CAUTION: Brainstorming session in progress

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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

STORY EXCERPT

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?


ADULT EXCERPT:

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.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.



Friday, June 24, 2011

A Demon Affair - by KevaD

"A Demon Affair" was just released through Pine Wood Press.
I hope you enjoy this look at my erotic fantasy novella.


Ages ago, a heavenly Archangel and a hellish Slayer fell in love. The product of their sacrilege now roams the earth, devouring the souls of the living. Possessing all the strengths of good and evil, Pilan has the power to rise against either kingdom and take control. He simply hasn't yet chosen to.

Heaven dispatches Anai, an angel who has sacrificed eternity to kill Pilan. Anai is as powerful, and potentially as evil, as Pilan. As hell repeatedly sends forces to destroy Pilan and Anai, the two angel-demons surrender to sin. To enjoy the vanity of killing each other, they must first keep each other alive. Then there's the whole lust issue…
Buy this book for $1.49 at Rainbow ebooks.
All Romance ebooks
My Web Site

Cover by Elaina Lee 

Excerpt:

Pilan crawled to his feet and glared at his sallow reflection in the mirror. Beyond his dead, black eyes, a razor's edge glinted in the void.

"What has given you the strength to free yourself?" he snarled.

A guttural chuckle rumbled in his throat. Heh, heh, heh.

Pilan narrowed his eyes against that sliver of light. Hatred flamed in his words. "You dare laugh at me?


"I laugh at your ignorant vanity. You have become so enamored with yourself, you really don't know, do you?

He raised a brow. "Know what? What have you done?"

Me? The chuckle burst into a full laugh.
I have done nothing but heed the call.

"What call?" Pilan tempered his rage. The wildfire emotion would only make him more vulnerable to the assault. He could not afford to lose control of his mind and body.

Instead of sniffing for souls, you should have been sniffing for enemies. I will leave you alone. For now. The sparkles withdrew into the black depths within. The goodness retreated, and the black cage reformed about it.

What had he missed? No, he couldn't have missed anything. Perfection never erred. He drew in a long, lung-filling breath. One by one, he dissected each scent. Nothing beyond that which belonged to this place.

But urgency tugged at the threads of his mind. The fact he couldn't detect whatever the goodness had discovered was itself the answer - another Lasiqs had been dispatched to destroy him.

Pilan shrugged and sighed. Would Satan never learn Pilan was more powerful than the underworld lord and his mindless assassins? Hell could not claim a human's soul until the human died. Pilan could take a soul when the mood struck him, whenever he was hungry. For the souls of the living provided the nourishment he required, helped him grow in strength and power.

And one day, when he chose to, he would rule this pathetic world of mortals. He simply hadn't chosen to yet.

He opened a drawer of the dresser and pulled out black chinos and tee. Longing for fresh air and the chill of the night, he dressed.

At the back door of the club, he said goodnight to the guard and wandered into the dark, dead end alley. The dank of stagnant rain puddles blanketed him between the brick walls. Yellow light cast a dull glow over the sidewalk and street at the alley's open end. A taxi's tires buzzed over the pavement as the car passed. A rat scurried for refuge under a dumpster adorned in gang graffiti.

Pilan inhaled the night, his realm. A taste of demon-borne sulfur brought a grim smile to his lips. Out here, where he ruled, not even a Lasiqs could hide his scent from Pilan. He rolled the flavors over his tongue. Orange. He inhaled again, this time focusing on the smells alone, and not their taste. No hint of the acidic sweetness of oranges. Maybe nothing to be concerned with. But a Lasiqs who emitted the sweetness of oranges generally possessed greater battle prowess, courtesy of a soul or two implanted by Satan himself. Not that it ever mattered in the end.

Still, a Lasiqs alone wouldn't have stirred that part of him he'd confined centuries ago. Something else had given his duality the confidence to once again challenge him.

Pilan dug his fingers into the crevices between the bricks of a wall and climbed. The first three stories stretched his muscles, making him feel more alive in the night, but the next two brought cramps to his hands. At the top of the five-story building he walked along the narrow ledge, above the tarpaper roof, sniffing the air for any particle that might disclose what it was that his mirror self knew.

A spark of mixed flavors ignited and vanished.

Pilan froze in his tracks. Vanilla. Leather. The hair on the back of his neck pricked his skin. What the leather meant, he had no clue, but combined with vanilla, the flavor of Heaven's angels, it couldn't bode well. Not even Hell could copy an angel's scent.

This Lasiqs wasn't from Satan's seed.


Heh, heh, heh. My Father has finally found a champion, Pilan.

"Silence. Neither Heaven nor Hell can defeat me." Pilan spread his arms wide and stared at the sliver of moon winking behind drifting gray and black clouds. "Do you hear me?" he screamed to the night. "I am Pilan! Spawn of Heaven and Hell. I bear the power of each. I am waiting. Come to me!"

A wisp of torrid breeze passed Pilan's ears and deposited its message. "I am Anai. I shall kill you soon. Very soon."

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

A Not So Random Musing

Today in Freeport, IL, my adopted hometown, another - yes, I said "another" – building unexpectedly collapsed in the downtown. That makes two in the last five years. But have no fear. The city and county inspectors are telling us all of the other buildings are sound and there is no danger of some other building falling on your head while shopping.
Of course, these are the same inspectors who had declared the two fallen buildings structurally sound as well…

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Random Musings:

If at first you don't succeed, sharpen your knife and stab him again.

Random Musings:

When I was a child, the neighbor boy and I used to enjoy munching the sweet clover that grew between our houses. Then I saw a dog pee all over it. After that I enjoyed watching the neighbor boy munching on the sweet clover that grew between our houses.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Two chances to win a copy of Speak to Me of Abduction - by Lillian Grant

My writing and critiquing bud, Lillian Grant, is giving away two copies of her new full-length romantic suspense novel (contains explicit, very hot sex, too, by the way) Speak to Me of Abduction,the first in the Reel to Real series.
Just click the link to go to her web site for details.
Lillian's Web Site

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Author KB Cutter on Character Points of View (POV) - And he's giving away a book.


KB Cutter is a class act, and a very talented writer. No joke.
We're only beginning to see the tip of his abilities, and, hopefully, he'll lean in closer to the bus depot urinal so we don't see too much more it.

It's truly my honor to have KB here today. I consider him a superb writer, author, gentleman, and most of all… friend.
He also appreciates a good-looking lawn mower.
By the way -- KB's giving away a book to a random accusor! So leave a comment!

 
Many thanks to David for allowing me to blog today.  I'd like to chat about character POV. In writing terms, Point Of View refers to the -

"Excuse me."

"Uhm… Can I help you? I am in the middle of blog post."

"Yeah . . . a right boring one.   Can you say SNORE? You might as well call yourself K.B. NyQuil. You're gonna put everyone to sleep."

"Hold on one damn minute! I just got started. How do you know I'm going to bore people to death and who the hell are you?"

"Listen, Hemmingway, I'm your Muse, okay? I mean, who in their right mind would envision their creative inner essence clothed in knee-high black leather boots, studded leather bustier and name them Esmeralda?

"Well . . . I . . . uh . . ."

"Very articulate. Don't get me started on the pink flogger."

"Sorry folks. Bit of a technical glitch.  Moving right along, P.O.V is –

"Y-A-W-N!"

-Head-bang on wall-

"Sorry, K.B. that ain't gonna help, unless you want to hang a picture."

"This is embarrassing. What is it going to take for you to leave, Ms. Muse?"

"Hey, look, if you want me to beat feet, fine. Then, what are you gonna do, huh?  I'm the creative mojo that got you published. Or I can go on auto pilot. Make you crank out Lifetime movie-of-week-crap. I can see it now: Summer Beach Love: Men Suck by K.B. Cutter. Starring Tori Spelling and Shannon Doherty.

"I think I'm going to vomit . . ."

"Whoa, dude, don’t hurl chunks yet.  I'm hep to how you were fretting about this blog post.  I know you wanted to discuss character Point of View. I can dig where your writer's mind is at. Hell, I live it, Daddy-O. I'm here to help."

-Reaches for Pepto Bismal-
"Forget the over-the counter stuff, KBC. Go make yourself some peppermint tea and dry toast. Throw on your pink chiffon robe with matching bunny slippers. Get comfy, OK?"

"Uh.  Erm.  They were a gift. I mean, its rude not to wear them."

"Sure thing, whatever you say. Now, hear me out. I'm spitballin' here, I'll white-board the details later. So, as a writer, you want to get inside the head of your characters, dig?  Both male and female.  What do you do? You read other books, blogs and what-have-you. Ask other writer's for advice. Join a writing workshop, blah-blah-blah.  Very time consuming. I have the solution to all that ancillary research, its----"

"Now I know why biker's wear leather, cause this chiffon stuff wrinkles. Does the color pink make me look fat?"

"No K.B., just your head, listen up and don’t interrupt.  You are male and heterosexual, correct?"

"Flammingly hetero, Esmeralda."

"Oh, you got the flaming part down, alleged- Mister Cutter. My point is, when you want to get deep into a female character's P.O.V, you have to a bit of mental legwork. Not anymore, sir, my solution . . . drum-roll please . . .

Detachable genitalia.

Ack . . . gurgle . . . sputter  . . .

While K.B. is spewing Celestial Seasonings all over himself, I'll continue.  Here you are, hunkering down to get all feminine with your female character, simply pop off the penis and slap on the vagina.  Easy-Peasy. Not only can you totally immerse yourself in all things womanly, you can now stop and openly ask for directions at a gas station and cry your eyes out when Julia Roberts dies in Steel Magnolias. Conversely, when you want to get all mano a-mano, screw the penis back, which is also useful for parallel parking the car and leaving the toilet seat lid up."

"Wow . . . I don’t know what to say."

"I hear you, Mr. Writer man. You're speechless at my ingenuity."

"Um, yeah, ingenuity, that's it.  Stupid me, I thought if the writer invests themselves honestly, one hundred percent, in their characters, staying true to them emotionally and intellectually,  they would resonate with the readers. All of the so-called ancillary research would pay off."

O-M-G! B-o-r-i-n-g! If you want to be all twenty century, doing it the old-fashioned way, be my guest."

"I'm old school, Esmeralda, however, thank you for that enlightening idea."

"No worries, sir, that's my job. Speaking of which, I need some time off. This constant harassing of my creative Ju-Ju is wearing me out. I think there was a   little war fought about this indentured worker thing-a-ma-bob? In addition, I need to get out of this bustier. I can hardly breathe. And these boots. The spiked heels are killing me.  How about some Egyptian cotton, sensible shoes and normal working hours . . . say noon to three?"

"I'll take it under advisement."

"Don’t screw with me, K.B. or its Beach Blanket Passion, starring Meredith Baxter-Birney and Amanda Bearse."

"Oh dear God no! Okay, Okay, deal, anything but that!  Now where did I leave the Pepto Bismal . . .

Thanks again to David, a true gentleman for being brave and gracious to host not only me, but my eclectic Muse, Esmeralda.


I'd like to offer a free copy of Summer Heat and its sequel: Love, Revisited to a random commentator as a small token of thanks (and apologies for Esmeralda)


Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Speak to Me of Abduction - Lillian Grant

I read an early copy of this book. Loved it. Seriously.
The formal release date is June 15th, but Siren Bookstrand is accepting preorders.
Buy the book here
Visit Lillian Grant

After accepting a movie role, Charlene Paige, worries she might be the next rising porn star.  On reflection, that might have been safer.
Cover by Jinger Heaston

Blurb
Stuck in Rio and desperate for cash, Australian backpacker Charlene accepts a minor movie role. When her co-star, Hollywood hunk and serial womanizer, Jonathon Deveraux is abducted from the set she turns to his older brother for help.

Oscar winner and Hollywood good guy Jacob Deveraux is a recluse. However, when his brother goes missing, he agrees to help the hapless backpacker who appears to have been deceived into taking a movie role so that Jonathon could woo her into his bed.  The more determined he is to keep his distance the more he is drawn to her.  When it becomes obvious his bother’s kidnapping is designed to punish Jacob he worries Charlene may be next.  Despite his best efforts to keep her safe she is grabbed off the street. Can he find and save his brother and Charlene or will he lose another woman he loves?

Excerpt

Further along the pier, she could see a boat that dwarfed most of the others. Perhaps he was there schmoozing with whoever owned such an exquisite and expensive vessel.

A man stood on deck, and Charlene walked a bit closer to get a better look. He wore a pair of faded cut off camouflage pants, a tatty white wifebeater, and had a navy blue bandana wrapped around his head. Dark brown hair hung below his headgear and ended just below his ears. The way he was dressed, along with the scraggly goatee and moth-eaten moustache, gave him the appearance of the hired help or a hobo who had stumbled onto a super yacht. He carried a tall glass, resplendent with a red cocktail umbrella, and had a book tucked under his arm. Apparently he was right at home. She stopped and stared up at him, a smile of recognition on her face. Did she dare disturb him? Taking her chances, she cupped her hand to her mouth and yelled up at him.

“Excuse me.”

He stopped midstride and leaned over the side.

After a quick glance up and down the jetty, he pulled his sunglasses down his nose and frowned at her. “What?”

Not the most promising start, but now she had his attention, she may as well continue. Charlene shielded her eyes, so she could see him better, and smiled.

“You’re Jacob Deveraux, aren’t you?”

The crease between his eyes and the lines in his forehead deepened.

“Who wants to know?’

“Sorry, I’m Charlene Paige. I’m looking for Jonathon.”

He rolled his eyes and snorted with disgust. “You and every other hot-blooded woman on the planet.”

Without so much as another look in her direction, he stepped away from the edge of the vessel.

Charlene took a step closer. She desperately wished she had engaged her brain before opening her mouth. After being determined not to have Jacob meet her as Jonathon’s latest bed warmer, she had all but introduced herself as such.

“I will admit I was paid for spending the morning in bed with your brother, but I can assure you he left my arms as frustrated as he arrived.”

Jacob stopped and stared down at her. “Paid? Are you saying you’re a hooker?”

She shook her head. She obviously hadn’t improved his initial opinion of her, but at least she had his attention. “No, he didn’t pay me enough for sex. In fact, I didn’t get paid anywhere near what I’m worth. That’s why I need to speak to him.”

He leaned on the railing and raised an eyebrow. “And yet he tells me he never has to pay for sex.” He chuckled. “So, are you saying he took you to bed, but left you financially and physically unsatisfied? Because he assures me no woman ever leaves his bed unfulfilled.”

“Believe me, I was in no danger of being filled with anything.”

“Resisted his charms, did you? You must be stronger than most women, unless you’re a lesbian. Are you a lesbian?”

Charlene laughed. “No, an Australian.”

A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I wonder if you’re all immune? Maybe I should ship him to the antipodes for his own good. It would be his own personal hell. However, I still don’t understand why you would be looking for a man you apparently have no interest in.”

“How about you let me on board so I can explain? Instead of me yelling loud enough for the world and his wife to hear.”

With a shrug, he nodded toward the front of the boat. “Meet me further along.”

Charlene walked down the jetty and waited for him. When he offered his hand, she accepted his assistance and climbed on deck. She looked up at him before she claimed her hand back. His sunglasses now hung from the front of his wifebeater. He pursed his lips and moved them from side to side as he seemed to size her up. She met his gaze and held her breath. The rest of the female population might go weak at the knees at the sight of Jonathon, but now she had met them both in the flesh, Jacob won the beauty contest hands-down. Even with his bohemian gypsy hair and beard. His eyes and hair were darker, his cheekbones more defined, and his lips were like a soft pink Cupid’s bow just waiting to be kissed.

Without a word, he turned and started to walk back to his chair, and the drink and book he left behind. Glad to have passed muster, she followed along. The front view of him was lovely, but she had no complaints about the rear view either. She gazed at his body, admiring his strong muscular shoulders and upper arms. Her attention moved to his suntanned lower legs and bare feet, then back up this body. His pants were too loose to give any indication about how shapely his rear end might be, but he was a man who obviously worked out, so she imagined it would be as toned as the rest of him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Drink?”

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Insert Tab A into Slot B - by Margie Church

I'm elated and tickled-under-the-table aroused to have Margie Church here today.
Feel free to ask her any questions you may have. Especially if they're sexual. She won’t answer, but we'll have fun later reading them over and over…
Unless you're naked. I'll make sure she answers them if you're naked… and on a park bench… in front of City Hall… in the rain…

Truthfully, I'm very pleased Margie agreed to come here today. But more than that, I'm honored you have chosen to drop by. I hope you'll stay a while. And don't be shy. Ask any question you like, or just hang out in the balcony and see what's here. Either way, we're glad you stopped in.

So, without further ado, here's the incredibly talented Margie Church:


Insert Tab A into Slot B
For romance writers, this blog title is often an inside joke about writing love scenes. And for those of us who write hot love scenes (raises hand and blushes), and sometimes with more than one partner or same sex partner (wiggles eyebrows), things can get confusing fast. There've been a few times where I've almost had to draw things out to make sure what I wrote could physically happen. On some occasions, I've still had my editor write one of those bright blue memos in track changes. It goes something like this:
"I laid on the floor, I sat on the chair, I stood on my head. This just doesn't work. He needs to take out his dick."
*head desk*
My next novel is Hard as Teak and it's my first foray into m/m erotic romance. Perhaps you know that most of these books are read by heterosexual women – married heterosexual women. Some readers also might think authors can just replace the female pronoun with another male pronoun (or vice versa) and we've slid across home plate to a book contract. The only thing you'll slide right into is a rejection at every reputable publisher out here.
The emotional landmines were one of the biggest challenges to writing Hard as Teak. This is Kevin's coming out story. He's 32 years old and about to have his first sexual encounter with a man. Until he meets Teak, he's been living the heterosexual lifestyle. Vanilla, confused, unsatisfied describes Kevin's romantic relationships. Teak changes that experience in a hurry, but as an author, I couldn't pretend the first 32 years of Kevin's sexual identity were erased. The average romance junkie might not care too much about the deeper character motivations in a m/m romance, but those who exclusively read the sub-genre have low tolerance for authors trying to bullshit their way through the story. My beta readers were picky as could be and so was my editor. Honestly, it tried my patience a number of times. Believability has to be rock solid.
While I was researching my characters and story, I learned a lot about men – not just gay men. I learned a couple of phrases I hadn't heard before and discovered some toys and techniques that really added nice touches to my book. When I mentioned a few of them to my DH, he asked where I learned them. I, of course, said he didn't want to know. But I will admit he benefitted from my "research."
My heterosexual male contemporaries certainly have the edge on me when it comes to describing a male having sex. I don't know that deep, warming sensation, the tightening that draws their balls up tight and signals an orgasm is near. No, I don't know the heat of a woman's body around their throbbing shaft. But I did get some guys to tell me.
Close your mouth. The slack-jaw look is so last century.
When it came to writing my male gay romance, I ended up taking the same path.
I heard you say, "No shit?"
Yep, I found a group of people – men and women, gay and straight – who agreed to tell all. Gay guy writing het? Yep, we ladies told him exactly how it felt to put his Tab A into Slot B. How it might taste, what to do next, what makes us squeamish, what's a no-no, what to say, and what will make us turn into his personal sex slave. And in return they answered our questions. It's pretty humbling to have another person bare their sexual soul for your research. And sometimes the replies got pretty erotic and sometimes the exchanges were downright funny. (Membership is closed but for a sizeable, non-refundable fee, I'll talk to the Mistress and see if she'll consider you. Kidding!) After one of these intense question/answer sessions, I think we always come away with a deeper respect for each other…after all, we've done the next best thing to seeing each other naked.
You see, it's much more than insert Tab A into Slot B.
Hard as Teak is coming out June 27 from Noble Romance. I don't even have cover art yet, but here's the blurb.
Hard as Teak
Kevin Marks escapes to the north woods to reignite his passion for photography and women. But the only flame he seems able to spark is for his latest photography subject, Teak Hidalgo. Kevin's never been in a man's arms before.
Teak, the raven-haired, photographer's dream come true, is hell bent on capturing Kevin's heart. He takes Kevin, body and soul, on a romantic, sexual journey previously lived only in Kevin's fantasies. And no dream was ever this good, no truth this undeniable.
How will Kevin respond? When the camera's put away, will Teak live up to his name?
Margie's website: Romance with SASS

                                                              
                                                         THANKS, MARGIE!!