CAUTION: Brainstorming session in progress

Click Ginger to Visit DA's blog for Author Interviews and much more.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Brita Addams - Not Quite Naked, But Clearly Revealed.

Brita Addams' writing is hot!
I'm truly pleased Brita agreed to appear here today, even though she wouldn't take her clothes off for the interview. So much for any really revealing information.

Brita has also agreed to give away to random commentors copies of her two books. Yay, Brita! One copy of each of her books will be given away today.

Thank you so much David for asking me over to your place. I feel quite at home here.

KevaD) Why did you choose to write under a pen name, and how did you decide what name to use?
Brita) I suppose my answer isn't much different than most people's, but here it is. Though my family is grown, I wasn't sure how they'd feel about me writing erotic romance. They encouraged me to write, but I know they never considered that Mom would be writing about horny aristos in Regency England.
I wrote Serenity's Dream and when it got down to the wire, that being submission time, I talked to my husband and he agreed that maybe I should do it under a name other than my own. Sooo, I cheated, just a bit and chose my middle name, one I'd rarely used in my life, save for when I was younger and my mother invoked both my first and middle name when I'd done something to really tick her off. *Who? Moi?*
Having decided on Brita (pronounced as the name Rita, not like the water filter), I needed a surname. My adorable husband's middle name is Adam and it seemed a natural, with some additions – and voila, I became Brita Addams.
When it was all said and done – my children thought the pen name idea was silly, as they are all busting their buttons that Mom had fulfilled her dream of being a published author, but Brita was born and is thriving quite nicely. I kind of like the old gal anyway, so I'll keep her around. 
KevaD) Writing fiction, erotic or otherwise, takes a writer out of their everyday life and comfort zone. To go there, writers usually insert themselves in one familiar place. I know one author who actually does his best writing in Starbucks. Another rented a room above a garage two blocks from her house. Where do you write?
Brita) I write in the living room, during the day, in complete silence, save for the air conditioner blowing, the sound of my typing or someone else in the house stirring. I have adopted one end of the sofa as my home base, along with the back of the sofa, which holds two file boxes of index cards filled with plots, characters and research and a stack of papers that, honestly, I have no idea why they are there or even what they are. My end table is laden with more index cards, pop up notes, paper clips, my camera, a pretty pen holder, my coffee warmer and my "Brita Addams" box my oldest daughter made for me to celebrate the release of Serenity's Dream, my first book.
Inside the box are mementos that she put in there for inspiration, such as an antique quill and holder, cut glass ink bottle and a match box car (don’t ask J)
The center cushion on the sofa is loaded with current projects (there are several) and the arm of the love seat, which sits adjacent to the sofa is usually burdened with papers, folders and my ever-present calendar.
I call the room my writing cave, as it has no windows and I write with only my table lamp on. My little muse, Fiona, our Maltipoo puppy, can often be found laying next to me and I, my friend, have found my bliss. 
KevaD) How do you juggle home, career, family, and writing?
Brita) Thankfully, as I said, my children are grown, with children of their own. I didn't write for years because of those obligations, and now, while I'm doing it, I just can't imagine trying to accomplish my goals when my time and attention was so badly needed elsewhere.
I've been a stay at home wife and mom for most of my adult life, so a career has never been a factor. Now that I write full-time, I'm on a first name basis with the dust bunnies that run rampant in the house. My husband cooks, takes care of the puppy and our cranky, old fat cat, but dusting is not his thing. We scramble when we have company, but otherwise, we set another place at the table for Frank and Henry and their families of hundreds, and forge ahead. No one has ever come in to steal my dust, so I think we're okay.
Writing – I write seven days a week. My husband and I are on vastly different sleep schedules – he stays up till four or five in the morning and I get up at about 6:30 every day. That gives me many hours to write before he's up, but even then, he has things that keep him busy.
We have date day once a week and that is sacrosanct. We've done that for most of our marriage and I wouldn't give that up for all the writing time in the world. 
KevaD) If your soul mate cooked you the ultimate sensual dinner, what would be on the menu?
Brita) I've been married for many years to the most wonderful man in the world. He is truly my soul mate. He knows me better than anyone and loves me anyway and it's my privilege to be his wife. I am also very fortunate that he is a marvelous cook and enjoys doing it.
For me, food is food and anything he cooks is a delight. I've truly never thought of a meal as being sensuous, maybe because I spend all day in varying degrees of sensual warmth as I'm writing it. J
My favorite meal that he cooks is stuffed bell peppers. My mouth is watering just thinking about it! We always have a salad with dinner, and he always makes his own salad dressing. Yeah, that definitely trips my trigger.  
KevaD) What's next for you? Are you considering new characters in a new setting?
Brita) I have entered into the realm of contemporary erotic romance with my m/m novella, Free Me. The sequel, In His Arms will come out at Amber Allure on August 7, then the print compilation will be out in mid-September. I had a great time writing contemporary, as I was able to be a bit freer in my language.
With my historicals, I try always to give voice the period speak, if you will, which I believe adds to the flavor of the stories. Historicals are my first love though, and I'm just finishing up a novella set in 1815. Some people like the "old fashioned" language and some don't, but I think if I'm going to write an historical, I want it to be more than a costume drama.
I will be a part of Noble Romance's November Timeless Desire Blog Tour, and two of my stories will appear in the two anthologies. I've written the m/f one and call it, "An Evening at the Starlight." It has a '40's feel, though a contemporary and may surprise some of my readers.
I'm still in promotion mode with my two latest releases, Free Me at Amber Allure and The Rogue's Salvation for Noble Romance. I love both these stories, though they are so vastly different.
I have another het historical erotic romance, Demands of the Heart in the hands of my editor at Noble Romance, and I expect to see that one out in the fall.
I have many projects ahead, in varying degrees of completion. Writers block isn't something I've ever been afflicted with, thankfully.

Thank you David, for having me over today. I enjoyed the coffee and cinnamon rolls and you are a very gracious host.
I'd love for people to visit me at My Web Site or they can drop me a note at My Email. I love hearing from folks who read my stories. I'm also around on Facebook and Twitter.
Thanks again and hugs. This has been great fun. Here's an excerpt from Free Me and one from The Rogue's Salvation. Hope you enjoy them.
Free Me:
Bryan paced and made to leave several times as he waited. He’d touched nothing in Phil’s cabin; instead, he’d spent most of his time staring out the porthole at the sparkling water under a full, golden moon and wondered if he was doing the wise thing.
When he heard the lock engage in the door, he turned toward the sound. Phil strode into the room and took Bryan’s breath away. The man was beautiful. There was promise in his smile. He could only imagine giving himself over to this man, as he relinquished his will and allowed someone else to think for him. The idea sounded like heaven, at least, in the short term.
Phil stood in the middle of the room, his legs braced, his arms down at his sides. Bryan wasn’t sure if he should speak, so chose silence. He trusted Phil would guide him through this initial awkwardness. The first order came almost as the decision to be silent was made.
“Come, stand before me.” Phil’s voice was low, but demanding.
Without hesitation, Bryan said, “Yes, sir.”
“You must always lower your gaze in my presence, unless I give you permission to the contrary.”
Bryan did as instructed. He could smell the wine on Phil’s breath and he had an inexplicable urge to kiss the taste off Phil’s lips.
The thought, however, was erased with Phil’s stern words. “Raise your arms above your head.”
As though of their own accord, Bryan’s arms rose and his fingers locked, making him feel more vulnerable than he’d expected.
Phil placed a warm hand on Bryan’s cheek and traced his cheekbone with his thumb. Bryan resisted the temptation to lean into the touch or even close his eyes, but it felt so good to receive the intimacy.
“What is it you expect of me, Bryan?”
The question came out of left field and it rocked him. Of all he’d thought about since he’d last seen Phil, he’d not once thought of what he expected. Rather, he’d wondered what Phil would expect of him and had long since concluded he’d gladly give the man whatever he wanted.
Again, gently, Phil said, “Tell me.”
Bryan’s mind stumbled across words like “fuck” and “suck” and “spank,” but somehow he couldn’t say them. Finally, he settled on, “I want whatever it is you expect of me.”
Phil leaned in and his warm breath bathed Bryan’s ear as he whispered, “Good answer. If you remember that, we’ll get along nicely.”
Phil stepped behind him, his hands never leaving Bryan’s body as he touched, rubbed and glided over his ass clad in imported cotton, and then stopped. Only when he was sure Phil couldn’t see his face did Bryan dare close his eyes.
His cock hardened and his mind raced with any number of suggestions as to what Phil could do with those hands, yet he sensed Phil had the situation well under control.
Phil snaked his arms around Bryan’s body and undid his belt. As the leather slid through the loops, Bryan’s imagination went wild. Soon, he heard a crack and wondered if Phil had actually doubled his belt and snapped it.
“Unfasten your pants and let them drop to the floor.”
Bryan’s arms felt heavy as he lowered them and unbuttoned his white Ralph Lauren’s. He struggled to control his breathing, as he felt himself being ensnared in Phil’s web of seduction. As he nudged his pants over his hips, he felt the leather of what he assumed was his own belt on his ass—his naked ass, as he abhorred wearing underwear of any kind.
His cock was rock hard, angled, straight, and ready for action. Phil drew the belt up the length of Bryan’s crack, and Bryan feared losing what control he’d managed to exert. He’d never been seduced with such care, with such mystery, and it felt damn good. Then everything seemed to stop. Bryan felt Phil’s absence, as he was left standing, untouched, his pants at his ankles. He heard a noise. Something heavy being dragged, but he didn’t dare turn to look...
The buy link is: Amber Quill Press
Here's an excerpt from The Rogue's Salvation:

 Chapter One
London, 1820
The late afternoon sun shone through the pristine window of Madame Bridgette's milliner's salon, and reflected off the gilded mirror at the dressing table. Thomasine Littlebury had sat in the same spot for three hours, trying on one bonnet after another, unable to decide upon any with conviction.
The moment she'd entered the salon, she'd taken on the air of one born to nobility, which she decidedly had not. However, the establishment of Madame Bridgette made her feel as though she had and after all, from her bearing, could anyone detect she wasn't the daughter of duke, rather than the owner of a shipping company?
While her mother attempted to patronize a shop of lesser quality, for money's sake, Thomasine would have none of it. Madame Bridgette's salon bore the finest of furnishings—brocaded sofas, gilt sconces with beeswax candles, highly polished tables and only the finest silks and laces. To have her society acquaintances see her in such a place was to her advantage.
In the mirror, Thomasine spied her mother by the door, checking the watch she carried in her reticule. Mama cleared her throat and when their eyes met, Mama gracefully tapped her timepiece.
"Mother, please, I'm not ready to leave." She tried not to whine to any great degree.
"We can come back at another time, dear. Either that, or you must make your choice now."
Thomasine dug her heels in, her ire raised. Two could play this game. After all, intense pressure always produced a diamond, did it not? 
"I'll be done when I'm done. You do want me to look my very best?"
"Of course I do, dear, but Madame Bridgette wishes to close her shop."
Ah, sweet victory. She'd learned at an early age to stall and generally try her parent's patience until they acquiesced. Her father had a much lower tolerance level. He'd just as soon spend as much money as necessary and be done with it. Though her mother gave in eventually, she kept her guessing at the outcome until the very end. 
"You look lovely in all of them, darling."
Thomasine grinned, her goal within her grasp. "Of course I do, Mother." 
"Really, dear, your father will be worried that we've been gone so long."
"I simply cannot make up my mind, and you aren't helping me in the slightest. Should I choose the green bonnet with the yellow ostrich feather or the yellow bonnet with the green ostrich feather?"
"Dear, there are but subtle differences in the two."
"I'm more than aware of that fact, but the wrong choice will ruin my perfect yellow silk gown." With a flicked her wrist, dismissed the thought.
This exercise was all about money and Thomasine felt obligated to play her role in the little drama. Mama held the purse strings and made every attempt to keep her daughter within a reasonable budget. Thomasine felt duty bound to stretch the limits. She couldn't help herself. Her father had indulged her every whim and, to her shame and extreme pleasure, Thomasine had taken advantage of his openhandedness.
She did, however, realize how hard her father worked. He was away from home from morn to night, tending to his work at Griffiths & Littlebury Shipping. But was one truly required to refuse an offer of new clothes or jewelry simply to appear to be grateful for other things? As a respectable young woman, she naturally thought more to her mien than to charity. Should the fact that her father was not of noble birth ever cease to be a factor in her choice of husband, it was her duty to show herself to her best advantage.
Her mother cleared her throat and interrupted her thoughts yet again.
"Mother, you are everything but helpful."
Mama huffed and retrieved a lace handkerchief from her reticule.
Thomasine placed the yellow straw hat atop her head. She fussed with her hair and adjusted the dark green plume, which just graced her chin. "Simply perfect, but for the infernal tickling."
"We could furnish you with a shorter feather, Miss Littlebury," one clerk said.
"Don't be such a foolish girl," Thomasine snapped. "This feather frames my face to perfection." She smiled at her image. As long as she looked fetching, a bit of discomfort mattered not.
Thomasine twisted her head to one side and then the other, as she examined the result from every conceivable angle. She then repeated the process with the green straw bonnet with the yellow plume.
"Mother, I simply cannot decide."
On a breath resembling one a bellows would have expelled, her mother said, "Well, darling, then you must have both."
Thomasine gazed at her mother and swallowed a smile of self-satisfaction.
Even so, Thomasine knew better than to underestimate her mother. The woman's acquiescence was as great a concession as her mother would be willing to allot. In an effort to push her mother to her absolute limits, she'd press further for a new gown or two, but Thomasine was almost sure she'd just heard the distinct sound of her mother closing the purse.
Circumstances forced her to take her victories as they came, though pressing for another wasn't foreign to her nature. "Come, Mother, we must go to Madame Devalcourt's salon. I have my eye on a lovely blue muslin walking gown."
With steely eyes of determination, her mother said, "Enough for today, Thomasine. We will now go home."
The use of her name indicated Mama had indeed reached her limit. To show her feigned unwillingness to acquiesce, Thomasine raised her head skyward, her nose firmly in the air. "Come then, heaven forbid should Papa's dinner be late."
* * * * *
Over their after-dinner brandy, Myles Cunningham's brother Peter droned on about the importance of responsibility, though Myles' attention was focused somewhere beyond the bounds of the library or even the house.
This lecture came every month, along with the stipend Peter so generously provided, the only source of income Myles had ever known. To have been born the son of the generous Marquess of Feversham was good fortune in the extreme. However, the tide of indulgence at no price had turned with the demise of their esteemed father and foisted the mantle of Myles' upkeep upon Peter's shoulders. All had been well, until Peter had also assumed the paternal role instead of one with less entitlement to monthly rants.
"You must mind your money better, Myles," Peter said, not in an angry tone particularly, but with ever-increasing urgency. 
"If you'd only see your way clear to increase my monthly allotment, I feel sure I could live within my means, but you've strangled me."
"Is this called strangulation?" Peter flung a sheaf of papers at him. "You've purchased new suits of clothes, new hats, even a saddle, and charged all to my accounts."
Myles bent to retrieve the papers and stacked them neatly on his brother's desk. "You certainly don't expect me to entertain myself and take care of the most mundane of needs on this small amount. Really, Peter, Father was considerably more generous than you. I should think, in his memory, you would take care of these few necessities."
"I expect you to act in a responsible fashion and not be a continual embarrassment to this family and yourself."
Sensing appeasement was his safest course, Myles feigned concession. "I shall attempt to do better."
"You say those same words each month, and yet, I receive more and more demands."
Myles knew he should feel something other than fear that the wrong word could put an end to his heretofore easy run of things. Peter wasn't a man to challenge, particularly when he held the key to one's future. But Myles had always thought his position as his mother's favorite son was her way of compensating for his unfortunate birth order. He'd enjoyed the finest of clothes, horses, and had, by his own admission, grown to be an aimless creature who enjoyed pugilism, drinking fine brandy, and bedding women, though not necessarily in that particular order.
"Next month I don't want to have to repeat this discussion," Peter said, and left the room, mumbling under his breath and shaking his head.
Myles whispered, "But you will," sure if they were said aloud, those might be the words to push Peter to truly strangle him.
He paced the room, not so much out of worry, for he had his allowance, but with something deeper in mind. Was this all there would ever be to his life? Could he ever marry, and if so, how would he provide? At five and twenty, he'd come to realize the folly of his wasted years, and yet, God help him, he saw no other way to conduct himself.
Employment was out of the question; he was skilled at nothing and had no ambition. No, he was a man meant to enjoy the finer things in life.
Myles checked his pocket watch. Thank heaven Peter hadn't made him late. With that thought in mind, he too left the room and made his way to the mews.
Within the hour, he'd be at the Sapphire Club, where he was to meet his friend, Henry Froste. With luck, the pleasures he found there would make him forget the pangs of unreasonable guilt.
* * * * *
"Good evening, Mr. Cunningham, so nice to see you again."
"Good evening, Hampton," Myles replied, his gaze never falling upon the butler. "I see there's no lack of activity tonight."
"No, sir, there isn't. May I take your hat and coat?"
"Of course." Myles slipped his greatcoat off, and handed it and his tall beaver to the older man.
"Have a wonderful evening, sir," Hampton said as he padded off with Myles' outerwear.
"That I will."
He found his way to the large reception room just off the entrance hall, and stood in the arched entrance for several minutes, surveying the room. This was the place where all members of the club gathered upon arriving. The beauty of the club was that each member visited for much the same reason—discreet sexual assignations of varying intensity.
Myles smiled at Lord Beaton, a nob of considerable proportions who rather enjoyed a bit of slap and tickle with the young women in attendance. Lucien Damrill, the owner of the club, employed men and women who enjoyed giving of themselves in a sexual way. Many spent several evenings at the club in St. John's Wood and the rest of the week at Madame Monique's House of Pleasure. Both provided whores of the highest caliber; Damrill would have it no other way.
Widows, widowers, and married couples populated a goodly portion of the room, as even the elite required something additional by way of sexual thrills. Single, discriminating gentlemen accounted for the rest of the assemblage. Men like himself, who couldn't satisfy their needs elsewhere, given their taste for the perverse.
Many in attendance were already salivating over Fortune, the club's most popular purveyor of sexual favors. He'd fucked her often, but had grown bored long ago. She smiled, he nodded politely, then she returned to her conversation with Lord Falmouth.
Myles took a proffered glass of brandy, served in the club's signature snifter, the stem resembling the torso of a naked woman. He greeted several people he knew as he waded through the crush.
"The place is at capacity tonight," he said as he clapped Henry on the shoulder.
"Indeed it is, and how are you this fine evening, Myles?"
"Flush and of a mind to partake of the pleasures found herein."
"Such flowery prose, so unlike you, old man."
"Is it?" Myles scanned the room, having previously noticed several prospective partners. "Is he here?"
Henry sighed. "Not so loud. Yes, he's here."
Myles leaned into his friend and found Henry trembling. "Are you nervous? Have you spoken to him?"
"Well, of course I'm nervous. Indeed, Myles."
"Indeed, what? Are you meeting him?" Myles draped his arm over Henry's shoulder and tugged him in closer. Poor man was rather shy, and had only recently come to acknowledge that, sexually, he preferred the company of men to women. At the same time, he'd admitted to Myles a fantasy that involved a flogger and a handsome man, which had brought him to the Sapphire Club this night.
"Yes, at eleven. You'll be there, won't you? I don't believe I could do this if you weren't."
Myles took out his pocket watch. "I know that." And Myles did. He and Henry had been the closest of friends for most of their lives. Henry looked up to him, something, upon examination, he'd never quite understood. Though Henry had come to the Sapphire Club many times, he’d done little but stand in this very room, watching the ebb and flow, as partners found each other and made their way to the rooms to experience sexual fulfillment.
On the rare occasions they'd had more than enough brandy to encourage them, they'd made their way to one of the many viewing rooms. From there, they'd watched the domination of one man over another. Henry had invariably fidgeted in his chair until he seemed to burst with arousal. "I wish to be flogged and then fucked," he'd said, but left the club without satisfying his desire.
Myles had tried to take his friend's words in stride, although the idea of having his arse flayed had never set his cock hard or his mind to thoughts of fucking. "Flogged, you say?"
"I wish to experience it. I find myself rock hard and wishing I was the man bent over, arse in the air, howling for all I'm worth."
"Henry, your desire far outweighs your common sense."
"Be that as it may, I wish it."
Evidently, the thought hadn't left Henry's mind, because just a week past, he had repeated the sentiment. Myles had then encouraged the assignation tonight.
The Sapphire Club provided a safe place for men like Henry to seek out agreeable partners. The club's policy of keeping the happenings of the club at the club gave many men with Henry's tastes the courage to seek satisfaction rather than stand on the periphery of everyone else's fantasies.
Myles looked at his watch and found it was nearly the appointed hour. "What do you know about him?"
Henry bowed his head, his shyness apparently getting the better of him. "His name is Declan Eddy. He's a member of the club and has agreed to see me this evening. What else is there to know?"
"I suppose you will learn all there is to learn. Come then, my friend. Your destiny awaits."
As they walked up the stairs to the second floor, Myles found himself envious of his friend. The man sought out what he wanted, reservations or not. Henry had often advised him to do the same, though what he wanted was unknown even to him.
"This is the room." Henry's brow glistened with sweat and his face looked as though he wore a mask of grief.
"Your choice, old man. You don't have to do this."
Those seemed to be the words Henry needed to hear. His demeanor changed; he squared his shoulders and picked up his chin. "Oh, but I do." He winked and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.
Myles nodded, and Henry placed his hand on the door handle and let himself in. When the door closed, Myles went to a small viewing room just down the hall and made himself comfortable. He had an excellent view of Henry and his Mr. Declan Eddy.
The buy link for The Rogue's Salvation is: Noble Romance Publishing

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Random Musings

Names are really important, yet sometimes really obvious.
Take the "Overland Express Company" for example. Under land would have taken an incredibly long time.

Random Musings

Always be polite and smile.
It confuses the shit out of people.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Dare to Dream - by Debbie Vaughan (with 2 a's)

It’s said love is timeless. Meghan Dennehy, is about to prove it.

Uncomfortable in her world, the antiques of the past hold far more interest than the fast paced era Meghan Dennehy lives in. Only happy with her nose in a book or in the life built in her dreams, she longs for a place to belong and a love of her own.
A hundred years in the past, Will Thornton, a half-breed former army scout is caught between two worlds.  Passing for white, he does not forget his native heritage and proudly bears the name Ghost Walking, given him by his grandfather. His heart yearns for someone to love him for who and what he is.

Fate intercedes to bring them together. But destiny isn't always kind, even to young lovers.  It will take more than passion to bind them.  It will take faith in a love that transcends time.
To Buy This Book
Debbie's Web Site


Meghan climbed carefully, testing each rung before transferring her full weight, batting at the cobwebs threatening to envelope her. Her first glimpse of the second level made her forget spiders and instead envision cowboys and cattle drives, wild Indians, and mustangs. The loft had been someone’s sleeping quarters.

Two narrow beds sat side by side covered in Indian blankets that for some reason the mice had chosen not to chew. They were filthy, yes, but whole, as were the two moldy leather saddles. Mold was better than dry rot. The leather could be brought back with proper care. Her heart skipped a beat.  Her mind turned to gentle hands, calming wild things like the man in her dreams. A sob almost choked her.

“You okay up there?” Donna yelled from below. “I found the buckboard.”

A deep breath steadied her. “I have about ten thousand dollars worth of Indian blankets and saddles. Get the rope, and I’ll lower them down.”

Her hands itched to open the trunks at the foot of each bunk. She lifted the first lid with reverence, a door back in time. A cavalry uniform, complete with faded yellow suspenders, lay neatly folded. A Bible. She blew away the dust and read the inscription: William Thomas Thornton. Was the old woman a Thornton? Loose pages fell and crumbled to dust in her hands. She wanted to cry for the loss.

Meghan moved to the next trunk and found, of all things, a wedding dress. The lace was yellowed with age but whole. Something furry touched her hand, and she squealed, awaiting the bite that never came. Sucking up her courage she lifted the dress to find molting rabbit fur attached to the frayed netting of a dream catcher. They had been all the rage a few years ago. Like a spider’s web with a totem attached, the disk was supposed to catch bad dreams and keep them from harming the sleeper while letting the good ones in through the spaces in the web.

A rumble of thunder snapped her back to the present. After carefully wrapping the clothing, Bible, and other articles in the Indian blankets, she tied the bundle with the remainder of rope and secured the end to her belt. With the pack on her back she stepped onto the top rung of the ladder. A crack of lightning lit the gloom with the bright white of a strobe. She stared at the hideous thing, not an inch from her left eye. The huge wolf spider swung toward her. Meghan screamed, batting at it with her free hand, and the pack pulled her off balance.  The rung broke and she pitched backward into the air. The second scream died on her lips as her head struck the center beam with a sickening thud and searing pain shot through her skull. Her hair pulled her head backward as it caught briefly on the wood. Blackness shrouded her vision.

                                                        * * * *         
Chickens flew out of the barn in all directions.  “Damn varmint!” Charlie swore.

Will grabbed the Winchester off the antlers by the door and lit out at a run. Bad enough there’d be no eggs tomorrow with the hens scared to death, but he’d be damned if he’d let a fox kill the chickens, too.

He slung the massive door back with one good shove and shouldered his gun, not planning to risk a miss shooting from the hip. Not a fox in sight. The only thing out of place, besides the chickens, lay dead on the ground at the foot of the ladder. Where the hell had the little thief come from, and how did he get out here in the middle of nowhere? He kept the rifle up as he scanned the barn but found nothing else amiss. Finally satisfied he wasn’t about to be bushwhacked, Will set his gun aside and approached the boy.

A puddle of blood soaked the clay under his head. The pool didn’t seem to be growing, so best to leave it alone for now. The kid’s body lay arched over the bundle of blankets tied to his back, arms, and legs going every which way. His chest rose and fell in a slow but steady rhythm. Well, he knocked himself cold for sure. Time would tell if his head swelled inside. Will ran a finger over the kid’s full lower lip then along his chin. Not even peach fuzz, just a boy in a growing spurt if those tight jeans were any indication. How could the kid stand it?  Everything all bound up like that made Will want to tug at his own crotch to loosen things. Hell, Charlie might have to cut the britches off him.

He squatted to straighten the kid’s legs and arms, feeling each for breaks, but finding none. The boy might be black and blue for a couple of months, but other than his head, nothing seemed busted. He stepped back to the door and yelled, “Charlie, bring your bag, we got us a hurt youngin’ out here.”

Charlie’s head popped around the cabin door. “What’cha say?”

“You heard right. Hurry up!”

“I’m comin’. Hold your horses.”

Will walked back to the kid and eased the bundle from under him. Might as well see what he took while he waited for Charlie. His Bible tumbled into his lap. What kind of thief stole a man’s Bible? His dream catcher came out next. What good was either of these things to the boy? He pulled the straw hat off the kid’s face, tugging gently when it caught on something. The sight took him by surprise.

Hair like spun silver tumbled from the hat to cover her face. A filly?


Will brought in the trunk from the barn to set at the foot of the bed. He heard her stirring about in the kitchen, but was determined to leave her alone until everything was ready. He laid a fire in the fireplace and surveyed his efforts. He hoped they’d do for now.

He stood and arched his back until his spine cracked. He must be getting old. He caught wind of a wonderful aroma drifting from under the door. A compliment to her cooking would be a good start and far from a lie. Everything she’d made so far had been perfect.

He eased the door open, not wanting to startle her by just bursting in. Turning his head to the right, he saw the chair under the door handle and frowned. Was she trying to bar his way? He turned his head to the left and forgot to breathe as his heart tried to escape his chest and his cock, the tight confines of his britches. He stepped through the doorway to gape.

In the lantern light, her pale body bent over the tub rim, slender and perfect. Fair hair swirled in the water as her right arm groped for the pitcher. He grimaced when the spasm set in, watching her cradle the limb to her chest until the pain passed.

“Meghan?” He spoke her name softly so as not to startle, and she froze. He unbuttoned two buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Let me rinse your hair.”

She didn’t speak, nor did she move to rise. Will knelt behind her, knees on either side of hers and dipped the pitcher into the tub. He poured the contents slowly along her nape, using his other hand to squeeze the soap out. The bulge of his erection rubbed against her bare bottom with each movement. He leaned farther in order to draw her mane from the water so he might rinse the last of the soap away, and her ass wriggled.

Wrapping her hair around his hand, he pulled her head back gently, forcing her to gaze up at him. Tears streamed down her face.

“Hush, love, hush,” he cooed as he pressed her to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’d take it back if I could.”

He pulled her face around, her hair still his handle. “Take what back?”

“The others, if you’d come first, they never would have been. But you weren’t there. I had to come find you.”

Will smiled despite her tear-stained face and kissed each eye. They must be destined for each other if he understood what she meant. “What or who came before doesn’t matter. I was wrong to ask. Everything started new the day we met.”

“So you don’t think I’m a slut? You don’t care I’m not a virgin?”

Will wiped at the tears on her lashes and cursed himself as twice the fool. He kissed her tenderly. Breaking the kiss, he pulled his lips only far enough away to say, “No, I would never think that of you. I just couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you, or you them.” He allowed his hand to roam over her breast. “As to the other, at this moment I am happy you’re not a green maiden, else what I plan to do might shock your sensibilities.”

A shiver ran through her, and her eyes widened. “What did you have in mind?”

Will smiled wickedly, and then kissed her senseless. When her body went limp in his arms, he turned her around until she again faced the tub. His tongue dipped into her ear, causing her to buck against him. He chuckled.

“Lean way over, sweetheart. Get a good grip on the rim.” Will urged her arms outward, curling her fingers over the tub’s edge. He angled her butt up and nudged her knees outward, sat back, and assayed her position. “Mmm, stay put. I won’t be long.”

He took longer than he should have to get his boots off. The lantern light glistening off the dew already collecting between her thighs became horribly distracting, or maybe it was the knowledge she wanted him as bad as he wanted her. He tossed the last boot across the room and she made an—eep! His britches and drawers came off as one.

Knelt behind her, he ran a finger down her spine, and she arched her back like a cat. When the same finger ran the length of her slit, her back bowed, and her ass went up. Wet and perfect. He seemed to continually promise to take things slow and then make a liar of himself. He’d try again for her sake.

He eased his rampant rod down to rest between her lower lips, swallowing the groan that rose from his depths as they touched. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he massaged them while he danced his tongue along her neck and shoulder.

“Will?” Her butt tilted more in invitation.

“Mmm. Sugar, I’m tryin’ to take this slow.” The groan escaped as she wiggled her ass.

“Can we try slow another time? Please?”

Her skin went goosepimply under his hands. Pure meanness made him ask, “Please, what?”

“Love me, now.” The plea ended in a sob.

The need in her voice stole the air from the room. Will drew back slowly, allowing the swollen head of his shaft to stroke back over her bud then further until he reached her entrance, wet and ready. He held himself in check and moved forward an inch at a time. His hands stilled her hips when she would have thrust back onto him, possibly ending everything before they started.

When his groin touched her butt, she pushed back, taking up that last bit. A shudder ran through her and into Will as her inner muscles trembled and squeezed the length of him.

Her sigh turned to a moan when he began to thrust.


Author’s Bio - Debbie Vaughan

I was raised by various relatives in rural Arkansas. We didn't go places or do exciting things but I had a sense of adventure and a vivid imagination.  My grandpa's wagon was a royal coach, the plow horse my charger and the barnyard animals were whatever I wished them to be. I learned at an early age, my mind could take me wherever I wanted to go and make me whoever I wished to be. 

When I learned to read, the pages took me to far-away lands and places, the past and the future.  I was hooked. I loved everything about books, the smell and feel of pages between my fingers. This love of books would later lead me to my job as a library assistant.
Content to read, it didn’t occur to me to try my hand at writing.
In my teens I discovered romance novels.  I loved historical and strong, virile heroes.  Later I became interested in the paranormal.  I devoured Ann Rice, Laurell K. Hamilton and others in the genre and found one constant. I always preferred the monsters. It was while composing my junior and senior themes in high school I discovered my love of writing and according to those literature teachers, a talent for it.

My ideas of what made a hero changed, as did my opinions of timid, meek heroines. No Pitiful Pearls for me, I liked my girls to have grit! An idea began to form.  What if I took my changed perceptions and tossed in a generous dose of humor? Could I write a novel?

I had many false starts and setbacks along the way to Dare to Dream, life has a tendency to get in the way of art, but I persevered.  I joined Romance Writers of America, author’s forums and the on-line critique group, ERAuthors, all of which gave me encouragement, knowledge, a shoulder to cry on as well as many new friends including critique partner, Australian author, Lillian Grant.

To all who encouraged and believed in me, thank you.

A Brief Interview With Debbie:

Q) What inspired you to write professionally?
It’s something I have always wanted to do but I thought you had to be someone “special” to make it.  I was right.  Most of the writers I have met are very special people willing to share their experiences and knowledge with us newbies.  Charlaine Harris was one such writer.  She is the most humble, down to earth person you’d ever want to meet.  She said a writer must write.  This is a fact. A writer can’t NOT write.  And to become a successful author you have to finish something, polish it and submit it.  In other words, you have to write the darned thing! 
Q) Writing fiction, erotic or otherwise, takes a writer out of their everyday life and comfort zone. To go there, writers usually insert themselves in one familiar place. I know one author who actually does his best writing in Starbucks. Another rented a room above a garage two blocks from her house. Where do you write?
No place spectacular.  I have an office in my spare bedroom.  All I really need is no distraction.  Unfortunately for me, most of my distractions are in my head. I need to mow the grass. The car needs washed. Did I remember to pay the water bill? 
Q) For you, what constitutes a "good" day in your life?
 The bills are paid and I still have time to write.  A great day is when someone wants to publish what I wrote.  An excellent day is when you get fan mail saying how much they loved your book and why.  It doesn’t get any better than that. 
Q) As a writer, what is your ultimate goal?
  I was asked this question when I joined a critique group.  My answer was the same then as now: I want to be on the New York Times Best Seller List. 
Q) Has a neighbor ever inspired one of your character, and why?
 Yes.  She is inspirational in a lot of respects but I think it is her steadfastness I admire most. 
Q) How do you juggle home, career, family, and writing? 
 Err, better than some?  My housekeeping takes a turn for the worst when I am on the downhill slide toward the climax of a current project.  Family isn’t an issue for me.  I see writing as my career, my JOB pays the bills. 
Q) There is so much that goes on behind the scenes in writing, such as rounds and rounds of editing. When you began writing professionally, what problems or bumps popped up that you never expected, and how did you adjust to them?
For me, rejection was the hardest thing.  I like people to like me.  I strive hard for that.  But it wasn’t so much the, “thank you, but no,” that was upsetting--it was the not knowing WHY.  I can cope with anything given a reason.  Editors seldom take the time to give reasons as they go through hundreds of submissions.  I know this on an intellectual level, but on a visceral level, I still need to know why.
Q) Briefs or boxers on your men? Why?
 Either works as long as they fit.  I don’t like a satchel ass.  Sorry, you did ask!  I’d rather have tighty whities than baggie boxers.  Too much wrapping paper on the present if you know what I mean. :) 
Q) If your soul mate cooked you the ultimate sensual dinner, what would be on the menu?
It wouldn’t matter one little bit.  The fact he thought enough to do it means everything. 
Q) Silk or satin sheets? What color? Why?
 Silk.  Raw silk.  I’m partial to all things red.
 Q) What have you had to sacrifice to become a writer?
 Sometimes I think it is my sanity, but most of the time I don’t see it as a sacrifice.  I love to write. 
Q) When you write, are you a character in your stories, or are you on the sidelines watching the story as it unfolds?
 When I write first person I am always a character.  Always.  In third, I tend to bond with one character more than the others, but it isn’t as real to me.  That’s probably why I prefer to write in first.
 Q) Is being a writer as satisfying as you thought it would be?
  In some ways it’s much more so.  There is such a rush to look at a finished page and know that a few minutes ago those words in that combination didn’t exist.  When you complete a project, it’s like giving birth.  That’s your baby going out into the world. 
Q) What's next for you? Are you considering new characters in a new setting?
 I have story ideas stacked one on top of the other jostling for first in line. 
Q) What's your favorite era and why?
I don’t think I have one.  Love is where you find it and I am happy with that. 
Q) Which do you prefer to read – e-book or hard cover?
 E-books are here to stay.  They are so practical in so many ways.  But, I will never lose my love of a bound copy. It’s a tactile experience for me. 
Q) When the day arrives you have to stop writing, what's the one thing you hope your readers will remember?
 That I wrote with my heart.  People tell me all the time, how real my characters seem. (Even when they are traveling through time.)  One reader said, “You made me cry.”  That is high praise. As writers we want them to connect with our characters, to experience the journey with them.  Her comment will probably go down as the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. 
Q) Do you implant subplots in your stories very often – a personal dilemma the hero or heroine has to overcome as well as the primary obstacle?
 Yes, all the time.  We all have issues we have to deal with, things from our past or present that make us who we are.  I think adding that aspect makes a character more real tot the reader.  No one wants to read about perfect people with perfect lives.