The stakes are high... #PreOrder #Giveaway @MadisonMichael_

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About Dare to Hope

She’s betting on love and the stakes are high

The “Crazy Eights,” eight women who have been friends for 30 years, have a powerful connection yet rarely see each other. At a pivotal time in their lives, they create a way to remedy this predicament, an audacious dare contrived to bring them together for weddings – each participant must get married within twelve months. The stakes are high. Win the bet and lose your heart; or lose the bet and perform a personally mortifying task.

In the first of their stories, we meet Eliana, beautiful and brilliant, but starting over, focused on her career, not on some foolhardy dare. Longing for a family but recently divorced and on her own, Eliana sets her sights on a new job, a new home and accepting her single, childless status. Independent and determined, she has no idea that in less than six months she will both win and lose her heart’s desire.

Jeremy Klein, genius engineer and inventor, is also making life changes. He’s sold his startup to a major medical device company, becoming President and CEO, and a billionaire before he is forty. Although he’s gun-shy about the dating game, Jeremy knows it’s time to apply his smarts, sex appeal and new-found success to finding true love.

When Eliana meets Jeremy, they bond quickly. The couple has so much in common and a chemistry that sizzles. Winning Eliana feels like a fantasy come true to Jeremy. Their attraction is immediate and electrifying, and a one-night stand morphs into planning a future. But plans change. On track to wedded bliss, baby and all, Jeremy and Eliana are derailed by accusations that threaten their relationship, Eliana’s career and Jeremy’s future as CEO.

Spies, lies, allegations and misunderstandings abound, threatening to destroy their happiness. That is, until those “Crazy Eights” get involved, scheming and manipulating to win Eliana her happily ever after. Can a group of determined friends help Eliana and Jeremy hold onto love?

In the tradition of The Beguiling Bachelor Series, Madison Michael creates a romance series about independent and sassy women, sexy and successful men, true love, and lasting friendships.

Genre: Steamy Contemporary Romance

Buy Links

Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/mlWeJW

Amazon Buy Link https://amzn.to/2USqYwS

Excerpt

His grin was devastating up close – wide and welcoming, with a hint of naughtiness and the promise of shared pleasures. But it was his eyes, deep coffee brown and fringed with long dark lashes that were his best feature; piercing, intelligent and inquisitive eyes, trained on her.

Please, God, Eliana prayed quickly, do not let this man be the new sales manager. It would be lamentable if she had to keep him at arm's length. He was the first man Eliana had felt drawn to since Nico. If she was honest with herself, he was the first man she had ever felt this attracted to so immediately. It was enough to make her believe in love at first sight or fate.

"Hi," he stepped closer, ignoring the empty stool beside her to halt just inside her personal space. Usually, Eliana would have reflexively backed up, but she savored his closeness, the power emanating from his presence. Even in this stuffy bar, he smelled good – fresh, like soap and good whiskey. And up close, his eyes were more magical – a hint of gold dancing in their depths.

"Hi," she responded on a breath, letting the single word hang there for a moment before adding "You aren't in sales, are you?"

"Nope." If he thought it was a strange conversation starter, he kept it to himself. "Engineering and design, although I have dabbled in sales. I could be in sales for you," he offered in a voice smooth as brandy, redolent with sexual promise and a hint of curiosity. She laughed at his offer. "Are you in sales?"

"Yes, I am. I was thinking of what a crime it would be if you turned out to be my new boss. I'm meeting him tomorrow."

"Jeremy," he responded, extending his hand to shake hers. "Not in sales. Is your boss named Jeremy?"

"Thankfully, not." Eliana extended her hand, savoring the moment as Jeremy wrapped his long fingers around hers. She noticed there was no wedding band as she admired the strength and length of his fingers, the fine hairs on the back of his hand, and his grip - warm and dry. His skin was soft over fine bone and healthy muscle. Everything about him captivated her. "Eliana."

Jeremy seemed in no hurry to release her hand, but after several beats too long for politeness, Eliana pulled hers from his. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, already sitting down, not thinking twice about it. "Or perhaps that table against the wall? I am anxious to learn why you don't know who you work with, Eliana."

Eliana laughed and watched as Jeremy's breath stopped. His every emotion was transparent, especially the desire flaming in his eyes right now. A passion she reciprocated. Wholeheartedly. She couldn't remember such an instantaneous attraction. But with Jeremy, she felt electricity and lust move through her entire body, just from the touch of his hand and the sound of her name spoken in his rich baritone.

"Eliana," he rolled the word around his mouth as if tasting a fine wine. "What a lovely name." Eliana panties dampened. He was just saying words, but their underlying promise was undeniable. She wanted to be alone with him. She wanted to be naked with him. And all she knew was his first name.

Eliana nodded toward the table, questioning her sanity. She was sure about what this man wanted, but after only minutes, her body governed her head. Jeremy spoke briefly with the bartender, passed him a fifty like it was a single, and motioned for her to lead the way to the empty table. Before they had settled in their chairs, both had fresh drinks. Earlier, the bartender had responded to her beauty with decent service and half-hearted flirting, but he reacted with alacrity to the big tip.

"So, spill," Jeremy directed, leaning forward on his elbows and putting his mouth dangerously close to hers. Just a few inches, Eliana imagined, and they could be kissing. "I am dying to hear your story. I want to know absolutely everything about you." The way he lingered on the word 'everything' made Eliana wetter still. Oh man, she was in way over her head.

Meet Madison Michael

Madison Michael loves to binge news, movies, books, Oreos and romance – reading romance novels, writing romantic stories, watching Rom-Coms over and over. Maddy has spent her self-isolation fretting about the health of her friends and neighbors and catching up on TV programs from ten years ago.

Hunkered down with her cat, Gracie, and a Zoom life-line to the world, she is wondering how people date and social distance, how much junk food she can consume in a day and why Gracie only wants to play when Maddy needs to work.

Oh, and Madison is also hard at work on the rest of the Double Dare Romance series. Watch for more of the series in Autumn and Winter, 2020.

Madison’s Social Links

Website: http://madisonmichael.net/

Maddy’s Blog: https://www.madisonmichael.net/maddys-romance-madness/

Facebook: http://facebook.com/madisonmichaelromance

Twitter: http://twitter.com/madisonmichael_

Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/Madison-Michael/e/B01EVUGG6G/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/madisonmichaelromance

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

All Caught up on Madison’s Books?

The Beguiling Bachelor Series

Four Successful, Sexy Men meet their matches – and how!

Bewildered 

(or get it free by joining Madison’s Insider Group)

Bedazzled

Beholden

Bedeviled

Besotted

The B&B Billionaire Books
Second Chance at Love stories set in small town America

Desire & Dessert

Moonlight & Moet

Standalone Stories
from Sweet Time Travel to Sexy May-September Romance

Broken Time: A Time Travel Romance

Studmuffin (available only when you sign up to be an Insider)

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Saturday Spanks: Like Riding a Bicycle -- #bdsm #dominance #SaturdaySpanks

Hey, everyone!

I’ve got another Saturday Spanks excerpt for you today. This one comes from one of my favorite short stories, “Like Riding a Bicycle”,  in D&S Duos 4. It’s about a married couple who had a kinky relationship early on, before careers and kids and age got in the way. Can they recapture the magic?

Enjoy! 

 

I'm brusque as I slip the blindfold over her tangled curls. I fasten a pair of cuffs around her ankles. "Hands down by your sides." When she obeys, I cuff her wrists and clip her corresponding hands and feet together. "Too tight?"

"No, it's fine, sir."

I pinch her butt, leaving a pair of livid marks on her pale skin. "Fine? I think maybe you're enjoying this too much." When I dabble my fingers in her soaked cunt, her muscles clench around me. I smack her butt with my other hand and she actually giggles.

"Oh, you're in trouble now, missy," I tell her, trying hard not to laugh myself. She winces when she hears the drawer open and the burp of the lube spurting into my hand. "Yes, that's right. I'm going to skewer your ass with a plug the size of Texas and then I'm going to whip you till you bleed. You won't be able to sit down for a week."

I proceed to make good on the first part of my threat, slathering the bulging purple device with slippery gel. It's about two inches in diameter at its widest point. I know that Mariah can take more—I buggered her with a bedpost once—but that was a long time ago. I rub the tapered end back and forth across her anus, working to relax her muscles. Then I push and twist at the same time.

"Aye!" she screams, as the fat bulb breaches her sphincter and settles into her rectum. "Ow!"

I don't wait for her to get used to the sensation. Grabbing the singletail, I swing it once or twice, trying to get used to the heft. All at once I'm consumed with doubt. What if I really hurt her? An incompetent whipping could do serious damage.

I slash the thong through the air once more and slam it down on the bed next to her bare feet. Her toes curl as the force is transmitted through the mattress. I'm not sure I can really control where the stroke lands. The whip whistles and cracks above her head—threatening but ultimately harmless.

The pause becomes uncomfortable. I've lost the rhythm of the scene.

"Sir?" Mariah sounds tentative, questing. "Is something wrong?"

Anger and disappointment rise together. "What? Why do you ask, girl?" I growl. Tears actually prick my eyes, me, the big bad Dom. I should have known you can't bring back the past. But it seemed, for a while, like it actually might be possible to recapture the magic. It felt so very right...

"Well, you said you were going to flog me, sir." Mariah's alto voice is strong and confident. She's not afraid to tell me, in her sub code, what she wants. She at least has no doubts.

"Are you trying to tell me what to do?" I roar. "Are you topping from below?"

"Of course not, sir. It's up to you. You should do whatever pleases you." She sighs. The plug in her ass twitches. "I'm yours, sir—yours completely."

It's scene-speak, I know. Mariah would never talk like this in ordinary life. Still, it touches me, because I realize she means it. She trusts me—still—to do what's right for us, to take her where she needs to go.

I raise my arm, suddenly strong. The whip swishes through the air, snaps and makes a perfect landing on her right cheek. A bright red line stitches across her creamy flesh. My cock throbs in response to her pitiful wail. Taking a deep breath, I land a powerful stroke on her other globe and survey its reddening wake.

Mariah chokes back her cry of pain.

"Are you all right, Mariah? Is it too much?"

"No, sir," she whispers. "Not at all."

She wants this. She wants me to whip her, to push her to the limit and beyond. I bring the singletail down hard on her quivering flesh. She moans and jerks in her bonds as I paint her ass with a brilliant lattice of scarlet stripes.

I slash at her with the whip, again and again, focused and untiring. I'm in control now. I can see exactly where each stroke will land. Every so often I snap the tip against the base of the plug, making it vibrate inside her. Mariah yells and thrashes about on the bed. I don't need to ask how she is. I can sense it. She's here with me, deep in the moment, giving her all.

Buy Links

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/D-S-Duos-Lisabet-Sarai-ebook/dp/B00VKQDZE6

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/D-S-Duos-Lisabet-Sarai-ebook/dp/B00VKQDZE6/

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=6&products_id=863

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/d-s-duos-lisabet-sarai/1121675662?ean=2940151406086

Kobo: http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/D-S-Duos-4/book-RAn5dYf8lkCvCVnvzkDQ3A/page1.html

Thank heaven he's stubborn - #gratitude #marriage #stubbornness

I have been blessed in uncounted ways in my life. I have enjoyed the benefits of a loving and supportive family, an excellent education funded mostly by scholarships, generally good health, and work that is challenging, worthwhile and fun. I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to travel to a wide range of exotic places. I'm humbly thankful for whatever writing talent I have and for the persistence required to turn that talent into a semi-career.

When I think about it, though, what I am most thankful for is the fact that my husband didn't give up when I tried to brush him off.

Let me explain...

Romance is the realm of love at first sight, but when I met K., I tried to discourage his obvious interest. The last thing I needed was another man in my life. To start with, we lived 3000 miles away from each other. He lived on the east coast, where he was studying towards a PhD. Meanwhile, on the west coast, where I was working at my first job out of graduate school, I was juggling three different lovers.

I know that this may sound a bit shocking to some readers, but at the time I was exploring my sexual self and trying to figure out what I needed in a romantic relationship. I wasn't lying to anyone; each of the men I was seeing knew about the others. I was just having some difficulty deciding which if any of them was Mr. Right. In fact, I wasn't sure that I subscribed to the concept of one perfect mate.

Anyway, K. came up to me at a scientific conference on the east coast, where I had just made a presentation describing my research. He asked me some intelligent questions about my paper, but I could tell he was more interested in me as a woman than as a colleague. I liked him, but I was already reeling from the complications in my love life. I definitely didn't think I could handle yet another lover. I was polite but distant. K. joined me at the welcome cocktail party that evening. I pointedly ignored him, flirting instead with the cute British guy who was also part of the crowd.

K. did not give up. He invited me to lunch the following day. I accepted (hey, I had to eat!) and found him to be articulate and unpretentious. He was quite a bit older than I and had led a fascinating, unconventional life. As I recall, we talked about relationships. What was most remarkable about our interactions was the level of comfort. I barely knew him, yet it seemed as though we had been friends a long time.

Still, I held back. He took the offensive. He was driving up to Worcester (my home town) from the conference that afternoon. Would I like a ride? Certainly it was better than going by bus as I had planned. The three hour trip was filled with sexual tension. He was beginning to win me over.

He dropped me at my parents' house and asked if I wanted to have dinner that evening. Of course I agreed. We dined at a Japanese restaurant where he regaled me with tales of his travels in Europe and Asia. I urged him on, eager to hear more. Near the end of the meal, he looked me in the eye and said,

“You know, I'm looking for someone to travel with.” I was more or less hooked.

I flew back to California the next day. For the next six months we wrote and called each other. The other men in my life transformed themselves from lovers to friends. When I came home to Massachusetts for Christmas, it seemed completely natural that K. would return with me to the west coast to share my apartment. After the holidays, we set out together on a three week cross-country odyssey. We were still relative strangers, yet traveled together as if we had known each other for years.

On that trip, in a motel in Taos, New Mexico, K. proposed to me. I told him to wait a year and then ask me again.

That was thirty eight years ago. I'm grateful every day for his love, his support, his companionship, even his criticism. We are not only lovers but also partners and collaborators. We work together as well as play together. I am amazed by the strength and longevity of our connection.

When we met, I thought that it was unlikely that I would ever marry. I couldn't imagine that there existed one man who could keep me interested over the long term, and I didn't want a string of divorces like my aunts.

I was wrong. And now I'm eternally grateful.

My Answer is Yes

Thirty six years ago, in the wee hours of New Year’s Day, my husband proposed to me. We were staying in Taos, New Mexico, in a fabulous adobe-walled hotel we’d somehow happened upon. Given the time of year, the place was pretty empty, so the management gave us this huge family-sized room, with something like five beds. We tried them all....!

At the time, we were a bit more than halfway through a three week road trip, crossing the US from the East Coast, where he (and my family) lived, to the West, where I was located. Needless to say, we were not taking a very direct route! He was coming west to move in with me. We’d known each other for about six months, but given the long distance between us, we’d only spent a few weeks, total, in each other’s company.

Nevertheless, our relationship was so relaxed and easy, it seemed we’d been partners for years. Our meandering drive across America was a magical voyage of discovery. Taos was just another jewel in a sparkling strand of amazing times together.

I remember that New Year’s Eve was crisp, cold and unbelievably clear. The stars were points of fire outside the windows of our room. He held me, kissed me, asked if I’d be his wife.

I laughed, kissed him back, and told him to ask me again in a year. After all, we were intoxicated, with New Year’s champagne and the thrill of our new love. Who knew what our future would bring? I hadn’t planned on ever marrying, given the string of divorces that marked my family history. I didn’t think it was necessary or useful.

He didn’t give up. Next New Year’s he repeated the question. My answer was yes.

Our love has been a great gift. We’ve had more adventures than I’d ever dreamed (and I always had an active imagination). We’ve enjoyed health and peace, laughter and inspiration. Like any couple, we’ve had some difficult times, but overall we’ve been blessed.

He has taught me many things. How to cook Indonesian food. How to solder a circuit board. And how to say yes to life, even when I’m unsure. I was a cautious, anxious young woman when we met, always worrying about people’s opinions and analyzing my options. My beloved taught me, by example, how to be spontaneous, to embrace life with open arms.

How else would I ever have been crazy enough to set off driving three thousand miles with someone I barely knew?

Yes. I am blessed indeed.

Happy New Year to you all! 

 

May 2018 bring you joy, peace and prosperity.

Dark Beginning, Bright Future - #love #goodmen #tragedy

I fell in love with my husband while my mother was dying. That sounds heartless and morbid, doesn't it? But it wasn't like that at all.

We'd met six months before, at a conference. I lived in California; he was based in Massachusetts where I'd grown up. We'd corresponded and talked on the phone, but it didn't seem all that likely that our relationship had much future, given the geographic barriers.

When my mom's leukemia resurfaced after a year's remission, I took a leave of absence from my job so that I could be with her on the east coast. For nearly a month, I visited the hospital every day. Aside from her disease, she was incredibly healthy, and it took a painfully long time for her to die.

When I wasn't at her bedside, I spent the time with K. He somehow knew exactly how to deal with me. If I needed to talk out my fears and my sorrows, he'd let me. If he thought I needed distraction, he'd provide it. He drove me back and forth to the hospital. He took me out to dinner. He let me cry on his shoulder.

Away from my home, my work and my friends, I felt lost and depressed. I worried about my job – my first serious employment since leaving graduate school. I had nightmares about my mother. K handled it all. I was incredibly grateful for his support. I suppose at some level he had ulterior motives, but honestly, I don't know whether I would have made it through those dark days without him at my side.

When my mom finally let go and passed on, he helped my siblings and I make the arrangements, and accompanied me the funeral. Only later did I realize what that cost him. My mother had converted to Catholicism. For reasons buried in his own history, K. has an allergy to organized Christianity. Normally, he won't set foot in a church. However, he made an exception, so that he could be at my side, quietly offering me his love and his strength.

A day or two after the funeral, I returned to California. I was seriously concerned that I might be fired. But K. and I both knew that our relationship had changed. A month later I came east for the winter holidays and then he and I drove cross-country together, in the first of what would become many journeys. We count our time together from the day we left Massachusetts and headed west.

Good, decent men? I certainly found one, or rather, he found me. That was more than thirty years ago. He's proved himself again and again. Last Spring, when I had hip replacement surgery, the poor guy had to take on almost all the household responsibilities. He hardly complained.

I must have really good karma, to have hooked up with this man. Other women apparently feel the same way I do about him – he's not particularly good looking but he never fails the charm members of the fairer sex. I almost feel embarrassed by my good fortune.

Maybe that's why I have some trouble writing male characters who are self-centered, lazy, manipulative or cruel. I've heard so many tales of woe from my girlfriends – but it's hard for me to identify.

My guy is solid gold.

Men Like Bill (#erotica #paranormal #lilith @MoniqueRoffey13)

By Monique Roffey (Guest Blogger)

In my new novel, The Tryst, the hero, Bill is a Lover, not a Fucker. That’s why he manages not only to survive an imp like Lilah, but turn the tables on her too. He gives as good as he gets. Bill, I must confess, is also a little bit modeled on a man like Robert Bly, the American poet and leader of the men’s movement in the USA. Bly, for me, is a hero. So is Bill, in his own way. Bill, in many respects, is trapped, in his second cycle of marriage, almost on track or another failure, a second divorce. But then the couple meet Lilah, both real, half-human and a figment of Jane’s unspoken erotic desires. Bill, while creative and manly, easy with himself, is also homme vanille, castrated by his mother and his wife and now by Jane. He is a natural Lover. However, once bitten, he’s twice shy, especially with this second wife Jane.

Then he meets The Original First Wife in the form of Lilah, a descendant of Adam’s first wife Lilith. Only then, does he seem to click into action. Like Bly, he is at home in the realm of is creativity and his masculinity. Like Bly, he is a mature man; he is lover and a gentle man and he cares deeply for his home, his wife and the things that matter. Like Bly, he was married and divorced. In The Tryst he is conscious of his failures and wants to live differently. He gets better with age. He wears his sadness and his past well. He wants to love again and takes the plunge with Jane, and yet he encounters similar difficulties, with loving with and sexually pleasing a woman.

Meanwhile, Lilah is a storm, a whirlwind and devastation on their marriage. She is contemptuous of Jane and at first pitying of Bill. But she underestimates Bill as a lover and what human love is. While caught and suppressed, Bill is a quietly confident man with his love skills. He is a patient man, a husband, and a father and he loves Jane. He is in some way waiting for his wife, even while he is in agony over their unfucked bed. When he meets Lilah he is tempted, and re-activated as a sexual creature. He comes into his full capacity as a sexual lover. And yet, he falls a little too, in love with the dark creature from the woodland.

Towards the end, he loses his wife and Lilah; he is abandoned and lost to himself. And in those dark moments, Bill becomes his own shaman, he reaches for his own wisdom and his own power as a magician. He dismantles the curse and utters his own charms to the universe. He also calls on Aphrodite to re-instate his claim on his home. The Tryst is a novel which blends magic with the everyday to create a story about monogamy, marriage and that tricksy subject of sexual desire.

Blurb for The Tryst

London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true, mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic error of judgment, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert desires.

Part psychological thriller, part contemporary magical realism, The Tryst revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an everyday marriage.

Excerpt

LILAH

Bored. I could see she was bored the moment I entered the bar. Withdrawn, watching but not seeing much. Bored and unfucked. I could tell that every time, could see it in every fibre: the way the flesh was dead and the eyes were unglowing and the face looked a little doomed. I could read the prig like a book. Always could. The unfucked always watch, looking out for someone else, for they know they’ve made a fundamental error. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I have chosen wrong. I used to see married human females like this all the time, who’d chosen a man who loved them, who was right in all the other ways, a man who didn’t rock the boat, which was why the relationship floated, worked.

The English never knew what to make of me, my forwardness, my daring ways. It was like taking candy from babies. It was always so easy to get laid. I took what I needed from whom I wanted. Easy. But mostly from those couples like Jane and Bill, who had nothing going on down below, no desire between them. It’s not a crime or a sin, to fuck a man till he faints, to release some dumb stupid bitch from her own constraints. They never saw me coming, couples like Jane and Bill; they never believe predators like me exist even though plenty of tales of me, and my like, can be found in the ancient books. Modern humans have forgotten them, the impure woman, the insubordinate. I’m the one who ran away. I am there, in their history, those books the moderns no longer read. I often went to bars alone, hunted alone. The English are such hypocrites. Fuck them and fuck their tight-ass Queen. I saw Bill and Bill saw me. Immediately. He already had the memory of me, all men do. But she didn’t notice him noticing me. Didn’t see him glance at me several times over by the bar, didn’t hear him cough, blush, try to cover himself. Amazing how much a so-called second wife can miss. When the wife-pussy isn’t happy, there’s nothing to safeguard, nothing to lose. I could never infiltrate a fuck-happy couple. But so few of these exist.

She thought it was all her idea! That she set up the entire thing, that it was all her doing. Silly little prig. She had been a looker once and some of that was still there. I could see she once turned heads. Great tits. Nice ass. Good legs. She had a kind of grace she did, Miss Repressed, a kind of – ha ha, impenetrable-ness, little Miss Unfucked, an unused sexiness in her polo neck, her hair tied back. But she was beginning to lose what she’d had and never used, beginning to regret this, I could tell, beginning to fantasise she could have it all back, do it all again. I had it over older women: my pearly taut skin, my edible flesh, my curves and humpable bumps. I had all this forever and ever amen. God I turned myself on looking in the mirror!

I liked the look of Bill, a big-boned voluptuous tree of a man, a mature and bearded oak. All generous with himself, I could tell by his loose and supple boughs, the curve of his stomach, the girth of his thighs, his broad arms. His skin was sun-browned, the colour of heartwood. Our eyes clashed in that bar and he was ashamed and then he was uncertain and tried to look away. But I was taken and determined and knew I’d snare him with all my tricks. Another man sat with them, a different type who saw me too, a fellow predator who appraised me quickly and knowingly. He leered. I smirked with disdain.

I watched and waited.

Yes, Bill. We’ve met. I’m the First. I exist in the loins of all men, including yours.

When Little Miss Polo Neck got up to go to the bar I didn’t have to make a move. Both men looked over and smiled at me. Different smiles. Bill’s was tentative, a despite-himself smile, curious, intense, unsure of himself. The other man gave me a well-known-to-me, broad and welcoming grin. ‘Hello, there, Miss Lady Pussy.’

This with an open-armed gesture.

I slid off my barstool and appeared before them, all radiant four foot ten inches of me. Both men were shocked, impressed. My shortness never fails to make men want to fuck me. My girl-womanliness is a fateful mixture. A fantasy. A child with a whore’s smile. The girl-next-door with a cleavage of rare and captivating beauty. Both men gazed at me. I smiled and sat down on the stool the dark-haired man drew up for me. I wriggled, thrusting my tits upward, twiddling my hair. Bill was uncomfortable, I could tell. He squirmed. I loved it all, loved the attention, wanted to take them both to bed, take off my clothes there and then. I opened my legs, just a crack, spreading my scent.

“Greetings, my friends. This is a kind invitation.”

“I’m Sebastian.” The dark-haired man glowed. “This is Bill.”

“Am I at Elysian Fields?”

“What?”

Blanche DuBois, of course, a tragic Southern belle of American literature, so pathetic, always made me laugh. I would make these men nervous.

“Oh nothing, just a little joke with myself.” I batted my eyelids. The man called Sebastian openly ogled my chest; the alpha human males are so easy to capture.

“I mean I feel fortunate,” I gushed. “To make your acquaintance, I’m always so happy to receive the kindness of strangers.”

The men stared. My cunt scent had already intoxicated them.

Praise for The Tryst

“What makes The Tryst an unexploded virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”

DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner

About the Author

Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards including
the Orange Prize, Costa Fiction Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in 2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of Spain, Trinidad.

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Website: www.moniqueroffey.com

 

Dark Beginning, Bright Future (#marriage #love #karma)

I fell in love with my husband while my mother was dying. That sounds heartless and morbid, doesn't it? But it wasn't like that at all.

We'd met six months before, at a conference. I lived in California; he was based in Massachusetts where I'd grown up. We'd corresponded and talked on the phone, but it didn't seem all that likely that our relationship had much future, given the geographic barriers.

When my mom's leukemia resurfaced after a year's remission, I took a leave of absence from my job so that I could be with her on the east coast. For nearly a month, I visited the hospital every day. Aside from her disease, she was incredibly healthy, and it took a painfully long time for her to die.

When I wasn't at her bedside, I spent the time with K. He somehow knew exactly how to deal with me. If I needed to talk out my fears and my sorrows, he'd let me. If he thought I needed distraction, he'd provide it. He drove me back and forth to the hospital. He took me out to dinner. He let me cry on his shoulder.

Away from my home, my work and my friends, I felt lost and depressed. I worried about my job – my first serious employment since leaving graduate school. I had nightmares about my mother. K handled it all. I was incredibly grateful for his support. I suppose at some level he had ulterior motives, but honestly, I don't know whether I would have made it through those dark days without him at my side.

When my mom finally let go and passed on, he helped my siblings and I make the arrangements, and accompanied me the funeral. Only later did I realize what that cost him. My mother had converted to Catholicism. For reasons buried in his own history, K. has an allergy to organized Christianity. Normally, he won't set foot in a church. However, he made an exception, so that he could be at my side, quietly offering me his love and his strength.

A day or two after the funeral, I returned to California. I was seriously concerned that I might be fired. But K. and I both knew that our relationship had changed. A month later I came east for the winter holidays and then he and I drove cross-country together, in the first of what would become many journeys. We count our time together from the day we left Massachusetts and headed west.

Good, decent men? I certainly found one, or rather, he found me. That was more than thirty years ago. He's proved himself again and again. A few years ago, when I had hip replacement surgery, the poor guy had to take on almost all the household responsibilities. He hardly complained.

I must have really good karma, to have hooked up with this man. Other women apparently feel the same way I do about him – he's not particularly good looking but he never fails the charm members of the fairer sex. I almost feel embarrassed by my good fortune.

Maybe that's why I have some trouble writing male characters who are self-centered, lazy, manipulative or cruel. I've heard so many tales of woe from my girlfriends – but it's hard for me to identify.

My guy is solid gold.

Commitment. One Day at a Time (#twelvesteps #marriage #commitment)

He's a chic lit cliché: the guy who can't commit. He loves the heroine, truly he does, and they're clearly compatible, in bed and out, but somehow he can't quite take that step. He can't make himself pop the question and join his life with hers happily ever after, 'til death do us part.

Actually, it's not a literary myth. My sister's husband was like that. It took five years, two breakups and some therapy before they finally tied the knot. I'm not ridiculing him. It was a painful and difficult process for him to get to that point. Commitment often is.

However, if you don't commit, you go through life skimming the surface, flitting from one person or activity to another, never experiencing the depth and beauty that's available. Commitment brings emotional and spiritual rewards that are well worth the pain.

The general understanding is that “commitment” is a kind of transition, a phase change, a final stepping over some line. Before you make a commitment, you're in one place. After the act, you are someplace else altogether. You commit and then you breathe a sigh of relief. That's over.

That's not the way it works, in my experience.

As I've shared in other posts, I was anorexic in my late teens. After the acute phase was over and I returned to college, I still had anything but a normal relationship with food. I still weighed myself daily. I binged on calorie-free items like cantaloupe, cabbage and popcorn (without butter). I felt guilty whenever I ate a real meal.

To try and cope with these behaviors and feelings, I joined Overeaters Anonymous. OA is a twelve step program modeled on AA for people who have food-related disorders or addictions. I already knew something about how AA worked, as my mom was a recovered alcoholic. The first of the twelve steps, revised for the OA context, reads: “We admitted that we were powerless over food, that our lives had become unmanageable.” That was me. I wasn't overweight, but food was using up way too much of my mental and emotional energy.

In AA, you make a commitment to stay sober, to abstain from drinking alcohol. No one forces you to do this, by the way. You can come to AA forever and keep drinking; the heart of the program is that you, personally, must decide to become sober. Of course one can't abstain from food. The OA equivalent of sobriety, called “abstinence” is to eat three healthy meals a day with nothing in-between.

I made a commitment to abstinence. I tried to stop my bizarre food behaviors. I tried to release the fear of getting fat. It wasn't as easy as it might sound.

One motto of the twelve step approach is “Just for today”. The idea is that if you tried to commit to never drinking again, ever, that would seem totally impossible. You would sabotage yourself before you even began. So, wisely, the twelve step approach advises that you simply commit to being sober (or abstinent) today. Today is all you have anyway. You could be dead tomorrow. So don't worry about what you're going to do in the future, or how you're going to survive. Focus on where you are. Focus on now. Make a commitment for today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

Simplistic as it sounds, this approach seems to work.

I've come to believe that this is the essence of all commitment. For romance fans, “commitment” usually brings to mind marriage. I've been married more than 30 years now—even though I never expected that I'd marry at all. It's true that my marriage is a bit atypical: we have no children, we are professional colleagues as well as mates, in our younger days we were not sexually exclusive. I suspect my marriage is easier than those of many of my readers. Still, there are times when I get fed up with my DH and really want to walk out, slamming the door behind me. (I'm sure he feels the same about me every now and again.) Or I worry about the future, as we are both getting older (and he is eleven years older than I). How will I manage if I have to be his caretaker instead of his companion and co-conspirator (as we promised in our wedding vows)?

Then I stop myself. I remember that I've made a commitment to love him, share my life with him, take responsibility for him, as he does for me. But I don't need to think about forever. I only need to reassert my commitment now, today.

This is the way that all good marriages are built, in my opinion. One day at a time. Commitment is not a single act, but a process to be repeated each day. That makes it easier—and in realistically, making a commitment today is all we can ever do.