Talk about Things that Go Bump-Hump in the Night…Scary and Sexy

thingsthatgohump300x200Kudos to KD Grace for opening her place to a whole month of spooky, paranormal, dark and mysterious, erotic romance authors…and their story-stars – thank you, KD :)

I’m Holly Preston, a story-star in Kay Dee Royal’s upcoming paranormal erotic romance short story, Holly Gets Darkly – due to release 11-4-14. When Kay Dee told me about this fun Halloween month of things that go hump in the dark…well, I just had to share a couple of the scenes in my story. I’m a nature photographer, love the forest, and have been after a shot of the elusive cougar in Michigan ever since I was a child and saw one of those big cats in a zoo. The look that cougar sent me…well, I swear it was inside my head talking to me. I never forgot it.

WILD_DARKNESS_Calls-2

So, back to the darkness and things that go hump…here’s the scary scene:

A snarled warning from something ahead startled me. I stopped and raised the flashlight in the direction of the sound. My hand shook and the light jiggled. A large cat sprang at the wavering beam of light, like a domestic cat playing with a laser beam. Only this creature moved with the speed and stealth of a ninja, powerful muscles rippling along its haunches as it pounced only a few feet in front of me. I held my scream, but dropped the flashlight. It rolled down the hill, leaving me standing in darkness in front of…a cougar.

Holy cougar-bait, now what do I do? I couldn’t stop shaking while my knees turned to jelly and threatened to crumple under me. Crap. Okay, I had sticks…in my hand. I used one to balance and keep me from falling down.

Then the cat ripped past me, tearing in the direction of the flashlight.

It knocked me down, sticks and all. I lay there frozen, listening as the flashlight skidded here and there, until it finally went out.

The cat snarled, whether in anger or play, I really didn’t know and didn’t want to hang around to find out. I crawled, afraid to stand, feeling my way in the opposite direction of where the cat originated.

Attempting to be soundless in the dark over dead leaves was for the birds…they could fly, while I made lots of noise.

Another something snapped as my knee took the hit. Then I sensed the giant cat was near. Folding my knees under me and covering my head with my arms, I lay face down on the ground. It wasn’t for ferocious cats that a person was supposed to act dead around, but at this point I had no choice. I certainly wasn’t going to run. It would only toy with me until it killed me, like it killed my flashlight.

Its warm, moist breath moved the hair that had fallen over my arms as air puffed in and out of its mouth. I knew they smelled with their mouths open and thanked the universe it was too dark to see its sharp fangs. It pawed my arm, back, side, sole of my foot, and then my butt.

I wanted to shout, “Private place!” But as soon as the thought hit my brain, the beast’s claws shredded the back of my jeans. I jerked at the sound of tearing fabric, every part of me screaming to run, and yet the sharp nails never connected with my skin.

* * *

I’m never scared in the dark…never scared in the forest, but when that big beast stood over the top of me, it was the tensest moment of my life. So, there’s the scary…but the sexy, well, there’s no end to it due to the pheromone over-dose I got afterward…here’s a teeny dose of one scene:

Naked-guy looked like he was studying me, tilting his head, and then his lips parted…was he panting? He leaned closer and his rugged, forest scent washed over me like hot steam in a Jacuzzi.

The wood crackled in the fireplace and snapped me back to earth. “What the hell are you doing?” I shoved his shoulders, but his body was planted in place.

Of all the things he could have done, I never expected this. He grabbed my hand and wrapped my fingers around his arousal and then crushed his lips to mine, burying his tongue inside my more than ready mouth. There was no way I could move, tethered to his…junk below, and then dueling with his exploring tongue. Good grief, what was a woman to do?

He withdrew his tongue long enough to whisper, “You want me. I can smell it.”

Good gods. Who said stuff like that, and what does that even mean…I hiked all damn day…is he smelling my sweat?

His lips claimed mine and then took me hostage. That was the best way to describe the sensations pulsating through my entire body, spiraling down every appendage, every nerve line, and then all joining forces at my center. My eyes closed and my back arched without my permission, shoving my breasts into his chest and drawing my body out from under the coverlet to grind against my hand still clinging to his cock.

I was losing my mind as well as my body to him.

Then he stepped back, leaving my mouth empty and pulling himself from my curled fingers.

* * *

I hope you’re enjoying KD Grace’s month long Halloween howling erotic fun – don’t forget to enter for prizes on the Rafflecopter below (scroll down).

If you’re up for a dark, scary, and ultra-sexy shifter story, consider reading my story – Holly Gets Darkly – it’s the hottest part I’ve ever played :)

You’ll find more about it right here:

https://museithotpublishing.com/index.php/themes/wild-darkness/holly-gets-darkly-detail

 

HollyGetsDarkly_1600x2400Holly Gets Darkly

Tag and Warning:

Holly discovers a whole new erotic world when confronted by the elusive cougar.

Warning: ADULT CONTENT—Sizzling Hot, M/F, F/F, M/M, M/F/M, multiple partners, anal play, and ultra-arousing sex

Blurb:

Holly Preston, freelance nature photographer, gets lost in the dark and stranded in the forest on a mission to locate the elusive cougar for the shot of a lifetime.

Keyt Darkly, Forest Ranger, tracks her with more in mind than rescue.

She discovers cougars are nothing compared to what awaits her in a cabin hidden deep in the darkness…

 

http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photo-woman-long-red-hair-black-image4086800Author Bio:

Kay Dee Royal writes paranormal, fantasy, and contemporary erotic romance—maybe because they’re also her favorite genres to read! She pens tales with wild, rugged heroes and strong, intelligent heroines. She’ll give them both a few shadowy secrets, making her stories intriguing and fun. She resides in Southern Michigan with her family (her dog, her cats, her caged husband… you get the idea).

You can find more about her books at Muse It Hot:

http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php/our-authors/68-our-authors/authors-r/265-kay-dee-royal

 

Kay Dee Royal’s Social media, blog and website links

Author Page: https://museituppublishing.com/eroticab/index.php/our-authors/68-our-authors/authors-r/265-kay-dee-royal

FB: http://www.facebook.com/kaydee.royal

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kaydeeroyal

GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/5227617-kay-dee-royal

Blog: http://www.kaydeeroyal.blogspot.com

Website: http://kaydeeroyal.wix.com/kaydeeroyal

 

SPECIAL NOTE: If you like this post, please consider spreading and sharing through your favorite social network :)

*****

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One Star Reviews! Every Author’s Nightmare! by M.K. Elliott (@M_K_Elliott)

thingsthatgohump300x200Okay, so I’m aware that I’ve only tenuously linked this post into Halloween (Nightmare – get it?), but I’ve been wanting to write a post about this for a while now, and so I jumped on this opportunity!

First of all let me say that I appreciate all and every review I get—yes, even the following examples, because even if they’re slightly nuts, they do bump up the number of reviews a book has. Also, I read a little while ago that the statisticians over at Amazon have calculated that a reader is 83% more likely to buy a book if it has some bad reviews, versus a book that had all positive ones. So, hooray for the bad reviews!

I write in two different names, Marissa Farrar, for my paranormal romance books, and M.K. Elliott for my erotic fiction and contemporary romance, and I am happy to say I have received my fair share of one star reviews. I never, ever comment on my reviews (please authors, don’t ever do this – if you need a reason why, check out the latest stalking incident by Blythe/Hale), but I have to admit some of them do make me laugh. So here, is a list of my favourite types of one star reviews.

  • The ‘I haven’t even read this book’ one star review. I have discovered over the course of the last four years that this review can come in several different forms. It can be anything from the ‘I don’t remember buying this book, so it must be shit’ review, to the ‘Amazon cocked up with their delivery so I’m going to give the author a one star’ rating. This review can also be included in the ‘I hated the cover/blurb so it should only get one star’ review. All are a perfectly viable reason to rate a book with only one star!
  • The ‘this book was about angels and hell, and all other stuff religious, which I hate. Wasn’t my thing at all…’ review. This always makes me scratch my head and wonder why they bought it in the first place. This is especially true to point when the title of the book is something along the lines of ‘A Book about Angels and Hell and Stuff’. (I don’t actually have a book like that – I’m just making this up as an example!)
  • The ‘this was the very worst book ever written, ever’ review. Really? Worst book ever written? I mean, that’s got to be some kind of award, hasn’t it? *Goes off to Google worst book ever awards* This kind of one star review always fills me with a perverted sense of pride.
  • The ‘this book is exactly like such and such a book. The author must have copied it’ review. I get this one a lot. One of my series books has vampires and I made the massive mistake of giving a female vampire red hair. Oh, the horror! The comparisons will never end!
  • The ‘this book was nothing but sex!’ review. This review is perfectly understandable if left on a regular contemporary romance, but when you’ve bought a book called ‘Tracy gets Gangbanged in the Office’ (again, I’m making this title up!), you can’t expect to get a literary masterpiece!

 

So that was a list of my favourite one star reviews! What are yours? And if you’d like to check out my work, and read some of my real life bad reviews, I have a sale running on my sexy sci-fi novella, ‘From Another World’ which is reduced from $2.99 to $0.99! Here’s an excerpt to whet your appetite!

 

FromanotherworldFrom Another World by M.K. Elliott: Excerpt

His beauty overwhelmed her; had she ever seen a man so perfect? Though every instinct screamed at her to stop acting crazy, she was drawn to him. Nothing about him screamed ‘crazy person’ or ‘drunk’ or ‘drug addict’. Instead, he simply seemed lost and confused and…

Aroused.

Yep, her eyes flicked down to his crotch. He was definitely still aroused.

He lifted a hand toward her, “Jessie.”

No longer thinking, she stepped toward him and he gathered her in his arms. The strong curve of his biceps wrapped around her and he dipped his head, catching her mouth in another kiss. Jessie softened against him and her pussy clenched in anticipation. She found herself on tiptoes, longing to press herself against the hard line of his cock. Tao obliged, lifting her slightly so they fit together, his hardness finding the swollen nub of her clit. Sparks raced through her, making her head spin.

Jessie wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into him. Her hands skirted the naked breadth of his back. His skin felt impossibly smooth, as soft as a child’s, contrasting with the power of the well-defined muscle beneath.

However much he had struggled to clothe himself, ridding Jessie of her camisole didn’t seem to cause him such a problem. In a swift move, he broke the kiss long enough to pull the top over her head, lifting her hair with it, before allowing her hair to drift back around her naked shoulders. He dropped the camisole to the floor, exposing her naked breasts.

Her small, but perky tits throbbed, aching to be touched. This time Tao didn’t seem to know what she wanted.

He turned her around, pressing her over the kitchen island.

“Oh,” she gasped, her breasts pressing into the cool granite counter. Her nipples hardened into buds, sensitized further by the cold surface.

His hands were at her waist, his palms skirting down over hips, across her ass. He cupped each cheek in his hands, as if weighing them up. Jessie moaned, her pussy slick with cream, dampening her panties.

This was madness, but for once Jessie wasn’t thinking. She wanted to feel him everywhere, give over every last part of her; his mouth, his cock, his body pressed hard against her. Deep, hard fucking that would release the pain buried inside. Something she’d not gone near since her husband had died.

Slowly, he rolled her panties down over the round, firm curve of her bottom and past her toned, slender thighs, dropping them to the floor. She stepped out from their pooled circle.

He splayed her legs and parted her buttocks, exposing the pink star of her ass, her wet folds. It was as if he was studying her, taking in every last inch of her.

What the hell am I doing?

He dropped to his knees and his mouth was on her, his hot tongue pressed into the tight pucker of her ass. “Oh God,” she groaned as the stimulation caused her most internal muscles to pulsate.

Jessie’s thighs trembled beneath her.

With firm, strong strokes of his tongue, he penetrated her, pushing past the tight ring of muscle. He slipped his tongue in and out, sending crazy sparks of arousal, tightening deep in her pussy.

Jessie’s hands gripped the edges of the counter, her knuckles white. Pleasure soared through her body and she moaned, her head lowered as he lavished attention on her.

Using both hands, he spread her cheeks further apart increasing the intensity, her sensitivity. She pushed her ass out toward him, wanting more. Every part of her mind screamed that she shouldn’t be doing this, but every inch of her body wanted him. Too much time had passed since she’d been touched like this—if she’d ever been touched like this—and she didn’t want it to stop.

When he lifted his mouth from her ass, she had to stop herself from wilting in disappointment. Then his chest pressed against the line of her back and his cock pushed between the folds of her sopping pussy.

Jessie pushed back and the perfect bell of his dick pushed just an inch inside her, enough to stretch her muscles and feel the ridges of him as her muscles tightened, trying to pull his cock inside her.

He kissed the back of her neck, and oh, so slowly, sank his length balls-deep. They stilled like that for a moment, relishing in the feel of togetherness, in being totally held by another person. Just as slowly, Tao pulled out again, almost slipping from her body, before driving back in. The beautiful length of his cock nudged her cervix, shooting a mixture of pain and pleasure through her body.

He placed his hands back on her ass, using his grip on her buttocks to drive himself, deeper, faster. His thumb grazed her asshole and the sensation caused every muscle to clench, gripping down hard on Tao’s dick. Getting the message, he slicked her with her own moisture and his saliva, and pushed his thumb into the tight channel of her ass.

 

Blurb:

Following the sudden death of her husband, author Jessie McLeod suffers from agoraphobia and panic attacks. Unable to venture much further than her own property, she’s become trapped in her old farmhouse. Caught in a cycle of sleepless nights and panic attacks, she can’t even do the one thing she used to love – write.

But after an incredible lightning storm one night, Jessie wakes to discover a beautiful and completely naked man in her backyard. He knows nothing about himself except his name, Tao, and that he wants Jessie. Convinced she can help him, and he her, they embark on a journey of self and sexual awakening.

Try though she might, Jessie can’t ignore the strange things that happen when Tao is around – how he seems able to work the computer without touching it, how his fingers sometimes seem to emit a blue light. After a revelation, Jessie must decide if she can face the truth or continue to hide from everyone and everything.

Content warning – contains scenes of an explicit nature. Intended for mature readers over the age of 18 only. This is a novella length book and not a full length novel. *Please note, this novella was previously published as ‘Sextraterrestrial’. The content of the book has not changed, so please don’t purchase it again if you have already read it.*

Amazon US | Amazon UK

*****

M.K. Bio

 

M.K. Elliott is the author of the bestselling short story collection, ‘Rescued.’ A British author, she was born in Devon, England, where she now lives with her husband, three young daughters, two rescue cats, and a crazy Spanish dog. Though she has a degree in Zoology, her true love has always been writing and she now works as a full time author. As well as erotica, she also writes paranormal fiction in the name Marissa Farrar, and has recently published her twelfth novel.

Since ‘Rescued’ hit the number one spot, she’s also had several other titles hit the bestseller list, including another short story collection, ‘Some Love it Hot,’ and her erotic vampire novella, ‘Deadly Beauty.’ Her most recent work is the sexy serial, ‘Model, Wanted.’

M.K. writes everything from contemporary romance to steaming hot erotica, and her love of travel and adventure is her main influence in her stories.

If you would like to know more about M.K. then please visit her Facebook Page.

https://www.facebook.com/M.K.Elliotts.Erotica or blog http://mkelliott.wordpress.com/.  You can also stalk her on twitter, http://twitter.com/M_K_Elliott .

*****

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Researching Werewolves by Jennifer Denys

thingsthatgohump300x200A werewolf, is a mythological or folkloric human with the ability to shapeshift into a wolf or a therianthropic hybrid wolf-like creature, either purposely or after being placed under a curse or affliction (e.g. via a bite or scratch from another werewolf).

This is wikipedia’s definition of a werewolf. A friend once asked, “How do you research werewolves?” The key thing here is that they are ‘mythical’ so an author can go with details written in legends, eg, can only be killed by a silver bullet, or they can make it up – which is brilliant news for an author. Nothing better than letting our creative sides run riot!

However, when you are writing a paranormal story with a co-author then you have to consider the views of the other writer. One of the issues that we had when writing a story about this mythical creature with my co-author, Susan Laine, was what to name it. Afterall, there are several different names for this being: werewolf, wolf shifter, lycanthrope, shapeshifter, etc. We eventually decided that the heroine, being English, would refer to the species as ‘werewolf’ (my favoured term) and the heroes, being Finnish (as was my co-writer) would call them ‘wolf shifters’. This fitted nicely in distinguishing the different cultures of the main characters – and so ‘The Last Werewolf’ was born which started in England, but the bulk of the story took place in Finland in the wonderfully named Hells Lake or Helvetinjärvi National Park.

When deciding on the setting we were aware of a number of werewolf or shifter stories had been set in America – which is great because they have a lot of backwoods for humans to secretly shift into their animal selves, but we wanted to bring our mutual European roots into our story. England – and many other European countries – are just far too populated so Finland made a great setting for this story with its thick forests, although we had to invent a hill fort secretly hidden from view in this park which is very popular.

The next thing we discussed was whether they could only change during the full moon – and felt that was too restrictive, but the full moon would be like a magnet to them!

He could feel the pull of the full moon urging him to shift, to run, to mate, but he squelched the instinct.

How they became werewolves was our next discussion and went with them being born into the species (ancestry is VERY important in our story) BUT we also included a detail from legends and had one of the characters becoming a werewolf after being bitten by another – this leads to a falling out between the heroes!

Another consideration was whether they were immortal or were we to bring in the ‘silver bullet’? We decided they had superhuman abilities, eg, could heal quickly as Leevi does later in the story, but they could be killed without the aid of any shiny bullets – and death DOES occur in this story!

But what about the shifting itself? Were they going to go through agony of a slow shift as bones lengthened and changed or an instantaneous shift? If we went with the former then what happened to the clothes? You run the risk of your human/wolf being ending up looking like ‘The Incredible Hulk’ if they haven’t got time to take their clothes off before shifting – as happens in a fight scene in the middle of our book. So we went with the instantaneous shift – but them having to master the technique. One of the characters ended up with a sock stuck on his foot (it happened to one of the bad guys, naturally!).

Someone like Leevi, who had spent his life shifting, could hold his shift long enough that any clothes he was wearing as a human would simply fall to the floor before he coalesced into a wolf.

One thing I particularly enjoyed was putting myself in their shoes – or their paws(!) – and considering what the world would be like from a different (animal) perspective.

Tero’s fur was rising as he raised his hackles. Rik tried not to be intimidated as he backed up slowly, keeping his eyes on the other wolf, not wanting to divert his attention in case he was pounced on, but keeping his instincts open to his surroundings. He could feel the light yield of the wood of the balcony beneath him, the damp swirl of the air as it blew up the valley and swept across the balcony, almost forcing him to his stomach, the wet smell of the pine trees and hanging moss as they tossed about in the storm. It felt odd to have the railing above his head. Getting used to a viewpoint from a different height was something that had always bothered him before and upset his coordination, a dexterity he badly needed now as the light was dim in the storm.

What we were able to research was real-life wolf behaviours and had fun incorporating many of these in the sex scenes, such as growling, biting, scratching – and we also included the fact that a wolf’s penis can swell during copulation and get locked inside the female for 5-30 minutes! If you are both in human form and only one of you knows you are a werewolf this can lead to some interesting explanations! LOL.

“Ahhh. That’s so good. Hell, Rik, if I didn’t know better I’d swear you just got bigger inside me.”

She chuckled hoarsely, and he thought she had just made it up, but it brought Rik up sharply, and he started to slow. Shit. It couldn’t be. But his body took over, and he couldn’t stop himself thrusting in again and again as his balls tightened.

Susan and I had a fabulous time brainstorming our story details although there were a few times it would have been good if we had fangs and claws ourselves when we disagreed on a few items – or maybe it was safer that we didn’t! If anyone is visiting Smut Manchester on 15 Nov I am giving a workshop on ‘Collaborating with a co-author: the way to make or break a friendship’ when I talk about the pros and cons of co-writing and suggest some hints and tips. If you are not able to attend check out my blog website after 15 November when I will write up my hints and tips. Jennifer-Denys blog

 

‘The Last Werewolf’ is available in paperbook or as an ebook from:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

 

The Last WerewolfBlurb:

Summer Harrison has lost her father and believes she is the last werewolf in the world. Going through his papers, however, she discovers an old letter from Finland suggesting there’s more to the story.

Taking the initiative, Summer travels to Finland. She meets Rikhard Linna, and the two are drawn together like magnets. Even though Rik confesses to still having feelings for his ex-boyfriend, Leevi Valo, their passion burns hot. But could one man alone satisfy a ravenous wolf like Summer?

During her journey through rural Finland, Summer discovers that uncovering the truth about her wolf heritage is fraught with peril. Abducted by a group of violent separatists and imprisoned in an old fort in the wilderness, Summer learns that it might have been safer for her to stay in England as the last werewolf.

 

Review from Delphina Reads Too Much:

The Last Werewolf was a very different were story. Not just because of the non traditional relationship, although that is not very common. It was different because the writers really took into consideration the animal nature of a were. There were subtleties throughout this book that really made it seem more like it was about weres than it was about people who happened to have a magical ability to change once and while. I really enjoyed that about this book

I also enjoyed watching the characters struggle with who they were and who they wanted to be. Each character was very different from the other and they all had things they needed to work through or decide. Watching them do this as they dealt with the “evil” that you know has to be in any good were story was so spellbinding that I read this story in one night. I was so tired the next morning, but it was worth it.

 

Author bio:

Jennifer is a bestselling author in various genre (BDSM, contemporary, sci-fi, paranormal, with historical and fantasy in her works in progress) with several different publishers.

An Englishwoman through and through, she lives in a beautiful historical city and is game to try most things once. She’s had a tattoo done on her calf, flew down zip wires 100 feet up in the trees, and was photographed nude by a professional photographer. All of which have taken place since she turned 50!

Many of her experiences end up in her books… but you will have to read them to find out what!

Jennifer-Denys blog

*****

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Loving the Bad Guys: Vampires by Elizabeth Morgan (@EMorgan2010)

thingsthatgohump300x200My fascination with the paranormal began the first time I watched the movie: Bram Stokers: Dracula. I was eleven – a little young for the movie perhaps – but I just remember being truly fascinated by the scenery and characters; the wolves and the fact that it was scary. The older I got the more I started to understand the story – I have watched this film about a hundred times in the last fifteen years, and I don’t honestly think I will ever get tired of it – I started to understand the haunting beauty of Dracula’s actions. Although Dracula became a Vampire by giving up his soul due to losing the love of his life – severe anger, and heart-ache on his part since he was very religious. He felt betrayed, which anyone can understand that – he is still a monster.

Ignoring the many decades he has been alive, killing and feeding off humans; he locks away Jonathan Harper as soon as he sees a picture of Mina, who is the physical reincarnation of his deceased wife, goes to London and over the course of a couple of weeks slowly murders her best friend, Lucy, and the main reason he went to find her in the first place was to turn her so she could be immortal and spend the rest of eternity with him, something he was originally going to do without her consent, but got interrupted.

They fall in love and by the end of the film he finds peace. So don’t get me wrong it is still a very tragic and romantic story, and will always remain one of my favourites, but books and movies such as Dracula, Interview with a Vampire, and more recently the very popular Twilight series have painted Vampires to be beautiful, tragic creatures who struggle with their needs and long for humanity and love, which is great, because we get to see a characters turmoil and let’s face it, which one of us wouldn’t love to be on the receiving end of such a creature desire, danger be damned!

Even though it was this gothic romance that sparked my love for the paranormal genre, and even though I will happily read or watch anything supernatural, I still love me some bad Vampires, because these creatures that have been round for centuries and stem from all origins. They are evil creature who feed from the living. Not exactly their fault as it is part of their nature, but they are blood drinkers, they are dangerous and I dig that completely, which is why the Vampires in my Blood Series are just that; horrid, they enjoy inflicting pain, and they enjoy drinking blood, and trust me, my guys and gals kinda look like the guy out of Salem’s Lot – that guy still freaks me out – but with snake like tongues and fangs the length of knives. You so wouldn’t want to be cornered by one of them. Trust me. Luckily, there are Vampire slayers in this world and a lot of cool, sometimes grumpy, Scottish Werewolves who are mainly good guys, unless they have gone Rogue. ;)

~ * ~

EM_Cranberry Blood_453x680Excerpt:

Cranberry Blood: Blood Series: Book One

Lights spluttered above me, fighting with some relentless attempt to come back on, even though the battle appeared hopeless.

It is hopeless. I’m trapped.

Fresh waves of pain rippled around my skull and down my spine as I fought to see everything around me, but thick grey smoke flooded the corridors. It crawled down my throat; the taste and feel of ash coated my tongue, making me gag. The need to cough kept grabbing me while ash blocked my nose and stung my watering eyes. My head throbbed, pressure in my skull tightened, as I fought hard to keep my eyes open.

There has to be a way out.

My eyesight had clouded from the smoke; my nostrils burned with it.

The awareness under my skin blazed as hot as the fire that currently threatened to bring the entire structure down on my head, but I had to walk down here; every impulse in my body forced me forward. I had no idea what I hoped to find, but I knew in my gut that I could get out.

My right hand hit the uneven wall before me; my heart sank as I stood before the dead end.

My lungs burned as the smoke continued to consume my body.

I wasn’t supposed to die down here.

 

Chapter One

~ Heather ~

Air scorched my throat as my body jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide and unfocused, I shot into a sitting position, fisting my hands against my chest as I fought to breathe. My heart hammered, each beat loud and clear as it thumped in my ears. My gaze darted around the room. Relief settled over me like a gentle summer’s breeze as each small familiarity of my bedroom filtered into my jumbled mind: the tall, old mahogany wardrobe to the right side; the window, where light desperately tried to seep through the blinds; and lastly, across from the foot of my bed, the vanity table in the same dark shade of wood. Everything exactly where it should be, including me, in my bed, exactly where I should be.

I inhaled, the simple motion causing a stitch to run up my sides, but I ignored it. Sinking against my pillows, I rested my head against the wooden bed frame and closed my eyes. One breath, two, three; my heart steadied back into its usual rhythm. I rubbed my hands across my face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had broken over my skin. On my exhale, the quietness of the room embraced me. The usual knots in my stomach started to tighten as the confusion of the recurring dream faded. I forced my mind to reach out and grab the escaping images, but, as always, reality quickly settled in and made my vision nothing more than a blank canvas.

Dull throbbing picked up at my temples. Shit. A sigh escaped me. Not again.

I threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, suddenly aware of something gripping the skin of my stomach and back.

“What the—?” The raised hem of my black vest allowed a glimpse at the white bandage strapped around my torso. “How the hell did that get there?”

Shuffling steps took me over to the mirror on the vanity table where I studied the clean dressing that clung to my washed-out skin.
Brow furrowed, I stared at the white patch. “Okay. I really don’t remember hurting myself, let alone bandaging myself up.” My focus snapped to a smaller bandage, taped on the left side of my forehead. I studied my half-naked reflection with confusion. My already pale, peach skin looked pasty white, my golden curls nothing more than flat frizz. The throb in my temples increased as I forced my mind to conjure some memory of what had happened last night.

Blurred snippets of my most recent trip to London skipped through my brain. Standing on the roof across the way from some club…. Then nothing but blank.

I grabbed my comb and sat down on the edge of the bed, a hiss escaping my lips as pain shot up my left side. I took a deep breath and began to pull the comb through my matted hair, clenching my teeth as agony bit at my skull with each sharp tug. My mind continued to sift through snips of the night: going out to look for Carlson, finding him with Antonio. They had followed three drunken women from a club and dragged them into a loading bay behind one of the larger shops. Me following them and helping the three women get away…. At least, I think I did.

But what happened after that? More blankness. Damn.

Hair pulled over one shoulder; I plaited the limp mass and then placed the comb on the vanity table. My forehead began to tighten, and the painful awareness of the familiar thirst that started to crawl up my dry throat assailed my system. My stomach gurgled.
God, I feel rough. I needed food and my mixture, followed by a long, hot shower.

Rolling my head in a circle, I listened to the small pops of tense muscles as I walked to the head of the bed and reached behind the pillows for my sword. My hand met the mattress. My heart stopped. I threw the pillow aside.

Where the hell is my sword?

A strange reckoning tickled below the surface of my skin as my gaze tripped over the room. Something isn’t right.

I walked around my bed to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black jogging pants. My focus landed on my sheathed sword, which leant against the white wall behind the bedside table. I slipped into the garment and grabbed my sword, unsheathing the blade as I tiptoed to my bedroom door.

The leather sheath got tossed on my messy bed and the door eased open. Daylight flooded through the slim stairwell window, lighting up the narrow, cream-coloured hallway.

I walked over to the next door and opened it gently; the familiar smell of my Grandmother’s musky perfume hit me as I stepped into the room. I lowered my sword since no one stood there, but my feet refused to move. Her furniture sat where the pieces always had been. The purple bedding laid neatly, not a crease in sight. A layer of dust covered her bedside table. The faintest trace of her scent still lingered. A ball of grief swelled in my chest, lodging tightly between my throat and heart.

I hadn’t taken a single step in here for over a month. She would have wanted me to clean, to open the window and air out the room, but I honestly couldn’t bear the thought of dusting her away just yet.

I backed out of the room and shut the door, letting out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got myself home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out, and then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?

With a sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my temples increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and something to eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain would decide to start working, and I could fill in the blanks.

The scent of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My clothes from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along with my set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.

A deep inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held traces of blood. My blood.

I stepped into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of dried, red cotton wool.

“I don’t remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.

Surely, I would remember doing this? Why the hell do I smell dog? Another inhale. And pine?

Something really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t remember what had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in real bad shape.

Back into the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew with each step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach clenched at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find my grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of animal, though.

I couldn’t believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God, I miss her.

As I stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my black Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch and the closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the paintwork on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.

I remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!

I killed him, though. I think. He lunged and…. I looked down at my left arm. Two pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the arm, but I got him in the neck….

The sudden sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed me, the awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.

Someone is in my house.

Stepping through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils. Tangy, manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag sat tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers rustled again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining room, my sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.

“Your breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in here and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the deep male voice of whoever was in my kitchen.

What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why is he in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me breakfast?

I took a deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the archway into the empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a strange man seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a forest green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps. The sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.

“Are you going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He turned a page of his newspaper. I couldn’t place his accent, although certain words had a dull edge to them…a Northerner, perhaps?

I inhaled again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine, bacon, and coffee, which meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal invite, and since they all wanted me dead…. No matter what state I’d been in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?

I walked toward him, my sword glinting in the sunlight, the hilt gripped firmly in both hands. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” I stopped three feet behind him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Wrong answer.” The tip of my sword found the firm space between his shoulder blades. “I said, who the hell are you and what—”

“Killing me isn’t going to help.” He turned another page of his paper.

“I disagree. I think killing the stranger who broke into my house is a very good idea.”

“I did not break in,” he replied calmly. “My name is Brendan Daniels and I’m actually here to help you.”

I snorted. “Like I believe that.”

“It’s the truth. Besides, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would have. I also wouldn’t have left your weapons with you.”

“Well, you’re obviously an eejit.”

He laughed. “You have serious trust issues.”

“Trust issues? Says the complete stranger who broke into my house and—”

“I used your house keys. They were in your jacket pocket,” he said. “And yes, trust issues, says the stranger. The stranger who promises he isn’t here to hurt you.”

“Just because you say you’re not here to hurt me doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

“True. But why go to the trouble of killing you when I could have left you lying in the car park the other night and let the seven greedy Leeches looking for you find you and bleed you dry?”

My stomach turned as memories of my outing slammed clearly into my brain. I had walked into a trap, so set on finding Carlson that the need to kill the bastard once and for all had blocked all sense and reason. Twelve lower generation Vampires had been waiting on the rooftops surrounding the loading bay. Carlson and Antonio wouldn’t stop talking, so I backed out of the area, and that’s when I saw them all. Their black eyes watched my every move as their mouths hung wide, displaying their fangs.

“I have waited so long for this moment,” Carlson had said.

So had I.

My grandmother never told me where to find him. She wouldn’t let me kill him even though he deserved my sword through his neck more than any other Vampire.

They obviously found out Gran had died and simply waited for me to come out and play. I went, and they had been waiting for me, and like some amateur, I walked right into their trap. I killed two Vampires in order to get out of the loading bay, and then I had the other ten, along with Carlson and Antonio, chasing me through the dark and empty back streets of London. I tried to lead them somewhere humans wouldn’t find us; much good it did me.

But none of that explained who this guy was or why the hell he’d made himself at home in my kitchen.

“So you were there?”

“That much is obvious. Who do you think brought you home?”

“How did you even know where I live?”

“You have sat-nav in your Rover. And, like I said, I’m here to help.” He slid off the stool; the tip of my sword grazed his green T-shirt.
I clenched my teeth. “Why help me? You don’t even know me.”

He finally turned to face me. He’d pulled back his copper-blond hair, allowing me to see his face fully. A broad nose accompanied by high cheekbones and a tall forehead set off the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. A fine layer of copper stubble outlined his square jaw and surrounded thick, peach lips.

His emerald eyes sparkled as I met his gaze.

“True, but I helped you because I thought it would be in your best interest to get you back to the safety of your own house.”
He thought it would be in my best interest? Who the hell does this guy think he is, a knight in shining armour? He looks like a friggin’ Ken doll, for Christ’s sake, and…. Wait a damn minute. “Seven Vampires?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Before, you said seven Vampires? There were twelve left.”

“Well, you eventually killed the Italian one before collapsing in front of your car, leaving eleven. The blond one who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat you or screw you—”

“Carlson.” I shuddered at the memory of him pinning my body to the rough concrete road. His thighs clamped my legs shut as he lapped at the blood trickling down my forehead….

“Well, turns out he, as well as three of the others, actually needed their heads to fight back, but the rest of them ran off, and since my priority is you—”

“You’re the one who knocked Carlson off me?”

Memories exploded and rolled around my mind like storm clouds. Carlson had slid his talons into my waist, knocking me to the pavement and causing me to cut my forehead. He had pinned me between the ground and his growing erection while he demanded I beg him to change me. A few cheap insults and shoving some silver in his ribcage was enough to piss him off—as if I would want to be blood-bonded to the bastard who’d helped destroy my mother and father. On my refusal, he’d bared his fangs; about to feed from me…then the next thing I knew, he was gone. Once I got to my feet, I saw four decomposing bodies on the ground, only yards away from where I, myself, had almost bled to death.

“Yes.” He picked up a glass of orange juice and took a mouthful.

“Carlson is dead?”

He gulped. “Well, last time I checked, decapitation usually does the trick. So, yeah.”

A strange relief flooded me. My hands began to tremble. I tightened my grip, trying to keep a firm hold on my sword. “Are you a hundred and ten percent sure he’s dead?”

“A hundred and forty-six percent sure.”

I couldn’t believe it. Carlson, dead. Well, in the sense that he wouldn’t be prowling the streets or feeding ever again. He was actually gone. I suddenly didn’t know whether to hug this strange man, or kill him for taking away my opportunity to kill the monster that’d infected my mother. “Why did you kill him?”

He laughed. “Well, I was considering letting him and the rest of his friends eat you, but then that wouldn’t have made me a very good guardian, now, would it?”

 

Scottish Werewolves: freaky Vampires and a Slayer with a bad addiction and an insane legacy. Add a big dose of sarcasm, sizzling chemistry; a lot of silver and a ton of blood and . . . Welcome to the Blood Series.

Note: She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood are both previously published titles, but have been polished, improved, and have even had scenes added for their re-release. Both books as well as all that will follow will be self-published.

Cranberry Blood
Blood Series: Book One

Blurb:

Killing Vampires? Easy.

Tracking someone? Simple.

Helping, and protecting a Vampire slayer . . . . Bloody hard work!

Thirteen years ago, Brendan Daniels made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of a Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia’s granddaughter. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or his Pack, in for.

Nothing about Heather is simple, from her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle herself, but the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can’t fully understand.

Vampire Slayer.
Born Infected.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.

Heather Ryan is the current Slayer in a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life searching for her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to kill. If that isn’t complicated enough, she is also a born “Infected”, and to keep her from becoming insane or giving in to her darker side, she is on a very strict diet.

Now that her Grandmother Sofia has passed, it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands. Or at least, it would have been…if her Grandmother hadn’t sent a Werewolf to help her.

What is the irritating Brendan supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans, and that the Leeches have waited a long time for them both.
This title contains explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.
Length: Novel| Content: Urban Fantasy| Publisher: Self-Published


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EM_She-Wolf_453x680She-Wolf

Blood Series: Prequel

 

Blurb:

Dealing with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his Pack? Simple.

Trying to convince his mate he does want to be with her? Bloody impossible.

Owen MacLaren is the Alpha’s son and the Pack’s second, and he has never been one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues begin purposely dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more than ready to deal with the Werewolves responsible.

But one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a colleague’s stag night changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn’t immune to everything . . . .

Being an independent Loup and travelling the world? Easy.

Having to come home and face the Werewolf who broke her young heart? Challenging.

After five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home in Scotland, working in a strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to dance, but it isn’t a place she thought she would ever be, let alone Owen, her Pack second and the mate she has always desired.

Although Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare, things can’t go smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort out and a bunch of unusual ‘Rogues’ to deal with.

This title contains explicit language, violence, and graphic sex.

Length: Novel| Content: Paranormal Erotic Romance| Publisher: Self-Published
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~ * ~

About the Author:

Elizabeth Morgan is a multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre, Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her stories.

Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not greedy. I just like variety.”

And that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak, paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon best seller (Gay/Lesbian, Fiction, Lesbian), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish Amazon bestseller (Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And sweet contemporary romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama & Plays) Stepping Stones.

She also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com

Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats reading a book.

For more information on Elizabeth’s work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:

Website: www.e-morgan.com
Blog:
www.xxxxmyworldxxxx.blogspot.com
Twitter: @
EMorgan2010
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/ElizabethMorgan
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.morgan.944
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/elizabethm2012/boards/
Blog: (Shared with Dianna Hardy):
http://notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/

*****

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Stark Seasons by Jacqueline Brocker

One thing I love about living in England, as an Australian from the coast, is the seasonal change. Ok, I could do without the icy footpaths during winter, but I really love watching the seasons move from one to another. Having an apple tree in the garden highlights these changes, and every second year it has a fine crop of apples right in time for autumn. And I love apples.

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There is something magical in the seasonal change, but also something ominous. The sense that while things are beautiful and seem like they will remain so, they are going to change, that leaves and petals will change colour fall away, and leave us with the bare, stark whiteness of winter.

Autumn is that season hanging between the brightness of summer and the winter dark. The memory of summer is still present, the leaves richly coloured, but seeing them that colours means winter is almost upon us. Beautiful, but slightly threatening.

I love it.

The Ravening Season, a short story, was written in a near trance-like state. Images and words played a stronger role than plot in the early stages. The thing that really hooked me in, and gave me the structure, was the idea of a creature who changed as the seasons did, beginning as all sweetness and light in spring, then shifting and changing to something else entirely as our infatuated hero is drawn closer to her. Sex and innocence, sex and darkness, and sex and death all come out to play in this story. This is a dark tale, about the ravenous appetites of creatures for whom we have no name.

StrangeAppetites_400x600

The Ravening Season will also be appearing in Strange Appetites (along with another short story of mine Oasis Beckoning, an anthology of erotic horror coming out from Forbidden Fiction on 28 October.

RaveningSeason_400x600Excerpt:

Through the snow, he ran. But there is no speed in a fresh drift, unmarked, untracked by another. Had he some path to follow he may have gone quicker, but the snow came up to his knees, and all he had was the snow-slabbed land and the forest of white birch, skeletal hands clawing at the sky. As it was, he clawed at the fragile snow that offered not stability, but the illusion of solid form.

He was hunched over, chest heaving, his breath puffs of white lost in the landscape. Never had he been so aware of his black coat, his black boots. How little they protected him now. They warmed his body, yes, now hot from the running, scarpering trudge. But behind him, she came. And his black clothes were a spot on a map of shining light, and he had ploughed the way to reach him. As he passed through the sharp, bare birch, he came to an oak. The looming thickness overwhelmed him, and he sunk to his knees, hands in his face to shut out the colossus of the tree and the brightness all around, and thought;

I have paved the way for my own death.

It was not long before the whisper of her steps was behind him. He would not turn to see her, for perhaps if he did not look, she might vanish like a snowflake.

She was not so delicate, though. Her hand dropped to his shoulder. He was too afraid to be surprised, but still proud enough to wipe his face, and peer up at her, with her claws and her icicle teeth.

BLURB:

When he saw her in the glade, he went to her, believing her to be a creature he could tame and claim as his own. He was drawn to her youthful beauty, her sweetness. But as their relationship grew, so did her appetite, and before he knew it, he was in thrall to a creature whose claws and teeth would likely bring his downfall. (F/M)

For more information (including content notes) about The Ravening Season please see Forbidden Fiction’s webpage.

You can buy The Ravening Season from Fantastic Fiction Publishing.

 

jbrocker_bio_imageAuthor Bio:

Jacqueline Brocker lives and writes in Cambridge, England. Her short erotic fiction has appeared in anthologies such as More Smut for Chocoholics (House of Erotica), South Bank Seduction (Velvet Books) and Best Bondage Erotica 2014 (Cleis Press). Her novella Gods Among Men and short story The Ravening Season have been published by Forbidden Fiction. Originally from Australia, when not writing she is a Scottish Country Dancer, a recent convert to Lindy Hop, and dabbles in foreign language (current dabblings being German and Korean). Her website is: http://jacquelinebrocker.net/

*****

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