Archive for the ‘guest blogger’ Category
Guest Blogger – Amber Skyze
Jun 28, 2011 
Filed under: erotica, guest blogger
Today we welcome Amber Skyze. Come on in and see what she has to tell us about herself and her writing….
Tell us about your latest release.
My newest release Chasing Forever, is about two best friends crossing that line and becoming lovers and the struggles it can cause.
What is your favorite genre to write? What other genres do you enjoy?
My favorite is contemporary erotic romance. I also enjoy adding suspense to a few of my books.
Do you have a favorite character from one of your books? My favorite character is the hero, Nathan Donovan from Splashing Good Time. It was my second published book, but this hero still holds my heart.
Is there a style or genre of writing that you haven’t tired yet but you’d like to explore?
I’d like to try a shape shifter one day. I love white tigers and would love to write a story around one.
How do you make time in your life for writing?
I get up extra early, usually around 4am, when the house is quiet. I write until it’s time to get my teen up for school. Now that school is out I may sleep an extra hour. :o)
What do you like to read? Do you have some favorite authors?
I read a variety of books from historical to chick-lit and non-fiction.
If you decide to take a Saturday off, what are we likely to find you doing?
If it’s summer I’m at the ocean or floating around my pool.
Choose six adjectives to describe yourself.
Hmmm, shy, quiet, inquisitive, protective, caring, and passionate
Describe the perfect meal.
Surf and Turf – a nice filet and lobster tails…yes, plural I can eat two tails. :o)
If you were a dessert what would you be and why?
My favorite – strawberry cheesecake!
Thank you for joining us, Amber. Learn more about Amber and her writing at her website or her blog.
Chasing Forever by Amber Skyze
Blurb:
Jordyn has longed to make her relationship with best friend Diego more than platonic. Her body drips with need to know what it would feel like to have his lips kissing every inch of her skin. Desire to wrap her legs around his waist and plunge into deep waters with him fills her every dream.
Diego is one with the ocean. His passion is surfing and chasing that ultimate wave. He doesn’t have time for a relationship. Or does he?
A storm is brewing and when a tragedy occurs, Diego and Jordyn need to decide if they’re both chasing the same dreams.
Excerpt:
An Excerpt From: CHASING FOREVER
Copyright © AMBER SKYZE, 2011
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
Chapter One
Jordyn sat on the beach towel watching Diego riding out the waves. Her pulse raced. He knew he shouldn’t be out there. Hurricane Ivan was heading inland and the weatherman had warned of the dangerous undertow. She’d attempted to chase a few waves, but once she’d swum a few yards she knew it was a mistake. She’d quickly swum back to shore and waited while her best friend tried to prove he was smarter than the ocean.
The waters had turned mean and ugly over the last twenty minutes and the sky was an ominous gray. The hurricane was moving closer. A breeze came in off the water and a chill passed through her body. She’d unzipped her wet suit down to her waist, exposing her bikini top when she exited the water. She should cover up again in case the rains poured down.
She scanned the waters. Someone on a Jet Ski buzzed around, stopping every so often to take some pictures. She hoped he would keep away from the jagged rocks. The razor-sharp rocks were Jordyn’s bigger fear with Diego being out on the water. One wrong move and a wave could drag him under and throw him against the rocks, ending his life.
Jet skis were prohibited at any time on this part of the beach, but it didn’t stop them, especially on a day like today. They’d swarm around the surfers—in this case, just Diego—hoping to get a great shot of him nailing a thirty-foot wave.
Hopefully that’s all he catches.
She scanned the beach looking for any other fools. People with cameras hoping to click the ideal picture of the perfect storm peppered the sand.
“Dumbasses,” she muttered. What did that make her? She was on the beach too. Why had she allowed Diego to convince her this was a good idea?
“Because I’m a fool too.” She buried her foot in the sand and watched how the tiny particles glided between her toes. If she was smart she’d grab her board, jump in her Jeep and hightail it back to her place. Common sense flew out the window when it came to Diego, because she was head over heels in love with him.
Too bad he doesn’t feel the same. He loved her like a sister he’d said a few too many times, especially on drunken occasions.
If she’d had a nickel for all the times he’d said, “If you weren’t like a sister to me, I’d fuck you.”
How her pussy moistened with the thought. A few times she’d been tempted to sock him one and other times she’d wanted to tackle him and show him the woman inside waiting for him to fill that void deep within.
Instead she’d sat back and waited.
Giving Alpha Males the Partners They Deserve
Jun 23, 2011 Filed under: erotica, guest blogger, web event, writing
I’m blogging at TRS today about why I think alpha males deserve partners with strong personalities. Stop by and let me know what you think.
Guest Blogger: Viki Lyn
Jun 21, 2011 Filed under: chat/contest, guest blogger, m/m
Today author Viki Lyn joins us to talk about her brand new book and help us get to know her better.
Leave a comment on this post for a chance to win a free ebook from her backlist.
Tell us about your new release.
Fighting Chance is the second book in my m/m vampire series Chances. Corbin Hamilton is a vampire slayer (Kresnik) that has the responsibility of keeping an eye on vampire, Johan. Johan is taking an experimental anti-vampire serum, hoping to turn back into a human. Much to Corbin’s irritation, he’d rather killed the bloodsucker, not rehab him. Yet, he can’t ignore the sexual tension between them. It’s thick and rife with obstacles.
What happens when a slayer begins to desire his enemy?
I didn’t set out to write this book, but when I finished the last chapter of the first book in the series – Last Chance – the story between Johan and Corbin had to be told! Plus I received tons of fan mail asking for their story.
What is your favorite genre to write? What other genres do you enjoy?
I love writing male/male romances, both contemporary and paranormal. I have written a few historical romances (under another pen name!), and I enjoyed researching the different time periods.
Do you have a favorite character from one of your books?
I get asked this a lot, and really, all my characters have a special place in my heart. My parents didn’t play favorites, and that’s how I’ve come to view my characters, as my children!
Is there a style or genre of writing that you haven’t tired yet but you’d like to explore?
I would like to write a fantasy novel. My paranormals are very close to fantasy in the way I approach world building. I’d almost name them para-fantasy, but I’d love to write a story with elves and dwarves and wizards!
How do you make time in your life for writing?
This is my career so I’m blessed that I don’t have to work 8 to 5. That doesn’t mean I write every day. My creative self is fickle! I see myself as an ocean wave. Crashing forward and then receding – crashing forward – receding. My friends and family come first. Then my writing… I’m lucky to publish three books a year because it takes me a while for the story to unfold in my head. I live with my characters 24/7 until the story is completed. When I’m not writing, it doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking about the characters or the storyline.
What do you like to read? Do you have some favorite authors?
I enjoy reading across genres, mysteries topping the list. I collect DC comics and Japanese manga (yaoi), and these give me my quick-fix reads. On my nightstand is a mystery by Rennie Airth, River of Darkness. It was nominated for the Edgar Award. The setting is England after WWI. I enjoy historical mysteries, and Jacqueline Winspear writes beautifully. She has a mystery series I’d highly recommend – Masie Dobbs.
If you decide to take a Saturday off, what are we likely to find you doing?
Meeting friends for coffee and dessert and watching a movie on Netflix.
Choose six adjectives to describe yourself.
Casual, curious, odd, optimistic, impulsive, nerdy
Describe the perfect meal.
Roast beef and vegetables cooked by my grandfather (he was an incredible cook!), served with a Cabernet, and afterwards, espresso and a piece of lemon cake.
If you were a dessert what would you be and why?
Lemon Meringue Pie – sweet but with a tangy aftertaste!
Thanks for joining us today Viki!! Learn more about Viki at her website or her blog. Or join her on Twitter.
Don’t forget to leave a comment for Viki so you can be entered to win a free book!
Guest Blogger: Lauren Gallagher/L.A. Witt
Jun 14, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger
Hi Lauren! Thank you for joining us today. Would you start off by telling us about your latest release?
My latest is Damaged Goods, written under the name Lauren Gallagher (my M/M books are written as L. A. Witt). Damaged Goods was just released by Loose Id, LLC, and the blurb is as follows:
Jocelyn Rhodes is a single mother with a demanding career and a long-neglected libido. Frustrated with the dating scene and way overdue for some satisfying sex, she takes a friend’s advice and hires Sabian, a deliciously sexy escort. He’s well worth the money, and the sheets haven’t even cooled off before she’s ready to call him again.
The more time she spends with him, the more she realizes she and Sabian have more in common than she thought. She’s a single mom, he’s a prostitute, and when it comes to dating, they’re both damaged goods. To most potential mates, Jocelyn and Sabian are in a category akin to dented soup cans, but if the two of them can look past each other’s respective dents, they just might find something they’ve both been missing.
But even if they do find that something, how on earth can she make a relationship work with a man who sleeps with other women for a living?
The book is available here.
What is your favorite genre to write? What other genres do you enjoy? – Contemporary M/M erotic romance is probably my favorite, but I’m also really starting to enjoy some flavors of urban fantasy. I just finished the first book in a vampire/were series, and I’ve got a shapeshifter book, Static, due out this month from Amber Allure. So, I’m kinda dabbling in a little of everything right now, and enjoying the variety.
Do you have a favorite character from one of your books? – It’s impossible to nail one down and call him/her my favorite, but Scott Moore, the Dom from Light Switch and Reconstructing Meredith, is definitely high on the list. I also adore Nick Swain and Andrew Carmichael from Cover Me. They came back as secondary characters in Trust Me (the sequel, due out in July from Carnal Passions), and they’ll be back center stage for the third book, Search Me, which will be out later this year.
Is there a style or genre of writing that you haven’t tired yet but you’d like to explore? – Historical. Now that I’m getting into steampunk, I’m itching to write some actual 19th century historical, but God only knows when I’ll work it into my schedule.
How do you make time in your life for writing? – My husband would say that it’s the other way around: I make time in my writing for everything else. LOL I do try to balance work and play, but let’s face it, I’m a workaholic.
If you decide to take a Saturday off, what are we likely to find you doing? Snorkeling or wandering around Okinawa with my camera in front of my face.
Choose six adjectives to describe yourself. Eccentric, neurotic, insecure, shameless, crazy, prolific.
Describe the perfect meal. – Kobe steak and Japanese curry. OMG. I wasn’t a fan of curry before I came to Japan, but it is so. Freaking. AWESOME. It has a milder spice and stronger flavor than Indian, and…yeah. Awesome.
If you were a dessert what would you be and why? Something with pineapple in it. Why? Because pineapple is awesome. They have a pineapple farm here where you can get pineapple ANYTHING. Cookies, tarts, jam, cakes, pies, little cookies made out of two pancakes with pineapple jelly in the middle, pineapple creampuffs, all kinds of things. And they’re completely and totally—sorry, what was the question?
Would you share an excerpt or two?
Jocelyn Rhodes is a single mother with a demanding career and a long-neglected libido. Frustrated with the dating scene and way overdue for some satisfying sex, she takes a friend’s advice and hires Sabian, a deliciously sexy escort. He’s well worth the money, and the sheets haven’t even cooled off before she’s ready to call him again.
The more time she spends with him, the more she realizes she and Sabian have more in common than she thought. She’s a single mom, he’s a prostitute, and when it comes to dating, they’re both damaged goods. To most potential mates, Jocelyn and Sabian are in a category akin to dented soup cans, but if the two of them can look past each other’s respective dents, they just might find something they’ve both been missing.
But even if they do find that something, how on earth can she make a relationship work with a man who sleeps with other women for a living?
EXCERPT
Eight fifteen, the blue numbers on the clock beside the bed announced without enthusiasm. Fifteen minutes till showtime.
It was a decent hotel. Not the Four Seasons, but not a roach-infested shit hole. A pair of queen-size beds. Thick drapes to block out the rest of the world and its prying eyes. A couple of watercolor prints so bland they almost disappeared into the pastel wallpaper.
It was the kind of place with people in nearby rooms and reassuringly thin walls. The murmur of room 412’s television was just barely audible, and earlier, room 416’s shower had added a whisper of white noise for a few minutes. At least this place wasn’t Hotel No-One-Can-Hear-You-Scream, though if everything went according to plan tonight, the guests in the adjacent rooms would probably wish it was.
Rather than staring at the other bed, which was already turned down in undeniable anticipation of the next few hours, I focused on one of the watercolors on the wall, though I had virtually no interest in the lifeless image of some flowers in a vase. I’d once heard that there’d been studies performed that determined pastel colors had a soothing effect on people. Rumor had it some sports teams had painted the visiting team’s locker rooms with that scheme in mind. I couldn’t say if it ever worked on a rival football or baseball team, but it didn’t do a damned thing to slow my pounding heart or unwind my knotted stomach.
What the hell am I doing here?
Groaning, but not loud enough for it to carry into neighboring rooms, I rubbed my eyes.
I had everything. The husband. The kids. The white picket fence and the moat of perfectly manicured grass encasing a flawless suburban four-bedroom on a street where nothing ever happened except gossip and barbecues. A sensible car. A refrigerator covered with grade-school pictures, grocery lists, and Garfield magnets. A calendar full of meetings with prestigious clients and blowhards.
Oh, and a drawer full of sexy lingerie I hadn’t worn in years.
I had had everything.
I did still have most of it. The kids, the car, the house. The overloaded calendar and neglected lingerie. Thanks to that calendar, the grass wasn’t so perfectly manicured anymore, but my son kept it trimmed enough to appease the homeowner’s association.
The husband was long gone. Amicably divorced, happily remarried, completely oblivious to where I was tonight while the kids were with him.
Yeah, I had everything. Which was, of course, why I now reclined on a rented, rock-hard, queen-size bed, waiting for a male prostitute to show up.
No, not a prostitute. An “escort.” So said the company’s site, the woman I’d spoken to on the phone, and Kim, the friend who’d referred me to Elite Escorts to begin with. An “escort” who’d meet me in a hotel room and do anything I asked in exchange for three hundred prepaid dollars.
Not a prostitute at all.
Eight twenty-one. Nine minutes to go.
“Trust me, Jocelyn,” Kim had said. “These guys are top quality. You won’t regret it.”
Wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t regret admitting I was so desperate for headache-free sex that I’d pay money to skip the crap and get to the fun part. I was buying sex. Nothing to be ashamed of or regret or hope to God no one ever found out about.
I groaned again, and this time the other guests might have heard me, but the TV noise didn’t falter, nordid the silence in the other room. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. What was I thinking?
I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about the fact that I hadn’t had a decent night of no-strings, no-bullshit sex in entirely too long. I’d wondered for a while if it was even possible to have sex without first killing an evening feigning interest in the uninteresting, talking about anything except the reason we were both there, all the while dancing the dance of “I want this; do you want this?” until someone finally broke down and made a move. And even then there was no guarantee the sex would be good.
That was just the headache that went into trying to get a one-night stand. The very thought of what it took to kick-start a relationship these days made me want to scream.
Why was I here? Because I wanted to skip the song and dance, cut to the chase, and maybe have some sex that wasn’t so hilariously bad it warranted a “you won’t believe this” conversation with my girlfriends. I had more of those stories than I cared to admit.
Eight twenty-four.
I checked my cell’s sent messages for the thirtieth time to make sure I’d sent the right room number to the phone number the agency had given me. The room was correct, the message had transmitted, and my stomach tightened a little more.
Now that he was mere minutes away, another thought occurred to me: what if I wasn’t attracted to this guy at all? Every photo on the site had been gorgeous, but that didn’t mean a thing. I’d done enough online dating to know how deceptive a profile picture could be. It wasn’t that I was excessively picky, but the fact was love was blind, lust was not. I didn’t need Adonis, but I could do without the Elephant Man.
Kim had spoken highly of the agency, though, and she was the princess of pickiness. Any man for her had better be well-dressed, well-groomed, and well-hung, and if he couldn’t get her off at least twice with his mouth, she wouldn’t return his calls. Couldn’t imagine why she was thirty-nine and still single.
That pickiness was why she’d started using Elite Escorts to begin with.
“Once in a while,” she’d told me, “I just want a long night with a beautiful man who wants nothing more than to make me come and fuck me senseless.” And in spite of the fact that I eventually wanted a husband, or even a lover who stuck around for more than a few months, that was all I wanted tonight.
Of course, that wasn’t addressed directly in my interactions with the agency. We’d discussed the things I didn’t want and didn’t allow, all the while very carefully avoiding saying I wanted to have sex with the escort or that he’d be willing to do so. I paid for his company tonight. What happened during the allotted time was up to me, and it cost the same if we spent the evening playing chess, discussing the weather, or…not.
All the cloak-and-dagger of coded phrases and carefully worded questions added to the thrill, but it also made me nervous. What if I got caught? What if my man of choice tonight — a tattooed, goateed escort named Sabian — had a badge in his pocket instead of condoms?
An arrest for soliciting sex from an undercover cop. Oh, Lord, I could only imagine how that would go over at the advertising firm where I worked.
Fuck, what am I doing? I had kids to think of. And a career. My ex-husband had never tried to take the kids from me, but if he found out about this little indiscretion, then what?
I glanced at the clock. Eight twenty-seven. Blood pounded in my ears. Sabian would be here any minute.
I could always go the cowardly route and simply take what I’d paid for: his time and company. Sex wasn’t required. It wasn’t all that unusual for an escort to do exactly as his name suggested and escort his client to a restaurant, the opera, wherever. Perfectly legal. Perfectly socially acceptable.
And perfectly boring.
Eight twenty-eight.
Any second.
To hell with chickening out. I hadn’t shelled out this much money to sit with the guy and talk about bland watercolor flowers. Odds were, he was legitimate, and my libido was pretty persuasive with its suggestions that it was worth the risk that he wasn’t.
Eight twenty-nine.
But if my ex found out. If my boss found out. If my kids found out.
Eight thirty.
I need this. I want this. I’m going to do this. Shit. I can’t do this.
A sharp knock startled me.
Too late for second thoughts.
Gulping back my nervousness and ignoring the swarm of cracked-out butterflies in my stomach, I rose and approached the door warily.
I took a deep breath. Turned the deadbolt. Opened the door.
Madre de Dios.
Standing across the threshold was the kind of man who’d never have noticed me if I hadn’t just put a few Benjamins into his pocket. In photos, he was gorgeous. In the flesh, absolutely stunning. His light brown hair was playfully mussed, the look that was just shy of an engraved invitation to run my fingers through it. His hazel eyes edged closer to green now than they had in his photos, which was probably just a trick of the light. He was several inches taller than me with a flat stomach and broad shoulders, and I immediately had the impression he could throw me around and get rough if I wanted him to, and I did. Hell yes, I did.
The Elephant Man he was not.
Damon Bryce is worried sick when he doesn’t hear from his girlfriend after she visits her estranged parents, but when he checks up on her, he’s in for the shock of his life: She’s a shifter, part of a small percentage of the population who can shift genders at will. Thanks to her parents, though, she’s been forcibly given an implant that leaves her static—unable to shift—and male.
Alex Nichols desperately wants the implant removed, but getting it out isn’t nearly as easy as putting it in. The surgery is expensive and dangerous. Left in, the implant carries its own set of risks, with the potential to cripple or even kill him. On top of that, he’s carefully kept his identity a secret from more people in his life than just Damon, and his parents aren’t the only ones appalled by shifters.
Stripped of half his identity and facing serious physical effects and social ramifications, Alex needs Damon more than ever, but he doesn’t see how their relationship can get through this unscathed.
Especially if Alex is a static male permanently.
EXCERPT
When my girlfriend’s cell phone went straight to voicemail for the fourth time in twenty-four hours, “worried” didn’t even begin to describe it.
I paced beside my kitchen table, eyeing my phone like it might suddenly spring to life with her ringtone the way I’d begged it to all day long. I hadn’t expected to hear from her last night. She’d had plans to have lunch with her estranged parents yesterday, and after those get-togethers, it wasn’t at all unusual for her to hole up in the house and block out the world for a while. It bothered me and worried me whenever she did that—the woman could drink like nobody’s business when she was upset—but the next morning always meant a text message saying she was okay. Hungover, probably depressed as hell, but okay.
This morning, that text didn’t come.
More than likely, things hadn’t gone well. They never did. I’d told myself all day long that she just needed some space, some time. I didn’t want to crowd her or smother her when she needed to be alone, but damn it, something about this raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
I looked at my watch. It was almost eight. Over thirty-six hours since she was supposed to meet them. Almost forty-eight since I’d heard from her at all. Something was wrong. It had to be.
Without another second thought, I grabbed my phone and keys. I hoped she’d be irritated with me showing up at her door. Annoyed by the intrusion, aggravated by me coming to her before she was ready to interact with the outside world again. At least that would mean she was home safe.
I pulled out of the driveway and ignored the posted speed limit. We lived about twenty minutes apart, and I was determined to get there in under fifteen. Ten if I could swing it.
I’d never met Alex’s family. She’d told me little about them, but just the way her hackles went up at the mere mention of her parents’ existence spoke volumes. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if they had abused her when she was young, and not just in the emotional, manipulative ways I assumed they still did. She was prone to unpredictable bouts of deep depression, which had been more frequent and more severe in the last six months or so. She went through phases—hours, days, weeks—when she’d balk at any suggestion of physical intimacy. Sometimes she didn’t mind an affectionate touch, but recoiled at the first hint of anything remotely sexual. An arm around her could make her melt against me or shrink away like a beaten dog, and I never knew when to give her space and when to give her a shoulder.
Then, almost overnight, she’d be insatiable in bed. Whenever I asked her about it, she clammed up. Apologized, avoided my eyes, changed the subject.
What did they do to you, baby?
I supposed it shouldn’t have surprised me that she’d refused to discuss the idea of getting married. After two years, I was more than ready to make this permanent, but she wasn’t. A couple of her worst depressive episodes were close on the heels of those conversations, so I’d let the subject drop. I just hoped she’d come around eventually. I’d wait. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Turning down Alex’s street, I took a few deep breaths and willed my pounding heart to slow down. She was fine. Probably drunk and upset, but no more worse for the wear than the last time she saw her mother and stepfather. I was overreacting. I was being too protective.
Or maybe I wasn’t.
I chewed my lip as her house came into view up ahead. Her car was parked in front of the garage, and the faint glow of a single lamp illuminated her living room window. There were no other cars in the driveway or on the street, so presumably she was alone. Assuming, of course, she was home. Someone else could have driven her somewhere, or she—
Easy, Damon. Don’t jump to conclusions yet.
Heart still pounding, I parked beside her car. On my way up to the porch, I hesitated, wondering for the hundredth time if she’d be upset with me showing up when she clearly didn’t want to see anyone. No, she’d understand. She might be pissed off at first, but when she calmed down, she had to understand why I was concerned.
After almost turning back twice, I made myself get all the way on to the front porch, and before I could find another reason to talk myself out of it, I knocked. Waited. I craned my neck a little, listening for movement on the other side of the door.
Nothing.
My heart beat faster. I knocked again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
I rocked back and forth from my heels to the balls of my feet, staring at the door and wondering if I should give it one more try or leave. In my coat pocket, my keys ground against each other as I ran my thumb back and forth over them. Her house key was on the ring. I could let myself in. Damn it, where was the line between intrusion and caution?
One more try, and if she doesn’t answer, I’ll go.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Silence.
I exhaled hard, a knot twisting in my gut. She wasn’t here. Or she wasn’t answering. Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to stand here all night, so I turned to go.
Movement inside the house stopped me in my tracks. I froze, listening, and the muffled sound of approaching footsteps sent a cool rush of relief through my veins.
The deadbolt turned. I exhaled.
Then the door opened, and that relief turned to something else. Something much colder.
“Who the—” My breath and voice stopped in my throat. Confusion and fury slithered through my veins as I stared at the man on the other side of the threshold. He leaned on the door and rested his arm on the doorframe. Vague surprise flickered across his expression and straightened his posture, but the heavy fatigue in his eyes kept his reaction subdued. I wondered if he was drunk. Or maybe he’d been asleep. In my girlfriend’s bed. That was all too likely, I realized: he was pale, sleepy-eyed, dressed only in a pair of grey sweatpants, and his short, dark hair was disheveled enough to imply far more than I ever wanted to know.
Alex, baby, tell me you didn’t…
I finally found my voice again. “Who the fuck are you?”
Barely whispering, barely even keeping his eyes open, he said, “You might want to sit down for this. Come in and—”
“Just tell me what the fuck is going on,” I snapped.
He flinched, closing his eyes. “I can explain.” His voice was quiet and slurred. “Please, just—”
“You can explain?” I snarled. “Yeah, please do, because—”
Flinching again, he put a hand up. “This isn’t what it looks like. Not even close.”
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not.” With every word, the barely contained fury rose, as did the volume of my voice. “I suppose you’re just keeping her company? Where the fuck is she? Where—”
“Damon.”
“You…you know who I am?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I do.”
The anger swelled in my chest. “But you’re still—”
“Please.” His hand went to his temple, and he grimaced as he whispered, “Don’t shout. You’re upset, I get it, I understand, but…” He winced. “Please. Don’t. Shout.”
I furrowed my brow. Anger made me want to grab his shoulders and show him the meaning of the word “shout,” but I held back. Quieter now, I said, “What’s going on?”
He stepped back and gestured for me to come in. I hesitated, but then followed him into Alex’s house.
He closed the door and leaned against it, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. A low, pained sound escaped his throat. The light in here was dim, but not enough to hide just how pale he was.
“Are you—” I eyed him. “Are you all right?”
“No.” Lowering his hands, he rested his head against the door. Dark circles under his eyes and a dusting of five-o’clock shadow along his jaw only served to emphasize his alarming pallor. After a moment, he opened his eyes. He winced and brought his hands up again. “This is going to sound weird, but bear with me. I need to lie down.”
“Why?”
“Because when I stand, my head hurts so bad I can’t see straight.” With what looked like a hell of a lot of effort, he pushed himself off the door, paused when his balance wavered, then started toward the living room. I wasn’t sure if I should be impatient or concerned. At this point, the one thing I knew was that he was the only one who might know where Alex was, so I followed him.
With his back to me, a small white bandage was visible in the middle of his back. Perhaps two inches square, taped in place over his spine a few inches above his waistband. My own spine prickled with goose bumps. Contrasting sharply with his pale skin was a smear of something brownish-red. I thought it might be blood at first, but it looked too orange. Iodine, maybe? The remnants of something used to sterilize skin before a medical procedure?
Eyeing the bandage and the iodine and this stranger in my girlfriend’s house, I wasn’t sure this situation could get any weirder.
He eased himself onto Alex’s couch like he had every right to do so, and I took a seat in the recliner. For a long moment, he kept a hand over his eyes and didn’t speak. He took a few long, deep breaths, jaw clenched and cheek rippling as if trying to keep himself from getting sick. I might have suspected he was severely hungover or something had it not been for that bandage.
I waited. A million demands, accusations, and pleas for information were on the tip of my tongue, but I waited.
Without lifting his hand, he finally spoke in a quiet, vaguely slurred monotone. “None of this is going to be easy for you to hear, and I’m sorry I didn’t explain it a long time ago.”
I blinked. A long time ago? I’d never seen this guy in my life. Just how long had this been going on? Was he the reason she didn’t want to get married? I bit my tongue, though. Let him explain, then get pissed.
“Damon,” he whispered. “I’m a shifter.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
He swallowed. “I’m a shifter. This—” He gestured at himself with the hand that wasn’t shielding his eyes. “—is my male form.”
Confusion kept the pieces from falling to place for several long seconds. Then those pieces did fall into place, and all the air left my lungs in a single exhalation.
No way. No fucking way. But, how? She was…
I somehow managed to pull in another breath. I moistened my lips.
“Alex?” I whispered, almost choking on her name.
With a single, slow nod, he jerked the world out from under my feet.
The Virtues of Vibrators
Jun 10, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger, web event
I’m talking vibrators today over at the Whipped Cream blog. Come join me!
Guest Blogger – Amber Green
Jun 2, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger
Today I have the pleasure of interviewing author Amber Green……
Tell us about your latest release.
Khyber Run was released by Loose Id on May 24.
Transplanted from an Afghani battleground to a Florida playground at age ten, Zarak Momand spent the next several years trying to remember Pakhtunwali, the Pakhtun Way, and instill the Pakhtun warrior spirit in his younger brothers. A generation later, he’s a burned-out Navy hospital corpsman who has lost touch with everything that matters: his brothers, his heritage, and possibly his soul.
Then he’s kidnapped by USMC scout-snipers hell-bent on seeing justice for a murdered brother marine. The murderer has deserted. They have ideas where to find him and plenty of unofficial support–but this is Afghanistan, where the easy answers are wrong and the best-laid plans don’t stand a chance. Codenamed Zulu, Zarak navigates the ambiguities of fourth generation warfare, where there are no front lines and where the moral high ground shifts from situation to situation. He can rely on no one but Oscar, a sexually compelling marine who is every bit the warrior young Zarak had once hoped to be.
When finally told the deserter murdered his estranged baby brother, Zarak sees his way clear. Pakhtunwali allows a man to pierce the wall of hospitality–even the code of sanctuary–to demand justice for a murdered son or brother. For the first time in years, his Pakhtun self and his American self are in full accord. With Oscar at his side, and with the memories roused by their travels in these legendary mountains, he finds his spiritual center.
Secretly crossing the border into the Khyber region of Pakistan, Oscar and Zulu lose their companions, their technology, and their horses. In compensation, they find Z’s extended family, Taliban assistance, and gratified lust in the night.
But is Oscar’s rough passion a betrayal between brothers? And what happens when the deserter would rather die than go back?
What is your favorite genre to write? What other genres do you enjoy?
Romantic suspense is fun to write, having enough action to keep things moving and enough emotion to make it matter. I’ve at least dabbled in all the genres I can think of, and had some degree of fun with most of them. I do particularly enjoy nontraditional historicals.
Do you have a favorite character from one of your books?
Yes—but the character keeps changing, depending on my mood. I still love Esau, from The Subject, even though I haven’t visited that story in several years. You can see strong echoes of his character in Fortinbras, from Backtrack and Bareback. Fort is the only hero I’ve killed off, but his death was the fate he chose, the culmination of choices he’d made all his life. I love Mary Alison of Hawkmoor and Twilight of Steal Away because they are both tough survivors, but I think I love Twilight more for her knack of seizing—and sharing—whatever enjoyment the moment brings. Writing about Joe and Brian in Bareback is the most fun I’ve ever had at a keyboard; I still toy with the idea of bringing them back for another round. And I love Zarak of Khyber Run, because of his ultimate willingness to forgive himself and thereby forgive others.
How do you make time in your life for writing?
I don’t do housework or laundry, and I’ve mostly stopped cooking as well. Keeping a kid’s composition book in the car lets me scribble during red lights and while waiting for my son’s class to let out. Sometimes I don’t sleep.
What do you like to read? Do you have some favorite authors?
I read omnivorously. Most recently I’ve been plowing through the Simon R. Green’s Nightside series, which my sons both loved.
If you decide to take a Saturday off, what are we likely to find you doing?
I’m not sure what “off” means. This past Saturday, I slept in, which is possible in my house (with two dogs and eight cats) only because of the doggy door. By 10:30, I had flea-combed two cats; dug cat hair out from under my C key, my D key, my space bar, and my comma key; investigated a scabby place on the puppy’s neck; checked shipping options for an eBay transaction; gone through crit group posts at WeWriteStuff and ERA; read email; talked to the help desk person from the day job about a host error message; and been served brunch. Oh, and I started answering these questions, which is how I know what I was doing at that hour. The day got a touch hectic after that.
Choose six adjectives to describe yourself.
Busy. Sorry—in weeks like this, you only get one.
Describe the perfect meal.
I didn’t cook it. (I love to cook, but lately there’s no time.)
If you were a dessert what would you be and why?
Today I’d be one of Seeley deBorn’s yazdi cakes. They’re essentially pistachio muffins with cardamom.
Thank you for joining us today, Amber. You can find out more about Amber’s writing at her website.
Guest Blogger: Xavier Axelson
May 23, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger 
Tags: fetish, fetishism, Xavier Axelson
Today we are joined by sexy, charming, fellow erotica writer, Xavier Axelson. He’s got a post that touches on topics even I find shocking. Be prepared…..
“Sexual fetishism, or erotic fetishism, is the sexual arousal a person receives from a physical object, or from a specific situation. The object or situation of interest is called the fetish, the person a fetishist who has a fetish for that object/situation.”
“Common Misunderstandings of Fetishism”. K. M. Vekquin.
I work in a world where I am confronted daily with any number of people’s kinks, fetishes, fantasies, and perversions. Mostly I have heard or seen it all before.
Let me take you back to 1998. I was in college in Boston and actively working as a dungeon master, phone sex operator and had some BDSM clients on the side. It was about this time that I saw a documentary about a dungeon in New York. I think the film was called, “Fetish”. It explored the dungeon and it’s clients and the women who worked there. It made me begin to realize how complicated people and their sexual/psychological needs can be. As the film progressed, it revealed an African-American male who had an elaborate slavery fetish, and a Jewish man who had a concentration camp fantasy, and so on and so forth. I found these revelations disturbing but also fascinating. Were these people out of their minds or simply confronting buried sexual and psychological fears? I was only 19 at the time so I really can’t say that my sense of sexual psychology was anything more than fascination.
After having worked now for over 15 years in the adult industry I can honestly say I have gained some insight into human sexuality. I believe as long as it is safe and consensual, let your freak flag fly and explore your deepest fears, fantasies, and fetishes.
But let me tell you about a recent customer I had, Captain Salty. The first time I encountered him was when I had to help him into a corset. He’s an older man, possibly 65? Maybe a little younger. He reminds me of an out of shape Popeye, particularly because he cannot speak above a mutter.
Upon our first meeting, I noticed he had a strong body odor and I distinctly remember he was sweating so profusely that a drop of his sweat hit my hand as I tried to zip up the front of the corset. I also noticed he looked beaten up, but I was so overwhelmed by the smell and the sweat that I wanted to get away from him as quickly and politely as possible, and I didn’t have the time to study his wounds.
When I encountered him the second time a co-worker whispered that he also wore an incredible amount of rope tied around his cock and balls. I wasn’t surprised. When I asked how my comrade knew this they explained that they had helped him try on a pair of pants and was exposed to the roped mess down below. I also noticed this time he looked beaten up and haggard again, with some bruising on his face. The third time I saw him he came in wearing skin-tight bike shorts, a t-shirt advertising a local leather bar, and this time his eye was bruised, swollen, and sealed shut. He looked like he may have also had his nose broken. The shorts were also stained as if he had either peed himself or, who only knows.
We all expressed our concern about Salty to the higher ups and were always told, “Oh, he’s harmless. He’s been in the scene for years.” And maybe he is. He isn’t the first smelly, fetishist I have encountered and won’t be the last.
Now it was maybe a month later that another comrade had to deal with him, and this is where I believe his fetish broke the surface.
It was a Saturday night and Shortberry Strawcake was working alone. Salty came in and proceeded to browse near the back of the store. Next, a straight man and woman came in to browse. After a few minutes there was an eruption of noise. The couple were running towards the door. The man was enraged and was calling out threats behind him. The girlfriend told Shortberry that Salty had asked them if they liked to have sex with little boys. Shortberry confronted Salty who of course denied it all. The man was getting more and more enraged. Shortberry threatened to call the Police, and things settled down. The couple left the store, but Shortberry noticed they were parked just outside and they weren’t leaving. Strawberry believed the man was waiting outside to kick Salty’s ass. Wisely, Salty waited until they left to leave the store.
So here’s my hypothesis: I believe Salty goes around and says things like he did to that straight man, with the express desire to get his ass kicked. When I said this to Shortberry, her eyes got wide and suddenly all the dots began to get connected. Was this the reason he always looked like he had just gotten an ass whooping? Was this Salty’s fetish? To say something so horribly wrong, that he gets his ass kicked?
Now mind you, I could be completely wrong. It could be he just likes to say perverse things to people and gets off on shocking them. Or maybe he feels less of a man because of his sexuality and needs to be beaten by what he feels is a “real man”? The possibilities are endless. Painful, disturbing, and endless. The more I discussed this with Shortberry the more I began to wonder about self-loathing and how powerful this emotion truly is. Did Salty hate himself, his cock, his balls, his sexuality so much that the only way he felt good about it was to punish all the parts of himself that he felt were related to it?
Shame is a powerful motivator. Being a deeply empathic person it is not easy for me to work in the world I do. I shut the empath off before I go to work. If I didn’t I would go crazy. Of course I feel sorry for Salty, I feel bad even if everything that I think is going on with him isn’t. Maybe he’s just into being tortured and beaten, there are plenty of people out there who are. It may be that he simply is aroused by the situation that saying such things puts him in. I also believe that there is not an ounce of me that feels I have misjudged this one. If a Jewish man can fantasize about being in a concentration camp then surely there are Gay people out there who might fantasize about getting bashed. Is it sick? Who am I to judge. This is beyond my realm of understanding. We all live in our own worlds. Like any geography there are borders and those brave or foolish enough to go exploring beyond those borders. I just don’t need to be exploring all of them.
I mention this because it is rare for me to be jolted from my happy place in my little English cottage where the hollyhocks grow and where I firmly position myself most days while helping a woman tuck her tits into latex Captain Salty shook me right from my cottage and I felt it only fair to purge him from my happy place and get back to enjoying my back porch. Lucky you!
Oh by the way…did you hear? I have two new books coming out: “Lily” with Silver Publishing and “The Good Cop” with Seventh Window Publications. Feel free to also stop by my examiner.com column and say hello…fuck off…or send me a recipe or cookies…whatever you dish I can take… or come by my website!
Blogging At TRS Blue Today
Apr 14, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger, web event, werewolf, writing
Hop over to the TRS Blue blog and read about my writing process and how Savage Wolf turned it upside down: http://trsblue.blogspot.com/2011/04/protect-and-serve-savage-wolf-by-silvia.html
Vampire Week – Cat Marsters/Kate Johnson
Mar 24, 2011 Filed under: guest blogger, paranormal, TV, vampire, Vampire Week Tags: Anti-heroes, Cat Marsters, erotic romance, Kate Johnson, paranormal romance, vampire, Vampire Week
Today Kate Johnson is with us to share what she loves about Being Human’s John Mitchell……
John Mitchell: Did you just call me deadly furniture?
The other day on Twitter a couple of acquaintances made it known to me that I have somewhat, er, unusual taste in men. Well, in crushes, at any rate. I still don’t think it’s at all peculiar to fancy James Marsters as Spike, but I will admit that John Simm’s The Master isn’t traditional crush material. It’s just, he’s so charming. So much fun, with such a great line in smart quips. So what if he wants to subjugate a whole planet? You’d never have to clean the bathroom again.
So of course, when it came to BBC’s Being Human, it was almost inevitable I’d fancy the pants off Mitchell. That accent. Those eyes. That sense of humour. His befanged, tortured history. His occasional tendency to rip out people’s arteries. “My name is John Mitchell, and I’ve killed more people than you’ve met,” is possibly one of my favourite lines. Well, that and the ‘skinny jeans’ conversation.
I’m no stranger to crushing on vampires, and the more twisted the better. As a teenager it wasn’t Brad Pitt who did it for me in Interview With A Vampire, it was Tom Cruise. “There’s life in the old corpse yet!” Then, of course, came the Buffy years. Was it Angel for me? Hell no. Give me a vampire who kills people with railroad spikes and looks good in eyeliner. I mean, I even named my cat Spike (he’s gorgeous, has white hair, and occasionally kills things. Couldn’t resist).
So then there was Mitchell. What is it about him that’s so appealing? Quite apart from the eyes, accent, et cetera. I suppose he does get his kit off quite a lot, that helps. And you know what, the vampirism isn’t sanitised. There’s no Twilighty longing here. When Mitchell gives into his need for blood, terrible things happen. People die. Horribly. When Mitchell and Lauren feed from each other in that hotel bathroom the whole place is drenched in blood. When Mitchell & Daisy go insane on that train, there are intestines all over the place. It’s not pretty. Being a vampire isn’t pretty.
But of course for Mitchell it’s not all about being a vampire, it’s about, well, being human. He can’t deny the otherness of his nature but he can try to become better. He surrounds himself with normal people and takes a menial job in a hospital. He tries, really hard. And deep down, underneath all that monsteriness, he actually is a good man. He comforts Annie when she’s upset, he befriends a lonely boy who has no male role model, he even gives out fashion advice (“Seriously, George. Skinny jeans?”). He’s the father figure in the house, or at least the big brother.
He has an internal struggle in the way the others don’t. George literally can’t control his inner beast. When it’s full moon, he’s got no choice but to go insane, and worry later about what he’s done. Annie’s conflicts are all about other people. She can’t physically hurt anyone; she can’t even physically touch anyone. Neither of them have to constantly police themselves like Mitchell does. He can control himself…can’t he?
I don’t want to give away any Series 3 spoilers, because it’s aired here in the UK but I don’t think it has in the States. But, oh my God, there are some big things happening. With Mitchell. At the end of S2 he had a bit of a meltdown. Well, he massacred a train carriage full of people. That sort of thing weighs heavy on a man’s conscience. And yet he can still find time to flirt with a ghost or two and make some smart quips about a stinky zombie. Of course, he still hasn’t found time to wash his hair or find out how deodorant works, but hey. He’s a busy vampire.
As Lia, his guide in purgatory—yes, there’s purgatory in S3—says, “What’s got two thumbs and just lucked out? Hello. No, I’ve always been lucky. You should rub me. I’m serious. Rub me.”
Mitchell, you can rub me any day.
And here’s a taste of one of Cat’s own vampiric creations…..
Excerpt: Hardest of Hearts
By Cat Marsters
ISBN: 978-1-60521-119-0
Available 19th March 2010 from Changeling Press
Emma and Aidan can’t keep their hands off each other. There’s just one little problem: she’s sworn to kill all vampires and he likes the taste of blood a little too much.
Emma’s been raised in the knowledge that all vampires are evil. After all, they’re responsible for the death of her parents. Meeting Aidan shouldn’t change a thing: so he might be the most beautiful man she’s ever seen; he’s still a vampire, and it’s her duty to kill him, not to get him naked. Even if his Irish charm and quiet morality are extremely persuasive.
Aidan’s come back to town to avenge the death of a very old friend. But far from the old zealot he expected, his new enemy is a young redhead with a killer body. She’s determined to wipe out all vampires, and Aidan sees it as his duty to save his own kind.
And if he has to seduce her to do it, so much the better…
Warning: This title contains explicit language and sexual content not suitable for readers under the age of 18.
Excerpt:
I saw my first vampire when I was sixteen. He was incredibly beautiful, a pale, tortured creature haunting the school corridors. An unearthly concoction of glittering skin and soulful eyes, drawing the yearning, desperate love of every girl in school.
I drove a stake through his heart, of course.
So when a vampire walked in through the doors of Oh My Goth one Friday night about ten years later, my fingers twitched for the stake in my bag. Unfortunately, my bag was in the back room, and no part of my outfit would have concealed it. Added to which, my boss would probably complain if I staked a customer in the shop. And I’d get stuck with cleaning up the blood.
The vampire was a looker. It’s a trick of fiction to persuade us that all vampires are hot. They’re not, just as not all humans are gorgeous. The better-looking ones are more successful, however. They attract more prey, which makes them stronger. Simple as that.
This one moved like a predator, the swagger and grace of a creature who won’t ever be challenged. A man who knows no woman can turn him down. A hunter who doesn’t believe he can be beaten.
I watched him move around the shop, graceful and predatory, even as my brain checked and discarded every available item it could think of which might be used as a weapon.
He was tall and lean in dark jeans and a leather jacket, and maybe I could stun him with one of the heavy coffee-table Bible of the Dead books he was slinking past. No, vampire skulls were thicker than that.
He had dark hair, black maybe, curly and tousled and just brushing his collar, and now he was prowling past the crucifix earrings, maybe I could use those. No, probably not—symbols of religious belief only really work if you actually do believe—and in my experience they’re still not terribly effective on anything but the newest vampire.
His skin was pale, like that of most Caucasian vampires. He didn’t gleam with the sheen of the newly-fed, which probably worked in his favor. If he looked like he’d just eaten someone, I’d have to leap over the counter and bludgeon him to death with a coffin-shaped handbag.
He needed a shave, which was somewhat unusual amongst vampires, unless they were very old, before the art of clean shaving had been perfected. Maybe I could offer him one of the ceremonial knives to shave with, and then accidentally cut off his head with it. No. The blades were quite small, and I’d have to do a lot of hacking. Think of the carpet.
His eyes were dark, narrowed slightly as he glanced at the admittedly tacky range of Goth gifts for sale. His lips were shapely, and I could see no sign of fangs. Not that it would have bothered most of our clientele if he’d been displaying them.
The vampire moved past the range of dying flowers on the Valentines display to the Turnbury Murders exhibition, and as he looked up I saw his eyes were a chocolatey shade, with dark lashes. His bone structure was impeccable, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His nose might have been broken once or twice, but that only served to make his perfection a little more human.
Except that he wasn’t human, and I was considering stabbing him in the heart with an ornamental fan.
I could follow him outside when he left, perform some of my usual look-at-my-neck moves—the vampire version of the crooked finger—and lure him around to the little yard at the back of the shop. Probably, I could hide his body there until the shop closed, and with any luck he might have disintegrated enough to simply be tossed in the organic recycling bin.
Then the vampire turned to look at me, and my breath caught in my throat. I’d assessed the details, inventoried features, dispassionately noted his good looks—but now he was looking directly at me, and that dark chocolate gaze was reaching right out to me and begging me to succumb. He had come-hither eyes, and I sure as hell wanted to hither and come.
Stake through the heart, I reminded myself as he prowled over to the counter. Poison in a pretty bottle. A gorgeous vampire is still a vampire.
Goddamn, he was pretty though.
“I wonder if you could help me,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips, and either the bastard was putting on an Irish accent to be charming or he was actually lucky enough to open his mouth and speak like that naturally. I wasn’t sure which would have been the more annoying.
“I’m sure I can try,” I replied, as politely as I could—which is to say, not very polite. Thankfully, people don’t expect someone working in a shop which sells coffin handbags to actually be polite, which suits me to the ground.
“I’m looking for information about the Turnbury Murders,” he said, and my eyes narrowed.
“Well, we have lots of it in our exhibition,” I said, waving at the wall.
He smiled then, a proper smile, a wide grin that lit up his face and made his eyes sparkle. His teeth were decent, which told me that despite his lack of shaving standards, he wasn’t a terribly old vampire. More than a hundred or so years old and the standard of dental hygiene was so dismal a lot of vamps had a mouthful of brown teeth. Only their fangs looked remotely healthy.
But this vampire, Mr. Handsome Irish Charmer, had perfect pearlers. And dark chocolately eyes, and carelessly long hair. And now he’d moved closer I could see the muscle definition beneath his clothes. He had on a couple of layered t-shirts, frayed and faded, and the hand resting on the counter wore a fingerless glove. His leather jacket was worn in several places, and the silver chain vanishing under his shirt was tarnished.
A lot of vampires tended to dress like they were homeless, and I’d still never quite worked out why.
This guy made it look like the height of style.
“I’m interested,” said the vampire, “in Joan Moorcroft, and William Huntley, and Lizzie Bathgate.”
His eyes suddenly became less like chocolate and more like wood, old, hard wood, the kind that’s turned rocklike with age and hard use, and can’t be shattered by anything.
The three people he was asking about had been vampires. And they’d been killed by me.
“There’s not much information up there about them,” the vampire continued. His gaze never left mine.
“Not very much is known about them,” I replied steadily. “It’s not even certain they were murdered. They simply disappeared.”
Those three vampires had been old, old enough that their bodies disintegrated with nauseating speed. Torrence had simply scooped their crumbling bones into a weighted bag and dumped it in the sea.
“And where do you think they disappeared to?” asked the vampire. His nails were short and clean, his fingers elegant.
I held his gaze. “I think they probably went home,” I said. “We have some books on the Turnbury Murders, if you’re interested.”
“I’m just interested in those three.”
“Well, we have very little information on them,” I said. He was lean, but muscular. Probably knew how to use his body in a fight.
He continued to stare at me. “I knew Lizzie Bathgate,” he said, his voice very low.
“Did you? Then I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Loss? I thought she went home?”
“Well, maybe you should try calling her there.”
“Lizzie was never very good with phones.”
“Wasn’t she.” It wasn’t a question. I’d given up the pretense of being polite.
“They were somewhat before her time.”
I smoothed my hands over a stack of Turnbury Murders leaflets. “How unfortunate.”
“She’d have been more than seventy when they were invented.”
“Is that so.” The nearest wooden object was a pencil far too small to really do any damage with, but I rolled it under my palm in a move I doubt he missed.
“Which would make her nearly two hundred years old.”
“Well, she didn’t look a day over twenty,” I snapped.
There it was. A tiny softening in those hardwood eyes, a tilt of his head, and an utter lack of surprise. The vampire knew who I was.
The three or four other customers in the shop barely turned their heads. Daisy, the only other member of staff present, was helping a girl try on corsets in the changing room. The gloomy Emo music Daisy preferred kept our conversation private.
I was alone with a vampire who knew who I was, and the only weapon I had was a damn pencil.
“You’re Emma Howard,” he said.
“My reputation precedes me,” I said curtly.
“Young vampire hunter with curly red hair and a killer body,” he said, surveying what was visible of said body behind the counter. His eyes caressed me as a lover’s would. “There can’t be many about.”
“Did you want something?” I snarled.
His eyes met mine again, and he smiled, the motion lazy.
“I want plenty,” he said. He reached towards me, and I tensed, prepared to fight him bare-handed if I had to, but all he did was slide a Guide to the Turnbury Murders leaflet from under my palm.
“Thanks for the information,” he said, and one eyelid quirked in what might have been a wink. Rage nearly consumed me.
“Be seeing you,” the vampire said, and sauntered out as casual as anything.
Beneath my hand, the pencil snapped in two.
Vampire Week – Selena Illyria
Mar 23, 2011 Filed under: book recommendation, excerpts, guest blogger, interview, paranormal, vampire, Vampire Week Tags: erotic romance, Loose Id, paranormal, paranormal romance, Selena Illyria, vampire, Vampire Week
Today the seductive Selena Illyria joins us with her thoughts on vampires…..
Like Moths to a Flame by Selena Illyria
They’re dark, dangerous and oh so seductive. They can be animalistic, primal and savage in a minute and in the next they’re weaving a silken web of desire in us, winding us so tight that we can’t resist. Perhaps it’s the age. Being immortal has its perks. To a vampire an eon is a blink of the eye. What wonders they could see, the good and bad of humanity. It’s fascinating and yet terrifying to know that this person could have seen everything from say the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to the Moon Landing.
Despite that fear, there is also the knowledge they could pick up. *wicked grin* Think of all the delicious delights they could have learned along the way, all those tips and tricks to make you squirm, scream and cry out in ecstasy. But it’s not all about the sex and danger is it? Well, maybe it could be depending on how you view it.
I find both sides of the coin fascinating. In a sense you have monster and lover all rolled into one. Think about it, you could have this ancient being, this person who’s seen it all and probably done most of it interested in you, of all the people they could pick. And yet depending on the kind of person you get, you could have the Saint or the Sinner or the devil in your bed. Pretty heady, yes? The question is what kind of vampire would you like?
There’s also something forbidden about the fact that they feed off of blood, our life source. You are literally they’re purpose for life, what’s keeping them alive, their next breath depends solely on you. Whoa, powerful , yes? There’s also the fact that we’ve grown up being told that drinking blood, at least in some cultures, is bad, wrong, you could be damned and here is a creature that does it. We’re defying societal and religious norms to be with this person. Romeo and Juliet eat your heart out! Brushing all that aside, what is it that you find sexy? Fascinating? Desirable? Irresistible? Who inducted you into the dark side and made want, yearn, for that painful kiss? Answer these questions and be entered to win a copy of Blood Claim: Trapped.
I know I love the danger and seduction of the vampire and I’m fascinated by how much they’ve seen and all the things I can learn. But let’s be honest, it’s mostly for the danger. lol
An excerpt from Blood Claim: Trapped:
Blurb:
Kit has never forgotten the cruel way Rysen rejected her as a possible consort over a hundred years ago. She’s striven to get stronger, pushing her attraction to him down and using her anger as fuel.
Rysen has always regretted the way he rejected Kit. As much as he loved her, Rysen despised the way her clan tried to use her as a political gambit for power and protection. But he never stopped wanting Kit, trying to make her his in every way possible.
When enemies attack, they use old magic to seal themselves off and stay safe. But now they find themselves trapped with a century of hunger rising between them….
Publisher’s Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, domination.
Excerpt:
Rysen ignored the throbbing of his cock. As much as he wanted to fuck her right now, he couldn’t. She was unconscious and she was hurt. When he got her in his bed, she was going to be awake and strong and enjoying every last bit of it.
His gaze roamed over her bruised and battered face. “Gods, she is beautiful,” he murmured. He leaned down, scooped her up in his arms, and held her close. He took in her mocha skin, some patches darker with bruises. One eye was swollen shut. He regretted every mark, every bruise, every injury he had inflicted on her, but words did not work with her. Ever since he had passed her over a hundred years ago, when her clan had offered her to him as one of his consorts, she’d loathed him, and she’d taken up her clan’s fight to avenge his insult against them.
He had wanted her — by the gods, he had wanted her — but he had always felt she was just too fine to bring into his world. She deserved better than to be a political sacrifice. His body shuddered at the very thought of her in his bed, arms over her head, tied to the bedposts, her legs spread far apart, her hairless mound glistening with her dew. Her pussy already dripping, ready for him to fuck her hard, fast, and deep. He wanted the image in his head so badly, and yet he knew if he even tried to make a move, she’d either kill him or die trying. He was tired of fighting her. He wanted to tie her to his bed, blindfold her, and show her the delights that could be had if she would only let him dominate her.
Carrying her up the stairs, he held her body close, cradling her like a precious relic. He made his way to the second floor. Out of all the women he’d ever encountered, she inflamed him like no one else. Her oval face, with her large, liquid brown eyes flecked with red, haunted him. Her full lips beckoned him. The graceful column of her neck invited him to sink his teeth into her jugular and drink deep of her life essence. He wanted to cup her small, high breasts and watch his hands travel along the curves of her sides, over her hips, down her thighs, caress her calves, and massage her feet. He wanted to rub his scent into her skin so that all would know she belonged to him and only him. There would be no others if she agreed to be his consort.
He could smell the odious poison in her blood. The wound on her palm was still open, blood slowly dripping from the cut. He would have to drain most of her blood and give her some of his. She would hate him for that.
Giving her his blood would allow him to track her wherever she went, to invade her thoughts and dreams, sense her moods, even from thousands of miles away. He would know if she were with someone else, he could even see through her eyes and take control of her body. He was the third chieftain of the Vampyre nation. He was the third most powerful vampyre in existence, his clan the third largest, and he was also third in line to ascend to the throne of the Vampyre monarchy. All he needed was a queen.
He made his way through a hallway and couldn’t understand why she’d bought this horrid place. It had no class, no sophistication. It was out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods, the nearest town five miles away.
“How in the hell is help supposed to get here in case of an emergency?” he asked the sleeping figure in his arms. “And it’s not even pretty land. For the love of the gods, the garden is overrun with weeds. The lake is a cesspool, and I have yet to see one animal around here. My darling, you should have taken my offer to make you a queen. Then you could’ve had all the beautiful land you could want.”
Even in sleep she defied him. As if on its own, her hand rose and tried to hit him.
He chuckled. “I shall call it a pet project for you, then. A hobby. But this should not be your life. You’re too talented to waste your gifts on this place.”
She tried to hit him again. He wanted to take hold of her hand and kiss the back of it, brush his lips against the pulse point and feel her heart beat. He looked up and saw he was only a few feet away from the bedroom he sought, the largest one at the end of the hallway. He could feel the rival vampyres outside, walking around, plotting their next move. Once he saw to her comfort and recovery, he would go outside and destroy them.
“How dare they interrupt our fight,” he growled. “As soon as I know who they are, they will be dealt with.”
If he had won, she would have been forced to concede to him, and therefore her fate would be in his hands. As much as he hadn’t wanted it to come down to that, he would have preferred it to the suicide mission she seemed to be on when she decided it was in her best interest to fight him.
“So stubborn is my darling,” he murmured softly. He loved her for that. He loved everything about her.
He kicked open the door and looked around. He was relieved to see that the room was in good condition. The furniture was of good quality, no dust or broken items. A large bed, piled high with pillows and bed coverings, stood against a far wall, the headboard a wrought-iron monstrosity whose top nearly hit the ceiling.
“This will do for now. You, my darling, deserve so much more.” His cock throbbed at the thought of laying her down in the silks, satins, furs, and velvets of his own massive bed. He shook his head. He wouldn’t feed his sexual desire now, not yet anyway. He refused to leave her while some unknown threat waited outside, prowling around looking for a weakness in Blyder’s protection spells.
“They won’t find them,” Rysen murmured as he arranged her on the bed and pulled off her boots. He paused, wondering if he should undress her to see how extensive the damage was. Making up his mind, he gently took off her tank top. Next, he removed her jeans and then her underwear.
Once she was naked, he catalogued all that he saw. Though his body reacted to the sight of her, his mind worked overtime to keep his lust at bay. He could see the bruises and wounds slowly starting to heal or disappear, but not fast enough. He took hold of her wrist and held it, palm up. Her self-inflicted wound had not disappeared.
She was too weak. Her immune system wouldn’t be able to defend itself until she had fully recovered. The poison was working much too well.
Swearing, he placed her arm gently on the bed and shrugged out of his black leather duster. Kneeling, he took hold of her arm and brought it to his mouth. His tongue lapped at the spot he would bite into, preparing it to stave off infection.
His canines extended. His body began to heat, and his cock grew harder. He kissed her pulse point before biting down, and his back arched as her blood hit his tongue. The sweet, salty, metallic flavor caused his taste buds to explode with pleasure. His eyes drifted closed while her life filled his mouth like sweet, hot lava. The faint bitterness of the poison did not dampen his pleasure; it was nothing to one of his strength. He drank of her, careful not to drink too much.
A soft moan drew his attention. He saw her back arch, her breasts thrust into the air. The scent of her desire filled his nostrils, and he moaned in response. Blood slipped from his mouth, coating his chin, dripping down to stain his shirt.
“Easy, darling. Be at peace. I’m going to take the poison from you,” he whispered with his mind.
“I’m dying,” she responded.
“No. I won’t allow it. You will not meet the Great Maker now or ever, if I have my way. Relax, my darling. Let me take care of you.”
“No…”
“Do it,” he growled out.
He felt her resist before he reached out with his power. Like a whip cutting through the air, his power flicked out into the space between them; like rope, he wrapped his will around her, pressing her down to the mattress. Her body flinched before relaxing back onto the bed. Once he was sure he had taken enough of her blood, he reluctantly released her wrist and lapped at the wound. Once the puncture marks were closed, he bit down into his own wrist.
He gazed upon her naked body, which looked cold and waxy, almost deathlike. He shuddered. He’d become a vampyre so he wouldn’t have to lose anyone else he loved. Seeing her like this reinforced how much he loved her. His wound welled, blood dripping down onto the worn bedspread. He reached out and pried her lips apart.
“Don’t fight me, darling. Drink of me.”
He placed his wrist at her mouth and watched her react. Reaching up, she took hold of his arm, holding it in a vise grip, her lips pressed to his flesh. Her tongue darted out and lapped at his wounds, causing pinpricks of fire to dance up his arm, inflaming his arousal. Her mouth latched onto his wrist, and each pull of her lips felt like a caress on his cock.
Rysen’s shaft throbbed in time with each tug. He reached down and, with one hand, ripped open the button of his jeans, pulled down the tab, and slipped his hand into his pants. Taking hold of his dick, he began to stroke his hardened rod, eyes now closed, head tilted back. He rose on his knees and, with a bit of awkwardness, tugged his pants down until his cock was fully freed. He wrapped his fist around his shaft and started to pump, up and down, in a grip that would cause tears to form in most men’s eyes. The pain and pleasure cascaded through his body. Warm waves ebbed and flowed through his veins as his hips moved back and forth. He fucked his hand as if he were inside her.
“Rysen,” she moaned, her voice echoing softly in his mind. He grunted in response.
“My love,” he answered. He did not care that he had just admitted his feelings for her or what she would think of them. He paused briefly, remembering the moment that had brought them to this place. The point where he had become her enemy a hundred years ago.
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