After Lee leaves hospital to further recover from being shot, Ryan takes them on a long weekend. They stay in a hotel and enjoy one another’s company, taking strolls on the beach and eating in the local pub. During one beach walk, one of their old adversaries shows up, letting Ryan and Lee know in no uncertain terms that the gang leader hasn’t finished with them yet.
Ryan has always brushed off the fact that some people are anti-gay, but now he is forced to accept that as much as he wishes people would just leave them alone, you don’t always get what you wish for.
Drawn to the attic in her new home, Amelia finds a saucy nineteenth-century wench dress. At first glance, it’s just a dress, but once she dons it, desire streaks through her and she’s transported to the past. Overwhelmed by lust, she is caught pleasuring herself, discovered by the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen, who turns out to be—her lover?
Amelia and Emmet join in an explosive sexual union, erasing the months—or is it centuries?—they have been apart as though they never existed. But suddenly Amelia awakes—alone.
Until the dress calls again.
Emmett’s not the only one lusting after Amelia. Lord Graham wants her and he doesn’t fight fair. He kidnaps her, sends Emmett on a deadly errand and forces Amelia to participate in his voyeuristic games. Although Amelia’s body betrays her, she vows to remain true to Emmett, but will he return? And can she escape the clutches of Lord Graham’s debauchery?
Amidst subterfuge, treachery and murder, Amelia and Emmet’s love grows and they reach new heights of carnal passions.
Emmett ignored her, only sliding his hands to span her stomach. His mouth covered one nipple, teeth lightly nipping, and the shock nearly had her opening her eyes. He sucked, tugging on the taut peak the way she liked, as she knew he would. She cried out, almost reaching her pain threshold. Emmett eased the pressure a little, then sucked and reared his head back once more, the torment too much for her, too intense.
He let her nipple go. It ached, and despite wanting the sweet torture to end, she longed for more. As though picking up on her thoughts, he tongued her nipple, sucking it as before. Amelia clasped her hands together tighter, wanting to cry out yet at the same time testing herself to see how far she could go. He pulled harder, his fingers stroking her waist, circling her navel, and she clenched her cunt, willed herself not to gasp.
She failed, snatching in air.
Breast free of his mouth, she lifted her pelvis, needing him to cater to her throbbing bud. The mattress dipped again as he shuffled his knees farther down the bed then settled between her legs, the heat of his breath on her slit forcing the air out of her lungs. Her torso juddered beneath his questing fingers and she itched to pinch her nipples. Instead, she squeezed her hands again. His tongue parted her. The tip swirled around her nub and a blaze of sensation warmed the folds.
“Oh God, Emmett…”
“I’m going to sup your cream. Lick you, make you want me so much you can’t breathe.”
He flattened his tongue, licking her with quick strokes, fingers smoothing down her body to widen her slit. She bucked as he worked faster, exquisite waves of pleasure ebbing and flowing in and around her bud. Panting, she writhed, unclasping her hands and gripping the headboard spindles. She dug her nails into her palms, the bite adding to her excitement. Tongue flicking from side to side, Emmett brought her to the brink of orgasm then stopped, kissing her mound and her lower belly. She hissed out between clenched teeth, frustrated but knowing when he touched her there again the pleasure would be stronger. He took his mouth from her belly and didn’t move. She waited, eyes still closed, and listened to the sounds around them—their breaths, a creaking bed downstairs, faint moans from customers, footsteps on the wooden floor below. She longed to open her eyes, to see whether he studied her, but at the same time not knowing suited her. And she waited, her heart picking up speed, her wet nub throbbing in time with it. God, how she wanted to let go and slide her hands into his hair, pushing his mouth down onto her slit, directing his movements and orchestrating the pressure. To tell him to sup her now, beg if she had to. But she remained silent, confident he knew exactly when to begin again.
At last, movement! He hooked his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her, setting her lower half on his thighs. His balls rested against her ass, their softness and warmth arousing her beyond measure. Emmett brushed his hands up and down her legs, thumbs skating close to her thatch each time he reached the top. When he drew away she almost cried out in frustration, wanting more of the touch of his fingertips beside her mound. He leaned back to caress her shins, then her calves and she loosed a strangled moan. God, he teased her so! She needed his hands higher up, at her nub, which pulsed and swelled with every passing second. Sliding his hands beneath her knees, he pushed so her legs bent and she placed her feet beside him on the bed. He spread her legs and she could only imagine the sight of herself open for his viewing.
“Beautiful, wench. Beautiful.”
Her stomach flipped at the hoarseness of his voice, a voice that belied the fact he was in control. He was close, she sensed it, and it wouldn’t be long before he could hold back no longer and plunged inside her. She hoped it would be soon, because she was close to coming herself. The slowness of his actions had brought her to a high state of arousal, and just the slightest touch now might send her over the edge.
Thumbs sliding up and down each lip of her slit, Emmett tortured Amelia some more. She jolted, eyes nearly springing open, and waited to feel what he would do next. He placed his thumbs together then glided them down to her opening, easing them inside with his fingers splayed over her mound. He pressed his thumbs and fingers together, her pelvic bone in between, and moved his thumbs up and down the upper wall of her sheath. Suddenly, he curved his thumb tips and touched something deep inside her, a place he had never been before. A sharp sensation had her abdomen jerking and she almost, almost opened her eyes.
“Did you like that?” he asked, dragging his thumbs down then returning them to that place, pressing there with his fingers.
The sensation came again, and now he concentrated on the area, rubbing what felt like a ridge inside her. She nodded, wondering what would happen if he kept stroking. Amelia didn’t have to wait long before successive shots of fierce pleasure momentarily took away her ability to breathe.
“I told you I’d take away your breath. Good. That feels good, doesn’t it, wench?”
She nodded and gasped, riding out the new feelings his thumbs produced. As the bite receded, her bud still throbbing and in need of attention, he eased his thumbs out and gripped her waist. Without warning, he thrust his cock inside her, fucking her hard and fast. She clenched her sheath around him, gripped the bed spindles tighter and gave in to the rising tide.
“Ah, wench!” he ground out.
His firm thrusts nudged her up the bed and she crossed her ankles at his lower back, her whole body tingling with excitement. Juices coated his cock, the length of him gliding in and out easily, the aroma of sex heightening her desire. She came, bucking, keening, emotions running so high they overwhelmed her with their intensity. Emmett’s low moans and grunts brought on another wave of pleasure and her cunt ached with it. Wet heat filled her and her lover loosed a strangled yell, pushing into her with short jabs as he emptied himself into her contracting sheath. He slowed to a stop and lowered his body to hers, brushing her cheeks with sweet kisses.
Amelia opened her eyes, staring into his. Love shone from him and she wanted so much to tell him how she felt, but the words wouldn’t come, halted by the lump in her throat.
I love you, Emmett Dray. Love you…
TODAY WE HAVE SOMETHING A LITTLE DIFFERENT. WHILE I’M NOT ONE FOR SALES PITCHES, I RECENTLY MET A GENTLEMEN WHO PIQUED MY CURIOSITY REGARDING AN EMERGING SOCIAL NETWORK. MOVE OVER FACEBOOK! I ASKED HIM TO BE A GUEST ON THE BLOG. LET’S SEE WHAT HE HAS TO SAY.
CAN YOU TELL ME A LITTLE SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR ORGANISATION?
Of course, and thank you for having me!
All I have to do is ask: have you ever wanted…more?
Of course you have! It’s human nature to look at our simple lives, perhaps the plain wife in front of the television and the ugly brats that are fighting over the meagre crumbs your worthless employment can provide. Does this sound like you? Then read on, friend!
We here at the Cult of Zandathru…
LET ME STOP YOU THERE. CULT? WE HEAR SUCH HORROR STORIES ABOUT CULTS NOWADAYS. NOT GOING TO OFFER ME KOOLAID ARE YOU?
No, no. Let me explain. The word cult in the Cult of Zandathru is merely a term. Consider it as a friendly group of people. We have no religious connotations nor connections. You will not be required to attend church, pray or sing hymns. We also don’t have any religious texts that you are to meticulously study. We put the ult back into cult, ult being the neo-anglo-saxon term for fun!
SO THERE IS NO RELIGIOUS COMMITMENT?
Well, Zandathru is the ancient god of chaos, but it’s more like a figurehead. Something for the Cafepress t shirts and mugs.
SO IF THE CULT OF ZANDATHRU HAS NO RELIGIOUS BACKGROUND, WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT? I’M INTRIGUED!
Our members believe in themselves. If you want something, why shouldn’t you have it? Don’t we all work hard enough to get what we want? The Cult of Zandathru is also firmly established in the new world of telecommunications, and we regularly have members meet and trade ideas online. We also broadcast directly to members over the net via our subscription service. That side of the business is run by a chap we call Demon, as he’s a demon when it comes to technology! Demon has a very impressive set up at our Orchard House site in the quaint old town of Samhane. Subscribers are guaranteed the upmost in download times, hi-res video and and a wide band width, whatever that means!
AND WHAT DO YOU PROVIDE?
Let me ask you something. What would you want providing?
FOR A STREAMING SITE? I WOULD EXPECT MUSIC, SPORT, THE LATEST MOVIES…
I think we’re being a little modest! What would you really want to see? Any fantasy can be provided. Any sin of the flesh imaginable can be broadcast live into your own living room…
AH, SO YOU RUN A PORN SITE?
The term porn is so…tarnished, nowadays. Is it porn to eat caviar and drink champagne in the finest restaurant? Or to scratch an itch that’s been screaming for attention? No, I don’t think it is. We cater for any taste, and subscribers can even email their requests in live during the broadcast. Please bear in mind that none of the broadcasts are morally wrong in any way. We have members who even watch with their children! We love the little tykes, and they enjoy the interactivity of the shows. Children are the future, after all.
CAN YOU CONFIRM THAT THE CULT OF ZANDATHRU IS TIED WITH BELVEDERE LTD, OR MORE SPECIFICALLY JOSEPH BELVEDERE? THE GRANDSON OF CHARLES BELVEDERE, FOUNDER OF SAMHANE?
THE BROADCASTS SOUND GREAT. IT WOULD BE NICE TO FIND SOMETHING MY YOUNG SON AND I CAN DO TOGETHER. HOW DO I FIND OUT MORE?
The next step would be to pick up a copy of the novel Samhane. The Cult of Zandathru employed some hack writer to dress up our practices and make it look like a novel. That way, we can attract the lucrative market of fiction readers. Why waste time reading when you can watch pure pleasure 24/7? But yes, the novel will give potential followers…erm, subscribers a deeper insight into how we operate.
Although just to clarify, the author did go a tad overboard. His accounts of torture-porn, chainsaws, acid, rape, cannibalism and giant, horrific gods are purely artistic license for sales. Unfortunately, not only was the Cult’s reputation tarnished, but sadly the author met a tragic accident shortly after the review copies were sent out. A group broke into his house at night and flayed him in his bed. At least the money we save in royalties can go towards repairing our besmirched reputation! Should you want to know more about this sad and pointless death, we have the video, available to all subscribers. You should see it…boy does he bleed. And the screams? Oh the screams are orgasmic! Almost as good as the time Demon remade the move ‘Drillbit Taylor’ with a girl called Taylor and a drill…
OKAY…I THINK WE”VE HEARD ENOUGH. CAN YOU LEAVE NOW?
I don’t think so. I’ve been here long enough. All this time Demon has been hacking into your blog account. This site now belongs to us!
The pain, the confusion, the brutality,
He invades, He reaps, He destroys,
He answers the cry of your hidden self,
Those are His ways,
So say the Order of Zandathru!
Samhane, available from Stygian Publications, Amazon and other retailers from late November. Visit Stygian at www.necrotictissue.com and keep up with the now skinless author at http://www.daniel-i-russell.blogspot.com.
Come and join me HERE today and find out some of the reactions I’ve encountered when I’ve told someone what I write!
See you there!
Come and join me HERE today and find out some of the reactions I’ve encountered when I’ve told someone what I write!
Yesterday was a particularly shitty day, where certain things seemed pointless. I went to bed early after a nice bath and woke this morning with remnants of the shit still lingering. I opened my emails, saw some things I didn’t feel like dealing with and wanted to literally run. Ever get like that? Where things get too much and you just want to get away from whatever it is that’s bothering you? Like this computer, for instance. There is no reason why I shouldn’t just walk away from the computer today. Nothing that can’t be left until tomorrow, but after realising that hey, if I didn’t pull my socks up and stop feeling like shit it would take a stronger hold, I had a cigarette and told myself off. I do that regularly. Sometimes out loud when I’m on my own, and other times in my head so family members don’t think I’m really mental.
Anyway, I logged onto Facebook, still wanting to run, still wanting to say “Fuck you, world!” and saw a wall post Hubby had left me before he went to work. It’s just a series of letters, but it means something to us, and seeing them took all the shit away. That he had been thinking of me down here while I slept up there, that he knew, because of yesterday, that I had come very close to hitting rock bottom about something—I don’t usually cry, so that gave him a good indication—made me get everything into perspective.
He loves me. Wants what’s best for me all the time. And like he said last night before sleep, whatever decision I make, he’ll support me all the way. I knew that—he always has—but hearing it made me feel better.
So, my options today are:
1. Walk away from the computer and tell the world to fuck off today.
2. Dive in and get on with things, get them off my back so they aren’t on my mind.
3. A bit of both.
I’m choosing option 3. I’m going to do what I have to on here this morning, and if I stay on here after that, all well and good, but if I don’t, who cares. What does it matter if I’m not “doing” something with regards to my career every damn day?
I got good advice from friends via email, good advice from Anny Cook on my blog post yesterday, and support from Hubby with hugs and knowing to just leave me alone with my woes. I’m lucky that I have such people who help me through the dark dips that get hold of me, and I feel guilty I dump my shit on their shoulders, but they are the angels who keep my wings from breaking. Muddling through alone would be very crap.
Soooooooooooo, without further ado, I thank those who supported me yesterday—again!—and will plug on today, get things done, and shift back into “You won’t beat me!” mode.
After all, I’ve done that so often I’m a sodding pro.
Have a great day, all.
I’ve had a bit of a revamp around here. I got bored with the white and decided to go with something more in keeping with the darker aspects of my work that I’ve been leaning toward lately. Sort of combining my “old” self (Charley Oweson) with the newer, m/m self (Sarah Masters). I love writing dark books, but it remains to be seen if the darker work will be taken as well as my other m/m. We’ll see.
The last two books of the Blinded series—Wildfire and Shimmer—are at the formatters, so they should be available soon. Scared is with two beta readers, so that novel will be sent to the publishers shortly. A single title, Grafton’s Point, in the Dreams & Desires anthology, the proceeds going to a battered women’s shelter, will also be available soon. As for WIPs…at the moment I have four books on the go. One for EC, one for who knows where, one co-authoring with Jaime Samms, and an m/m. You’d think with 4 to choose from I’d have the urge to write at least one of them, but I don’t. So, I might well start a new short today just so I keep up with my chapter a day regime that I’ve been sticking to for the past two weeks now. It’s working well, although some days the procrastination fairy does sit on my shoulder and prod me to do other things. Like she did this morning by making me re-do this site. Bless her…
I’m on a bit of a downer today, but ho hum, such is life, and I’m sure I’ll knock myself out of it in an hour or two. Sometimes life throws a curveball and makes me wonder what the fuck the point is with certain things, and I ask myself whether I need to take a new direction. Still, I’ll plod along as usual, see if anything changes—God, I’m always saying that!—and then if it doesn’t, I’ll think about making some changes of my own. Sometimes it’s like I’m beating a dead horse, know what I mean? I reckon it can apply to anything in life: When do you decide enough is enough? When do you say, “Right, that’s it! Fuck this for a game of soldiers!”
Yeah, it’s to do with writing, my career, whether all this hard work is worth the virtual paper it’s written on. But…that’s a story for another day. I think I’m just tired, may possibly need a break after hammering out Scared. Unfortunately, I never know when to quit until I burn out. So maybe I just need to either start a new book or go and do something else for a week or two. Avoid manuscripts like the plague. Um, yeah. That’s likely…
Whatever you’re doing today, I hope it’s a good one, and if you need to reflect, like me, I hope you come to the best solution for you. One that makes you happy. TTFN, loves!
After twelve days of writing like a loon, my first m/m novel, Scared, came in at 67K. It’s one of those books that, as soon as the plot formed, I had the urge to keep going until it was done. No stops, no procrastinating. I had the plan to write a 3K chapter every day, but obviously some days went to two or three chapters. I wrote it arse-backwards all the way, skipping chapters so the loudest characters got their say first, then went back to fill in the ones who didn’t have the courage to bully me into writing their parts. Bless them.
There are six main characters, something I didn’t expect when I started. Originally it was meant to be a novel about Toby and Russell from my short story Grave Findings, expanding on that book and what happened after that one ended. Whoa, lots happened, and a small part of Grave Findings, where Toby stops a couple of men harassing a young boy, turned into the basis of the plot in Scared. Boys abducted in order to be sold on in the sex trafficking trade.
It isn’t a pleasant subject, and I’m praying I handled it well, but it’s something that has bothered me for a long time. I read a true-crime book once, that stated more boys are abducted than girls, just for this purpose. It’s shocking and frightening, and when you delve into this terrible world, you realise there’s so much nasty stuff going on right under your nose.
Tomorrow I’ll be going through the book again from start to finish, making sure, because of me skipping chapters, everything runs in sequence and makes sense. The second draft also gives me the opportunity to add extras, things I tend to skimp on with the first draft, because I want to just get the main story down.
I felt lost when I finished. The book has literally controlled my life the past few days, and now maybe I can get to sleep without thinking on what happens next. Unfortunately, I don’t think that will be the case. The bad guy in Scared, “Frost”, decided he has a tale of his own to tell, so don’t be surprised if I do another mad few days writing another novel all about him. But that can wait for a little while. I need to give my poor brain a rest, not to mention my fingertips.
But, ahhhhhhhhhhh, it feels so good to have got that story out of my head and onto the page. I’ve just got to hope readers like it, despite the horrific subject matter. Eep!
Yep, you read the title right. $1.96. God, I’m so bloody rich I could squeal. This amount was apparently made this past year plus a few months on one of my titles. Of course, it’s below the stated amount where the publisher issues royalties, so that whopping amount is probably not accruing significant interest by itself but may well be when popped into the bank along with other authors who haven’t made enough to be issued royalties either.
The thing is, if I was also paid for the 75+ covers and 20+ edits I did for the same publisher, then I could be given that $1.96 along with the other royalties. Sadly, after I left the company, working my month’s notice I might add, the publisher has seen fit not to pay me another dime, despite breaching her own contract by doing this.
I recently asked for my rights back on The Book That Has Sold Fuck All, only to be ignored—as I knew I would be. In my contract, I’m within my rights to have the book returned to me, and in my email I asked if I needed to send a registered letter or would my email be enough. I’m taking it that I need to send a registered letter, but if rumours are to be believed, that will get ignored too. So, why waste my money on postage? I’d rather buy bread or milk with it. Also, there is another bother regarding this publisher. My contract automatically renews if I don’t write to them 90 days before the renewal date stating I want my rights back. Who is to say, when I do that, the letter will even get acknowledged? The publisher could say they never received the letter. As I’m UK and they are US, I have no clue whether I could check on whether the letter got there or not.
My take on it is, if I’ve sold so little of that book, why would the publisher even want to keep it on their shelves? Far be it for me to insinuate the book is selling and I’m just not aware of it, because that would be a naughty thought, but I’ve thought it all the same.
I could join the author group, a bunch of disgruntled people who have banded together to fight for their rights, and it seems those who have joined are getting their rights back. So it seems the rest of us, who don’t want to join the group, are being ignored. We’re not threatening legal action, so we can, to put it bluntly, go fuck ourselves.
You would think, due to the recent “news” about this company, the publisher would do all they could to iron out the wrinkles, keep people happy. Still, all I can say is if you’ve ever considered buying my book there, and I’m guessing you can work out for yourself which publisher I’m referring to, don’t bother. I’d rather the book languished in the dusty cyber files than be purchased.
It’s sad that all those authors who support this publisher have no idea that their editor or cover artist hasn’t been paid (providing I was said cover artist/editor, although there are other editors I know haven’t been paid either). Where does that royalty money go? I mean, 75+ covers and 20+ edits…you can’t tell me NONE of those books have sold.
It is, quite frankly, a crock of stinking shit when you’re used in this way. You may ask yourself why I’m not pursuing this, why I’m not raising my fist and demanding payment. The answer is easy. I believe in karma. If I’m treated unfairly, be it in situations like this, being accused of something I didn’t do (another topic entirely), or some other slight directed towards me in life, I leave it to karma to bite people’s arses. I’m not into retaliation, getting my own back, going around behind the scenes doing spiteful things to the people who have upset me. (And yes, people have been doing that to me. Well aware of it. You have a nice day now, all right?) No, things have a way of working out for themselves. If I got arsey and went about using my energy to ruin those who have upset me, I’d lose lots of precious time and gain a lot of angst, and really, I can’t be bothered to chase folks who mean jack shit to me. For me to respond and come out fighting, I’d have to give a shit about the people who wanted to piss me off in some way.
And quite honestly, I don’t.
Let’s face it, making money as an author, decent money, is something we’d all like to do. However, many people I know who are not in the publishing business are shocked when I tell them how things work. They’d thought that by being an author it meant you were automatically coining it in. This isn’t so. I can’t speak for everyone, because I have a few friends out there making as much money per month as they would by going out to work five days a week. Not so for me and many others I know. It’s just lucky my husband’s prepared to be the worker and that I can stay at home and write because I love it. I tried writing with the making-money-in-mind thing going on, writing what was selling out there, but it took away my creativity by treating it like a job. Doing this works for many people, but in my case it just took the fun out of it. So I’ve gone back to writing because I love it, and if I make big money, that’s fine.
So I got to wondering what the very best-selling ebook authors do to create such high earnings. Do they promote like crazy? Or does their writing/genre appeal to readers and they sell lots of books because of that? And what about promoting when you have no money to pay for ads and, in my case, you’re not comfortable with what feels like ramming your books/brand down people’s throats? I hate promoting. I’m just about happy to put up notices of a new release, and some days I’ve even forgotten about a release day, a subconscious thing, I think, so that I don’t have to announce it. Don’t have to say: Look at me! Buy my book! It doesn’t bother me in the slightest seeing other authors promote. They’re happy doing it, and if they’re not, then I commend them in doing something I can’t seem to bring myself to do.
This probably sounds crazy, and some people would say: Well, if you don’t promote, serves yourself bloody right that you don’t make any money from your work.
I can agree with that to a point, but when I did promote, I didn’t sell many books either.
However, there are people out there who don’t promote yet still make good money, so then I’m back to the idea that some author’s plots, genre, and writing style are what a reader wants. I clearly don’t write in a style the majority of readers require. Readers apparently want something uncomplicated to read in their busy lives. This may well be true, and it may be the kind of thing I need write in order to gain more sales, but come on…what if I don’t want to write that way? What if I’ve tried it and I can’t? What if I’ve tried it and I’m unhappy with the final product because it isn’t me?
So then we’re back to the fact that I’m writing because I love it. I’m not writing to make money or to always pen books for people who don’t have the time or energy to read something a bit more complex/using words and sentence patterns that come across as “too much hard work to read”. I’m writing for me. This may be a stupid business decision, but it’s one I can live with. I’m all about my inner self being happy these days, and if writing for these reasons is what makes me a happier person, someone my kids enjoy being around, then that’s what I’ll do. If the books I’m writing for me just so happen to match what a publisher wants, then that’s a bonus.
I came to another decision lately, and that is to write tales as they want to come out and not manipulate them to fit the market. If the book won’t sell anywhere because it doesn’t have oodles of sex, that doesn’t matter. I’d have written the book as my soul intended, and if it sits in a file forever, or goes out as a free read, then so be it. So, my latest, an m/m I began last week, used to have 4K of sex at the beginning. It used to have a break at Chapter Three, which would have been all sex. Yes, used to. Now it has none. It alludes to the fact my men have sex, but with this story I didn’t feel it needed to be shown. A bit like my Reverse Blackmail. No sex between my men in that one. And it hasn’t sold as well as my others that do include sex, but do you know what? I don’t care. I loved writing that book, loved the fact they didn’t have to have hot monkey sex, loved that I didn’t have to pause between non-sex scenes and work out how to fit a sex scene in. Just a plain old book about two men living together, sex not needed.
Then that got me to thinking: Because it hasn’t sold as well as the sex books, in order to make money, do I have to write sex? Is that right? Sad, isn’t it? Yes, I’m an erotica writer, that’s what I do for the most part, but deep down inside I’m not. I’m a mainstream writer. Would love to write plain horror or psychological, thrillers or actions, tales where cocks aren’t allowed to strut into lady gardens. I started out as this kind of author. Did the agent route, got asked for partials, got asked for whole manuscripts—the end result all rejections because, and I’m paraphrasing here: People don’t want to read such frightening things about the realities of life.
Oh, really? I do. My daughter does. My friends do. And clearly others do too, because there are books out there just like the ones I have written and want to write.
Maybe they should have just said my writing was crap, as were my plots, and I should fuck off now before they chewed the ends of their fingers off in frustration at my shitness.
Regardless of my last foray into that side of publishing, I’m going to do it again. My m/m book is now mainstream, urban fantasy, and will hopefully be one of the best books I’ve written. Because I want to write it in the 1st person, Brit-Bloke style it’s coming out as. Because it feels right to do this. Because I want one last shot at writing what I really enjoy. I’ll still be writing erotica for those interested, by the way, but also going back to my roots.
And if it doesn’t get sold, then you’ll see it as a free read. With no sex.
Lee buries his mother, confused with the feelings her death has inspired. He thought he’d feel free, but emotions he didn’t expect come to the fore. After an altercation with an old school friend, they pack up Ryan’s things and head for Biddingford and Lee’s cabin. Something isn’t right, though, and Ryan and Lee face a frightening adversary who just can’t let the past go…
It’s been a while since Paul Miller fell for Carl, and now, he’s having a hard time remembering why. As the relationship slides beyond aggressive into dangerous and frightening, Paul wants a way out that doesn’t involve more violence.
To Carl, a bit of rough sex doesn’t even touch the tip of violent. The twisted path he’s has followed to show Paul the true depths of his love could lead them both a long way from where they thought life would take them.
When Paul is arrested for crimes he didn’t commit, one man, Victor Bradley, stands between him and the complete disintegration of his life. But Vic is the cop who arrested him, and he knows way more than any stranger ought to about the details of Paul’s life.
Caught between the man he thought he loved and one who might be stalking him, Paul is due to learn some serious lessons about trust, friendship, and what love is really capable of.
Jonah Grey, driven by a lust for the blood of the legendary Chupacabra that murdered the woman who was to be his mate, jumps at the offer to leave the FBI and join Night Seekers, who are dedicated to hunting and killing the devil beast.
Then Jonah encounters a woman with whom he shares explosive chemistry that neither can deny—and sex that brings a level of pleasure neither has ever known. Soon he’s dividing his time and indulging in erotic bouts of orgasmic lust with Dakota.
But the devil beast must still be dealt with, and the wolf in Jonah won’t rest until the Chupacabra is dead.
That’s what New York art promoter Sloan Benton sees the day she discovers the talent of sculptor Dallen O’Neal. Dallen’s outrageous style gives Sloan a burning desire to learn more about him and the secret medium he’s using. He’s the sexiest, hottest, most dominant man she’s ever met and the best new talent in town, but she realizes too late that he’s also a painful, forgotten memory from her past.
Dallen O’Neal wants revenge. Sloan Benton crushed his artistic spirit. He couldn’t sculpt anything for years after her cruelty, but his desire for her never waned. When she accepts the invitation to view his work, then his challenge to strip naked for art’s sake, he discovers Sloan’s submissive side. They share wild sex and explore Sloan’s penchant for spankings. Sloan captures his heart, but he thrusts her aside, intent on vengeance.
Jealousy, sex, submission and a hint of exhibitionism mingle together, making Dallen’s need for Sloan…
White-hot and hard.
The latest on writing…
1. Loveyoudivine will be selling my series books as one book per series for those who like to have them all on one file.
2. Contradicting review came in. Some good points that I took on board, and will keep those in mind for future books, but it left me thinking: wtf? Amazing how other minds ‘see’ things so differently. One reader gets it, the other doesn’t. I’m thinking I need to write books that are ‘spelled’ out, but this makes me feel as though I think the reader is too dense to understand something the first time I wrote it, or that they don’t have the brains to work things out for themselves. I hate reading books like that, where the information is repeated several times, so why would I want to put others through it? At the same time, if there’s a demand for repeats… Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.
3. No writing so far this week except for about 100 words on a new novel. I was fired up to write it, then someone made an innocent comment that zapped the light and I closed the document, leaving me doubting whether I could pull the book off.
4. Meant to be writing book 4 in the Blinded series. No chance at the moment. My mind isn’t where it’s meant to be for that series.
5. Having the kids home for summer break has stalled the writing too. They’ve been good, but me not getting any time alone hasn’t helped. I also have edits to do. Thank goodness I have 3 weeks to complete them, because my mind is elsewhere. I’ll start them Monday.
6. General bleurgh feeling toward my career at the moment. Had these feelings before and they pass, so I’ll sit here and wait for them to pass again. No enthusiasm.
Anari Fury—daughter, sister, fiancée. Life on Sa-Ro Five is good…until a ruthless pirate spies her. Refusing his advances sets in motion a chain of events that will change her life forever.
Taken from the only home she’s known, Anari is sold as a sex slave. But she possesses a secret that puts her at even greater risk than that posed by the man who uncovers desires she never suspected—a frightening man with opaque gray eyes and a past that could get them both killed.
Duncan Storm is an AWOL super soldier. Conscience drove him from the IMF. Necessity drove him to Bounty Hunters, Inc. But Duncan’s skills are no match for the woman destined to teach him the one thing he’s never known…love.
Together, Duncan and Anari must fight to regain control of a technology capable of providing a better life for millions, or destroying entire worlds. Along the way, both will learn what it means to give their all for the love of another.
Lola Lamont leaves Vegas with two pals, never imagining they’d break down in small-town Texas. So what’s a former showgirl to do when she runs smack dab into the hottest sheriff south of the Mason Dixon line? Why, jump his bones, of course!
Sam Campbell takes one look at the Vegas Bombshell and knows damn good and well she belongs in his bed. She probably has the words gold digger tattooed to her ass but he’s ready to take what the sexy blonde has to offer. Vowing to protect his heart, Sam rocks her world. Too bad she’s rocking his right back. Sam is more than ready to handle some sass, spunk and sex, but is he willing to gamble on love?
With the big four-oh looming, Larissa Cross is more than ready to shed the roles that have defined her and make drastic changes. Gone are the widowed Army wife, soccer mom and empty nester. She’s even setting aside the schoolteacher until fall.
A naughty challenge issued by fellow erotic romance booklovers on their blog, Tempt the Cougar, has come at the perfect time and ignited Rissa’s competitive drive. It’s going to be a glorious summer full of hot younger man lovin’ for a new cougar on the prowl. Rawr!
Tattooed and pierced fireman JD Harmon is tempting prey but there’s much more to the hunk than his bad boy good looks. A one-night stand isn’t in his plans, and sex—no matter how mind-blowing—won’t distract him from his goals. JD intends to tame the wicked cougar and stake a claim on her heart.
The very talented Lakota Phillips posted this picture on Facebook, which prompted a discussion about BDSM and the lifestyle, one I waded in on. Which brings me here to this blog post.
Years ago, the title BDSM made me say “Oooer!” and think of people hurting one another. I didn’t know a thing about it, so when I decided to write a BDSM tale I bought a true-life book about a woman who dominated men for a living. She had a need to do this, and having such a job afforded her the release she needed—one other people didn’t understand or care to. She was frank, explained what the men required of her, and took me into a whole new world that brought me awareness to my fellow human beings who like being dominated, not just in the bedroom, but in everyday life.
One man visited her and requested that she flick his nipples (EDIT* I previously wrote manhood due to my bad memory!) with a coin until he bled. Now, to some people that is mightily odd and just plain weird, but to him it wasn’t. When the Dom did this to him he felt whole and left her company feeling better within himself. When the need to have her do this again arrived—say, when life got stressy and he needed release—he’d arrive by appointment and she’d serve him again. What is wrong to one man isn’t wrong to another. In my opinion, we don’t have the right to judge this man and his desires, nor do we have the right to judge this woman for the profession she has chosen. They both needed fulfilling. He hurt no one. She did her job. End of story.
I wrote my books, loved writing them too, then started a new one. For this book I needed to research men who allowed their women complete control over every aspect of their lives. To the outside world it would appear the couple lived ‘ordinary’ (whatever the hell that is) lives, but the couple had some unspoken thing going on where they were able to appear ‘normal’ yet practise their lifestyle at the same time. For example: Man and woman have friends round for dinner. Before the guests arrived, the woman had told her husband she didn’t want him eating his food until she gave him the sign—even if the food went cold. The husband was happy to do this. If he accomplished what she’d asked, she’d reward him by allowing him to touch her in bed later that night. The dinner began, and the husband covered up his non-eating by chattering about work and making it appear he was enjoying his meal by cutting his steak every so often. After about ten minutes, the wife nodded and he was allowed to eat. During this time, the man explained that the promise of what would happen later if he did as she’d asked gave him a sense of serving the woman he adored and made him feel good about himself.
Now, to some folks this would seem weird, a little whacky, but for this couple it worked. It’s what they have chosen to do. Like I said on the Facebook thread beneath Lakota’s picture, many people just don’t understand this kind of lifestyle so look upon it as odd or even wrong. Who is to say it’s wrong if both parties are in agreement as to how their relationship progresses? What has it got to do with anyone what this couple do if it isn’t hurting others? Just because something doesn’t fit the mould of what folks think is the ‘norm’, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s just different, a lifestyle choice two loving people have chosen, a path they wish to walk. They’re not forcing anyone else to walk that path, nor do they, as some people think, go around recruiting people for weird cults they belong to. It isn’t a bloody cult, for God’s sake. It isn’t wrong or bad. It’s just their life. I know someone in my real life who thought, after hearing the term ‘dungeon’, that everyone dresses in cloaks and meets up once a week in a dank, dark basement to perform sexual rituals. Oh, please. Watch TV programmes and believe them much? These things most probably do occur somewhere in the world, but I would bet it’s nothing whatsoever to do with the lifestyle practised by most couples.
With this subject, I was pleasantly surprised about the depth of love and feeling these couples have for one another. Their trust levels are very high—actually to a beautiful degree, where they know their partner inside and out, know their boundaries and feel comfortable with that one person who understands them totally. Of course, you can have this level of trust in your relationship anyway, without the lifestyle even coming into it, but if only people would just open their minds and find some understanding for their fellow man’s choices instead of brushing it off as strange. Doesn’t mean we have to jump into the lifestyle ourselves, does it?
I don’t practise it, but as I said on Facebook, I have respect for those who do. I have friends who are lifestylers, and they’re just everyday people who explore their relationships and bedroom likes and dislikes in a different way to me. Doesn’t mean, just because they do something I wouldn’t do, that they’re not welcome in my life. Plus, lifestylers—and if that term offends anyone, I’m sorry, I just don’t know what else to call it!—in my experience, have been some of the nicest people I know.
Yes, there are aspects of the lifestyle where pain is involved. Some people get pleasure from pain, and if that’s their bag, then good for them. But they bleed and hurt and cry and laugh just like everyone else. Remember, they are everyday folks who have the same battles in life: paying bills, loving their families, trying to fit a shopping trip into an already busy day, and any number of lifey things. Just like you and me.
“Actually I’m on a mission to change the world or at least help it be more open minded…as many as I can reach anyway. 😛 I’m a bit too nonconformist to follow any rules of any group. BDSM is a fascinating topic to study and I do like exploring my own kinky boundaries… As long as it’s consensual, safe and sane, why the hell should anyone else care?” ~ Lakota Phillips
“It takes less strength to control than it does to give up control and psychologically for those with trust issues it can be a healthy exercise in conquering the internal demons that cause those personal conflicts. There is also amazing connections made between people when strong, alpha personalities do choose to give up control to their partner because it is so difficult for them to turn over the reins.” ~ Lakota Phillips
Lakota Phillips’ Links:
Stranded in Mesa Blanco, Texas, with no money and no prospects, Emily Lathrop hires on as the cook at the Lazy Aces Ranch. Two problems—she can’t cook, and owner Wyatt Cavanaugh is so hot she nearly burns herself just standing near him. Trying to keep her hormones under control is a problem when Wyatt seduces her into his bed and teaches her the real meaning of erotic love.
Now proper Emily finds herself shockingly addicted to the BDSM games he likes to play, her body craving the bondage and domination that pushes her thermostat past the point of combustion even though she suspects it’s all going to come crashing down any moment with a big, painful thud.
By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
An Excerpt From: TROUBLE IN COWBOY BOOTS
Copyright © DESIREE HOLT, 2010
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
Emily Proctor slammed the hood of the car and looked at her two friends.
“I don’t have a clue what’s wrong with this clunker, but I jiggled everything I could. See if it starts now.”
They’d set out from Las Vegas, the three of them, refugees from downsizing, with nothing but this whale-sized bucket of bolts, a few possessions, prepaid cell phones for emergencies and the grand total of three hundred dollars between them. West, there was only California and LaLa Land so they’d headed east, away from the desert heat. They’d expected the car to break down somewhere, just not on a highway with nothing around them except pastures and cattle. They hadn’t even passed another vehicle in almost an hour. And it was hotter than nine kinds of hell.
Emily’d pulled her thick mane of sable hair back into a pony tail. Now she lifted it off her neck where it rested limply and used it to fan her skin. If this was a nightmare, she wanted to wake up right this minute.
Lola Lamont wriggled in behind the wheel. One blonde curl from the mass of curls piled haphazardly on her head and held in place with a clip fell forward onto her forehead and she brushed it impatiently away. Stretching out her long, showgirl legs and straightening the t-shirt that barely concealed breasts that were the envy of every other girl in the shows, she worked herself into place on the seat. Letting out a long, slow breath, she carefully turned the key. The motor coughed, gurgled, groaned and finally turned over with a sound that set all their teeth on edge.
“At least it started again.” Lola sighed. The 1966 pink Cadillac convertible was her contribution to their road trip. “This old gal has been very good to me.”
“It may be time to put her to sleep,” Roxie snorted.
“Roxie!” Lola did her best to look affronted.
“I’m with Rox,” Emily put in. “You think this hunk of junk will at least get us to the next town?”
Leaning against the car, Roxie fanned herself with her hand. “It better, or we’re gonna burn up like fried chicken.”
“All right.” Emily dusted her hands off on the seat of her jeans shorts. “Rox, get in the car. Lola, you drive. Roll all the windows down to catch some kind of breeze and pray as you never have before that we hit civilization before this thing rolls over for the last time.”
The grand adventure they’d tried to make this was turning into a grand pain in the ass. If they didn’t light somewhere soon they’d be in bigger trouble than they’d had in Vegas.
No one said a word as they rolled down the highway, each mile unwinding beneath them with unbearable slowness. Emily knew they were sending up silent prayers to the gods and the fates and anyone else who would listen.
Please, please, let us land somewhere safe.
Just as the engine was beginning to make threatening noises again, signs of life emerged. Smack in the middle of the highway sat a town. If you could call it that, Emily thought. A far cry from the glitz and glitter of Las Vegas.
But it had a main street, cross streets running into it and, lord have mercy, a cafe, where the car heaved its last and died.
“At least we’ll be able to get something cold to drink,” Roxie sighed.
“You better hope it’s cheap,” Lola warned. “Maybe we could all share one.”
“Maybe we could just go inside and see what’s what.” Emily blew a stray hair away from her face. How in god’s name had she ever thought this would be fun?
‘“What’s what’ better be a way to get that hunk of junk fixed,” Roxie said, climbing out of the car.
“As if.” Lola tugged on her very tight white shorts and brushed at her hot pink tank top. “The only way that’s gonna happen is if we rob a bank or win the lottery.”
“Right now we don’t even have money for a lottery ticket,” Emily reminded her and sighed. “Okay. Let’s go see what’s inside. Hopefully they have air conditioning or we might sweat to death.”
The inside of Blue Belle’s looked so cheerful Emily almost threw up. Booths among one wall were upholstered in what she could only call an electric blue and the scattering of tables and chairs had cheap vases of artificial blue flowers on them. Every available space on the wall was filled with more pictures of bluebonnets than she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen that many.
At three o’clock in the afternoon the place was mostly empty. The first thing Emily noticed was the blast of cool air that greeted them. The second was the three men sitting at a corner table. They all looked up as the women trooped in. If Emily had been in a better mood she’d have checked them out. Right now all she wanted was cold liquid, not a hot man.
The three of them plunked down in chairs at a table near the door. Roxie picked up the menus stuck between the salt and pepper shakers and fanned herself. A woman in jeans and a blouse the loudest blue Emily had ever seen came out from behind the lunch counter.
“Y’all look like you’ve just been dragged through hell,” she commented. “What can I get for you?”
Roxie stopped fanning herself and looked at the plastic-covered menu. “We’ll have the large Coke.”
“All of you?” the waitress asked.
“One coke,” Emily told her. “Three straws.”
The woman stared at them for a long minute then shrugged. “Okay. One Coke. Three straws.”
“Couldn’t we each just get a small one?” Lola whined.
Emily bit back the retort that bubbled up. “Even a small one is more than two dollars,” she hissed. “They probably think they’ll get rich on strangers coming through.”
The woman returned with a huge glass filled with the bubbly soda, plunked it down on the table and slammed three paper-wrapped straws beside it.
“She probably figures she won’t be getting as tip,” Lola giggled.
“She’s right,” Emily said and picked up one of the straws.
They were each taking small sips, savoring the icy cold liquid, when the waitress returned with two more large glasses of coke and set them on the table.
Emily looked up at her. “Um, we didn’t order those.”
“I know.” The woman’s voice could have curdled milk. “Your friends over there did.”
“My friends?” Emily frowned. “I don’t have any friends here.”
“You do now.”
The voice was deep and so smooth it sent shivers of delight dancing along her spine. She was vaguely aware of a chair scraping on the floor next to her and a body folding down into it. When she forced herself to look at the occupant she nearly lost it. A typical cowboy hat sat atop a head with thick, sun-streaked brown hair long enough to touch the collar of his chambray shirt. Hazel eyes with flecks of amber and green were watching her with an amused look. Sensuous lips turned up in a slight grin that softened the harsh angles and planes of his very masculine face. Faded jeans covered long legs that he crossed with one ankle resting on the other knee, giving her a good look at dusty, but obviously expensive, cowboy boots. Hand tooled. Emily had seen enough of them on high rollers in Vegas.
When Miss Alicia Silverwood marries the Earl of Dorchester, he whisks her off to Notre Plaisir, a country manor where erotic surprises await in the company of three powerful lords.
The young Earl needs a wife and heir. The cynical Marquis de Beaumont needs a playmate. And the commanding Duke of Warrington needs a reason to live. As for the new Lady Dorchester, she’s about to discover the true nature of her own sensual needs. On top of that, she’s falling in love.
It might take a miracle for Lady Alicia and her three lords to come to an arrangement that makes them all happy. Or perhaps all that’s required is a little scandalous rule-breaking.
Reader Advisory: Contains an m/m/f/m ménage with brief m/m sex, as well as a deflowering and much sweet loving.
In town yesterday, it was very clear the British school summer holiday had begun. The main street was full of those small humans called children. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love kids, have five of my own, just don’t much like the stages where they’re ‘into’ everything and ‘getting in the way’. Poor little sods—I realise that’s the way we develop, but when they’re all racing around outside the shops, screeching and screaming, their mothers getting more irate by the minute, I bless the fact that mine are well past that stage. I’ve done all that, been there and got several T-shirts in several different ‘stages’, and wouldn’t want to go through it again. In short, I’ve turned into a grumpy old cow.
In the freezer store, a woman, her husband, and seven kids that I counted, decided to do their shopping in a straight line ACROSS every aisle. So, they blocked the way and had a few frustrated shoppers waiting for them to move, me included. Brits are a polite bunch—most of them anyway—and no one asked them to budge over for ages, until one woman, her child crying in her pushchair because, let’s face it, she was bored shitless, pushed ahead of us all and loudly exclaimed, “Excuse me!”
One person from that family moved, the gap created barely enough for anyone to get through, let alone a shopping trolley/cart. In the end, after several people tsked and barged through, another family member moved out of the way, with, I might add, a look of disgust as though they had every right to hog the damn aisle.
Yeah, I know it’s hardly something to whinge about when there are far more important things going on in the world, but shit, I’ve just whinged anyway.
The visit to town made me want to scream, say stuff like, “Shitfuckwankerandbugger!” and return home as quickly as possible. Except it was hot. Hell, yeah. Let’s moan about the weather now. When it’s cold, that’s wrong, and when it’s hot, that’s wrong too. But it was muggy, the air thick, and by the time I got home I felt the need for a bath.
While I’m at it, I’ll have another moan. Workmen are due at my house again today. Not only does it mean I had to get up early and tidy up (snarl), it means going most of the day (again—they were here before replacing old fires) without electricity while they change the old fuse boxes for new, fix a smoke alarm, seal my bathroom light fixtures because apparently mine aren’t condensation proof, and put a ‘shaver light’ on the bathroom wall.
I don’t do ‘others’ in my house. I feel violated and ‘nosed at’. Uncomfortable in my own space. I used to be the kind of person who had every effer come round, but now? Sod that for a laugh. Like I said, I’m turning into a grumpy old cow.
Moo on ya!
We finished season five of 24—which, in my opinion, is the best so far. You know, the one with the nerve gas that had me thinking of myself as a terrorist as I sprayed those pesky darn flies last week with bug killer—and started season six. Six isn’t so exciting. The vice president is getting in my nellies—hey, seems everything is in this post!—as he did when he starred in Deadwood. The plot has the same pattern—one thing going on until the halfway point, then it switches. And just when I thought we’d got rid of the dreaded Audrey, who also got on my nellies in previous seasons, she comes back. Fucknghellsbellsshebugsme. But, there is hope. I’m loving Maurice, the Brit bald head. His dry sense of humour is cool. Hey, can you believe I actually LIKED something here? Shit. Maybe I’m not such a grumpy cow after all…
Fight, the novel I co-authored with Jaime Samms, is out very soon. I should have a release date coming because the final pdf is good to go. I can’t wait for this one to go live and see how readers take it. Much excitement!
I haven’t written much the past few days. The kids being off for summer has messed with my mojo. I’m used to being alone. I suspect I’ll just get used to them being home then they’ll go back, but that first day of solitude will be heaven. I love my kids, obviously, but all of them in the house at once is…different. Tests my patience.
So, my current novel is only about 2K longer. I last wrote on Saturday, doing my part in a revision on another co-author. The book has been subbed, and we wait, biting our nails, hoping the book is what the publisher wants. I’ve toyed with writing a Quickie but didn’t. Basically just pissed about the past few days online and in the house. I do need to write at some point, because when I don’t I get quiet, lost in my head, which is good sometimes but at others it really isn’t. If you’re a deep thinker, you’ll know what I mean.
Anyway, I’d best be off before the workmen arrive and my Internet goes off along with the electric. Good job my Nat’s coming for the day, or I’d be bored shitless. Last time the workmen were here I sat in the garden all day and wrote in my notebook. Got a big chunk down too. And got cramp in my hand.
Oh my Lord! I’ve done nothing but moan today. Honestly, I need a slap! Feel free to have a moan in comments. It’ll make me feel less alone in my moany state. LOL. Byeee!