Spy Games — Another Fab New Anthology Edited by Jillian Boyd

March 31, 2015Blog, Guest Blogger, New Releasesanthology, erotic fiction, House of Erotica, jillian boyd, new release, Spy GamesK D Grace

It’s totally my pleasure to announce that the wonderful author and editor, Jillian Boyd, has an exciting new anthology out called Spy Games — a sizzling collection of nine stories, by nine delicious authors, all about spies and detectives. Move over Mr Bond! Make room for something truly sexy!

SPY GAMES Blurb:

From the sunny streets of South Florida, to the bars of Paris, to the backstreets of Rome where a secret club for old spies lies hidden, Spy Games is a collection of nine tantalizing tales in which spies and detectives seduce and deduce in all corners of the world.

Edited by Jillian Boyd and featuring stories from the likes of Zak Jane Keir, Slave Nano, Emily L. Byrne and F. Leonora Solomon, Spy Games is filled with danger, desire and the thrill of sex and spying. Unleash your inner Mata Hari and devour this collection… should you choose to accept this mission, of course.

Spy Games Buy links:

Amazon UK – http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spy-Games-Thrilling-Erotica-ebook/dp/B00V5659WW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1427644792&sr=8-1&keywords=Spy+Games%3A+Thrilling+Spy+Erotica

Amazon US – http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Spy+Games%3A+Thrilling+Spy+Erotica

ARe – https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-spygames-1766800-362.html

Spy GamesExcerpt:

from Mid-Life Career Changes by Jessica Taylor

On my last night with Roman, I dropped from a contorted perch in the airshaft of his kitchen. I knew he kept no security in his house overnight, perhaps the only honest mistake I ever saw him make. My bare feet made no sound as I landed like a small grasshopper next to his purring refrigerator in the warm, inky dark. The lights of the city pulsed like stars through the glass walls of his home. I remember almost deviating, almost going to stand next to his round, thick dining table in front of those transparent walls overlooking the up lit trees of the park below. Roman had eaten there last, sipping magenta borscht and reading the paper Nash Gorod – Our City. Then he had gone to his freezer and pulled a translucent bottle of anise liqueur from the drawer. Dressed in silk black pyjama bottoms, his nipples hardened when he slowly kissed the bottle, leaning back peacefully onto the cold metal. His Adam’s apple bobbed finely as he pulled on the cloudy fluid.

I stole across his open home until I came to the ornately carved door of his master suite. In the centre of the room, my man was sleeping soundlessly, innocently tucked into the folds of his red silk bed. Talismans and the charms of the superstitious decorated the high ceiling above the entrance and I knew from months of watching that he crossed himself each night before he finally entered. I had smelled sage and peppercorn as I envisioned him walking down the hall, shirtless and stretching his arms above his head, scratching his shoulder blade lazily.

My hands, I remember, had shaken. It was a miniscule vibration but still it was there. It took moments longer to pick the lock than it normally would have. I suspect I even made noise, as if I was subconsciously warning him. But when I slithered in, he remained asleep and undisturbed. Then my steps were choppy, without confidence or grace, as I moved across the room to my sleeping, waiting man. He had slept so noiselessly, I thought to myself he would not keep even me, such a light sleeper, awake the way other men had with their lip smacking and snoring. I would have been at peace beside him.

When he opened his eyes, there was no fear or surprise. He looked at me as if he was awaiting me and I had finally emerged from between the trees. His eyes travelled my tightly shrouded body, taking in my small frame, my bare feet. In those days, I carried no weapons. Perhaps when he noticed this, he thought he might have a chance. Or maybe he thought escape from the situation possible when he saw the confusion in my own eyes, the hesitance in my stance. He pushed himself up slowly, as if to not ignite a wild animal, as we continued our mutual gaze. He spoke first, with a voice I knew well; scratchy and deep, caressing my ears like a symphony.

“You don’t look like one of my normal girls,” Roman announced sarcastically but calmly. “Who sent you?” he continued.

I wonder now what my voice sounded like to him the first time he heard me speak. Was it instantly intoxicating, as his was for me? “I don’t actually know,” I responded, honestly but quietly. “It’s not the way that I operate.” I spared him the explanation that I always opted out of knowing who wanted it done or why. I found that such information hindered my efficiency.

He slowly sat up, the red sheets falling into his lap. He drew his hands to his chest in submission as his carved, naked muscles flexed. “How long have you been with me?”

I sighed as I stared longingly between the lines of his muscles, “Six months.” His face had reddened then, thinking perhaps about whom he would personally execute for the oversight of my presence. I let him slide his feet to the floor in the same way I had seen him do so many times before. Perhaps because I am so small, he thought he could out manoeuvre me. He thrust forward like a beast released from a cage, groping towards the spot where I knew he kept a 9mm Glock.

I dropped to my knees, thinking to swipe his ankles. With my legs spread, and my shins pressed to the ground, I looked up into his clear blue eyes. My mouth hung open in awe. I had never seen his eyes this close and they mesmerized me. My sex began to throb and my breasts swelled with heaviness. A dull ache stirred in my clitoris. I was overcome with sensation I thought I could suppress. He hovered over me, looking down at me between his legs. I must have seemed so inane, so slight, perhaps even so lovely straddled there beneath him, looking up at him like a confused but lovesick dog. All I would have had to do was rise onto my knees and I could take him into my empty mouth as I kept staring into those calm eyes.

I will never know why he stopped going for the gun, why he looked down at me with a new expectation, or why he pulled on the black silk tie of his sleeping pants to give me a chance. They drifted with the speed of a feather to the ground at my knees and all of the fantasies I could not suppress over the past few months filled me like a dam had broken. I saw us walking through the park with the lost, white dog prancing along beside us. I saw us sparring, and then falling to make love on the mat. I saw myself as his warrior, his personal assassin for any man he needed taken down.

After months watching him, he had made me doubt my solitude and even my consuming profession, and I was deeply grateful to be beneath him watching his cock elegantly harden. I suddenly wanted to express my respect and longing for him. I wanted to show him how he had changed me, though I was still unsure in what ways I was different. When he ever so slightly nodded his head to me, my mouth watered, saliva jumping from the buds in my mouth.

I arched my back and leaned my small breasts in to rub at his knees. For a second only I worried for his hands having access to my neck, where we both know places for that smooth snap. But the skin of his cock had turned dark and burgundy against the white of his muscular thighs and I was magnetised. I placed my hand at the base of his shaft, opened my mouth and flattened my tongue over his balls. I dragged my tongue up him, each taste bud softly abrading and then absorbing him as I moved up to the head of his cock. I ascended so slowly, as if every cell of his skin needed to be tasted. I licked it ravenously, the way Eve had when she first beheld and then tasted her own apple.

I hovered there, at the bright head of his dick, and dug my nails into his inner thighs as I tried to hold myself back from swallowing him too deeply. When I finally let myself take him slowly into the back of my throat, he had begun to softly groan “yes” with each exhale. He pulled at my bundled brown hair so it fell down my arched, begging back. When he dug a powerful hand into the roots and shoved my head farther onto his dick, I moaned loudly and my nipples tightened, fiercely longing to be thumbed.

He lifted me without effort just before he could no longer keep himself from erupting hotly onto my face. That would have been enough for me, to swallow him reverently. He sat me on the heavy wooden bed in front of him and peeled off my black pants. He set his teeth against the inside of my ripped thigh and squeezed his teeth on my muscle. I thought briefly of the major arteries available to his mouth, if he was considering using it for a different kind of destruction. As he bit, he pulled back the skin of my hood and rubbed the head of my clit, already engorged and slick just from sucking him. I drew my knees toward me as I balanced back onto my arms and spread with trust for him.

When I lifted my eyes from his dirty blond head, I discovered a mirror behind us and watched his gluteal muscles ripple and twitch as he thrust his tongue into me. Misty grey tattoos covered his back and I could see a scar where one had been dug from his body by the blade of another man’s knife. If I were his, he would be perfectly protected for life. A white, shiny scar had healed there but threads of leftover ink still peppered the new skin. I first came quietly and deeply with his face between my legs, lapping my clitoris while his two fingers calmly caressed me. I stared into the white dwarf star of that scar that swallowed me whole.

As he stood, I returned my hands to his cock and stroked him as he discarded my tight black top and I stared up into his blue eyes, biting my lip and wishing for this moment to continue on and on. He spat on my breasts and then sat his dick between them and slid himself up and down. He stroked my hard, dark nipples, exactly as I’d dreamed before. I grew wetter and wetter, the energy in my pelvis growing as I began to moan softly for him. Just then, he could have done anything to end me. He could have slit my throat or choked my breath from me. I submerged myself in the moments with him, avoiding myself and the decisions I would need to make, lost from my consciousness as he rubbed me and showed me his beautiful cock and let me pet his tattooed chest and abdomen. My cheeks and neck flushed red like they did when I sprinted after him in the park below, like they did when we pounded ourselves into switch kicks and hooks.

I let him turn me and set me on my knees in front of him on the bed. He could have made a horror movie of me, dark and sadistic with my blood smeared on the walls and my insides brutalized entirely differently. I didn’t worry about his hands groping for a gun as he kept on massaging both my nipples while he pumped himself deeply into me from behind. Eventually, he grabbed my ass and split my cheeks as he slowly pulled his length from me, floated at my entrance, and then painfully slowly slid back into me. I dripped sweat when he sped up, fucking me deep, hard, and rhythmically. I was too weak with desire to fear him when he set his hands on top of his head, continuing to bang into me. “Harder,” I begged as I stroked myself and pressed my face into the red sheets.

He could have shot me, stabbed me, broken my neck. Instead, he fucked me until I came twice more. The last time, I was on my back and he had smiled deep into my eyes. This was the smile I had seen when he was deeply happy, deeply at peace. This was his smile for lost dogs in the park, for toasting frozen vodka at midnight, for singing off key in the gym late at night. He withdrew from me as I stared hazily at him and the world exploded around me. He erupted searing cum onto my belly and chest. Then he massaged it into my breasts and nipples as he softly made love to my lips and tongue with his mouth.

After, Roman lay behind me—he spooned me tenderly and I allowed it—as we spoke softly for some time. He asked me what I had seen over the past months, and I told him, which was everything. He sighed deeply as if it mattered what one murderer saw another do, as if he still planned on us both making it out of there. Telling Roman the complexity of his life, I finally admitted to myself how I had come to fall in love with him. And I failed to recognize that the story could have a different ending.

Find Jessica Here:

Blog: http://jessicataylorwriter.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/jessahtaylor

About Jillian Boyd:

Jillian Boyd is an erotica author and blogger, who has been putting dirty words on paper and on her blog for the past three years. She likes taking everyday, seemingly mundane situations and making them sexy and sensual – and when she’s not doing that, she lets her imagination fly off into history and distant planets. Where she also tries to find everyday situations and make them sexy and sensual.

She’s been published in several House of Erotica anthologies, contributed to Tiffany Reisz’s office supply erotica charity anthology Felt Tips and has a story in the Golden Crown Literary Award-winning Best Lesbian Romance 2014, published by Cleis Press. She is currently working on her first novella, a sci-fi erotic thriller called In Another Life.

Find Jillian here:

Blog: http://ladylaidbare.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JillyBoyd

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jboydwrites

Spy Games Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/spygamesantho

Passions, Journeys, and Home

March 29, 2015Blog, Inspirationdreams, psychology, story, writingK D Grace

I had another ‘Old Crush Returns’ dream last night. Granted I was on cold meds and dreams get weird when I’m drugged up, but nonetheless this dream fit right in with my standard three types of recurring dreams. It only came to me recently that I could divide those recurring dreams into three categories and that they all fit very nicely. For as long as I can remember I’ve had three types of dreams over and over again. They were never identical, but the themes were exactly the same, and I always wake up knowing when I’ve had one.

I have the ‘Old Crush/ lover Returns’ dreams, I have the ‘stuck at the airport trying to board a plane I can’t find’ dreams. Those two types are frustrating, sometimes stressful and embarrassing, but the third kind can be really terrifying. The third kind are, ‘The House’ dreams. I’ll get back to that later.

Now that I’m able to walk again after the surgery, I have more time to think about things, and this discovery of my three recurring dreams has really given me pause to reflect. It hit me the other day when I was walking to the local shops for a pint of milk that these three types of dreams are my efforts to resolve issues in the three major areas of my life; my passion, my life journey, and my own internal home, the space inside my head where KD, Grace, and Kathy all live. I realized as I bought my milk along with four bananas and a raspberry Danish, that these three categories of dreams seem pretty archetypal.

Passions

My passion is my writing. It’s the heart of me. Everyone who knows me knows this. But I would never say that I have an easy relationship with that passion. I’ve had dreams most of my life about an ex-lover or, more often, an ex-crush, someone who I really obsessed over and battled emotionally with at some point in my life. In my dreams that person returns to either ignore me, harass me or seduce me away from my commitments and my life. The emotions are high. I battle with trying to understand why I’m being rejected, or why I’m being treated poorly. I battle even more with the crushes and exes who show up to ‘take me away’ from all this, and I realize I no longer want to go with them. For some reason they just never seem to intrigue me as much as they used to. Passion is never what I expect. It’s often illusive, and always volatile. And yes, there are times when I discover that what I thought I wanted just doesn’t get me there anymore. Yup! That sums up my relationship with my writing in a nutshell.

Journeys

My journey dreams almost always take place in an airport, which makes perfect sense because I’ve been in more than my share. I’m quite familiar with delayed and cancelled flights, with having the gate changed at the last minute, with sitting on the runway in a time warp, with lost luggage and achingly long flights. I know the drill. The airport is never a destination. It’s the place in between. It’s the cross roads, no-man’s-land, the place you endure to get to where you want to be. The destination, the journey, the expectations, those are always foremost in my mind when I travel, but the airport can really fu*k that journey up.

It’s about the journey. It’s about the struggle to make that journey. Everyone’s on a journey from birth to death, and no one gets a smooth ride. Some parts of the ride are rougher than others, and I’ll be the first to admit I don’t do change well. The waiting is hard, the making connections is stressful, and the journey often takes a far different route than I ever anticipated. Until recently I’ve not been aware of these three divisions in my recurring dreams, but I wonder now if I have the journey dreams more often when it’s time to move on, when it’s time to find another place to be, but I’m afraid to make the move. I wish I’d kept track. In my dreams, I’ve waited in more airports than I have in real life, and that’s a bunch.

The Home

The third category of recurring dream, as I said, is by far the scariest, and that’s the House dream. Those dreams take two forms. The first is not so much scary as it is frustrating. In them I’m looking for my dream home, and every time I think I’ve found it, there’s some serious flaw that I can’t quite overcome – a swamp in the back garden – or even worse a swamp in the gigantic bathtub, the discovery that the house is the sight of a murder or some other tragedy, the discovery of a treasure trove of items that belonged to the people who lived there before, a house that’s been left like the owners have simply walked away.

The second type of dream I like to call the forbidden room dream. Those terrify me every time, and I often wake up crying out, drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe. Those dreams always involve me having lived in a big, usually very old house, for a long time, but within that house, there is one room I never go into. No one goes into it because it’s locked and off limits, and yet every second I’m in the house, I’m aware that the room and what’s inside it. The thing is, I’m never really sure why I fear that room so much. Is there a ghost? An evil spirit? A long dead body? Is there a demon, a crazy person? I never know. And when I do go into the room, which of course I always must, I am so frightened I can’t breathe, and yet I never actually see what’s frightening me.

OK, before you run away thinking I’m a total nutcase, just let me say that I’ve done enough dream analysis to know that the house is me, whether I’m looking for my dream house or whether I am terrified of some room that’s a part of me. The house is always me and all my dreams unrealised, all my issues, resolved and unresolved. Everyone has ‘rooms’ they’d rather not revisit. And though those rooms are places of terror in the dream world, they’re often places of true treasure when I’m willing to confront them in the waking world.

In Story

Now, where is all this leading? Well as I thought about the connections of these recurring dreams, it hit me that these are all life themes. These are major archetypes in everyone’s life, which means, for a writer, they become major themes for every story.

The passion, the journey, the home – all archetypes, all major building blocks in the Lego of K D’s ‘Create-Your-Own-
Story’ pack. The passion can be a lover, an adventure, a personal challenge answered, revenge for a wrong done, the search for the Undiscovered Country. The journey is what it takes to realize that passion, whether it’s through the Amazon Rain Forest or down to the corner market, whether it’s a novel written or a aria sung. And the home is everything that our characters are, all they fear, all they hope to become. It’s their neuroses, their flaws, and their joys and their hopes. Put those three together and the story possibilities are endless.

The dreams are never comfortable, never easy, and that’s one more reason why they’re so valuable for story. The places of powerful fiction are the places that frighten us, the places that make us uncomfortable, the obstacles in our path, the delays in the journey or the unexpected detours. Story is made up of the rough patches, and the rooms inside us that we’d choose not to visit if we could keep from it. There’s no ignoring those uncomfortable parts of us, no making them go away. But bring the ‘dreams’ into the waking world and transform them into story, and let the fun begin!

Remember! Week Two of the INTERVIEWING WADE Blog Tour and Giveaway begins tomorrow!

Mar 30 Books and Banter http://locglin.blogspot.com/

Mar 31 Case Sharidan http://casesheridan.wordpress.com/

Apr 1 Lisabet Sarai http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com

Ap 2 Gale Stanley http://galestanley.blogspot.com/

Ap 3 Illustrious Illusions http://www.illustriousillusions.com/

If you’ve missed Week One of the Blog Tour, you can still check it out!

Mar 23 L. C. Wilkinson http://lcwilkinson.com/

Mar 24 Jan Graham http://jangraham.blogspot.com/

Mar 25 Lynelle Clark http://lynelleclarkaspiredwriter.blogspot.com/

Mar 26 Nice Ladies, Naughty Books http://niceladiesnaughtybooks.com/

Mar 27 Love Bites & Silk Ties http://www.lovebitessilkties.co.uk/

INTERVIEWING WADE is An Executive Decision novel (Click Here for Book One | Book Two | Book Three)

The Executive Decisions Trilogy may be over, but the story continues. Intrepid reporter, Carla Flannery, wants to interview Wade Crittenden, the secretive creative genius behind Pneuma Inc. But when, against all odds, Wade actually agrees to the interview, Carla suspects ulterior motives.

Carla has made a lot of enemies in her work and when Wade discovers she’s being stalked, he agrees to the interview to keep her close and safe. As the situation turns deadly, lives and hearts are on the line, and the interview reveals far more about both than either ever expected.

Interviewing Wad is available from:

Yes Ma’am! Cover Story!

March 27, 2015NewsBDSM, collection, erotica, femdom, guest blogger, Kay Jaybee, new cover reveal, Yes Ma'amK D Grace

Many thanks to KD for letting me gate crash her site once again!!

Back in 2012, I wrote a collection of six female domination and male submissive stories called Yes Ma’am. To this day, it remains one of my most popular anthologies, but I have to confess, I haven’t publicised it very much, because I really really didn’t like the cover!!

In fact I disliked it so much, I can’t even bring myself to post a picture of it to show you! It featured a particularly unattractive half naked man, with dubious hair- enough said!

Unusually perhaps for an erotica writer, I have never been a fan of half naked people on book covers. They do nothing for me at all- not that I have a problem with half naked people-far from it! It’s the lack of imagination required that always bothered me. Where’s the mystery? Where’s the temptation to find out what lays within a books pages if it is all so blatant on the cover?

This is why I am so delighted with Yes Ma’am’s brand new look! It gives just the right amount of teasing temptation…especially for a book which contains six very different Fem Dom stories…

Check it out!!

A collection of six arse spankingly, wrist binding, whip wielding tales of female domination, Yes Ma’am contains straight, lesbian and bi-sexual encounters of the S&M nature.

Lying in Wait – Cadet Luke Porter is the least successful army recruit in the squadron. The butt of his comrades jokes, his reputation badly needs improving, and he is desperate to do well in the seek and rescue exercise he’s about to embark upon. Some of his female counterparts however, have other plans, and are determined to find out just how far Luke will go to improve his standing within the regiment…

Black – He is intoxicated by the woman in black. He can’t explain why he needs to see her, why he willing does precisely what she tells him to. Why she has such an effect on him, as she sits him in the backroom of a private club and weaves her web of control around him. He is beginning to think he has sold his soul to the devil herself…

Dear Claire – Ali has secretly lusted over her best friend’s lover Rick, for a long time. At least, she thought it was a secret. When her friend Claire asks her to take coffee into Rick as he lies in bed, it appears that Claire has left Ali a gift wrapped present; her boyfriend, shackled, blindfolded, and ready for Ali to do whatever she likes with. Amazed by Claire’s generosity, Ali doesn’t know where to start, until she sees the neat sentence tattooed on Rick’s arse, ‘If I don’t obey my mistress, I will be punished.’

“Don’t You Emma” – In a delicious corruption of Lee’s longed for fantasy, his lover Daisy arranges for them to share another woman. Rather than enjoying a full-on threesome however, Lee finds himself forced to sit and observe his partner perform all the chastisements she normally saves just for him upon a girl called Emma. A girl who, it seems, can withstand the punishments Daisy dishes out with far more self control than Lee has ever managed. Simply sitting in an armchair has never been so difficult…

Not Taking the Tube – Venting his frustration at being delayed yet again by London’s Underground system on the nearest official, the harassed businessman finds his complaints aren’t received in quite the way he’d expected. The petite guard upon whom he directs his anger has just about had enough of the constant string of complaints from the commuters she tries to help. Swiftly turning the tables on her latest assailant, she realises her own pent up anger quickly, sexily, and with the expert use of her surprised companion’s black leather belt…

Rachel’s Twisted Tale – Imprisoned in a bare room, high at the top of an old house, totally naked, her long golden plait wrapped around her body, Rachel waits. She waits for her mistress gaoler to punish her for being perfect. She waits for Tom, her secret lover, to climb in through the window and fuck her senseless. Rachel knows he could free her. He could help her escape the agonies and humiliations she endures, but she doesn’t want saving. Rachel needs to stay. Rapunzel never suffered like this….

Buy Now

Available from

Xcite

Amazon UK

Amazon US

and all good Kindle and eBook suppliers

Many thanks for letting me drop by today!

Happy reading,

Kay xx

About Kay:

Kay Jaybee was nominated as the Best Erotica Writer of 2013 and 2014 by the ETO.

Kay wrote the The Perfect Submissive Trilogy, (Xcite, 2011-14), Making Him Wait, (Sweetmeats Press, 2012), The Voyeur (Xcite, 2012), as well as the novellas, Not Her Type: Erotic Adventures With A Delivery Man (2^nd ed. 1001 NightsPress, 2013), Digging Deep (Xcite, 2013), A Sticky Situation, (Xcite, 2012), and The Circus, (Sweetmeats Press). She has also written the anthologies The Collector (Austin & Macauley, 2012 & 2008), The Best of Kay Jaybee (Xcite, 2012), Tied to the Kitchen Sink, Equipment, (All Romance, 2012), Yes Ma’am (Xcite e-books, 2011), Quick Kink One and Quick Kink Two (Xcite e-books, 2010). Kay has had over 70 short stories published by Cleis Press, Black Lace, Mammoth, Xcite, Penguin, Seal, and Sweetmeats Press.

Find and Follow Kay Here:

www.kayjaybee.me.uk

You can follow Kay on Twitter- kay_jaybee,

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/KayJaybeeAuthor

Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/3541958-kay-jaybee

Brit Babes Site- http://thebritbabes.blogspot.co.uk/p/kay-jaybee.html

Kay also writes contemporary romance as Jenny Kane – www.jennykane.co.uk

Touring Wade’s Dungeon — Going Down!

March 25, 2015Blog, New Releasesbook launch, giveaway, grace marshall, hot romance, Interviewing Wade, new release, romance, The Executive Decisions novelsK D Grace

Once lunch is over, I’m well fortified for the second half of my tour of Wade’s Dungeon. In fact, I’m so stuffed with burritos and nachos that I think Wade is being a proper sadist when he continues my tour of his Dungeon with a peek at his state of the art gym. ‘I hear you like to work out, K D,’ he says, and I can see his quirk of a smile threatening to break out as I scurry over to a space in front of a ceiling to floor mirror to fondle the most complete, most gorgeous set of kettle bells I’ve ever seen. I can tell they’re not just for looks. There are no pretty colors, just good, solid cast iron. ‘Thought you’d like those,’ he says.

I barely get a chance to run an appreciative hand over a proper stair machine, ogle a fantastic free-weights set up, a vicious-looking treadmill and ooh and awe over the Metrix machine before he’s herding me out the door.

From there he takes me into the Suite. I actually had breakfast in the kitchen area the other morning with Carla and Wade, but the Suite has been talked about in hushed tones for a while now. Carla calls it Wade’s fuck pad, but she knows, as do I that Wade keeps it for the rare guests he has. She has been one of the few people to take advantage of it. ‘It’s amazing!’ I say, trying to catch my breath as I stare at a marble bathtub and Jacuzzi the size of a small swimming pool, and an enormous wet room with more water sources that I can count before he’s herding me off again, blushing as we head past a bed big enough for half the employees of Pneuma Inc to have an orgy on. ‘Beverly Neumann did the decorating,’ he says still blushing. ‘She did this on purpose.’ He makes it sound like she put peanut butter in his boxers or something. ‘It’s lovely,’ I manage. ‘I’d say she did good.’

He mumbles something about overkill and herds me out of the room before I take up squatters rights as Interviewing Wade’s author and move in. I notice his pace slows considerably as we head back down the hall past several rooms that look like state of the art laboratories, spotlessly clean, well-equipped and seemingly deserted.

‘Does R&D use these?’ I ask.

He looks at me like I suddenly grew horns. ‘No. Why would they? They have their space.’

‘Then you work in them.’

He pauses mid-step to contemplate that idea. ‘I suppose I could if I wanted to, but they’re not as private as I’d like them to be. It’s too easy to be disturbed on this level. I do most of my work in the sub-basements.’

We move past a strange door that looks like the entrance to a train car.

‘What’s this,’ I ask.

‘Nothing yet,’ he answers. ‘Just an idea I have for a … space.’ He doesn’t clarify, and I’ve been around him enough to realize he won’t unless he wants to. His pace slows still further. At the end of the hall I can see a set of double doors that look like they could well belong in a hospital, but before I can ask, I realize he is standing in front of an open door, blocking my view.

‘You know what this is,’ he says, blushing furiously.

I do, and I’m desperate to see it, but I know how sensitive Wade can be. ‘You’re room,’ I replay. ‘I don’t really like people in my bedroom either,’ I add, feeling his discomfort below my breastbone almost as though it is my own.

For a moment he has trouble meeting my gaze, then he looks up at me with dark green eyes. ‘It isn’t so much that it’s my sleeping room as it as that you know … you know what happened in there.’

I nod, not quite knowing how to reply, feeling a blush rise up my own cheeks as I think about what has happened between him and Carla in that space. But as I turn to walk away, he lays a strong hand on my arm to stop me, then steps aside and motions me in.

The room is small, much smaller than even I expected. Unlike the rest of the tiled floors of the Dungeon, Wade’s room is just concrete. The only piece of furniture is a fairly sturdy camp cot with an aging Star Trek duvet made up neatly over it. I notice immediately that the bedside table is really just stacks and stack of books. There’s a gooseneck lamp on top of them. A laptop, several tablets and more books, some open and marked with pens and pencils, some stuffed with paper scribbled full of notes. Next to the books I assume Wade’s reading is an empty Coke can. Around the rest of the room books are stacked three and four deep, in some places as high as my waist. The room smells of old paperbacks and I blush as I realize that the room smells of Wade Crittenden dreaming. He might sense my thought process because he’s blushing again, shuffling from foot to foot.

I quickly change the subject. ‘The books, have you read them all?’

‘All of them, yes. Some more than once,’ he replies.

‘Why do you keep them,’ I ask nodding to a pair of eReaders on the make-shift table.

‘Because they’re books. I like the feel of them, the smell – especially once they’ve been read a time or two.’

I run my fingers along a stack threatening to avalanche against my hip and am astonished to find there is no dust. ‘How do you find anything? Do you have a system?’

He looks around and shakes his head. ‘I thought about some kind of system for them, but then it seemed like a waste of my time when I know where they all are.’ He looks up at me and the blush is there again. ‘I don’t sleep much. Some nights not at all. I read a lot.’ He shrugs and this time the smile is one I can tell isn’t meant for me. ‘Well, I don’t have quite so much time to read now with Carla here. But I still don’t sleep much.’ Then he adds. ‘Besides, Carla loves to read too.’

Once again out in the hall, we push our way through the operating room doors and find ourselves standing in front of an elevator that looks like it might very well lead to an operating theater. The elevator opens and I nearly jump out of my skin, coming face to face with a life-size poster of the monster from Aliens. Wade smiles at my response and motions me in. With a series of taps against a blue buttoned console, the elevator begins a rapid descent. My heart is racing in my chest. I realize the sub-basements are off limits to everyone but Dee and Ellis, Carla, and possibly Martin Flannery. I know that the lowest level, level four is basically a no-go zone, with good reason, and my pulse goes into overdrive at the thought of going down there.

‘I do most of my work in the sub-basements,’ Wade speaks above the hushed whisper of the elevator. ‘I can work there undisturbed.’ We pass sub-level one and then two, and I wipe sweaty hands against my jeans. ‘I have a dozen or so projects going on at any given time, and I never know which one I’ll be inspired to work on,’ Wade says, ‘Best to have a space for each one and some extras too. I never know when the idea for something new will come. The lift stops on sub-level three and I find that I’ve been holding my breath as he motions me out.

This laboratory is nothing like the ones on the upper floors. It isn’t at all what I would expect a laboratory to be like. This one looks like a nerd’s dream basement. There’s a battered brown leather sofa against the wall. On the end table next to it is a lava lamp bubbling up hypnotic red blobs. There’s a kitchen unit that looks like it came out of the 1960s to one side. In the middle of the room on battered desks and metal tables there’s a hodgepodge of monitors and keyboards and on a free-standing metal framework above a section of work table is what looks like a very sophisticated robotic arm that could have come straight from a Terminator film. ‘You know about this,’ he says, nodding to it. He reaches out to touch it. ‘It’s not ready yet. The interface is still not sensitive enough.’ He smiles to himself, running a hand over the slightly curved, nearly human looking fingers. ‘Shocked the hell out of myself the other day. Still can’t manage the electrical impulses so that they guide the operator but don’t knock him on his ass.’ He shrugs. I’ll figure it out.’

As we step back into the hall, he nods in both directions. ‘Three more laboratories on this floor,’ he says. ‘The projects in two of them are only in the conceptual stage and the other one is Nano-technology, not something I can easily show you.’ He herds me back into the elevator, and suddenly I’m having trouble breathing again as the door closes behind us and the blue buttons await Wade’s touch.

I can feel him studying me, and try though I might, I can’t meet his gaze. I can’t speak I feel frozen to the spot with the knowledge of what’s in the fourth sub-basement – no laboratories, no nerd’s hang-out. Nothing pretty, nothing sophisticated. I feel a sudden chill as he releases his breath and taps a code into the keypad. The elevator whirs to life and with the tiniest of judder … begins to ascend. I catch my breath in a little sigh.

At last he speaks. ‘I won’t take you down there,’ he says. His face is suddenly like a wall hiding so many things. His jaw is set and his eyes are nearly black in the subdued lighting. ‘You know … what it’s like down there. What I’m like when I go there.’ He swallows hard and closes his eyes, and I feel cold. When he looks back at me, I force myself to meet his gaze. ‘That you know is enough, K D.’ His voice is barely more than just a whisper. ‘Let it be enough.’

We ascend the rest of the way in silence. As we arrive in the main living area of the Dungeon, Carla meets us with two mugs of mocha – extra marshmallow cream. She kisses Wade gently on the mouth and guides him to the table, guidance which, at that moment, I can’t help but feel he needs.

‘All right?’ she speaks softly squeezing his arm after he’s had his first sip.

He nods and forces a smile. Then he reaches out and touches her cheek. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’

For a second I sip in silence, trying to figure out what I should say, under the circumstances. At last I look up at him. ‘Wade, I didn’t mean to –’

He stops me with a shake of his head. ‘If I hadn’t wanted you to see, I wouldn’t have shown you. But what’s on sub-level four, well, even though you know. I don’t like to go there. I … I only ever go there when I have no choice, when I need to. And right now, thankfully,’ he squeezes Carla’s hand, ‘I don’t need to.’

In the evening, Stacie Emerson and Carla’s father, Martin Flannery, take over the kitchen in the Suite. After toasts to the launch of Interviewing Wade, with Prosecco Stacie and Harris have brought back from a recent trip to Italy, there’s homemade spaghetti carbonara with the best tiramisu I’ve ever eaten for dessert. We end the tour and the day’s celebration in the Dungeon’s home cinema stuffing ourselves with buttered popcorn while we watch X-Men First Class.

It’s late when I get ready to leave. Carla and Wade give each other the eye and nod. Then Wade turns his attention to me. ‘It’s late, and you’ve had a busy few days, K D. Why don’t you stay in the Suite tonight.’

Carla nods her agreement, when she sees my uncertainty. ‘I’ve grown rather fond of Wade’s cot,’ she says with a wink. ‘Besides, we don’t need very much space, the two of us.’ As we say our good-nights at the door of the Suite, I watch them head down the hall arm and arm, and I figure Carla is probably right. They don’t need much space at all.

The Interviewing Wade Blog Tour and Giveaway continues throughout this week and the next. I’m over at the fabulous Lynelle Clark’s Do join us there!

For the next two weeks find Carla, Wade and me on these fabulous blogs!

Mar 23 L. C. Wilkinson http://lcwilkinson.com/

Mar 24 Jan Graham http://jangraham.blogspot.com/

Mar 25 Lynelle Clark http://lynelleclarkaspiredwriter.blogspot.com/

Mar 26 Nice Ladies, Naughty Books http://niceladiesnaughtybooks.com/

Mar 27 Love Bites & Silk Ties http://www.lovebitessilkties.co.uk/

Mar 30 Books and Banter http://locglin.blogspot.com/

Mar 31 Case Sharidan http://casesheridan.wordpress.com/

Apr 1 Lisabet Sarai http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com

Ap 2 Gale Stanley http://galestanley.blogspot.com/

Ap 3 Illustrious Illusions http://www.illustriousillusions.com/

INTERVIEWING WADE Is An Executive Decision novel (Click Here for Book One | Book Two | Book Three)

Blurb:

Interviewing Wad is available from:

I Survived a Tour of Wade’s Dungeon!

March 23, 2015Blog, New ReleasesAn Executive Decision novel, book launch, grace marshall, hot romance, Interviewing Wade, novel, romanceK D Grace

With all the excitement of launch weekend and with the Interviewing Wade Blog Tour & Giveaway beginning today, I threw caution to the wind and asked Wade for a tour of the Dungeon, and I was totally surprised when he agreed. And it didn’t take me long to realize that this tour might not be for the faint of heart.

For those of you who don’t know, the Dungeon is the name Wade’s colleagues gave the basement and sub-basements of the Pneuma building, which became Wade’s domain. Though Pneuma Inc has a state of the art R&D wing, and employ some of the best minds in the world there, the real cutting edge stuff, the stuff that comes straight from Wade’s incredible mind, happens in the Dungeon. Over the years, what originally started out simply as a private place for Wade to work and do research evolved into so much more.

Wade meets me by the elevator in the Executive Suites of the Pneuma building where I’ve been chatting with Ellis Thorne and Dee Henning. He’s dressed in his usual hoodie and jeans and his hair is mussed. I smile to myself imagining how it got that way. He nods a greeting to Dee and Ellis then motions me to the elevator. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

I know that Wade is uncomfortable about having people in the Dungeon and, until Carla came along, only Dee and Ellis had ever been into some of the more restricted areas, but the little smile that Ellis offers him and the slight nod that passes between them tells me that I’ve not violated Wade’s privacy too badly, and I know that, for Wade, saying ‘no’ is not a problem.

It seems like the elevator descends forever. The last two days I’ve entered the Dungeon through the sub-basement parking garage. ‘There’s a code,’ Wade says, as though he’s read my mind, ‘When it’s entered, the elevator goes directly between the Executive Offices and the Dungeon, no stops in between. I hate a crowded elevator, and I hate extra stops.’ Before the elevator reaches its destination, my ears have popped twice. ‘We’re quite a ways down,’ he says. ‘And the four levels of sub basements quite a ways farther.’

My pulse jumps at the mention of the sub-levels. ‘Will I see them?’

‘Not all of them,’ he answers, his jaw suddenly tight and his lips pressed in a thin line. Then he adds, ‘Even if I wanted to show it all to you, which I don’t, there isn’t enough time.’ He shrugs. ‘You’d have to overnight in the Suite, and even then … Well, some places are just off limits.’

Though I relish the idea of a night in the Suite, I have to admit, there are parts of Wade’s Dungeon that I’m not all that sure I really want to see.

The doors open with a whisper and we walk through a deserted reception area that I know is just for looks. Wade has no receptionist and no PA. Pretty much it’s invitation only to the Dungeon. As we pass through the reception area, he punches in a door code and I find myself in what I know is the main living area, and the only real public area. And yes, Wade really does live here. Still, writing about it, and actually seeing it up close and personal are two different things. The best way I can describe it is a cross between my grandmother’s kitchen, a 1950s diner, and romp through a flea market.

Carla is ensconced at an ancient Formica table with her laptop open. She greets me with a smile. ‘Sorry I can’t join you on the tour. I’m on a tight deadline for a story about sustainability, but Wade’s a great tour guide.’

He growls at her, and she blows him a kiss, then goes back to work. Teen Angel is playing on a jukebox that adds to the hamburger joint feel with its pastel lighting and its glass bubble top that shows off the 45s. A quick peek, and I see that there are selections all the way back to the 40s along with lots of classic rock and a few pop pieces as well. Next to it is a red Naugahyde stool with a heavy-bodied black phone from the 1950s that reminds me a bit of a kettle bell. ‘The land line,’ Wade says. ‘Doesn’t get used much, but Ellis insists I have one.’

On the wall above the stool is a black and white plastic cat clock, with numbers and hands on the exposed white belly. As the seconds tick, the tail swishes and the eyes roll from side to side. ‘You a cat person?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘I just liked the clock.’

The ratty Naugahyde and chrome sofa along the back wall must have been the colour of gray marble at one time, but it’s surface is rubbed clean from lots of butts sitting on it. In front of it is a battered oak coffee table that must weigh as much as a small car, and I can’t keep from thinking of Wade feeding Carla Chinese food on that couch. Best not think of that! ‘Garage sale?’ I nod to the couch.

‘From Ellis’ parent’s basement, believe it or not,’ he says. ‘Though some of this stuff is from garage sales and flea markets.’

‘I never would have expected you to frequent such places,’ I say.

‘Who knows what you’ll find there. And next to bowling with Clyde, I find a good flea market the next best thing for thinking and inspiration.’ He grabs a plastic glass from a small Formica counter and I watch as he fills it with ice from the kind of ice machine one would find in a hotel lobby. Then from a refrigerator that looks like it came straight from grandma’s kitchen, he pulls out a pitcher of iced tea fills the glass, slaps a plastic lid on it and stuff in a straw. ‘Your drink of choice, just like Dee’s if I’m not mistaken.’ He hands it to me, and I’m moved that he knew.

Carla watches as I drink deeply and moan my approval. ‘You’ll need fortification for this tour,’ she says. ‘We’re ordering Mexican for lunch after. You up for it?’

How can I refuse such an offer! Wade bends and kisses Carla on the cheek, then leads me into a long hallway. And I become very aware of the quirk of a man who could buy half of Portland without even batting an eye, but chooses to furnish his most personal spaces with flea-market hodge-podge and yet I can just see inside the first room we pass, a home cinema that would put any mall cinema I’ve ever been to to shame.

‘We’re watching X-Men First Class tonight if you want to join us,’ Wade says, taking in my view. ‘Stacie and Harris Walker will be here. You know them.’

‘Why Wade, you’re practically turning into a social butterfly,’ I tease.

He growls and leads me down to the Incident Room, and I’m suddenly speechless as he brings everything on line with several clicks on a random keyboard. The room is wall-to-wall flat-screen monitors the size of … well the size of walls. There are keyboards and electronics and a device that looks like a cross between a gas pump and an iron maiden. In spite of all the amazing tech around me, though, my eyes stray to the metal support beam in the middle of the room, with its hook at arm’s reach.

Before I can look away, he follows my gaze, and this time he growls louder. ‘We’re not going there, so don’t ask.’ His face is suddenly bright red and I’m sure mine is too. I can’t keep the picture of him and Carla out of my head, her there bound with her hands up over her hand and him … I catch my breath. ‘I wasn’t pleased about you writing that,’ he says to me. ‘I wasn’t at my best just then.’

I thought he was pretty damned amazing, but I don’t say that. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on a private moment,’ I manage, wondering if I made a mistake in asking him to take me on this tour. What happened in the Incident Room is only one of the events that make this tour way more personal and invasive for me than it would be for anyone else.

‘Yes you did,’ he says. ‘You meant to do exactly that, and you did it over and over again.’

‘And you let me.’

For a moment we stand there in silence, with only the soft whisper of the air conditioning in the background, surrounded by technology that I know he has used to help the police and secret service agencies all over the world solve crimes. His genius is so much more than technical, though, and yet I am most moved by the sight of that metal support post and what happened there.

At last, his shoulders relax and the sigh that passes his lips seems loud in the quiet. ‘I did. You’re right.’ He runs a hand through his already mussed hair and looks around the room. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not used to … to people knowing … stuff about me.’

‘Hey guys, Mexican just arrived.’ We both jump and turn to find Carla standing barefoot at the door. ‘I’m starving. Either come join me or delay at your own risk.’

Wade, still holding my gaze, takes a deep breath and offers a genuine smile. ‘I think we could both use a break.’ He motions me out into the hall. ‘Sustenance first, and then we finish the tour,’ his voice turns dangerous, ‘if you think you’re up for it.’

I can’t help but wonder if I am. I can’t help but wonder if either of us is.

The Interviewing Wade Blog Tour and Giveaway Begins today and I’m over at the fabulous L.C.
Wilkinson’s blog Do join us there!