Sunday Snog from Quarantine - and a Giveaway!

It's Sunday again, and I'm celebrating my Rainbow Awards honorable mention some intense orality from Quarantine. Furthermore, I'm giving away a print copy of the book. All you have to do is comment!

Don't forget to visit Snog Central over at Victoria's where I suspect she has lots of holiday magic brewing, and links to many more luscious lip locks!

 

A rickety staircase led to the basement. Here, in a tiled maze of passages, the sex was far more public. One man pinned his partner to the wall, wrists captured overhead, jerking himself off while plundering his companion’s mouth. Another couple, one man deeply tanned, the other pale, writhed on a bench in one of the alcoves, hips pumping in synchrony. Further down, they encountered two burly biker types sharing a slight, bookish-looking man with a dark ponytail. Their victim bent over a stool, with one cock buried in his ass and another in his drooling mouth. Bold tattoos rippled over the bikers’ muscular backs as they pounded into him. The bliss on the younger man’s face made it clear that he was a willing participant in this scene.

Dylan glanced at Rafe, checking his reaction to this raunchiness. The black man’s full lips were parted in a pant. His eyes simmered with lust. His erection distorted the towel, a wet spot growing at the tip. Grinning, Dylan unknotted his own towel and swung it around his neck. His cock arched towards the ceiling, eager for action.

He caught and held Rafe’s eyes. Don’t be afraid, he broadcast to his lover. I’m here. The other man seemed to get the message. Slowly, without breaking the visual connection, he unwrapped his hips and set his massive erection free.

Dylan was suddenly dizzy with need. He sank to his knees, mouth open to receive the glorious hardness waving in front of his face. Rafe, however, pulled him back to his feet.

“Not here,” he said. He half-dragged Dylan through an open doorway into a vast, empty room that smelled faintly of chlorine. The rectangular depression in the centre was an old swimming pool, empty now save for an algae-scummed puddle at the deep end. Rafe settled on the ledge that ran along the wall and spread his legs wide. His dick reared up like a snake, the single eye charming Dylan into a motionless trance.

“Suck me,” Rafe commanded. Dylan didn’t need a second invitation. In two seconds, he was kneeling between those corded thighs.

Ignoring the chill, slimy tile under his knees, he leaned forward and swallowed Rafe to the very root. He buried his nose in Rafe’s wiry pubes. The rich man-musk drowned out the smells of mould and rotting wood. The spongy knob prodded his palate. He drew back, sucking hard and wringing a groan of appreciation from Rafe. “Your mouth is so damn hot,” the black man moaned as Dylan slithered his tongue along the silky shaft, then engulfed it once more. “Oh, God! Yes!”

Usually Rafe took control, fucking Dylan’s mouth with the same ferocity he lavished on his ass. This time, though, he let Dylan do the work of pleasing him. Dylan played with the fat log of flesh, alternating between teasing his lover and devouring him. He pursed his lips over the bulb, tongued the weeping slit, flicked at the sensitive frenulum, until Rafe was begging for more. Then he plunged down, turning on the suction, immersing his lover in wet heat.

Finally, Rafe couldn’t hold back. He seized Dylan’s head, holding him fast. His blunt fingers clutched handfuls of Dylan’s hair as he drove his cock down the other man’s throat. The slight pain made Dylan’s own prick even harder. He relaxed, opening himself to everything Rafe gave him.

He forgot about the camp. He forgot about Hammer. He completely forgot where he was. Rafe was his only reality―hardness and heat filling his mouth, salt and bitterness on his tongue, ripe sweat in his nostrils, smooth ebony skin rippling in front of his half-closed eyes.

-----------

Leave a comment and you could win your own copy of the book. Don't forget to include your email!

Ten Fun Facts about ME

Hello, everyone!

Usually I have a guest on Saturdays, but for some reason my calendar today is empty. So I thought that maybe I'd interview myself...sharing some facts that you might now know about Lisabet Sarai.

Here goes:

Ten Fun Facts about Lisabet Sarai

I was named after Queen Elizabeth the Second because I was born in the year of her coronation.

So that will immediately let you know that I'm no spring chicken, since Her Majesty the Queen celebrated her Diamond Jubilee – sixty years on the throne – this year. Yes, I'll be hitting the big six-oh in January, and darn it, I'm having a huge party! Though perhaps not as big as the Queen's...

When I was in primary school, I wanted to be an astronaut.

When I watched Alan Shepard, the first American shot into space, on the black and white TV in our school cafeteria, I was overcome with wonder. I read science fiction (Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov and anyone else I could get my hands on), watched the television show “My Favorite Martian”, and daydreamed about discovering new planets and alien races. Only when I reached junior high did I learn that astronauts had to be perfect physical specimens. With my coke-bottle glasses and flat feet, I wasn't going to pass muster. It never occurred to me that being female might be an obstacle.

I've always written but never considered a career as a writer.

My love affair with words began very early. Family apocrypha relate that I was talking at six months old. (My husband says that I haven't stopped since!) My writing files include some stories and poems I composed when I was seven years old. I wrote fiction, poetry and plays throughout elementary school, high school, college and grad school. Writing has always been my favorite mode of expression. And yet it never occurred to me that I might make my living as an author. I expected to be a scientist. My role models were Marie Curie and Rosalind Franklin, not Charlotte Brontë or Anne Rice (even though I loved their books).

While I was in graduate school, I regularly performed as a belly dancer.

You can see a photo of (a much younger) me in the gallery on my website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/gallery.html), wearing a costume I sewed myself. I'd been exposed to Middle Eastern music and dance in high school and fell in love with it. Later I had the chance to take lessons and workshops from professionals. I still find it hard to sit still when someone starts playing a baladi or a ciftitelli rhythm, and I miss my zils.

I've traveled to every continent except Australia (and Antarctica).

My husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant with his tales of foreign adventures. We've been traveling every since, though financial constraints and work requirements mean that our trips are shorter and less frequent than we'd like. The majority of our voyages have taken us to Asia or Europe, but I've also visited Morocco, Peru, Costa Rica, and New Zealand. I should mention that I still have a long wish list of places we haven't been!

I don't like sweets and could live my whole life without chocolate.

Unbelievable as it may sound, I have very little interest in desert. I'd much rather have a second helping of the main dish. Meanwhile, chocolate makes me break out as if I were still a teenager. I don't really mind. Seriously! If all the chocolate in the world suddenly vanished, I wouldn't even notice.

My favorite foods include tuna fish salad, fried chicken, and pot roast.

Especially when I'm the cook!

I think I lived a past life in the Victorian era.

I guess this is more of a theory than a fact. As long as I can remember – long before the advent of steam punk - I've had a special attraction to Victorian architecture, fashion and literature. I dream of living in a gingerbread-ornamented “painted lady” in San Francisco, with a turret and a veranda. My high school photo shows a young woman with long hair, a long, tight-belted skirt and a high-necked, white-ruffled blouse with a cameo brooch. My novel Incognito features a Victorian subplot and I swear, writing Beatrice's diary entries from the 1880's felt as natural as breathing.

I seem to have a jukebox in my head.

I don't play any instrument but I probably can sing two hundred songs from memory – maybe more. A chance phrase that I hear or read is likely to set some song running in my mind, involuntarily. It doesn't seem to matter whether I like the song or not. Once the loop starts, the only way to interrupt it is to deliberately sing a different tune.

I never expected to get married, but last June my husband and I celebrated our thirty year anniversary.

There was so much divorce in my family, I couldn't see the point of marriage. In addition, I considered it highly unlikely that I'd meet one guy who could keep me from getting bored. Turns out I was wrong, though – and believe me, I'm very grateful!

And finally, a brand new and exciting fact - my M/M science fiction erotic romance Quarantine got an honorable mention in Elisa Rolle's Rainbow Awards. I didn't even know I was in the running! I'm really thrilled to be recognized at all, given that I've only written four M/M books in my life. This may encourage me to start on the sequel I've been pondering!

To celebrate, I'll be featuring an excerpt from the book in my Sunday Snog tomorrow - and giving away a print copy of the book! 

Review - Technorotica by M. Christian

Technorotica by M. Christian

Barbary Coast Editions, Renaissance E Books, 2012

One of the most enjoyable aspects of being an author is that you get to invent new worlds. Sometimes those worlds strongly resemble our so-called reality; sometimes they deviate wildly. Even the most bizarre fictional world, though, needs to feel real. The reader needs to see, smell, taste, and touch the alien environment in which she finds herself. Against all logic and common sense knowledge, she needs to believe.

Pulling this off is tough, especially in genres like paranormal and science fiction, where the story by definition is set somewhere other than the world as we know it. M. Christian is a master of this trick, as he demonstrates in Technorotica, his new collection of stories concerning the erotic connections between humans and machines.

I'll admit up front that I've long been a fan of M.Christian's work (I even edited one of his books, ComingTogether Presents M. Christian) and that I'm deeply in awe of his imagination. Despite what might be considered a positive bias, I still feel totally comfortable and justified in asserting: this is a fantastic book, in both the literal and figurative sense.

The stories in this collection could loosely be called science fiction erotica, but they vary a great deal in focus and tone. Several of them (“Hot Definition”, “Speaking Parts”, “Hack Work” and the excerpt from Christian's novel Painted Doll) are set in a shadowy, perilous, cyber-punk world where everything is for sale and everyone lives on the edge, staying alive through crime or luck or sometimes both. Prosthetics, holographic doppelgangers, constant electronic surveillance, mind-jacking and body snatching – fans of Gibson, Sterling and Cadigan will feel right at home. However, this author isn't primarily concerned with gadgets and technology (never mind the title of the book) but with feelings: fear, hunger, desperation, desire and love. These stories explore how humans reach out for one another, as the mechanical invades and erodes the meaning of humanity.

“Blow Up” and “I am Jo's Vibrator” are lighter in tone. The former lets us into the mind of a man with a peculiar fetish. The latter, as suggested by the title, is narrated by a sex toy. Both will make you smile (or at least, that was my reaction) though “Blow Up”, the first tale in the book, has a subtle darkness that's a preview of the more serious stories to come.

I've read the tale “State” in several other M. Christian collections. It remains one of my favorite erotic stories of all time. A human woman/sex worker impersonates a blue-skinned, state-of-the-art Japanese sex robot. The neat logical flip here satisfies the intellect. The woman's arousal at becoming the ultimate sex object provides satisfaction in other dimensions.

“The Bell House Invitation” is a fabulous new take on ménage, or more accurately, polyamory. Four individuals – two men, two women – live together and share a group mind. Together they seduce another woman with the aim of convincing her to join their communal consciousness. The sex scene in this tale succeeds in exploring all the participants' experience simultaneously, pulling the reader into the mix. It's lusciously explicit without losing the sense of wonder that derives from a level of communion most of us only dream about.

In contrast, “Billie” includes no overt sex at all yet still manages to convey an intense feeling of desire. This vignette of a butch woman speeding along the Pacific Coast Highway on her vintage 1977 Harley Davidson details a synergy between human and machine so strong it becomes erotic.

“A Light Minute” focuses on communication over a distance, as a reclusive woman terrified of the world outside opens herself to the lover she knows only via electronic missives.

Finally, “KSRN” is a dream-like reverie about speed and sex, chrome and compassion. If I'd been the author, I would have put this story last in the book. It leaves you feeling haunted and yet somehow complete.

Overall, my reaction to this book was “Wow”. But then, I'm seriously turned on by originality. If you share this trait with me – get yourself a copy of Technorotica. 

(And by the way - the book includes a great preface and afterword, too!)

 

We Are Not Our Parents

By Elle Q. Sabine (Guest Blogger)

Dear Readers,

I’ve always been fascinated by how societies functioned, whether liberal or repressive, Georgian or Victorian. For this reason, I was once an excellent history student when writing essays but with a terrible tendency to blank on the dates of important battles, names of battlefields, and the identities of the generals in charge of them. Thus, my performance on those tedious multiple choice tests was not terribly impressive.

One of the most fascinating changes in English society between the reign of George III and Queen Victoria was the evolution of sexual behaviour. In Georgian England, pornographic literature was common, homosexuality was publicly practiced despite anti-sodomy laws, and French letters (i.e. a non-latex condom made of sheep’s gut or chemically-treated linen tied on with a ribbon) were sold in public places and provided to soldiers. Fidelity was not necessarily assumed or expected, particularly after one’s heirs were born, and it was common practice for both wives and husbands to establish long-term relationships outside of marriage. None of these sexually liberated practices continued in full public view past the 1840s.

Why the change?

Certainly the old customs of arranged marriages (in the upper classes) were fading away, replaced with affectionate marriages at worst and the idealized relationship of a couple in love at best. But in the years following the Napoleonic Wars, there was also a real desire to improve. Families wanted better economic situations. They wanted security, safety, and stability. Revolutions in America and Europe had been aggravated by the excesses of Parisian nobility and the British military, and with the end of conflict and the patriotism that accompanied warfare, the aristocracy in Great Britain again had cause to be worried that they themselves might be driven from power.

Setting an example of hard work, sensible economy, and piety was eminently practical. The landed nobility had to both conserve and work to renew decades of declining wealth. They produced respectable families that the rising bourgeoisie of manufacturers and merchants could support through daughters and dowries. They established clear codes of conduct that they themselves had to model. They worried and worked to discourage rebellion and revolution.

In addition to these documented economic and political concerns, I believe the freedoms of the Georgian period impacted family life for generations after, and developing standards were, in part, the standard reaction of children to their parents: we are not like our parents.

My speculation is the basis of a series of novels about The Misbegotten Misses, four sisters who are ultimately forced to cope with the unintended consequences of their parents’ behavior. The first book, The Outcast Earl, tells the story of Lady Abigail de Rothesay, who finds herself in an unexpected engagement to an arrogant earl, primarily thanks to her father’s inability to manage money. The Outcast Earl is available as a VIP pre-release now (at a 10% discount!) and will have its general ebook release on December 10, with a tentative print release date of February 2013. The second book, The Rusticated Duchess, concerns Lady Gloria de Rothesay, and is set for release as an e-book in April 2013. I’m writing a third book now about Lady Fiona, and mulling over the fate of Lady Genevieve.

About The Outcast Earl

Abigail de Rothesay is to be married to a man known for his bad manners and foul humour. Resigned to her fate, she is fully capable of managing a gentleman’s home. Warwickshire will be lonely compared to London, but she can cope. After all, her mother and father are rarely seen together, even at meals. How much time does one have to spend with a spouse, anyway?

Charles, Earl of Meriden, has every intention of clinging to the side of his pretty, young bride. Drawn to her flirtatious mannerisms and her attractive person, he insists on Abigail’s time and attention, much as his mother was devoted to his father. Even more, he actively looks after Abigail, a state of affairs that has Abigail at a loss.

Even as they fight to come to an understanding about marriage both of them can accept, the couple will have to cope with the difficult consequences of their loved ones’ actions, and it may very well tear them apart.

[Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of male masturbation, erotic spanking, sexually charged disciplinary spanking, steamy oral sex, light bondage and offensive stubborn male possessiveness. There are also references to anal play and famous French paintings containing partially clothed women.]

Excerpt from The Outcast Earl

“You can’t take me in there.” She shook her head frantically. “Those are your rooms!”

“I know very well whose rooms they are,” he answered, kicking the door beside them open and shutting it firmly behind them with his heel. Without ceremony, he carried her over to the sofa in a small room that apparently served as a sitting room, and deposited her on the dark green velvet cushions before returning to the door and snibbing the lock, pointedly pocketing the key in his coat. “And in reply to your earlier comment,” he continued as fiercely as she had done, “you may not be subject to the whims of a governess, but you are damn well subject to my whims. And I will not accept blatant subversion of doctor’s orders and my directives because they do not suit you. Do you understand me?”

Abigail met his glare unflinchingly, but she stilled. Was he reacting to some perceived threat to her health, or was he one of those men who always had to be in control of their surroundings? Was his fury violent, or was he overtired from not sleeping?

“I think,” she said, gathering every ounce of composure and reasonableness she possessed to put into the words, “that we have much to discuss before I would agree that I am subject to you at all, though I will certainly acknowledge it is one possibility. For the moment, I am still my father’s daughter and Aunt Betsy is both my chaperone and now my responsibility. I am the reason she is here, and if I cannot change the past and somehow prevent the accident or her injury, I can for certain nurse her back to health.”

Meriden shook his head, responding in kind to her calm. “No. If anyone is at fault, it is I. I allowed you to travel in your father’s carriage all this way, without considering that it would be in as poor a condition as the rest of his property. I should have arranged for you to use my own travelling coach. I hope that you will accept my apology for not considering the means by which he might convey you north, even for not escorting you myself. Indeed, I would hope that you accept my apology for not caring for you as I ought. It might seem a poor start, but I would ask for your consideration under the circumstances. As it happens, you are not only my first wife, you are also the first lady for whose welfare I am wholly responsible.”

Abigail blinked, her world tilting a bit. She had, of course, known her father could be criticised, but Winchester had never once apologised to her or her sisters—not even for the current debacle. She was equally convinced Winchester had never once apologised to her mother for anything. And yet this man all the women of London called a brooding monster did so unflinchingly, over a matter that was not completely within his purview.

“It was my father’s responsibility,” she said after a long moment. “Not yours. No apology is necessary.”

“Nevertheless, I will take better care in the future,” he murmured, still staring at her. “Because you are mine and in my care now, regardless of the formalities yet to be observed.”

Abigail drew a deep breath, trying to calm her inner nerves and save herself from whirling headfirst into a re-examination of what she had previously known to be true. “Fiddlesticks!” she eventually objected, frowning him down as he approached at her words. Challenging him to an argument over this notion of ownership did seem the best way to reinforce her earlier impression of selfish arrogance. She allowed her eyes to briefly graze over the scar along his jawbone as she reminded herself that they were essentially adversaries. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that I am somehow chattel to be ordered about callously according to your moods and tempers, simply because we are expected to marry? If you believe such nonsense, I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong female and should perhaps reconsider this ridiculous plan before it’s too late.”

“I expect you are sensible enough to follow directions that are given for your own wellbeing, as we will marry,” he countered very carefully, sitting down as close to her as he could manage—so close that his breath raced across her cheek. “And I have not picked the wrong bride. To my mind, I couldn’t have found a more perfect one.”

Abigail turned her head to scoff, but he simply leaned closer and murmured in her ear, the warmth of his breath sliding over her neck and down her jaw, tempting her to shiver. “In any event, there is no going backward, even if I were not determined to have you permanently at my side. You’re here, alone with me, in my house. Your aunt is present, but she is insensible and cannot be thought of as a proper chaperone in the minds of the interfering biddies who dictate your public behaviour. Meanwhile, you are in my own private sitting room, gowned in nothing more than a nightdress, dressing gown and house slippers. In addition, you will likely be here for quite a while, alone with me, as you have already proven conclusively that you did not learn the skill of obedience during childhood.”

Suddenly short of breath, Abigail sat very still, but when Meriden leaned in to kiss her, she couldn’t help her instinctive response to flee.

She leapt to her feet and backed to the fire, rubbing her hands together uselessly in the warm room.

“What did I just finish telling you?” Meriden barked, reaching for her and grabbing her wrist before she could flit farther away. “If you try to walk on that ankle again tonight, I swear I’m going to turn you over my knee and paddle you for behaving like a silly child.” He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her, setting her squarely on his knees, locking one arm around her to hold her there.

“You wouldn’t!” Abigail gasped, unable to think of anything more profound on such short notice, and trying desperately to squelch the traitorous part of her gut that seemed to respond more dramatically every time he touched her. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but now was not the time or place to work it out.

Instead, she lifted her hand to push him away but he simply growled, “It’s either that, or this—” Then he slid his free hand around to the back of her head, and set his lips to hers. 
 

Abigail had been kissed before, of course. She was twenty-one and had spent more than three full years in London society. While not the Winchester sister to inspire lust from the masses, she was certainly eligible, and had attracted her fair share of more serious, reserved men who were not attracted to the glamorous Gloria or the voluptuous, young Genevieve. Kissing, she had advised her younger siblings, was an art. Some men had practiced, did it well, considered little things like how they tasted and whether their partner could still breathe. 
Other men had no skill at all, and no interest in acquiring any. They pushed, suffocated, forced and followed it up with self-important pride. It had not taken Abigail more than a few brief experiences to decide that any man in the second group could be gently eased in the direction of some more desperate girl. Abigail had no interest in a man who used kissing as a means to press more invasive intimacies on the female. Men who were patently disinterested in pleasing a partner with something as simple as a kiss could not be expected to do so in any more important pursuit, and were therefore not worth considering.

Abigail was fairly certain Gloria had deliberately ignored Abigail’s opinion on the subject.

With such a preconceived opinion, Abigail tensed as Meriden touched his mouth to hers. Should he turn out so early on to be an insensitive clod, Abigail knew she would have difficulty with following through on the engagement, no matter the consequences. She’d have preferred to ease into such intimacy after she had learnt whether to guard against him or not. Nevertheless, she stilled and tried to take in the sensation of his lips rubbing over hers.

He was not gentle, precisely, but neither did he plunder selfishly. No, his mouth worshipped her lower lip, then the upper one, learning the shape and size of her mouth before he eased his tongue just inside her lower lip to taste her.

Meriden was definitely not one of the untrained, inconsiderate brutes. She closed her eyes, softened against the arm that surrounded her waist and leaned closer, her lips tingling in a rush of sensation where his tongue stroked hers.

He caught her fingers with his free hand, where she had pushed futilely against his chest. Trapping her hand in place, he murmured, their lips still touching, “I would, you know.”

Abigail breathed a soft sigh. “Would what?” she asked, a bit wobbly from the unexpected rush of warmth that had ripped up her spine with the kiss. She’d forgotten what he had said.

“I would spank you. Paddle you, if I had to,” Meriden repeated in a husky whisper against her mouth. He ran his hand up from her waist to tangle it in the hair at the back of her head, and instead of the indignant reaction Abigail felt was required, she leaned in closer, shivering when Meriden used his lips to examine the corners of her mouth in an exquisite intimacy.

More of Elle and The Outcast Earl?

I can be found on Twitter as @elleqsabine or reached by e-mail at elleqsabine[at]gmail[dot]com. I occasionally write in a blog at http://elleqsabine.wordpress.com. Visit to find more information about my writing, free serial fiction, and (soon!) background material from The Misbegotten Misses.

Readers can purchase now The Outcast Earl from Total-e-bound directly, or visit their favorite online retailer for the e-book version of this book after December 10. 

Meanwhile - I'm giving away an ebook version of the novel to one lucky person who comments on this post! Please include your email address so that I can find you.

Thank you!

Elle

Proving Santa Exists

[It's finally December! Though there are still a couple of weeks before Christmas, you can get into the spirit with this sneak peak at Victoria Blisse's new tale, Proving Santa Exists. Enjoy! ~ Lisabet]

Blurb

When Jonathan transfers from the U.S to the Manchester branch of Computers Inc., Jenny is the first person to make him feel at home. Finding out about his bleak Christmases as a boy, she makes up her mind to involve him in all her English Christmas traditions.

Passion sparks between the two as they decorate the Christmas tree. Who would have thought such an innocent activity could become so sexually charged? Can Jenny succeed in seducing the hot American and also prove to him that Santa really does exist?

* Includes the Full Seasonal Recipes for meals & snacks mentioned in the story.


Excerpt

"Don't you just love the pine smell?" I inhale deeply as I rub my fingers over a prickly frond.

"Yeah, it's kinda spicy, isn't it?" He passes the boxes of decorations over and I open them up.

“So, there’s a particular way I do this.” I point as I recite the list.

“Baubles first, big at the bottom, small at the top. Then we put on the lights and then finally the tinsel.”

“Okay, boss.” He stamps his foot and gives a salute.

“Ha, less cheek, more work.” I giggle. “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

I settle at the foot of the tree and begin placing the bigger baubles around the lower branches.

Jonathan stands beside me, hanging baubles from the top of the six foot spruce. I adore dressing my Christmas tree. All my decorations have stories behind them: some belonged to my mother, others to my Nanna, and a few I’ve purchased myself.  I retell the tales as I pull them out.

“Oh, I made this one.” I pick up the felt stocking and smile. “I was about eight, I think. It took me ages to sew all the sequins on. There used to be more. Many have fallen off now.”

The red felt is faded and worn, the white edging closer to grey, and the sequins that are left no longer sparkle.

“My mum loved it. She always said it was her favourite.”

“I can see why.” His tone is soft and tender. “You put a lot of love into it.”

I nod and hang it on the tree.

“And this one I bought last year. It’s an owl. I’ve got a thing for owls.”

“Kinky,” Jonathan quips and I slap his calf.

“Behave.”

“Never.” He grins. “Anyway, you started it.”

“No, no. Your dirty mind started it. I meant I like owls and this one has a Santa hat on. How could I resist him?”

I look up and I see mischief in the set of his mouth. I slap him again.

“Ow! I didn’t say a thing,” he protests.

“No, but you were going too.”

He doesn’t deny it and we carry on loading the branches in companionable silence.

"Ooh, Jonathan, can you check those lights for me now?" I glance up, and find his crotch just above my eye height. I drop my eyelashes and quickly bend my head down. I try to not wonder about the bulge I'm sure I just saw there.

"Sure." He steps around me, his legs rubbing against my back. "So, er, do I just plug these in then?" Obviously, Jonathan is a Christmas tree light novice.

"Yeah, and if they light up, that's your job done. If they don't, you need to check all the bulbs and find the one—or ones—that don't work and replace them with those spares in that packet." I point as I speak. He follows the direction of my finger.

"Ahh, I see." He nods and sets to work while I move my way farther up the tree.

"Oh, now then, I need to find a good place for Fairy Mary." I hold up a small, old, porcelain fairy, her red dress flared, the sequins lost, only the little blobs of glue to show where they once were. Her blonde hair is more fuzzy than curly, and her gold glittering halo shows mostly silver now.

"Fairy Mary?" Jonathan flicks the switch to red, and the lights come on, fizzle with a sad "plink," then fade to black.

"There's a bulb loose somewhere. You'll have to fiddle with them then screw it in." He raises a long narrow brow, and I realise how suggestive that just sounded. "And, yes, Fairy Mary," I quickly continue, avoiding eye contact. "She's been passed down from my Nanna's Mum—who might even have gotten it from her mother, though we're not sure. She always has the most comfortable branch to sit on. She's an old lady now, you see."

He nods and continues to turn the lights in his fingers. "So, do you have a lot of Christmas traditions?"

"Oh, a fair few: the decorations, baking my own Christmas cake from scratch, watching The Muppet Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve. After that, I go up to Tom Jenkins's farm and look at the tree and Nativity scene before going to church for midnight mass. That's before we even get to Christmas Day!"

"Do you have many people here on Christmas Day?"

 I nod. "Yeah, a few. There's my sister Marie, and her husband Mike, and their two teenaged girls. Aunty May comes over with her friend Queenie, and then there’ll be Uncle Charlie and his wife, their son, his wife and the newborn boy—what's his name—oh yes, Jake."

"They'll all fit in here?" He has very expressive eyebrows; with the tiniest movement, he conveys great scepticism.

"Well, not all at once. Charlie and his lot come over at teatime. He had a falling out with his sister some years ago, and I've just found it easier to have them round separately." Just then, Jonathan tries the bulbs once more and the trailing vine lights up. Reds, greens, blues, and pink grapes shine with gaudy Christmas symbolism. I squeal in delight and clap my hands. "Just in time, too! I've just finished the decorations."

The lights are easily trailed through the forest of baubles, Santa's, fairies, and hanging toys. "Right, just the tinsel now. You start at the top, and I'll go from the bottom, and we'll meet in the middle."

Tinsel trails through my fingertips as I twirl around the tree, stooping low, then bending at the waist, then almost standing straight with just my shoulders stooped. As I raise my head to see how Jonathan is doing, I crack against something hard.

"Oh, I am sorry." I reach out automatically and rub my hand against Jonathan's bumped chin, cupping his cheek in the palm of my hand, like a parent comforting an injured baby. However, the slight prickle of his end-of-the-day stubble reminds me in a powerful way that this is a grown man I'm handling so intimately.

Then, there are lips: softly demanding lips pressing gently against my own. They have to be Jonathan’s as he’s the only other person in the room. They form a kiss. They don't apologise or ask permission; they take possession of my mouth. Brooking no argument, confidently they mesh with mine, moving sensually as his hands come round me, sheltering me, cradling me close.

I want the kiss to deepen, urge Jonathan forward by stroking his cheek. I’ve forgotten everything else but him and me joining so intimately. His touch has made me a mass of tingling anticipation. His kiss makes electricity flow through my veins. I feel like an extension of the fairy lights. I must be lighting up, I’m so turned on.

But no sooner has the kiss been created than it is torn apart. We are red-cheeked, unable to meet each other's eyes.

"I'll, erm, turn off the lights then so we can see the, er, lights." Sentences just aren’t forming. My lips are still in kissing mode and my mind is in turmoil. Why did he pull away from me? I scurry over to the switch and flip it. "Ooh." I gasp as the glaring main light dims and the Christmas tree comes into its own, bathing my room in festive cheer. "It looks just about perfect."

Get your copy of Proving Santa Exists !

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

And this link on my website covers both links and has a blurb/excerpt for people too:
http://victoriablisse.co.uk/books/blissemas-tales-proving-santa-exists

Bio: Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, Smut by the Sea and Smut in the City.

She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories.Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
 

Find out more athttp://victoriablisse.co.uk or follow and friend Victoria:http://twitter.com/victoriablisse and http://facebook.com/victoriablisse

'Tis the Season to be Steamy

Today I'm participating in Nicole Morgan's Hot Winter Nights blog hop. Nicole has challenged her author friends to come up with posts that will warm you up and make you forget all about blizzards and below zero temperatures. Every single one of us is offering a prize. In addition, Nicole is giving away a $50 Amazon gift card and a big bundle of ebooks.

For more details, just visit http://nicolemorganauthor.blogspot.com/  or click on the festive gentleman above!

You'll find links to all the participating authors at the end of this post.

Meanwhile, my offering is a sexy, snowy soak in a hot tub, from my holiday M/M/F ménage Almost Home.  

Suzanne and Gino have history going back to high school, but for years Suzanne has been three thousand miles away, preoccupied with her challenging career. A mistletoe kiss at a holiday party reminds her of their old bond and proves that some things get better with age. When Gino rescues her from a New England blizzard, though, she discovers that she's not the only love in his life. Gino shares his bed and his colonial-era farm house with taciturn painter Harris Steele. Snowed in, without electricity or running water, the three explore the many shapes a triangle can assume. Although she's far away from her everyday existence, Suzanne realizes that she's almost home.

After you read the excerpt, be sure to leave a comment. I'll be giving away a copy of this book to one lucky person who comments. Please include your email address – so I can find you if you win!

Have fun!

****

Suzanne had never seen stars so bright. The night sky was a black bowl above them, studded with blazing jewels. The snow blanketing the yard gleamed with some faint inner radiance. At the edges of the property, evergreens clustered in deeper shadow like silent sentinels.

She took a deep breath of the crystalline air, so cold and sharp it hurt her lungs. The tiny hairs inside her nose stood on end. Her earlobes felt like icicles. From the neck down, though, she was bathed in delicious warmth. The bizarre contrast almost made her giggle.

Smooth, hard muscle brushed her thigh. After a moment, roving fingers skittered across her lap and burrowed into her pubic fur. A fiery bolt of lust struck her core.

“Gino!” she scolded. “Behave!”

“Why should I?” asked her lover, rubbing his body against hers under the surface of the water. “Harry doesn’t mind. Do you?”

The lanky blond on Gino’s other flank grinned. “Not at all. Long as you keep up what you’re doing over here, that is.”

Harris had untied his ponytail. His golden locks flowed over his shoulders, darkening to sepia where wet. With his thin face and chiselled features, he looked like some warrior ascetic, a knight on a quest for some sacred prize. Suzanne could understand why Gino found him attractive. She wondered whether he really was one-hundred percent gay.

Leaning back against the redwood wall and closing her eyes, she allowed the peace of the night to enfold her. Her limbs were heavy. Her heart felt as though it was about to overflow.

The growl of motors and a rattling of metal reached her ears. Gino’s solar-heated hot tub was at the back of the house, away from the street. Still, the faint noise shattered the intense quiet of the snow-smothered night.

“Ploughs,” said Harris, cocking his head in the direction of the sound. “At last.” He pointed to the cloudless sky. “Looks like they were wrong about more snow, though.”

“We’ll drive you over to Pelham early tomorrow morning,” Gino added. “Actually, the highway department might have towed your car already. We’ll call first, assuming we’ve got power. Anyway, don’t worry, you’re likely to be well on your way back home by tomorrow afternoon.”

Home. Suzanne didn’t want to think about California—her neat, modern, empty condo, all the problems and decisions awaiting her at work, the bland weather and the vacant sky.

“There’s no rush,” she said finally. “I’m going to miss my Monday appointment anyway. But thank you.” She squeezed Gino’s hand. “For everything.”

Now, despite all that they had done together, she found she was shy. Steam drifted up in pale swirls from the heated surface of the water. Underneath, she could barely make out the shape of their naked limbs. “I’m going to miss you,” she murmured finally. “Both of you.”

“You’ll be back for Christmas, though, won’t you?” Gino’s eyes were shadowed but Suzanne understood the yearning she’d see there, if there were more light.

“Maybe…” she began. She imagined another holiday with her parents, pleasant but predictable. They wouldn’t mind if she disappeared after the opening of the presents. And suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of not being with Gino again, very soon. “Yes. I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Wonderful.” Gino pulled her into a kiss that made her heart pound and her pussy tremble. “You can stay over, you know,” he added when he finally released her. “You can stay for as long as you want.”

“The house has six bedrooms,” Harris commented. “Way more space than we need.”

“Yeah—even with my office and Harry’s studio, there are two rooms we barely use.”

“We do have broadband Internet, by the way. Even if we don’t have mobile service.”

“There’s a local limo company that can get you to Logan in two hours. Harry uses it when he has an exhibition in New York…”

“This is freak weather,” Harris interrupted. “Most winters we don’t get much snow…”

“And the summers here are glorious, green everywhere, bright sun and lingering twilights, fresh sweet corn and luscious home-grown tomatoes…”

“I know!” Suzanne couldn’t keep from laughing. “I grew up here, remember?”

“I thought that maybe you’d forgotten,” said Gino, his voice soft.

“No,” she replied, flush with a recollection of the loyal, clever tease he’d been in school. “I remember very well.” She looked from one to the other, then swallowed hard. She might be misinterpreting, but she had to get things out in the open. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to convince me to move in with you.”

“Would you like to?” asked Gino, a tiny quaver in his voice. “Would you consider it?”

“I—might,” she started slowly, her mind already reeling with ideas for how she could manage her work remotely. “But—are you really sure you want me? After such a short time together?”

“I think twenty two years is more than enough time to know what I want.”

“Yes, but—what about Harris?”

“If Gino wants you, I’m willing to give it a try.” Harris gave her one of those devilish smiles. “It might be fun, Suzy Q.”

Hearing Gino’s pet name on Harris’ lips gave her a little thrill.

Gino circled her shoulders with one strong arm. “I think you’d complete us. Balance us.” His firm lips fastened on hers. His tongue gently urged her mouth open. He drank her in, as though he were savouring a vintage wine. When he kissed her, all her doubts evaporated. This was where she belonged.

“I’ll think about it,” she answered when he finally let her go. “There are a lot of practical issues…” She didn’t want to get his hopes up. She might have second thoughts.

“We’ll solve the problems,” said Harris. “Together.” He grabbed Gino’s hair and wrenched his lover’s head back, then planted a long fierce kiss on Gino’s laughing mouth.

Suzanne gazed at them, fascinated, sensing the passion that circulated between them. She grew more aroused by the instant. It was crazy. Outrageous. It was totally outside the bounds of propriety. But it just might work out.

*****

Don't forget to comment! This counts as an entry for the grand prizes, too!

Today only! 25% discount on BDSM!

Greetings!

Today only, November 30th, Total-E-Bound is offering a special 25% discount on all BDSM-themed ebooks.

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