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Showing vs Telling by Kemberlee Shortland (@kemberlee) #erotica #romance #giveaway

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I’m sure I’m not the only one whose editor has said, “This is telling. SHOW your reader . . . “. Have you ever wondered exactly what this means?

Here’s an example —

Telling: Mary showered before dressing.

Showing: Mary stepped from the steaming shower and wrapped herself in a thick white terrycloth towel. Her hair was bound to keep it dry, but now she let it down. She watched the coppery curls fall about her bare shoulders in the foggy mirror, her reflection an apparition in the haze.

In the showing example, the reader is in the bathroom with Mary. While her actual features are blurred in the foggy mirror, we know she has coppery hair and it’s long enough that if falls about her shoulders.

Here’s another one —

Telling: John played the guitar.

Showing: The sound was as gentle as a pleasured woman’s moan yet seemed almost too big for the tiny room. John closed his eyes, enjoying the erotic sensation of the hum of the cords reverberating through his belly. He let his fingers slide over the strings and listened to the slow gut-twisting refrain.

This example shows us John is an experienced guitarist. We see him playing the instrument in a small room, possibly a recording studio. The piece he’s playing awakens particular emotions in him, which the reader also gets a sense of.

How do we know any of this? Because we’ve been shown through the narrative.

We can also be shown a story through dialog. Look at these examples —

Telling: Mary paled, as if she’d seen a ghost.

Showing: “Mary, you’re white as a sheet. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Telling: John loved dogs, but not jumping all over him.

Showing: “Mary, you know I love Spike, but would you mind controlling him?”

In the business of writing fiction, writers must tell a story in such a way that readers can see, and feel, what’s happening in the story. But does this make us storytellers or story showers?

Traditional storytelling goes back well before the written word — to a time of oral storytelling. This is the most intimate form of storytelling, as both the storyteller and the audience gather in a close environment to hear the tale. I won’t go into a history of oral storytelling here, but give you some examples of how this art is used.

Imagine you’re a medieval trader of exotic spices or fabrics, and you’re visiting a town to sell your wares. The local lord invites you into his home where he trades a hot meal and a bed for the night in exchange for you telling him tales of your travels. What tales would you tell? One of a dangerous ocean voyage? Perhaps, exotic people from other countries? Maybe you’ll relate some of the ancient stories you were told while in that foreign country.

What if you were a time traveler who’s gone back in time and you must explain about where you came from and how you found yourself in the past? How do you explain cars, planes and walking on the moon to someone who wants to know what the future is like?

As writers, we take these stories and write them in such a way that readers are pulled in, much the same as listening to traditional oral storytellers, and become part of the story. The biggest difference is that oral storytelling relies heavily on watching the storyteller, as he/she may become animated or perhaps sing to embellish the story. With fiction, the reader only has the page filled with words and their imagination. Their imagination is fueled by the words we put on those pages. And while a simple story, such as Cinderella, might be enough to entertain young children, an adult wants a story with a lot more meat in it. We want to tell a story to keep our readers up all night turning pages, not tell a bedtime story that puts them to sleep.

4One of my favorite stories is an ancient Danish ballad called Hellelil and Hildrebrand. It was translated into English in 1891. The ballad, or a story written as poetry, tells the story of forbidden love. Kind of the Romeo and Juliet of Denmark, if you will. In my next example, I’ve pulled a scene from the ballad in which Hellelil explains how her father, the king, has twelve knights watching over her safety, and how she’s fallen in love with one of them. Hildebrand happens to be the son of the King of England. Son of royalty or not, he’s still just a knight and she’s a princess. Read this scene from the original ballad and see what you get from it —

My father was good king and lord,

Knights fifteen served before his board.

 

He taught me sewing royally,

Twelve knights had watch and ward of me.

 

Well served eleven day by day,

To folly the twelfth did me bewray.

 

And this same was hight Hildebrand,

The King’s son of the English Land.

 

But in bower were we no sooner laid

Than the truth thereof to my father was said.

 

Then loud he cried o’er garth and hall:

‘Stand up, my men, and arm ye all!

 

‘Yea draw on mail and dally not,

Hard neck lord Hildebrand hath got!’

While this excerpt is telling an interesting story, it’s not what today’s mass market readers want. They want authors to show them the story through the protagonist’s eyes. Read my excerpt, showing what you’ve just read above —

“You must go.” She pushed her lover’s shoulders, yet he would not release her.

“I’ll not leave you, Hellelil. I love you. No one will keep us apart.”

Her heart pounded in her breast, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the danger they were both in or the thought of never seeing Hildebrand again. Most likely it was both. He was her one true love, but she knew if her father found them together like this, his anger would know no end.

“Please, Hildebrand. If my father catches you here, he’ll show no mercy. You know I’m promised to another.”

“I’m a Prince of England, and I will have you.”

He embraced her within the safety of his powerful arms. The scent of their recent lovemaking clung to his skin. One more kiss, one more embrace, certainly laying with him one more night would do no harm. She knew they were both already meant for Purgatory. He’d taken the virginity she so gladly gave him, for she loved him too, and would rather him have the gift of her innocence than a man she didn’t love.

Yes, one more night . . .

Just then, there was no mistaking the sound of her father’s voice bellowing below stairs.

“Hildebrand has gone too far. I will see his head on a pike at my gates before the day is out.”

The sound of clanging metal grew louder as her father’s knights ascended the narrow stairs.

Hellelil’s tear-filled gaze flashed across Hildebrand’s face. She sought to memorize everything about him. The color of his eyes, the wave in his hair . . . his kiss-swollen lips.

She stroked her fingers across those lips, remembering the feel of them on hers not moments before. Her chamber door was locked, but it would not remain closed for long. One more kiss was all there was time for.

She pulled him down to her. “Kiss me, Hildebrand. For if I’m to die this day, I will take the sweet memory of your kiss with me.”

Hey, I write romance so you knew that would be schmaltzy! But, as you can see, the modern day version is the same scene, but it’s written in such a way as to flesh out the scene. It puts you in the room with Hellelil and Hildrebrand, and lets you into Hellelil’s head, and heart, by showing the story through her point of view. You feel her anxiety of being torn between her love for Hildebrand and the fear of their being caught together. Her heart pounds, she touches his lips with her fingertips, her love races through her in a desperate attempt at showing one last act of that love. We feel a great sense of urgency in this piece that we don’t feel in the original ballad.

The reader also knows Hildebrand’s feelings toward Hellelil by his words and the narrative action. Hildebrand holds Hellelil within the protection of his strong arms, his declaration of love, and his promise to have her as his own. We sense because he’s a prince of another realm that he holds some stature in the household where he is. He’s not just a simple knight who’s taken the virginity of the lord’s daughter in a heartless dalliance — he loves her. Hildebrand is a man of honor and breeding, and he knows his own heart and mind. So what if she’s promised to another.

Did you get any of that from the original ballad? Didn’t think so. Why? Because the first version tells the story. My version shows it to you.

One Night in Dublin by Kemberlee Shortland - sm banner

ONE NIGHT IN DUBLIN

Kemberlee Shortland

City Nights Series, #9

Tirgearr Publishing

ISBN: 9781311609366

ASIN: B00RY20282

http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Shortland_Kemberlee/one-night-in-dublin.htm

 

One Night in Dublin by Kemberlee ShortlandBlurb:

At her mother’s prompting (nagging) about grandchildren, Sive wonders if it really is time to settle down. She’s just finishing college so she should be thinking about her future. But is she ready to settle down? Is she ready for kids? And more importantly, which of the three men she’s been seeing does she want to spend the rest of her life with?

Sive has a choice to make, and only 24 hours in which to make it.

 

Extract:

Choices.

We all make them. From the moment we wake up, it’s: “do I get out of bed now or hit the snooze button . . . again?” “shall I wear this outfit to work or that one?” “tea and toast or grab something on the way?”

It’s all mundane bullshit. They’re all choices we make on the fly without even realizing we’re making them.

Think about it. What choices do you make when you’re not thinking about them? Like going home from work. You get on the train, find a seat and wait for your stop. But when you get there, you wonder how the hell you got there because you don’t remember making the journey.

What I’m trying to say is that we often go on auto-pilot and just do what needs doing without any real thought, because there are usually more pressing things to think about—the important things.  Or seemingly so. Like, what movie to see, what restaurant to eat in, where to go on holidays . . . and for some girls, this pair of sensible shoes on sale or another pair not on sale but immensely sexier?

For me, today, my choices aren’t so mundane, and they’ll require a lot of conscious thought. I have an important decision to make. One that could change my life forever, pardon the cliché.

They—whoever ‘they’ are—say there is someone for everyone, that we all have a ‘type’ of person we’re attracted to. I’m still figuring it all out . . . exploring to see what is my type . . . that someone just for me. And it doesn’t help that my mum’s voice is in the back of my head, asking . . . i.e. nagging (yes, I just said i.e.) . . . when I’m going to settle down and give her grandkids.

First, let me say this: I’m not a slut. I’m not loose, I don’t carelessly sleep around, and I don’t do one-night stands. I just love men and all of their vast differences.

What can I say about my boys that every other woman out there doesn’t already know about men? Charmers, every one of them. But they all give me something I need.

Tonight I need to decide what, or who, I need the most—Fitzy, Moss, or Sully.

 

Kemberlee Shortland authorBio:

Kemberlee Shortland is a native Northern Californian who grew up in a community founded by artists and writers, including John Steinbeck, George Sterling, and Jack London. It’s no wonder she’s loved telling stories since she was very young. Kemberlee completed her first novel at 21 and hasn’t looked back. In 1997, she left the employ of Clint Eastwood to live in Ireland for six months. It was there she met the man she would marry, and permanently relocated to live in Ireland. While always writing, Kemberlee earned her keep as a travel consultant and writing travel articles about Ireland. In 2005, she saw her first romance sell, and to date, she has nine published romances. When not writing, Kemberlee enjoys spending time with her two Border Collies, who feature on the cover of A Piece of My Heart, and also knitting, gardening, photography, music, travel, and tacos!

Website – http://www.kemberlee.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKemberleeShortland
Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/kemberlee
Hearticles – http://www.hearticles.blogspot.com
HeartShapedStones – http://www.heartshapedstones.blogspot.com

 

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Encounter in a Dry Canyon

Inspiration comes in strange places, and all writers know that there are occasions when we’re not quite sure what’s real and what comes from our imagination. 

 

2015-05-03 10.51.32The night of that first encounter I was restless, and my imagination had been running wild ever since I’d landed in the States two nights before. I had been having dreams, crazy dreams, lust-filled sexy dreams that had driven me from sleep to find myself in sweat soaked sheets aching and wanting and needing … something. ‘Be present,’ I kept telling myself. I needed be present. I needed to learn to be in the moment. That’s a part of what this holiday was all about. Being in the moment was something of a struggle for me with one tight deadline bleeding into another and then another. The insane pace had been going on for over four years and now, for the first time in a long time I had given myself space between projects, space to breathe, space to rest, space to regroup. The problem was; now that I had the time and the space, I didn’t know what the hell to do with it. I’m a writer. That’s not just my job, it’s my vocation, and my identity is tied up in it – very possibly more so than I had imagined.

It had been the dreams that had driven me to the dry canyon in the middle of the night. In my dreams someone I could never saw, someone holding me in a close, sensual embrace, someone nuzzling and cupping and caressing, kept whispering in my ear that I needed to write the story, that I needed to get it all down, but they would never tell me what story I was to write, and when I burst into wakefulness restless and uncomfortable in my own skin, the feeling of being stretched and expanded and then shoved back into myself was overlaid with a shimmering patina of arousal. Feeling like I’d suffocate if I didn’t get some air, I’d dressed quickly and left the house, leaving a note on the kitchen table for my sister just in case she should wake and find me missing.

In ten minutes I was in the dry canyon alone in the middle of the night wondering why I wasn’t at least a little bit nervous about my choice of how to spend my time in the wee hours. My sister said that in spite of the fact that the canyon ran through the center of the town with five miles of paved walking path from one end to the other as well as other footpaths meandering along the canyon’s edges, in spite of the fact that the canyon was almost never deserted, occasionally there was a mountain lion spotting, occasionally warnings were posted. There had never been an attack, never been even a threat, but it wasn’t all that uncommon in areas where human habitat encroached on puma territory for the two to come in contact with each other. But not now, I told myself. In my visits to my sister’s I’d seen deer in the canyon, myriad birds, rock chucks and other wildlife, but never a mountain lion. And if I were being completely honest, the I found the shiver up my spine at the thought of seeing one of the beautiful cats at least as exciting as it was frightening. The full moon hung heavily just over my head, almost like I could reach out and touch it. It gave off enough silver light that I could see in exquisite monochrome layers, juniper and sage and the rise of the steep volcanic cliffs of the canyon walls.

The dry canyon splits the town of Redmond, Oregon right down the middle and until recently the only way to get around it was to drive to the end. Now there’s a huge bridge that spans it joining the two sides, the architects and builders having taken particular care that the bridge should blend in with the canyon and the high desert’s natural beauty. The bridge glistened pale in the moonlight, giant concrete arches rising like the bones of some graceful prehistoric monster whose death throes had spanned the canyon in rib-boned arches. It’s the landmark I always walk toward. And that night, when I got there, I drank deeply from the water fountain placed strategically in the shade for passing bikers, runners and walkers. There’s even a fountain for dogs next to it. Then I settled on the lone picnic table beneath the bridge, lie down on my back and look up at the shadowed underbelly of sinuous concrete.

I heard him before I saw him. I heard his heavy breathing, I heard the scuff, scuff of his feet against the ground, and I stayed still, listening, not wanting to startle him. I knew I should make good my getaway, or at least make my presence known, but I didn’t. For some reason I just lay there and watched as he drew near. The moonlight glistened on his bare chest, and I didn’t even pretend not to look. He was light footed, slender of build, long and well muscled. His hair was tawny pale and unkempt, clinging in wet curls around his ears and onto his shoulders. At the fountain, he drank long and deep, then tossed several cupped handfuls of water onto his head, down the back of his neck and onto his face. His nipples beaded, and goose flesh bloomed and spread across the rise and fall of his pecs where the water dripped onto his chest and over his taut belly. It was then that his gaze lit on me and the little breath of his surprise sounded like a soft growl in the muted night.

2015-05-03 11.09.21‘Strange dreams,’ I said in response to his unasked question as to my presence. I made no attempt not to stare at him, which didn’t seem too impolite, since he stared right back at me. ‘I needed some fresh air.’ Frankly I was surprised I could speak at all, let alone that I can be so brazen about it.

He bent for another drink, and I noticed he was barefoot. My insides quivered at just how little clothing the man really had on. The running shorts were thin and rode low on his hips revealing his navel and the slender path of soft hair disappearing into his waistband, a path I found myself wanting to follow with the stroke of a palm.

I was surprised when he moved to the table next to me, and settled a large hand in my hair, fisting it and stoking it until I sighed softly and moved against his palm. I was even more surprised when he stepped back, stretched his arms high above his head, yawned deeply, and then lay down beside me, settling himself around me in a spoon position. The dry desert air had dried the sweat from his flesh almost entirely. He was surprisingly warm and he smelled of desert heat, juniper and sagebrush. For a second I panicked as his strong arm snaked around my waist and pulled me back tight against him. Then I felt his mouth on the back of my neck, first parted lips, then tongue, then a slight nip of teeth. I found myself inexplicably calming under his touch, calming to the low rumble of satisfaction deep in his chest, to the steady hard pumping of his heart as he pressed his chest tight against me.

Once he was certain I wouldn’t run, his hold on me relaxed and his palm, flat against my belly, slid beneath my tank top and up to cup my breasts. I caught my breath in a startled moan as he thumbed my nipples alternately until they rose stiff and sensitive against calloused skin. I’d not bothered with a bra when I left my sister’s house. I never expected to meet anyone in the canyon. Easy access for anyone’s hands other than my own had not been my plan. While he cupped and kneaded and pinched, his mouth went back to work on my neck. He raised himself on one elbow to tongue and nip the hollow of my throat and I could feel the shape of him, hard and urgent, beneath the thin fabric of his shorts.

I barely had time to think about the hard rub and shift of him pressing against the back of my sweat bottoms before his hand migrated back down my belly and eased under my waistband with me shifting forward into the cup of his palm as he fingered and worked his way down. My legs parted and shifted and moved of their own volition to allow him access, and the shiver down my spine was not from the cool of the night as he stroked and fondled, all the while nipping and tonguing the back of my neck and the lobe of my ear, an effort leaving me weak and trembling with need that felt bone deep.

I don’t know how his hands could be everywhere, but they were. He slid my sweats down over my hips and, for a split second, I felt the cool night air against my bare bottom. Then I felt him bare and hard and anxious against me. The biting of my neck became more urgent and, God, I wanted him to bite me hard, I wanted to bite him back. I was only half conscious of the sounds he was making, animal grunts and groans, growls deep in his chest, sighs that I felt hot and moist against my skin. Then the nipping and the suckling and the caressing migrated down the length of my spine, and strong arms lifted me onto my hands and knees until my bottom was raised high in the moonlight and, before I could even think to protest, he continued his explorations, spreading me and kneading me with strong hands until his tongue found what he was looking for — me wet and restless and needing. I don’t remember much beyond that point except intense desperate pleasure, except his breath hot and fast against the swell of me, except him tasting me in hungry, lapping mouthfuls. And when I was boneless and weak from his efforts he pulled away, rose up and bit me on the shoulder, bit me hard enough to make me cry out, then he plunged into me, crushing me to him, holding my hips tight against his body, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. I remember rearing back against him with each thrust, matching him growl for growl, holding my breath, bracing for impact, anticipating the breaking and shattering and falling apart as we came together and collapsed in desperate gasps back onto the table. Then he curled around me and we slept.

mountain_lion_petroglyph_photo_print-r1c1d777189c04e63a2426808aab6f0e1_wyy_8byvr_512I remember waking alone on the picnic with the moon setting and dawn just beginning to gray the rim of the canyon, or at least I think I remember. I was barely aware of the walk back to my sister’s house, and the stripping off of my clothes and the falling into bed and into unconsciousness. In fact when I woke later in the morning snuggled down in the bed with the cool desert breeze blowing the curtains at the open window next to my bed, I figured I’d probably dreamed the whole experience. I mean the whole experience of dressing and walking in a dark canyon in the middle of the night alone, of sharing my body with a man I didn’t know, a man who never spoke, it wasn’t me at all. Surely it wasn’t the kind of thing I’d do. It was my imagination, I was sure. Jet lag often makes for powerful dreams, though it was strange the way my body felt that morning, I woke to the achy tenderness that follows rough sex, that follows a ravenous encounter too wild to really be just fucking, and yet just tame enough not to scare me into running away in fear of being completely devoured.

After breakfast my sister and I walked the canyon – her anticipating a good bit of morning exercise and me wanting to see if just maybe something would jog my memory, if just maybe something would bring the vividness of the encounter back to me. The dry canyon has been one of my favorite parts of where my sister lives for a long time. Walking it together has been a major part of our visits. We’d just descended the side road into the canyon and I was admiring how the bridge shown in the morning sun, thinking about my dream encounter, when my sister drew my attention to a sign on the notice board.

 

Mountain lion warning20130519090913Caution: Mountain Lion Sighting.

 
The breeze that had been warm felt suddenly chilled and the hairs on my arms rose.

‘There hasn’t been one in awhile,’ she was saying when I finally managed to turn my attention back to her. ‘Usually people see them at dawn or at dusk, people out for a late or an early run. They’re nocturnal, you know?’

‘Yes, I know.’ I said, remembering with a shiver low in my belly the nip of teeth on the back of my neck and the rough push and shove of flesh against flesh.

 

The Eyes of Bast by Lisabet Sarai

TheEyesOfBastCover300

Channeling the Cat

It’s almost a joke – the common association between authors and cats. I haven’t done a systematic survey, but I would estimate that at least 75% of the authors I hosts as blog guests mention feline companions in their bios. I’m no exception. I currently have two cats who traveled with us from the United States to southeast Asia ten years ago, and who have settled in quite comfortably.

Of course, many famous writers were renowned for their close relationships with their felines.  Colette, Papa Hemingway, Jean-Paul Satre, Ray Bradbury… the list goes on and on.  The inspiration for my erotic writing career, Portia da Costa, is a huge cat lover – that’s one of the things that forged a bond between us.

Many explanations have been offered for the feline-author affinity. A cat doesn’t need to be walked, so we can spend our time at our desks as opposed to trucking around on the street scooping up their business. Cats are mysterious creatures with many layers of personality – rather like effective characters. Cats have an elegance and precision of movement we writers might use as a model for our prose. Many authors have cited their felines as sources of inspiration. Noted Canadian writer Robertson Davies once said “Authors like cats because they are such quiet, lovable, wise creatures, and cats like authors for the same reason.”

The other day, I was suddenly struck by a new theory. I was thinking about the fact that so many authors report hearing “voices”. “I just listen to my characters, and write down what they say,” one of my guests commented. Writing sometimes feels like something driven from outside, beyond our conscious control. Well, what if that’s true?

What if it’s not our characters who are dictating the story? What if it’s our cats?

Ridiculous, right? But Mr. Toes sits behind my monitor most days I’m writing. He pretends to be asleep, but if I should get up for a bathroom break or a drink of water, he stirs and gives me a look, as it to say, “Where are you going? The story’s not done yet!”

I grew up with cats. I grew up writing fiction. When I went off to college and then grad school, I left the felines behind, and although I wrote lots of poetry during that period, I didn’t pen a single story. Then I met my husband, a confirmed ailurophile, and filled my life with felines once more. Next thing you know, I was a published author.

Ever tried to write when your cat was sick? Tough to concentrate on the tale, isn’t it?

And wouldn’t this explain why our characters are larger than life? Why they have so much vitality, such powerful passions, such intense adventures? How could a mere human imagine such creatures? Cats, though – they have superhuman abilities. Just ask them.

Of course to really test this, we’d all have to get rid of our felines and then see if we could still write.

That might be informative. It might restore our self-respect. But it’s simply too painful to contemplate.

If I’m channeling my cats, I’m okay with that. As long as they don’t want their names on the cover.

Meanwhile, I’ve finally written a story in which a cat has center stage. The Eyes of Bast is a shifter tale with a difference. Read on to learn more.

Blurb

Trust your heart. Follow your dreams.

Shaina Williams’ grandmother bequeathed her that wisdom, along with a old pendant from the Islands, carved from an ocelot’s tooth. When instinct tells Shaina to visit the feral cat trap she’d set in Central Park, she listens to that inner voice, She discovers she’s caged a magnificent black tom, but the cat inexplicably vanishes after she tends to his wounds. Seeking the errant feline, Shaina encounters instead a handsome stranger whose slightest touch sets her body on fire. As the day dawns after a night of ferocious passion, her mysterious lover is forced back into his true shape – the tomcat she’d rescued.

Born a cat, Tom was transformed into an unwilling shape shifter by a sorceress who craved a human plaything to satisfy her perverse lusts. Centuries old and irresistibly powerful, Delphine Montserrat will stop at nothing to find her runaway familiar. Shaina vows to do whatever is necessary to defeat the vicious but seductive witch and save the man she believes is her soul mate – even though it might mean losing him forever.

Buy Links:

Totally BoundAll Romance Ebooks | Amazon USAmazon UKBarnes & Noble | Kobo

Add on GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25153711-the-eyes-of-bast

Check out my exclusive interview about the book at Totally Bound!

https://www.totallybound.com/the-eyes-of-bast-exclusive

 

 

Excerpt:

It was near dawn when I woke again. In the pearl-gray light filtering through the blinds, my familiar furnishings were strange and ghostly, shrouded in shadow. Stretching, I realized I was no longer on the floor. My bed had been unfolded, and I lay stretched out on the sheets, nude. Alone.

Groggy with sleep, I raised myself on my elbows to scan the room. It appeared to be empty. “Tom?” I whispered. There was no answer. A sense of unreality seized me. Had I dreamed the entire scene – the handsome intruder, the overwhelmingly sensual kiss, the orgasm that had shot me straight into the stratosphere? I recalled my devastating arousal in the stranger’s presence. What was going on? Could I be suffering from some kind of hormonal imbalance? This seemed like something more than the normal horniness of a woman who’d been celibate for a while.

Thinking exhausted me. I sank back into my pillow, closing my eyes as if that might make my doubts and confusion vanish. Sleep, I told myself. Ill figure things out in the morning. I was already drifting back into slumber when the sound of running water roused me.

I peered into the dimness. A tall, male form emerged from the bathroom. My heart did a somersault in my chest.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His low, musical voice melted me. I propped myself up to a sitting position, heedless of my nakedness.

“You! You’re real…You’re still here?”

He’d discarded his clothing as well. In the half-light, I drank in the sight of his smooth, muscled limbs, becoming more intoxicated by the moment. He seated himself beside me and circled me with his arms. Heat radiated from his dark skin.

“Why would I leave, my beautiful one?” he murmured in my ear. Bending a bit, he flicked his tongue across one of my nipples. Lightning tore through me. “There are still a few hours left to the night.”

Before I could reply, he’d fastened his luscious mouth on mine. His firm lips coaxed rather than demanded a response, one I was only too willing to give. I opened to the prodding of his rough tongue, letting him taste me, savoring his wild, sweet flavor in return.

Once again a sort of delirium swept over me. It seemed we were back in the park, sheltered by trees more than a century old. My nostrils filled with the perfume of dew-soaked grass and damp earth, laced with a hint of animal musk. I felt light as dandelion down, drifting in the night wind. Only his strong grip kept me grounded. The moon rode above the clouds, invisible but palpable, stirring tides in my flesh. Desire ebbed then surged, cresting higher with each cycle.

His hands molded my breasts like moist clay. Blind with need, I groped along his furred chest and taut belly, down to his gloriously erect cock. When I squeezed, he moaned into my mouth and bit the corner of my lip. The iron-tinged flavor of my own blood simply added to the stew of sensation.

I smeared my thumb over the slippery bulb. His answer was a savage twist to an already aching nipple. Moisture gushed from my pussy. I tumbled backward, dragging him down on top of me.

“Shaina…” he murmured, breaking the kiss to lick his way along my throat. His saliva felt like liquid fire. He nuzzled in the hollow of my cleavage, then captured one breast and began to suckle. Electric pleasure arced through me when his hardness brushed my inner thigh. I squirmed beneath him, trying to align his cock with my hungry cleft.

“Please….” There was no need for me to say more. The stranger rose above me, supporting himself on his powerful arms. His eyes gleamed like phosphorescent jewels in the grayness. He smiled down at me, baring those sharp, white teeth that had already drawn my blood. An almost inhuman glee painted his features.

He hovered at my entrance, his rigid flesh teasing my engorged clit. I spread my thighs wide. Without a word, he sank his cock deep into my drenched pussy.

 

About the Author

When I was a little girl, my dad would make up stories for my siblings and me, fabulous sagas about ghosts and monsters, magical races with mysterious powers, heroes on impossible quests, hidden treasures awaiting only the most courageous seeker. I blame him for my lifelong fascination with the magical and miraculous.

Now that I’m grown up, I create my own tales of wonder, weaving in generous portions of human desire with its potent enchantments. In my paranormal tales, love works the most powerful magick.

Find out more about me and my books at my website, Lisabet’s Fantasy Factory (http://www.lisabetsarai.com) and my blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com). I also hang out on Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83387.Lisabet_Sarai) and Amazon (https://www.amazon.com/author/lisabetsarai).  I also have a VIP readers email list where I share release and contest information and run exclusive monthly giveaways. To join, just email me: lisabet [at] lisabetsarai [dot] com.

 

The Para-Portage of Emily by Muffy Wilson (@SexyMuffyWilson)

Night ocean with moon and moonlight reflection on water. Solitude.

Blurb:

Emily Macque, a young, beautiful junior partner in her father’s law firm, is but a heartbeat away from love or destiny. Duty brings Emily to a frozen Island estate two hundred and fifty miles north of Chicago. Devotion requires she delve into the property history to settle an estate probate. Death lures her into the arms of the shadows seduction created by the flickering light and dark shadows.

What flames the timeless passions spanning the decades? Love, desire or obsession?

Colin Jorgenson, once a Great Lakes mariner, is a strong man haunted by love and loss. How long will he return each night, gripped by desire, hoping to find the woman he has loved for a century?

Beneath the pristine Island beauty, passions hungered, lingered in the ardent darkness. His passions, fueled by decades of loneliness and longing, could no longer be denied. Will they face eternity together or love in secret as dark things are to be loved between the shadows and the soul?

Available from: Amazon UK | Amazon US

LaywithMe

Excerpt:
“Tell me what you know about Mariner’s Maiden please, Kirby.”

Kirby took a long draw on his beer before he began his narrative.

“It was years ago, around 1800 Miss Emily, when the original land owner arrived on the Island with settlers from Norway. He’d claimed five hundred acres on this southern point of the Island for himself. He became wealthy in cattle, wheat, timber and cheese. As his family grew and were educated on the Mainland, they moved, one by one, off Island. They were a wealthy, hard-working lot, but needed less and less of the acreage they owned. Much of the original plot was donated to the Town throughout the years. Some sections were sold.

“It got down to the last hundred acres when Colin Jorgenson bought the property, around 1890 or 1900. I am not exactly sure. The main house was much smaller and less grand than it is now, for sure.

“Now, Colin was a Maritime Captain and often he’d be gone for months at a time. He sailed the Great Lakes several times a year with supplies, spices, fancy goods and ‘fortunes of bounty’. That’s what they called it then. It was for sale to rich settlers throughout the Great Lakes. He’d earned all his wealth in trading by the turn of the century. He came and went for several years until, in his mid-thirties, he met and married a much younger woman, Amalya, and came back to the Island with her.”

Kirby sat back, drained his beer and continued. “The property was called Mariner’s Cove then. He spent two years with Island tradesmen rebuilding this house for his wife. To honor her, and before his return to the water, he commissioned a maritime woodcarver to create the figurehead of Amalya you saw yesterday on the tree marking the entrance.

He had the figure of Amalya mounted on the bow of his ship and apparently felt she was always with him in his travels. She died one summer, pregnant with their first child, shortly after his returning from his last trip of the season. He shut himself away in this house—a broken man, left forlorn and alone, to die years later of a broken heart as a recluse. It’s said he returns night after night trying to find his Amalya, his beloved.”

“But that’s just old folklore, Miss Emily, there’s nothing to it but made up stories from the past by gossips and romantics. This place has never been haunted—no one has ever said it was, anyway. Even though he was long dead, this property was held in Old Colin’s estate until your uncle bought it around 1955, I think. I suppose there is more you can find out at the Archives office in the Island library at the town offices, if you want. That’s about all I know and it ain’t much.”

Refusing a second beer, Kirby was off to finish his chores. “Thank you, Miss Emily,” Kirby said as he stood to leave.

Emily walked him to the door with Barkley in tow.

“Oh, there is one more thing” he added. “There is supposed to be a crypt on the property somewhere. I heard tell that Old Colin buried his Amalya in there and when he was dying, he crawled into it to die on her casket. Creepy, but no one’s ever found it to my knowledge—and between me and my dad, we’ve covered this property as caretakers for over fifty years.”

Emily extended her hand in gratitude for the information and company. “Thank you, Kirby. All of that is so very interesting. He must have been deeply in love with Amalya.”

Kirby, a middle-aged man, stood and shook Emily’s hand. He turned to leave, stopped and dropped his head as he hesitated at the bottom of the steps. A simple country man, this time was no different.

“Miss Emily…” He looked up at her rather sheepishly, and stuttered slightly, “Forgive me, Miss Emily, if I offend you. I have been a bachelor all my life and never had a way with women or much of a need for them. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like ‘em well enough, but I never was able to pick the right words in their presence. If…if you don’t mind my saying…you look an awful lot like those paintings in the house of Miss Amalya.”

“Oh my word, Kirby, how you flatter me! It is purely a coincidence, I assure you.” Emily smiled, as she dismissed the compliment and waved good-bye at Kirby. As he left, she thought about the love shared between these two remarkable people, Colin and Amalya. Amalya and Colin.

She had forgotten to ask what became of the baby…

releaseblitz_paraportageAuthor Bio and Links:
Muffy, author of erotic, romantic stories about love, sex, hope and passion, was born in San Antonio, Texas, to traditional parents. With two older brothers, she was the youngest, the family “princess,” indulged and pampered. She adored her older brothers, following them everywhere and was surrounded by love, stimulation, and pets. Her father was a career Colonel and pilot in the U.S. Air Force which required the family to travel extensively. The family lived in most points between Alaska and France. Muffy spent her formative years in Europe and came of age in France.
Returning from France with her family, Muffy finished high school in Northern California and attended the University of California, Davis, and majored in Business Management. Muffy entered the work force, independent with a fierce work ethic, and retired at 39 from IBM as a Mid-West Regional Director in the Real Estate and Construction Division. She and her husband moved to a small Island in northern Wisconsin where they owned a historic tavern, restaurant and resort business which they since have sold. They now live a charmed life by the water in SW Florida. Muffy pretends to be a serious real estate business person but, in real life, indulges her private interest in writing sexy short stories and sensual literotica ~ Live, Laugh, Love with Passion.

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Out Now! – Raige (Tainted Blood, Book Four) by RT Lucas and LJ Halkett

RaigeBlurb

“Blood is thicker than water, that’s the old adage yeah? Family is everything to my Sweetcheeks.  She lives and breathes it. I would do anything for my female, but some things are a bigger ask than others.”
Commander Xavier Raige

Commander Xavier Raige is the leader of an elite team of soldiers-turned-mercenaries – and a super hybrid wolf. His entire life has been kept a well guarded secret, and with good reasons.  It takes the love and devotion of his Alicia to help him face his past so that he can wipe out the ghosts that still haunt him. Alicia “Sweetcheeks” Carberletti is a Sanguis-Solis vampire and it takes all her strength, intellect, determination and love to discover what happened to fracture Xavier’s family so terribly and break down the walls that he has built up around him to let her in.
The mafia war is gearing up, and with all the personal battles that are going on, will control slip through their fingers, or can the tainted blood that binds them together give them the strength to fight back?

Buy link:  http://www.darkhollowspress.com/#!raige-tainted-blood-book-four/c1oti

releaseblitzbutton_raigeAuthor bio
RT Lucas is 41 years of age, and had a very successful career in Recruitment and Business Development until it was cut short through illness.  Having worked in the Health Sector, Human Resources and Ministry of Defense, she has a myriad of experiences to draw from – and says that sometimes life can be stranger than Fiction!  RT is an avid reader of the paranormal/romance genres but her first love will always be Science Fiction.  She says that she has far superior music taste to that of her Best Friend and Co-Author – and uses every available opportunity to tell her so! RT lives alone with her #XavCat who faithfully lies by her computer whenever she wanders into the world of Tainted Blood.

L J Halkett is 35 years of age, Mother, Wife and Housing Officer for Local Government.  She is a smart, sassy and superbly imaginative woman who devours books – especially in the paranormal genre!  She is the master at multi-tasking and she is always thinking ten steps ahead. With her passion for creativity, she brings to life her imagination with vivid detail.  Family is the cornerstone of LJ’s life, and her greatest achievement is her wonderful son.  Left Partially sighted after her Stroke, LJ has to write in what the Authors call ‘NASA’ font and can only detect the colour red, which can be difficult when reading print on a daily basis – her determination is testament to her personality – as she says…. “Where’s there’s a will? There’s a way!”

Author websitehttp://www.xali.net/

 

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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