Erotica from the Edge -- #ChemSexv2 #aphrodisiac #sexandchocolate #Giveaway @RiaRestrepo

By Ria Restrepo (Guest Blogger)

From my earliest sexual fantasies, I've always been aroused by edgier erotic scenarios that some would consider taboo. I won't go into specifics—primarily for privacy reasons—but most are not unusual for a sexual submissive. There's an inherent power dynamic in certain forbidden relationships and situations I find highly titillating. Since I write what excites me and want to be a successfully published writer, I sometimes need to walk a very fine line between illicitness and what's acceptable.

In my story "Restitution," which appears in Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1, I danced in a grey area concerning the idea of coercion. The pop star protagonist finds herself in a compromising situation and submits to some rather unorthodox punishment.

At first blush, it might appear like a form of non-consent, but by the end, it's clear that things aren't as they seem. Throughout the story, it's obvious that the protagonist enjoys what happens and is entirely willing despite the circumstances. However, it was definitely borderline inappropriate with regards to consent.

One of my other favorite erotic tropes involves relationships between older men and younger woman. I've always been attracted to older men, primarily because of the intrinsic air of dominance they possess. Maturity, knowledge, control, and experience can be incredibly arousing—as far as I'm concerned, anyway.

My story "Elevator Confidential," which was just released in Chemical [se]X 2: Just One More, features a quasi-taboo erotic encounter between an older man and a much younger woman. Not only is there a twenty-year age difference, but the protagonist, Jackie, has also known Walden, the object of her secret desires, since childhood. To make the situation even more complicated, Walden is the best friend and business partner of Jackie's father.

Walden's father-figure-like status in Jackie's life might make some people uncomfortable, but I've always found forbidden scenarios like this intensely hot. Much like Jackie, I'm a long-suffering good girl who gets off on being bad. Truth be told, there is a lot of me in Jackie. "Elevator Confidential" contains some of my favorite erotic themes.

Jackie is the aggressor in this story, taking full advantage of a serendipitous event with the help of some naughty-shaped chocolates containing a powerful aphrodisiac. The erotic chocolates connect all the stories in the anthology, which was originally inspired by a brilliantly wicked story by Oleander Plume that launched the first volume of Chemical [se]X.

Despite the tangible chemistry between them, Walden displays a steely restraint in the face of Jackie's provocative seduction attempts. A scintillating battle of wills ensues that tests Walden's resolve to keep their relationship above reproach. Regardless of his seeming position of power, at no point does Walden take advantage of Jackie. Actually, it could be argued that the opposite is true.

The following excerpt demonstrates just one moment Jackie entices Walden to shed his inhibitions and throw caution to the wind. In this particular instance, she actually does it unintentionally—at first.

Even as hungry as she was, chocolates that fine were to be savored, not scarfed like M&M's. She brought one of the tiny cocks to her mouth and filled her lungs with the enticing aroma. Unable to wait any longer, she sunk her teeth into the hard, outer shell—only to be surprised when filling spurted out. Giggling, she used her free hand to capture a runaway stream of sticky sweetness before it dripped off her chin and ruined her favorite red silk blouse.

Jackie admired the wicked brilliance of filling naughty chocolates with white cream. Before any more of it oozed out, she put the rest of the morsel in her mouth, but let it dissolve on her tongue. Her taste buds exploded with the flavor of bitter chocolate and a sweet, minty confection that had a trace of something else. She didn't recognize the unknown ingredient, but it was definitely intriguing.

Humming with pleasure, she licked and sucked her messy fingers clean until every drop was consumed. "They're delicious, but messy."

When Jackie looked up at Walden, she froze at his heavy-lidded expression. If he looked hungry before, he looked positively ravenous now.

"You did that on purpose."

She knew what he meant. As much as she'd love to take credit for teasing him, she was innocent in this instance. Still, Jackie was smart enough to seize an opportunity when she saw one.

To read what happens next, you'll have to buy Chemical [se]X 2: Just One More!

I love pushing boundaries and testing my limits—both in life and in my writing—so I'm sure there will be plenty more erotica from the edge in my future. What salacious frontiers I might explore next, I can't say. Everyone will just have to wait and see.

Buy Links

E-book:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RJJ5RGT

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/y26uyka4

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/938990
 

Paperback:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733842616

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/y53qz9pj

About the Author

Ria Restrepo may appear to be a mild-mannered bookworm who drinks too much coffee and spends most days tapping away on her computer. But beneath the quiet exterior lurks a filthy-minded sex kitten with a lurid and lascivious imagination. Writing erotica, romance, and all the shades in between, she truly enjoys entertaining readers with stories about strong women exploring and celebrating their desires—especially when they involve dominant men with a sensitive side.

Website: http://www.riarestrepo.com

Blog: http://riarestrepo.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/RiaRestrepo

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

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

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

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13703436.Ria_Restrepo

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/ria-restrepo

Giveaway

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Review Tuesday: A Shameless Little Con by Meli Raine - #ReviewTuesday #suspense #politics

 

A Shameless Little Con by Meli Raine

Amazon Digital Services, 2018

 

Officially, Jane Borokov has been cleared of all charges. There’s no firm evidence that she betrayed her best friend Lindsey into the hands of the gang who brutally raped her, or that Jane was directly responsible for the murders that followed. That doesn’t matter in today’s world of social media, trolls and yellow journalism. The world is convinced that she’s guilty as sin. She receives daily threats of death, and worse. She has been forced to go underground, giving up her home and her career, changing her appearance, and acquiescing to constant surveillance. Lindsey’s father and her mom’s former employer, senator and presidential candidate Harry Bosworth, has provided her with money and protection, in the form of ex-military hunk Silas Gentian. Once upon a time – before she became the ultimate pariah – Jane had thought there might be some chemistry between her and Silas. Now, it’s clear that her bodyguard and minder distrusts and despises her. That’s just one more pain she has to bear.

A Shameless Little Con by Meli Raine offers a darkly suspenseful look into the world of dirty politics and shadow governments. There’s a hint of romance, but the attraction between Jane and Silas is not consummated. Mostly, this book is about being haunted, and hunted, a victim of circumstances turned into a villain by the media and a liability to be eliminated by those truly responsible.

I had very mixed feelings about this novel. On the positive side, Meli Raine excels at evoking Jane’s desperate emotional state and how that is tied to her physical sensations. I could feel Jane’s loneliness, despair and horror. On the other hand, my reactions became increasingly muted because so much of the book, narrated from deep first person POV, focuses on how awful Jane feels. Even the worst trauma becomes less poignant through repetition.

The events leading up to Jane’s plight are hopelessly complicated and confusing. I had to wonder whether the author had really thought about the circumstances when plotting the book, or whether she was making it up as she went along. Two instances of gang rape, several years apart; imprisonment of the victim in a sham psychiatric institution; burner phones, pay offs and blackmail; murder and car bombs; it was just too much for me to grasp (and I am generally considered to be pretty smart).

I’d hoped things would become clearer as the book progressed, but exactly the opposite occurred. The situation becomes progressively more murky, except in the relationship between Jane and Silas, where some trust does develop. Still, I kept reading, liking Jane and wanting her to get some justice. Alas, the book ends with a brazen cliffhanger that will definitely anger some readers (as evidenced by some of the reviews on Amazon).

Meli Raine writes well. She creates vivid characters, knowing how to pick out one or two details that will quickly and clearly delineate their personalities. I particularly enjoyed the sassy octogenarian artist Alice Mogrett, at whose home Jane finds some temporary sanctuary. However, the author doesn’t seem to understand the classic narrative arc. The book is a series of violent and disturbing episodes – just one damn thing after another – with no climax and no resolution. As a reader I felt cheated out of the satisfaction that should come with the end of a book.

I’ll admit that I’m still curious about what really happened, whether Jane will finally be free from the cloud hanging over her, whether she and Silas will ever actually make love. But I’m not curious enough to buy the next book in the series, because I’m all too aware that I might be disappointed.

Sizzling Sunday: Miranda’s Masks - #Victorian #EroticDream #SizzlingSunday

 

It’s time for another Sizzling Sunday! Today I’ve got a long excerpt from my taboo erotic romance Miranda’s Masks. Miranda, the heroine, working on her doctoral dissertation in literature, on the topic of Victorian erotica. I guess it’s not surprising she’d have a dream like this!

* * * *

She dreamed, coherently, lucidly, knowing that she dreamed. She stood before a tall oval mirror, outfitted in full Victorian costume—lace cravat at her high-buttoned neck and lace at her wrists, fitted cuirass waist of fine gray gabardine, gathered overskirt of the same and underskirt of flounced gray silk. Her jet locks were piled high on her head in elaborate swirls and rolls. Garnets set in gold dangled from her earlobes, and a matching brooch adorned her throat. She was holding her breath, it seemed. After a moment, she recognized this pressure as the embrace of her corset, encasing her flesh in a manner that was oddly comforting. She moved slightly, watching her skirts sway gracefully, noting how the gaslight made her jewels sparkle.

“Shall I help you to undress, Mistress?” The voice was familiar, though the inflection was not. Miranda turned to see her roommate Lucy, dressed as a lady’s maid, with a starched white collar and apron and matching cap atop her blonde curls. The girl’s expression was demure and respectful, but Miranda caught a hint of mischievous gaiety underneath the proper demeanor.

“Yes, please, Lucy, if you would be so kind.”

“With pleasure, Mistress,” she replied. She began unfastening the dozens of buttons along Miranda’s spine, until the fitted top hung loose from Miranda’s shoulders. Then, coming round to face her mistress, Lucy took hold of the long, tight sleeves and pulled the garment off. Next came the main skirt, which was tied around her waist, then the bustle and underskirt.

As the maid worked, Miranda noticed, she allowed her hands to linger slightly on her mistress’ body—an apparently accidental brush of fingertips across Miranda’s breast—a tracing of her hipline while removing a petticoat—a bare palm on the bare flesh of Miranda’s back as her corset was unlaced. Miranda was sure that these brief touches were deliberate, and meant to inflame her senses.

And so they did. When she stood, finally, wearing only her chemise, drawers and stockings, Miranda noted in the mirror the nubs of her taut nipples, pushing through the fine cotton, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with her heightened breathing. She could feel the growing tension in her sex, wound like a coiling spring, pressing for release. A warm golden aura emanated from her form, pulsing and flickering like a candle’s flame. The rest of the room grew indistinct.

In the mirror, her eyes met those of the saucy maid, who stared back, boldly provocative, abandoning all pretence of propriety. “And now your hair, ma’am?”

“Yes, Lucy.” The maid removed pins and combs, and Miranda’s raven locks tumbled down over her bare shoulders. Lucy’s fingers trailed lightly down the side of Miranda’s neck, along her collarbone, then into the hollow between her breasts. Miranda felt the tension in her 

sex wind tighter.

The dream’s richness of detail, the vividness of sensation, amazed her. The delicate fabric of her undergarments draped loosely on her frame, semi-transparent. Miranda could detect the shadow of her black pubic curls through the cloth. Lightly, she touched herself there, with one finger, and shivered as sparks travelled up her spine. With her other hand, she cupped her breast, pushing it up and outwards so that the chemise was stretched tight and she could see, like a dark ghost, the rosy halo around her nipple. Lucy watched all the while, her blue eyes sparkling with her own lust.

“You are a very naughty girl, Lucy,” she said finally. “I’m not sure what I should do with you.”

“Leave that to us, Madame.” Miranda was startled by a masculine voice, coming from somewhere behind her. She whirled round to find herself confronted by five men in riding clothes, complete with top hats and high, shiny boots. They wore masks, not dominos but flesh-colored contrivances that covered the whole upper half of their faces, leaving only mouth and chin visible.

Her boudoir had unaccountably metamorphosed into a library or study, full of shadows, polished wood and dark leather. A fire burned on a hearth to her right, framed by two oversized chairs. 

 

Directly in front of her, behind the phalanx of masked men, stood a heavy table of carved mahogany. Miranda had a vague impression of glazed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, statues on corner pedestals, windows shrouded in folds of burgundy velvet.

The man in the middle spoke again. His voice was hauntingly familiar, though he was as anonymous as the other gentlemen who flanked him. “Indeed, Madame, you have been acting most improperly yourself. I expect that my friends and I need to teach you a lesson as well.”

A frisson of fear shook her, followed almost immediately by a surge of arousal. “Lucy, remove her chemise and knickers. Leave on the stockings.”

Gleefully, Lucy obeyed. Miranda felt helpless, somehow, to speak up or object. The common dream-sensation of being rooted to the spot, unable to flee, held her in thrall. Now she stood nude in front of them, blushing with the knowledge that her nipples were visibly erect and that a careful observer would note traces of moisture on her thighs.

The spokesman continued. His companions remained mute. “You are very lovely, Madame, and very depraved.” He turned to one of his assistants, handing him a silk handkerchief. “Blindfold her. It will heighten her shame, and her arousal, to be unable to tell which of us is abusing her.”

The designated gentleman, slightly shorter than the spokesman, followed instructions. He circled behind Miranda, and she closed her eyes in anticipation. Instead of silk caressing her eyelids, however, she felt rough hands on her breasts, pinching and pulling. This hurt, and yet caused the fires in her sex to flare even higher.

After a moment, the man behind her resumed his task. She felt cool silk against her face, then a sharp tug as the knot was tied. All was blackness as she was led toward the table.

Yet, this was a dream, and dreams are fundamentally visual. Thus, even though Miranda experienced the deprivation of sight, and the intensification of her other senses, she also found herself looking on the scene from the outside, like a disembodied presence, or perhaps, the scene’s director.

Two of the men lifted her onto the polished mahogany surface and positioned her there, on her back, near one end of the table. They bent her legs at the knee and spread her thighs, so that her sex was open and exposed to all of them. Though she did not struggle, two men took hold of her ankles as if to restrain her. She felt motion and warmth there, between her thighs, and when the leader spoke again, she could tell he was very close.

“You are in our power, Madame You are clearly guilty and deserve punishment. And yet you are obviously, shamefully, wet with perverse desire.” He ran one finger swiftly through her folds, from back to front, ending with a sharp flick to her clit. She squirmed uncontrollably. Then he held the finger below her nostrils, forcing her to breathe her own sharp, musky scent. “You are wanton, Madame, and should be whipped.”

Miranda smelled leather, and felt a light touch running down the inside of her thigh. His riding crop—she was certain. At one level she was terrified. She wanted to protest that she was innocent—though she knew she was not—to beg for mercy. Yet she was silent, seething with passive lust, secretly inviting him to torment her, to mark her, to use his power over her. Her body shuddered, half in fear and half in frustration.

The unseen man laughed a little. “However, I am feeling merciful, and so the only rod you will suffer tonight will be made of flesh.” He paused for two beats. “Starting with mine.” And with no preparation or warning, he plunged a rock-hard dick into her depths.

Miranda screamed, with surprise, pain and pleasure, so mingled that she felt her senses swimming. He rode her with a fury that left her no respite. With each stroke, it seemed that his cock grew thicker and longer, so that she feared she would burst. Now her other eyes were closed, and all she knew was sensation in the dark, sensation so acute that she thought she would faint.

Meanwhile she smelled man-scent and sensed another cock above her, prodding her lips open. Obedient, hungry, she sucked this new cock into her mouth even as her cunt swallowed the first.

There was an explosion between her legs, a flood of cum washing out of her as she was left empty. But only for a moment; another cock slammed into her, taking up where the first had left off, stretching and filling her till she would have cried out, had not her mouth also been full of male flesh.

The owner of the cock in her mouth pulled out, though she sucked hard, trying to hold onto him. A loud grunt issued from his throat, then semen splattered her face. She licked her lips. The strange, acrid taste made her want more, more of anything they were willing to give her.

“You dirty girl, you like that, don’t you?” It was the leader, close to her ear. “You would like us to come in your mouth, on your tits, in your cunt, in your ass. Wouldn’t you?”

Miranda still could not speak, but she nodded. It was true, all true. She would give them anything they wanted, these strangers. She craved their touch, their caress, their abuse.

Buy Links

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

A Day in the Life of a Writer - #TheBeatles #Poetry #Humor #AmWriting

By Source (WP:NFCC#4), Fair use, Link

A Day in the Life 
(to the tune of The Beatles' classic)

I read the news today, oh boy,

About a lucky gal who made the grade,

Although the news made me quite green,

Well I still had to laugh;

I read her biograph.

She was both lonely and unknown,

Older than I am by a year or two.

Six major pubcos turned her down.

A decade on, she scored;

Nobody expected her to win the Nat'nal Book Award...

I saw a film today, oh boy,

Based on a novel I have always loved,

A crowd of people forked out cash

I couldn't bear to look

How they raped the book.

I'd love to turn you on.

Woke up, fell out of bed,

Brushed the cat fur from my head,

Grabbed a cup of joe and went to read my mail.

Found my keyboard blocked by a black tail...

Read my last day's work and winced,

Tried to keep myself convinced

I could write at all. I penned a line or two.

Checked when it was due and went into a dream...

I read the news today, oh boy,

The vampire lady made another mil.

The New York Times still didn't call

Two K seems awfully small

Now I know how hard it is to publish anything at all.

I'd love to turn you on ...

(to my books, that is....)

Looking Back - #FirstNovel #AmWriting #SelfPublishing

Twenty years ago last month, I published my first novel.

I’ve shared the story dozens of times, in my long bio and on various blogs—how in November 1998 I picked up a Black Lace novel from the book swap shelf at my Istanbul hotel, was hooked by the intense emotion and free-wheeling sexual variety I found within, then got the urge to write something in the same genre. I dashed off three chapters of Raw Silk and sent them (by postal mail, of course) to England, pretty much on a lark. I had no expectations. The form letter I received in response, thanking me for my submission but warning me that due to the size of the backlog I might not hear anything for several months, didn’t surprise me in the least.

On the other hand, when I got email from the Black Lace editor three days later, offering me a contract, I was stunned. Now I had to actually write the novel, a minimum of 80,000 words. The publisher wanted to know when it would be finished. Honestly, I didn’t have a clue.

In the two decades that have followed, Raw Silk has seen four different editions. Meanwhile, I’ve published ten other novels (if you define a novel as a work of 50K words or more). Not that impressive a history, I guess, especially compared to many of my colleagues. Of course, I’ve also produced dozens of shorter works, ranging from flashers to novellas. In addition, I’ve edited both multi-author and single-author erotica anthologies.

Although pretty much all my work falls into the general category of erotic fiction, I’m otherwise eclectic. I’ve played with a wide range of genres, including BDSM (my first love), erotic romance, paranormal, science fiction, suspense, steam punk, historical, gay and lesbian. My tales range from literary erotica to pure smut, with everything in-between. For many years I worked mostly with a romance publisher, and chafed against the constraints of that genre. The rise of self-publishing has freed me to write whatever inspires me—which usually means stories that would make some romance readers squirm.

Not long after the release of Raw Silk, I found the EroticaReaders & Writers Association. I was looking for a way to promote the book (a very different enterprise in 2000, before the rise of social media). ERWA wasn’t what I was seeking, but it turned out to be what I needed. Though I’d been writing for self-expression all my life, I’d never imagined a career, or even an avocation, as a published author. I knew next to nothing about either the erotica genre or the nuts and bolts of the publishing world. The community I found here, the acceptance, support, knowledge and creativity, have helped me to develop my skills, to nurture my erotic imagination, and to market and sell its products.

Many people have remarked that being an author is a lonely business. I think that’s even more true if you write a denigrated, socially sanctioned genre like erotica. ERWA offered a delightful antidote to that loneliness. Some of the people I care most about in this world are folks I’ve come to know in the online world of ERWA. A few of these dear friends I’ve met in meat-space, but I know many of them only through the warmth of their emails, the generosity of their critiques and the arousing and challenging fiction they share.

I was in my forties when I published my first erotica, reliving and embroidering on the sexual adventures of my twenties. My early tales were fueled by cherished recollections and personal fantasies. I penned that first novel in just a few months. Passion poured out of me, onto the page. I wrote whatever pushed my own buttons, with no censorship and little focus on craft.

Now that I’m in my sixties, my motivations have shifted, but not as much as you might think. I still write to turn myself on. If I’m not aroused, how can I expect that of my readers? These days, though, I have a bit more distance from my work. I feel far more in control. Like a sculptor, I start with the raw material of ideas and mold them into the shape I envision.

As I mentioned earlier, the decision to self-publish has given me new energy and self-confidence. Perhaps as a result, in the past few years, I’ve found myself conquering what I’d always thought were intrinsic limitations to my writing skill.

For instance, I used to complain that I suffered from “narrative inertia”. What I meant was that once I’d written a story, I found it very difficult to make significant changes. I felt as though the story had chosen its own form, had set itself in stone, permitting me no more than cosmetic modifications. Attempts to alter the structure, the plot or the ending left me dissatisfied and deeply uncomfortable.

Those feelings have mostly disappeared. I’ve taken old tales with ambiguous, even tragic, conclusions, and revised them to end happily. (The market far prefers happy conclusions.) I’ve taken short stories and expanded them into novellas. My words and ideas now seem far more malleable than they did in the past.

Then there's the fact that I always swore I couldn’t write a series. By the time I’d written “The End” on a novel, I really was done. I had little inclination to revisit the characters or their worlds. In a couple of cases, I had thoughts about follow-on books, and deliberately left threads to be followed, but somehow I couldn’t motivate myself to start on Book Two.

Then I wrote a book purely for fun, which turned out to be pretty popular (Hot Brides in Vegas). Almost as soon as it was published, I had more outrageous ideas about the characters, so I started a sequel. The Vegas Babes series is now up to four books, and I just started working on Book Five.

Nobody is more surprised by this than me.

Twenty years is a long time—nearly a third of my life on this planet. I’ve never made much money as an author. Given my other responsibilities, I’ve never been able to devote the sort of time necessary to publish regularly. Still, I do congratulate myself on my staying power. Through the ups and downs, I’ve continued to write and publish—and continued to participate in the erotica community.

I sometimes wonder whether I’ll still be here when I am in my eighties.

Stay tuned!

A perfect beach read - #KeyWest #interracialromance #humor

By Tim Smith (Guest Blogger)

Spring has finally sprung, although it may not feel like it in some parts of the country experiencing snow and monsoon-force rain. But be of good cheer, sun worshipers. If summer is on the horizon, do you know what that means? It’s time for you to load your E-Readers with beach reads!

Isn’t it lucky for you that I just released a new one?

Once Upon a Sunset (Extasy Books) is the third title in my annual summer series “Key West Heat.” The previous installments were The Last Sunset (2017) and Beauty and the Beach (2018). Each story is a stand-alone, with different characters and plots. The only common thread is that they take place in Key West, with attractive characters, lots of atmosphere, some humor, and enough erotic encounters to ramp up your internal temperature before you dive into the pool to cool off.

Ted Allen left Key West five years ago to pursue a better job in another part of the country. He left behind a lifetime of wonderful memories. He also left Shakira Watson, the one woman who had carved out a prominent place in his heart. Now his career has brought him back to the tropical paradise, with hopes of rekindling what they had before. He thinks it’s fate, but will Shakira want anything to do with the carefree, fun-loving bachelor she remembers? Is Ted finally ready to commit to one woman?

This is an interracial romance and though it uses a hook that isn’t entirely original (the guy comes back with hopes of reconnecting with the woman who got away), I threw in a plot twist that’s a bit different for me. It seems that in the five years since our hero and heroine last saw each other, she had a major change in her life. I won’t spoil the surprise, but it’s something that added a sweeter aspect to the romance than I usually use. 

 

Here’s an excerpt to tempt you.

Ted wrapped his arms around Shakira and kissed her deeply, gliding his lips along hers. Her scent was intoxicating and brought back a torrent of memories. He got more into their passionate embrace and ran his hand along Shakira’s back while devouring her soft, full lips. He felt her hand on his thigh, starting at his knee and slowly inching upward, increasing his arousal. Her tongue invaded his mouth, challenging his to an erotic duel.

She pulled away and planted wet kisses along his cheek and neck. “I never forgot how good you do that,” she whispered.

Ted looked into her eyes while cupping her cheek. “Crazy eyes.”

She giggled. “What did you say?”

“I always thought you had crazy eyes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Something dangerous beneath the surface, like you’d try anything once.”

Her eyebrows arched. “And just what tricks have you learned the past five years?”

“Nothing more than before.”

Shakira pushed him onto his back, then lay on top of him and ran her fingers through his hair. “We did do some pretty crazy things, didn’t we?”

“I think the craziest was making love in the hotel hot tub when I took you to South Beach for the weekend.”

She laughed. “I swore those people at the poolside bar knew exactly what we were doing. It made me hot.”

He kissed her. “Me, too. Feel like getting a little crazy tonight?”

“Do you have a hot tub in here?”

“No, but I’ve got a double bed.”

She stood and took his hand. Ted followed her to the bedroom. Shakira pushed him onto the mattress, then practically fell on top of him. Her lips locked onto his and her tongue snaked into his mouth.

Ted ran his hands along her back, down to her full round ass, squeezing her through her tight jeans. Then he rolled her onto her back and continued kissing and fondling her. Her hands roamed along his back and shoulders while she lightly chewed his lower lip. He began to get hard rubbing against her, and her scent drove him wild. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulled her shirt up and fondled her breasts through her black lace bra. Shakira wriggled out of her shirt and bra, giving her full breasts their freedom. Ted mouthed one and then the other, sucking her nipples into hardness.

Shakira gasped in pleasure. “You know that’s the sensitive one. That always turns me on.”

* * * *

If you’re in the mood for an entertaining read that won’t tax your brain, join Ted and Shakira under the palm trees in Once Upon a Sunset. You’ll be glad you took the trip. 

Available now!

https://www.extasybooks.com/978-1-4874-2499-2-once-upon-a-sunset/

https://www.amazon.com/Once-Upon-Sunset-West-Heat-ebook/dp/B07R4Q4ZHC/ 

About the Author

Tim Smith is an award-winning, bestselling author of romantic mystery/thrillers and contemporary erotic romance. His website is www.timsmithauthor.com.

Review Tuesday: Tragic Coolness by Giselle Renarde #poetry #tragiclove #ReviewTuesday

Tragic Coolness by Giselle Renarde

October, 2018

As Tatyana – Tats to her family – and her sister Oka pick berries in their family orchard, two figures approach from the distance. One is Oka’s lover, Len – a transman who has captured blonde lesbian Oka’s heart and imagination. Tagging along is a stranger, Len’s acquaintance Eugene Onegin.

Tats has a strong urge to run. Some intuition warns her that this newcomer will bring tragedy and pain. Before she can escape, however, he has joined them, and she’s lost:

She looked at him, and he looked at her, and her heart nearly exploded. Attractive and poetic. She hadn’t met a man like him since university. Men like this were bad news then, but Tats was older now. Maybe she would handle herself a little better, a little more like an adult and less like an obsessive teen.

Aside from being young and handsome, Eugene is elegant, cultured, cynical, and terminally bored with life. “E is Eugene who died of ennui,” Tats jokes during their first meeting, but she turns out to be right. Her premonition of heartbreak comes to pass as she succumbs to her desperate, visceral attraction. Their incandescent coupling convinces her that she has finally found her soul mate. Eugene, however, is gone when she wakes, leaving her without a word but with (as she discovers later) a most permanent memento: a child growing in her womb.

Eugene’s abandonment tears Tats apart. The next time he shows up, she tries to tell him about her pregnancy, but his clear disinterest in love or family make her hold her tongue. Devastation and death follow Eugene wherever he wanders. After he is responsible for a fatal accident involving his friend Len, he disappears from Tatyana’s life for nearly a decade. When he steps back onto the scene, he discovers that everything has changed – that he now fiercely craves the woman he discarded in the past, but that she is forever beyond his reach.

Giselle Renarde is best known as an author of erotica, often queer or kinky, but her talents are too creative and diverse to be pigeon-holed. Tragic Coolness is a remarkable book, evocative and compelling, unquestionably a literary feat. It is in fact a re-imagining of Alexander Pushkin’s classic verse novel EugeneOnegin, the source of many literary references including Tchaikovsky’s opera of the same name. However, with contemporary allusions and LGBTQ themes, Ms. Renarde has made the material distinctly her own. Still, there are echoes of poetry in the dialogue. The rhythm of the prose owes much to art, and might be expected to distance the reader from the characters, but that does not happen. Tatyana and Eugene remain real and believable despite the deliberate craft evident in the novella’s structure.

After reading Tragic Coolness, I became quite curious about the original. The translations I’ve found thus far have been turgid and opaque, but I have some hope of locating a version that helps me better understand Ms. Renarde’s inspiration.

Tragic Coolness is not a casual book designed primarily for entertainment. The title is apt; the ending is far darker than most erotica or romance readers might like. Nevertheless, I recommend it. It offers a deeper sort of satisfaction that will stay with you after you’ve forgotten your latest happily-ever-afters.