offer characters with dual natures, torn between normal humanity and―otherness. The “other” aspect conveys special powers ― unnatural strength, heightened sensation, hidden knowledge―but always at a price. The characters suffer because of their power. Blood-drinkers and half-beasts are ravaged by conscience because they maim or kill. Immortals bear the weight of lonely, isolated centuries and the pain of watching mortal companions wither and die. My prescient hero Kyle in NecessaryMadness can see the future but the fury of his visions drives him insane. Jorge in Serpent's Kiss is the incarnation of an ancient god but each time he makes love to his human mate he comes close to killing her.

In the paranormal genre, power and darkness go hand in hand. Yet somehow, we are attracted to the darkness. We brush the suffering aside; we want to feel the power. A vampires isn't sexy when he's fighting against his blood craving. Only when he sweeps his victim into his arms and buries his fangs in her flesh does he make us breathless and moist.

How many books have you read where the human hero or heroine willingly submits to “the change”, the transformation that will make them “other” as well? How many characters, in contrast, manage to resist the pull of the dark side? Not many. Normal mortal life seems absurd, bland and empty after you've tasted power. This is especially true because sex on the dark side in erotic romance is always more intense, more extreme, transcending the limits that bind ordinary humans.

Even a villain with supernatural powers tempts us. A well-written antagonist should invite enough identification that the reader can understand what moves him to do evil. The best bad guys are ambiguous, able to justify their deeds so well that they draw our sympathy. They dazzle us with their logic and their beauty, until we can't see their wickedness. Lucifer still looks like an angel as he bargains for your soul. Stefan Aries, my villain in Necessary Madness, is handsome and brilliant enough to make Kyle want him, despite his being a murderer.

We're drawn to the dark side, I think, because it's an escape. Sometimes the real world leaves us feeling so powerless―we can't help wanting the ability to take control, to bend the world to our will the way our paranormal characters do. Who wouldn't want to leave the dirty dishes and the unpaid bills behind and slip away into the night, to slink through the shadowy streets scenting for blood or to howl, unfettered, at the moon?

The dark side calls to us in paranormal romance. Every time we open a new book, we flirt with the possibility of ecstatic surrender.

Here’s a bit from one of my darker paranormals, Fire in the Blood. In this MMF erotic romance, neither Maddy nor Troy can resist the vampire hero – despite his own warnings.

His entry was swift and silent. She didn’t even know he was behind her until she noticed his fire-cast shadow on the bed. “You may wear this.” He handed her a brilliant garment of multi-coloured silk. “It belonged to my mistress.” The dressing gown was soft as a cloud, so delicate that Maddy feared it would tear at her slightest touching.

“God, it’s exquisite.” The jewel-toned robe shimmered with a twining pattern of blossoms and peacocks. “But I can’t wear this. I’ll destroy it. It looks like an antique.”

“Put it on.” Power rang in his voice. There was no way she could disobey. She slipped the gown over her shoulders and belted it around her waist. The silk caressed her breasts and belly like secret hands. Her pussy dampened again. “Sit down now, and I will bind your ankle.”

She seated herself on the bed. The giant perched on a wooden stool and drew her foot into his lap. Maddy struggled to hold still. Every time he brushed his fingers over her flesh, electric thrills sizzled up to strike between her legs. She wanted him to push the slithery silk up her thighs, to spread them so wide that it hurt, then dive down to feast on her juicy sex. Surely he must smell her. He must hear her heart, so loud in her own ears that she could no longer hear the crackling fire. However, he appeared to be completely occupied with his nursing duties. He wrapped her foot and ankle in layer after layer of taut muslin, a reasonable substitute for an ace bandage, then secured his efforts with several safety pins.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She laid her palm on the kinky nap covering his head. He raised his eyes. In their depths, she saw wisdom and pain. “I’m Madeleine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Etienne.” He settled back on the stool. “Etienne de Rémorcy.”

“I want to thank you, Etienne. For all your help.” Casually, with one hand, she loosened the sash holding the robe closed. She leaned forward, so the silk gapped open and revealed her gleaming white breasts.

“I could hardly do otherwise. My mistress taught me how to be a gentleman. You obviously needed my assistance.” His rich voice sounded strained.

“Oh, I did.” Maddy shifted on the bed. The dressing gown slipped off one shoulder. “I still do.” The peacocks slithered away, exposing her pale thigh and her wound, crusted with dried blood.

Etienne’s eyes glittered. His blunt hands shot out and grabbed her wrists. “Do not play with me, girl.” Lust gushed through Maddy’s body. Etienne’s nostrils twitched. He tightened his grip until she cried out. “Do not tempt me.”

“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered. “Please…” Dimly, she understood that she was not begging to be released.

“Believe me, I will hurt you far more if we continue.” Etienne forced her down on the bed, her captured arms above her, and straddled her with his massive thighs. “Although I was taught to be a gentleman, in truth, I am a savage beast.” The fragile silk tore away from her nakedness.

“Don’t you want me?” Maddy’s eyes swam with tears.

He brought his mouth close to her ear. “You could not possibly understand how much.” His breath was the icy exhalation of a glacier.

She shivered under his weight. His coolness only stoked the fire in her pussy. “Then take me.”

He freed her wrists and sat back on his heels, searching her face. She cupped her ripe breasts and offered them to him. Please, she prayed silently, let him see my need. She opened herself to him, letting those luminous eyes probe her deepest desires.

He licked his full lips, and his white teeth gleamed in the fire light. He reached for his belt. “Let it be as you will, then,” he growled. “I am no longer responsible.”

Writing for the market - not! #market #smut #contrariness

Market? Do I have a market?

I suppose I must. I mean, not all the rows on my monthly royalty statements are zero. However, I suspect that the people who buy my work don’t fit easily into any category, because my writing doesn’t either. They don’t constitute a Market with a capital M. I’m not particularly popular with Erotic Romance Readers, or Suspense Readers, or BDSM Readers, or Science Fiction Readers, or Steampunk Readers, though I’ve written in all those genres. Actually about the only identifiable group who seems to consistently like my work is the community of other erotic authors.

Definitely not what you’d call a large market, though I’ll admit it’s one I respect and for which I’m grateful...

The funny thing is, to a very large extent, I understand what’s popular in the different genres where I dabble. I believe that I could write exactly what the market wants, if I set my mind to it. Another lusty virgin seduced by a dark, seductive, haunted dominant? I cut my literary teeth on that trope, in my very first novel. (Okay, Kate wasn’t exactly a virgin, but she was a total newbie as far as BDSM was concerned.) Been there, done that. Although tales of power exchange push my personal buttons more than almost any scenario, the world now has more than enough books with that basic plot. I have little desire to write another.

In fact, I’ll admit that when it comes to my writing, I have a contrary streak a mile wide. I love to experiment with different genres. When I do, my first thoughts involve ways that I can give the genre an original twist. For example, I wrote a feline shape shifter romance in which the hero was originally an ordinary cat. I wrote another shape shifter romance about Quetzlcoatl the feathered serpent. In The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, the bossy billionaire is a woman and the virgin is a guy (a nerdy professor who is borderline Asperger’s). In my multi-genre opus RajasthaniMoon, I challenged myself to include the classic elements of as many genres as I could. I ended up with a steampunk/ BDSM/ multicultural/ menage/ werewolf/ Rubenesque/ Bollywood tale that I personally think is pretty brilliant (or at least, a huge amount of fun), but which apparently left readers puzzled.

These narrative choices do not endear me to the capital M erotic romance market. What about pure erotica, though? There are millions of readers looking for stroke fiction and thousands of authors publishing it. I can write fuck-and-suck stories with the best of them (with correct grammar, spelling and punctuation, too!) Perhaps that should be my target market.

Alas, sex for the sake of sex bores me, almost as much as love for the sake of the happy ending. If I were desperate for money, I’d probably try my hand at hard-core porn, and I suspect I’d be at least moderately successful, but writing as I do mostly for the pleasure of the experience, I want more than just the mechanics. I’ve received reviews from folks who bought my erotica collections, complaining that the stories weren’t sufficiently graphic. Yes, I know. They had characters. Conflict. Plot.

On the other hand, I find myself struggling to tone down the raw sex in my romance. I make my editors squeamish. Then there’s the problem that my characters always want to have sex with the wrong people, instead of staying focused on their soul mates.

In my latest books (the Vegas Babes series), I’ve dabbled in the shallows of porn, but I’m not sure I’m going to continue in that mold. I’m starting to find the process of writing unmitigated smut a bit tedious. I also feel sheepish about these volumes, despite the fact that they’re selling well; I wrote them really fast and I know they’re not up to the standard, craft-wise, of my best work. So what, right? But that bugs me.

I could write popular erotic romance or utterly filthy smut if I forced myself to do it. I’m quite certain. Despite my contrariness, I’m actually good at taking direction. (I am a sub, after all.) The commissioned stories I’ve written for CustomErotica Source have been highly praised. Clients have written comments telling me how I brought their fantasies to life, exactly as they imagined.

I understand how fiction works and how language can manipulate emotion. I feel as though I have decent control over the tools of my craft – better than the majority of published authors today. I’m confident I could bring those tools to bear in order to construct, if not a best seller, at least a series of books that would sell much better than what I write now.

The bottom line, though: I don’t want to do that. I’m not trying to make my living at this. I can write what I like – even if only a few people share my tastes. My true market consists of the relatively rare individuals who care about originality in fiction and who appreciate the way a story is told as much as the story itself.

Charity Sunday: Emergency Assistance for Guatemala -- #AFSC #Volcano #Guatemala #CharitySunday

Normally I wouldn’t be doing my monthly Charity Sunday until next weekend, but the recent eruption of Volcán de Fuego in Guatemala is a crisis I can’t ignore. A poor country already, Guatemala has been devastated by the violent June 3^rd eruption of one of the world’s most active volcanoes. The death toll is still rising, but meanwhile the survivors need urgent support. Hence, for every comment I get on this post, I will give $2 (not the usual $1) to the American Field Service Committee (AFSC), who are working with their local partners to get humanitarian aid out as quickly as possible.

According to AFSC, the disaster is compounded by a threatening combination of rainfall and ash, which increases the risk of mudslides and could contaminate valuable drinking water. Injured victims and volunteers are in desperate need of medical supplies, and families living in shelters seek necessities, such as mattresses and towels, for basic survival. AFSC is helping to meet the basic needs of the victims, including filters for clean drinking water, critical rescue equipment, and transportation of volunteers and supplies.

I hope you’ll leave me a comment, to increase the size of my donation. Given the urgency of the current situation, I will keep this post open only one week before I tally up the comments and send the money to AFSC.

Meanwhile, it turns out I actually have a book set in Guatemala, which has a scene on the slopes of Volcán de Fuego. Serpent’s Kiss is a paranormal erotic romance featuring a shapeshifting hero who is the reincarnation of the Mayan god Quetzlcoatl – the Feathered Serpent. As the volcano erupts, he meets his arch-enemy Tezcatlipoca, a were-jaguar, in a final apocalyptic battle. 

 

The ground lurched under her feet, throwing her down on all fours. A deafening roar welled up from the earth. Thunder answered. Lightning shot through the cloudbank, painting the grey walls a lurid white before plunging everything into blackness. I’m too late, Elena thought, her body tossed about like a rag doll by the unsteady ground. It’s already the end.

Her knees and palms stung, lacerated by the coarse surface beneath her. She opened her eyes. A cloud of sparks exploded into the night sky. Hot ash rained down on her bare arms. The earth shook itself and bellowed like a wounded beast. Red and yellow tongues flared up, hissing, silhouetting the black edge of a ridge in front of her. The air reeked of sulphur.

Volcán de Fuego. She had made it.

She tried to stand, but the frenzied earth kept casting her down. She finally had to crawl to the lip of the crater, ignoring the sharp pumice that abraded her skin. An explosion tore at her eardrums. Flames snapped above her head. New sparks pelted down. Burning embers landed in her hair, but were smothered by her thick mane. Blisters rose on her skin.

Warily, she peered over the raised edge into the broad, shallow bowl of the caldera.

This depression, perhaps fifty metres across, was the remnant of an old eruption that had blown off the top of the mountain. At its centre, a cinder cone belched sparks and flame from the active vent. Clouds of steam and ash swirled above the basin, stained a dirty orange by the seething fires below. The sulphurous stink clung to her nostrils.

The concave space was paved with grey pumice and black ash, interrupted by basalt boulders metres high that had been ejected in past ages. It reminded Elena of a Roman amphitheatre. Within its confines, gladiators fought to the death.

They wore their beast forms. The enormous jaguar, orange as the volcanic flames, circled the winged snake. Quetzlcoatl hovered above the ground, his wing-beats sending sparks circling around them. The were-cat’s roar of challenge echoed across the basin; the earth growled in answer. He lashed out at the serpent with a vicious paw. Even from her distant vantage point, Elena saw the claws flash.

Jorge darted out of the way. The cat’s talons sliced through smoky air. Remorros roared again, this time in frustration. Meanwhile, Jorge drew back his massive head, then struck like lightning. The jaguar tried to evade the strike, but the snake’s fangs raked a pair of deep grooves across his flank. Blood gathered in an opaque pool on the glittering black sand.

Remorros backed away, not taking his eyes off his opponent. Jorge stilled his wings and settled to the ground, awaiting the next assault. The cat limped slightly. He bent to lick at his wounds. Suddenly, he gathered himself into a crouch and launched himself into the air, toward his opponent. His jaws closed on the serpent’s throat.

Elena struggled desperately not to cry out. She knew that distracting Jorge now could be fatal. The snake did not seem badly hurt, however, perhaps due to his scaly armour. He unfolded one of his bird-limbs and ripped into the jaguar’s belly with a dagger-like talon.

Remorros bellowed in agony. Jorge shook him off and whirled away to a safer distance. His wings beat slowly as he watched his antagonist. Elena did not see any wound, but it seemed from Jorge’s tentative movements that he too was in pain.

The jaguar lay on its side, panting. Had Jorge won?As she watched, hardly daring to hope, the cat-form blurred and shrank. The naked body of Teodoro Remorros stretched out on the floor of the caldera, a gaping hole in his abdomen.

He can’t possibly survive such an injury, thought Elena, rising to her knees in order to get a better view. This must be the end. But even as she watched, the man pushed himself to a sitting position, then to a hunched stand. He placed his hands over the terrible wound. Elena could see the blood seeping between his fingers. He began to chant in some alien tongue.

The volcano rumbled and belched cinders. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped. Remorros stood tall. He took his hands away from his belly. The wound was gone.

Remorros’ laugh rang out in the sulphurous air. “Kulkulcan! See my power! My god-flesh is indestructible. You cannot defeat me.”

Jorge still wore his serpent-form. As she watched, though, the towering column of scales and feathers began to whirl, coiling faster than the eye could follow. The wings faded into mist that swirled away. The green blur slowed and dwindled. Jorge’s tawny, muscled form emerged, apparently unscathed.

His long hair streamed behind him, carried by the hot winds from the vent. His eyes reflected the volcano’s fire. He held aloft the gleaming black sword. “Tezcatlipoca! You always were a braggart. Come meet your fate.”

The men rushed at each other. Jorge’s sword whistled through the air as he stabbed and slashed at the Remorros’ limbs. Remorros wielded an axe of some greenish stone. Elena remembered her dream of the sacrifice, the jade weapon that the priest had promised to use to cut out her heart.

Two powerful bodies crashed together. The earth shuddered and groaned. A wide crack opened at the far side of the caldera. It spewed new fire into the sky.

* * * *

Of course, the reality is nothing like the fantasy. Please comment, and do a bit to help ease the suffering of Fuego's victims.

 

My Favorite Kind of Research (#travel #research #amwriting)

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Describing the Indescribable

If you write explicit erotica or erotic romance, as I do, you’re constantly facing the problem of describing the indescribable. How can you convey the essence of a sexual encounter? You can’t show your readers a picture. You can’t literally evoke the sensations of skin on skin, the sound of a moan that is halfway between agony and delight, the scents of sweat or semen. Words are your only tools. Somehow you must employ these tools to communicate both the sensual and emotional experience of your lovers.

Describing actions is relatively straightforward — who touches whom, how and where. Actions, however, are not enough to create a moving and arousing sex scene. Somehow you have to put your readers inside the heads of your characters. Sex scenes just don’t work unless your readers share your characters’ experience.

What does it feel like, to be aroused? Warm,wet, full, throbbing, aching — we’ve all used these words a thousand times. Yet they’re only the roughest approximation to the way it really feels. Concrete terms only get you part of the way to the goal. Even if you succeed in precisely describing sensations (a difficult task), that’s not sufficient. In fact, the purely physical parts of sex can seem ludicrous, even gross, if that’s your sole focus.

To effectively describe sexual encounters, I find that I need to emphasize emotion, while suggesting sensation. To do this, I tend to use a lot of metaphor, that is, implicit comparisons, often to phenomena in nature. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Fire. Clouds. Rivers and oceans. These familiar phenomena evoke emotional responses. By using them to describe sex, those emotions get transferred to the characters and the scene. At the same time, because they do relate to physical experience, metaphors can also convey ideas about how things feel, from a physical perspective.

Romance has gotten a bad rap for “purple prose”, overblown, exaggerated language that sounds ridiculous. An orgasm like a hurricane? Come on now! I read a blog post not too long ago where the author ridiculed the many outrageous descriptions of orgasms that she had encountered in her reading. I cringed at some of her extreme examples.

There are dangers here, I admit, not only overwriting, but also falling into clichés. Nevertheless, I don’t think I could write sex scenes without using metaphor. The human mind operates by recognizing familiar patterns and then filling in the blanks. That’s how metaphors work. They’re a kind of emotional shorthand. When I write that a climax is a hurricane (if I do it skillfully), my readers think: ferocious wind, drenching rain, overwhelming power, uncontrolled fury, terror, excitement, helplessness. All these connotations overlay the literal meaning of the text, giving it depth and intensity.

At least, that’s my objective! Here’s a brief excerpt from my paranormal romance Serpent’s Kiss. It demonstrates my point, I think. I use lots of metaphors, but I never actually come out and say, her climax was like a volcano. I hope that it works, that it conveys the intense pleasure my character is experiencing.

“You don’t understand what you ask. If we couple, you and I, we will open the gates of chaos.” He hovered close, leaning over her, gazing into her eyes. His scent made her dizzy.

“I don’t care. So be it.”

His strong arms snaked around her body and pulled her to his chest. “So be it,” he whispered. “As the gods will.”

His mouth captured hers. He sucked away her breath, drained her of her strength. Then he swept his tongue across hers and everything flowed back: strength, breath, awareness, pleasure. She felt his tongue everywhere, on her aching nipples and in the liquid gap between her thighs, tickling the tender lobe of her ear, dancing in the hollow at the base of her throat. Yet she knew, with the tiny kernel of rationality that remained, that his lips had not left hers. This exquisite ballet of sensation was nothing more than an illusion.

Real or imagined, the fluttering tongues quickly carried her to the edge of release. “Please,” she begged, sliding her mouth away from his. “I can’t wait. Make love to me.” He clutched her to him. His erection pressed into her belly like a lump of stone. “You want me, Jorge. Take me.”

“Your clothes…” he murmured. In ten seconds she had them off, her jeans still hanging off one ankle, her blouse a torn heap on the ground. He pulled his shirt over his head and folded it into a pillow for her comfort. Then he bore down on her, taking them both the floor of the porch.

She untied his drawstring pants and pushed them down around his lean hips. His swollen cock sprang out, an invincible spear of flesh aimed at the sky. She stroked her hand down his length, marvelling at the satiny texture of the skin, the way it sheathed a core of granite. She was suddenly reminded of the feather, simultaneously stiff and soft.

Jorge swept his fingers once through her cleft, as if to assure himself that she was ready. She jumped at his shocking touch, teetering on the precipice. A river of sweet moisture flowed from her, coating his hand. He did not make her wait any longer.

With one jerk of his hips, he sank his rod into her juicy depths. Elena felt the silk-encased stone of his cock, sliding over her slick flesh, filling her, claiming her. The delicious invasion finally pushed her over the edge. Her climax erupted, starting at her molten core and overflowing, sweeping away everything in its path. She wailed, her voice shocking the birds and other night creatures into silence.

Sunday Snog #131: Serpent's Kiss

With all the excitement about my latest shape shifter novella The Eyes of Bast, you might have forgotten my other shifter book - novel length - entitled Serpent's Kiss. Like my feline shifter book, this isn't your run-of-the-mill werewolf tale. The hero is a snake-shifter, a reincarnation of the Mayan god Quetzlcoatl, the Feathered Serpent.

From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gates of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power. Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos. She and Jorge fall in love, despite his dire predictions. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind - and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.

Sound intriguing? Leave a comment on this post (with your email address, please) and you could win a copy!

Meanwhile, enjoy my snog - defined as any amorous oral activity, remember! After you've commented, click on over to Victoria's joint for more weekend kisses.

Elena opened her eyes to find sunlight streaming in from the back garden, and her flawlessly handsome new lover asleep by her side. 
 

Another dream! Perhaps less threatening than the last, but equally vivid and strange. What was going on?

The echoes of her climax still shimmered through Elena’s body. She slipped a forefinger between her lower lips. Her folds were swollen and slick, with fresh moisture, not the sticky remnants of last night’s passion.

She turned to admire Jorge. He lay on his back, arms flung up above his head. His face was relaxed in sleep, those lush eyelashes motionless against his regal cheekbones. His cocoa-coloured skin stretched warm and elastic over his muscled limbs and torso. Her fingers ached to trace a path along the ridges and valleys of his chest and belly.

He was nearly hairless, save for the dark tufts in his armpits and groin. Elena brought her face close to the curly thicket under his nearer arm and breathed in his rich male scent. Salt and musk were dominant. Beneath them was the faint hint of vanilla.

She moved down to the other area of fur, where his quiescent cock nestled like a bird in its nest. Burying her nose in the wiry hair, she inhaled the warm aroma of their mingled fluids—bitterness and brine. Her nipples peaked automatically in response. She strummed a thumb across one of them and felt the vibrations migrate to her clit.

She took another deep breath redolent of pussy and cum. Jorge did not wake, but he must have sensed her closeness. As she watched, his cock began to stir, swelling visibly from one second to the next.

Saliva pooled in Elena’s mouth. She had to taste him. Delicately, determined not to wake him, she ran her tongue along the lengthening shaft. She could feel the blood coursing into his flesh. With each instant, he became thicker and harder. His cock writhed under her tongue like a separate living thing.

She lapped at him again, more strongly this time, from the root to the taut bulb. The rosy knob drew her. She swirled her tongue around the head, gathering a drop of fluid that eased out of the little eye. She flicked at the sensitive ridge on the underside. He moaned. Her pussy convulsed in sympathy.

Elena couldn’t stand to play any more. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and engulfed his swollen organ. Grabbing the back of his meaty thighs for leverage, she worked her way up and down the stony length of his glorious cock. Meanwhile, she sucked for all she was worth. She didn’t think about what she was doing; she didn’t try for art or technique. All she knew was that she was hungry, and that sucking on Jorge’s cock was the only thing that would satisfy her.

****

Don't forget to leave a comment!

Sunday Snog #84: Serpent's Kiss

I was scanning my past Sunday Snog posts today, trying to decide what book to excerpt for you this week and happened to notice that I've published a total of 83 previous snogs! That's a bit amazing, to me, and testifies to the trend-setting talents of Ms. Victoria Blisse!

Anyway, I've got a brand new kiss today, from years back - my Mayan-themed paranormal erotic romance Serpent's Kiss.

From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gates of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power.

Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos. She and Jorge fall in love, despite his dire predictions. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind - and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.

When you've finished savoring my snog, click on back to Victoria's page, for more succulent kisses.

-->

He squeezed her hands. Desire raced through her, sharp, irrational, irresistible. “I’m sorry that I had to return and place you at risk once again. But I left something behind. Something important.”

“I know. I have it, hidden safely away.”

He searched her face, apparently trying to determine how much she knew about the feather. “Give it to me, then, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No—I don’t want you to go. I’ll give you the feather, but only if you promise to spend the night with me.” Listening to herself, Elena was appalled. What was she saying?

She had not planned this. She was keeping the feather for him and had honestly intended to return it. But now she wanted him, with a single-mindedness that drove out all reason. She would do anything to satisfy this uncharacteristic desire. She could not let him escape again.

He cupped her cheek in one of his strong brown hands. Elena nearly swooned.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Elena. It’s not possible.”

“I know what I want. What I need. And I won’t turn over the feather until you give it to me.”

He removed his hand, leaving her mourning for his touch. “I could force you.” His soft voice rang with power.

“Go ahead and try.” Elena’s words were defiant, but there were tears in her eyes.

“You don’t understand what you ask. If we couple, you and I, we will open the gates of chaos.” He hovered close, leaning over her, gazing into her eyes. His scent made her dizzy.

“I don’t care. So be it.”

His strong arms snaked around her body and pulled her to his chest. “So be it,” he whispered. “As the gods will.”

His mouth captured hers. He sucked away her breath, drained her of her strength. Then he swept his tongue across hers and everything flowed back—strength, breath, awareness, pleasure. She felt his tongue everywhere, on her aching nipples and in the liquid gap between her thighs, tickling the tender lobe of her ear, dancing in the hollow at the base of her throat. Yet she knew, with the tiny kernel of rationality that remained, that his lips had not left hers. This exquisite ballet of sensation was nothing more than an illusion. 

Volcan de Fuego

If you've read the news in the last week or so, you might have heard about the recent eruption of Volcan de Fuego (or "Volcano of Fire"), the most active volcano in Guatemala. I've always been intrigued (and a bit scared) by volcanoes. I remember visiting the Mount St. Helens museum half a dozen years after the 1980 eruption. The devastation was astonishing - humbling. The closest I've come personally to an active volcano was in Bali, where I saw plumes of smoke belching from Gunug Agung, one of the three volcanic mountains that dominate the island. (The Balinese consider them gods, and I can see why.)

Anyway, I was excited to see Volcan de Fuego in the news, because believe it or not, the mountain plays a crucial role in my paranormal novel Serpent's Kiss. At the book's climax, the forces of good and evil engage in an epic battle near the crest of the volcano, complete with fire and ash galore. I thought I might share a snippet with you - but not too much since I would rather you read the entire book LOL!

***

The ground lurched under her feet, throwing her down on all fours. A deafening roar welled up from the earth. Thunder answered. Lightning shot through the cloudbank, painting the grey walls a lurid white before plunging everything into blackness. I’m too late, Elena thought, her body tossed about like a rag doll by the unsteady ground. It’s already the end.

Her knees and palms stung, lacerated by the coarse surface beneath her. She opened her eyes. A cloud of sparks exploded into the night sky. Hot ash rained down on her bare arms. The earth shook itself and bellowed like a wounded beast. Red and yellow tongues flared up, hissing, silhouetting the black edge of a ridge in front of her. The air reeked of sulphur.

Volcán de Fuego. She had made it.

She tried to stand, but the frenzied earth kept casting her down. She finally had to crawl to the lip of the crater, ignoring the sharp pumice that abraded her skin. An explosion tore at her eardrums. Flames snapped above her head. New sparks pelted down. Burning embers landed in her hair, but were smothered by her thick mane. Blisters rose on her skin.

Warily, she peered over the raised edge into the broad, shallow bowl of the caldera.

This depression, perhaps fifty metres across, was the remnant of an old eruption that had blown off the top of the mountain. At its centre, a cinder cone belched sparks and flame from the active vent. Clouds of steam and ash swirled above the basin, stained a dirty orange by the seething fires below. The sulphurous stink clung to her nostrils.

The concave space was paved with grey pumice and black ash, interrupted by basalt boulders metres high that had been ejected in past ages. It reminded Elena of a Roman amphitheatre. Within its confines, gladiators fought to the death.

They wore their beast forms. The enormous jaguar, orange as the volcanic flames, circled the winged snake. Quetzlcoatl hovered above the ground, his wing-beats sending sparks circling around them. The were-cat’s roar of challenge echoed across the basin; the earth growled in answer. He lashed out at the serpent with a vicious paw. Even from her distant vantage point, Elena saw the claws flash.

Jorge darted out of the way. The cat’s talons sliced through smoky air. Remorros roared again, this time in frustration. Meanwhile, Jorge drew back his massive head, then struck like lightning. The jaguar tried to evade the strike, but the snake’s fangs raked a pair of deep grooves across his flank. Blood gathered in an opaque pool on the glittering black sand.

Remorros backed away, not taking his eyes off his opponent. Jorge stilled his wings and settled to the ground, awaiting the next assault. The cat limped slightly. He bent to lick at his wounds. Suddenly, he gathered himself into a crouch and launched himself into the air, toward his opponent. His jaws closed on the serpent’s throat.

Elena struggled desperately not to cry out. She knew that distracting Jorge now could be fatal. The snake did not seem badly hurt, however, perhaps due to his scaly armour. He unfolded one of his bird-limbs and ripped into the jaguar’s belly with a dagger-like talon.

Remorros bellowed in agony. Jorge shook him off and whirled away to a safer distance. His wings beat slowly as he watched his antagonist. Elena did not see any wound, but it seemed from Jorge’s tentative movements that he too was in pain.

The jaguar lay on its side, panting. Had Jorge won?As she watched, hardly daring to hope, the cat-form blurred and shrank. The naked body of Teodoro Remorros stretched out on the floor of the caldera, a gaping hole in his abdomen.

He can’t possibly survive such an injury, thought Elena, rising to her knees in order to get a better view. This must be the end. But even as she watched, the man pushed himself to a sitting position, then to a hunched stand. He placed his hands over the terrible wound - Elena could see the blood seeping between his fingers. —and he began to chant in some alien tongue.

The volcano rumbled and belched cinders. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped. Remorros stood tall. He took his hands away from his belly. The wound was gone.

Remorros’ laugh rang out in the sulphurous air. “Kulkulcan! See my power! My god-flesh is indestructible

***

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Sunday Snog: Serpent's Kiss

My snog this week is from my Mayan shape shifter novel, Serpent's Kiss.

From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gates of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power.

Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos. She and Jorge fall in love, despite his dire predictions. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind - and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.

I've always been a sucker for forbidden kisses. When you've finished this one, click on over to Sunday Snog Central and sample Victoria's sizzling snog as well as lots more kisses from your favorite authors.

***

Jorge stood just outside the cave, gazing intently down at the cultivated fields below. He seemed unaware of her. Elena watched for a moment, not wanting to disturb his concentration. A crowd in bright clothing gathered among the maize plants, obviously involved in some ceremony. Off to one side, an ancient crone with a halo of snow-white hair beat a drum in a solemn rhythm. As Elena peered over Jorge’s shoulder at the scene, the woman looked up in her direction.

A shiver ran up Elena’s spine. Despite the fact that they were hidden by a rock overhang and a row of scrubby bushes, Elena could swear the native woman saw her, or at least sensed her presence. Elena sensed something, too, not exactly menace, but a warning, a premonition of pain.

She shook her head to dispel these dark thoughts and pressed her body up against Jorge’s muscled back. Her nipples burned like live coals at the touch of his bare skin. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned close to his ear. “Jorge. I missed you.”

She felt his form tense, as though he wanted to push her away. Then he relaxed into her, allowing her to caress his swelling cock through his trousers.

“Wait,” he protested, though he was already surrendering to her loving persuasion. “We need to talk. I need to explain to you, who and what I am.”

Elena ignored his protests. She turned him around to face her. He did not resist. Her lips locked on his and he melted into the kiss. It was sweet as cane, hot as molten lava. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight against his firm body. His erection poked at her navel through his pants. She rubbed herself against him, teasing him, thrilling as she felt him grow harder still.

“Explain later.”Her voice was husky with desire. She led him back to the pallet where she had awakened.

She slipped to her knees and untied the drawstring at his waist, then pulled his trousers down over his hips. His cock sprang out, straining towards the roof of the cave. In the torch-illumined dimness, the ruddy column of swollen flesh seemed to glow with its own light. Elena grew hungrier. She grasped him firmly, eager to taste the fluid gathering on the slick bulb, but Jorge’s hand on her tangled hair stopped her.

“No, I want to taste you. You’ve already drunk from me. And it nearly killed you.”

Elena remembered the coiling fire and the green oblivion that had followed her swallowing his essence. Looking back, she recalled only the overwhelming pleasure. “Please…I’m stronger now…I know what to expect,” she protested.

But she allowed him to lay her down upon the makeshift bed and part her thighs. Every time that he touched her, he kindled new sparks of lust.

He knelt between her legs, gazing at her. “Gods, you are beautiful!” Leaning forward, he captured a nipple between his lips. Lightning arced through her body. She moaned and thrashed helplessly as he suckled her. Every flicker of his tongue echoed in her aching sex.

He transferred his attentions to her other breast, leaving the first nipple tender and throbbing. Her clit pulsed in time. She was dying for his tongue there, at her centre. She tried to push his head in the direction of her groin. He laughed and grasped her wrists, holding her arms out by her sides as he continued to lick and suck at her flesh.

“No, querida, not yet. Slow down and enjoy every instant. We may not have time like this again.”