All posts by K D Grace

Grand Openings, Readings, Piccies and Summer Fun

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I’ve not had a news catch-up in a while on A Hopeful Romantic, so today’s the day. And it’s a good thing because there’s a lot of news!  Hang on to your summer hats and sunshades. There are a couple of fun events coming up, so get out your diaries and write these down.

La Boudoir logoGrand Opening of La Boudoir Boutique

I’ve been asked to be a VIP for the grand opening of La Boudoir Boutique in Canterbury. And I’ll be in good company, reading a bit of smut with my colleague in naughtiness, the Queen of BDSM, Kay Jaybee. Canterbury may never be the same. If you’re in that neck of the woods around one next Friday the 23rd  of August, stop in for loads of fun.

la boudoir 2DSC08099We’ll be celebrating La Boudoir Boutique’s grand opening with our fab friend, the Saucy Cara Sutra, award winning blogger, with Jo Hemmings, behavioural psychologist to the stars, and with award-winning DJ, Charlie Sloth and Victor Ebuwa, who was a housemate on Big Brother Five.

There’ll be toys for grown-ups, books, sexy lingerie, goodie bags, a free raffle  and all kinds of fun stuff and naughtiness. Make sure to check the website for a listing of all the fun events and the schedule. It’ll all be happening from 1:30 onward in Canterbury. I can hardly wait to celebrate with Violet Hall and the gang at La Boudoir Boutique. And I hope I see you there.

Unit 26, 1 Sparrow Way, Canterbury, Kent, CT3 4AL

 

Sh! logologo2Sh! Reading and Poetry Slam

After celebrating in Canterbury, Kay Jaybee and I are heading back to London by fast train to party over at Sh! Women’s Store! Yes, that’s right, we are total party animals, and there’s a fantastic reading and poetry slam going on at Sh! Fun, fizz and filth for a fiver! That’s a great deal! If you’re in or near London, or if you aren’t but want to take a fast train, plane or bus, then do come join us. You can join us just to have a listen and a good squirm in your seat or you can join us and read your own filthiest to an appreciative crowd! Either way it promises to be a fabulous night of naughtiness.

Here are a few of the fab folks who’ll be reading besides yours truly:  Kay Jaybee, Meg Phillip Lexie Bay and Victoria Blisse to tease and tempt you, as well as the amazing poets such as Ali Brumfitt, Lisa Davies and Jane Fae!

poetry-slamHere are the yummy details:

Erotic Poetry and Reading Slam
Friday 23rd August
6.30-8pm
£5 (includes bubbly and cupcakes)

If you’re interested in performing on the night, email Sh! on events@sh-womenstore.com with a saucy snippet, and the lovely Sh! Ladiez will do their upmost to accommodate you into the schedule. It’s first-come, first-serve, so don’t hesitate to send that email!

Booking in advance is advised. Sh! is an intimately-sized venue with limited ticket availability. Email events@sh-womenstore.com to book your tickets today and come party with us!

 

Pretty Pictures in the Paper

KD-Grace-32It’s been almost two years since the fantastic portrait photographer, David Woolfall contacted me with the idea for a photo shoot and an accompanying essay on erotica writers, the women behind the smut. I saw a similar piece he’d done in the Guardian several months before with photos and an essay about ghost writers, so the idea was intriguing. By the time the scheming and planning was done, David had a great group of erotica  together – most of them women I know and respect, not only because they’re great people, but because they’re really ace story tellers as well. Over the course of the next few months, the photo shoots happened all across the UK. David booked a lot of miles in those months to photograph us all, and those of us involved compared notes on our photo-shoot experience via email and Skype. David was amazing to work with, quickly putting me at ease and shooting me in my jungle of a veg garden, back in the pre-allotment days.

Once all of the shoots were done and the photos finished, David put them up on his website. Several months later, the Independent ran an article that included a few of the shots, of a few of the authors, but David wasn’t satisfied. He wanted us all featured and he wanted the complete story shared. He promised us he’d keep working to get our photos, along with our interviews and even snippets of our work out to the world.

This week it happened in a big way, beginning with an article in Slate, followed the next day with an article in the Mail Online’s Femail section online and the next day in the Huffington Post online. All three had lots of David’s lovely photos from those shoots of us, as well as his observations, and the Slate and the Huff Post had our naughty little snippets as well. I couldn’t help but smile that when the actual print version of the Daily Mail came out the next day, they had replaced David’s story and pics of women who write erotica with a story about women who chose to be abstinent. Hmmm. I can tell you that of the two articles, the women erotica writers definitely had the biggest smiles on their faces. Make sure to check out the posts and all my lovely colleagues, Victoria Blisse, Lexie Bay, Lily Harlem, Kay Jaybee, Lucy Felthouse, Jacqueline Applebee, Liz Coldwell, Lavina Lewis, Janine Ashbless, and Louise Cross.

I’d like to thank David Woolfall once again, not only for the totally amazing photos and for all of his hard work, but for his persistence in getting his photos and his impressions and interviews with us out to the public. David, you’re amazing!

In Other News

TE new coverThese past few weeks, I’ve been scarce on social media. My head’s been down, and I’m hard at work on the final rewrite of the third novel of Grace Marshall’s Executive Decisions Trilogy, The Exhibition. Am I having fun? You betcha! I love the final rewrite of a novel. It’s all about seeing everything clearly and making sure everything is sharply focused so that the story is clear and demands the reader’s full attention. It’s in that final rewrite where I truly get enthusiastic about what I hope my readers will find as exciting to read as I have to write.

What can readers expect from The Exhibition? Well you can expect lots more romance and plenty of sex, but you can also expect plenty of dark, chilling twists and turns as old enemies show up again, and things are never quite what they appear to be. I hope to finish the final draft by the end of August or the first week in September, and after that Xcite will get it out to readers ASAP.

 

Summering On

In the meantime, we summer on! The allotment is overflowing with all kinds of wonderful fresh veg, including some truly inspirational phallic veg, and the great outdoors is where we’d rather be. I hope you are all enjoying whatever your version of summering on is and taking advantage of the long days and sunshine. Wishing you all fun and filth in the summer sizzle.

 

Verity’s Lie by Grace Elliot

Guest Blogger, , , ,

Verity's LieCharles Huntley, Lord Ryevale, infamous rogue…and government agent.

In unsettled times, with England at war with France, Ryevale is assigned to covertly protect a politician’s daughter, Miss Verity Verrinder. To keep Verity under his watchful eye, Ryevale plots a campaign of seduction that no woman can resist– except it seems, Miss Verrinder. In order to gain her trust Ryevale enters Verity’s world of charity meetings and bookshops…where the unexpected happens and he falls in love with his charge.

When Lord Ryevale turns his bone-melting charms on her, Verity questions his lordship’s motivation. But with her controlling father abroad, Verity wishes to explore London and reluctantly accepts Ryevale’s companionship. As the compelling attraction between them strengthens, Verity is shattered to learn her instincts are correct after all – and Ryevale is not what he seems. If Lord Ryevale can lie, then so can she…but with disastrous consequences.

 

Excerpt:

Verity closed the library door and wilted.  With toe-curling embarrassment she recalled her prudish disapproval and cringed afresh.  Why couldn’t she have appeared worldly and calm, instead of behaving like a stuttering, prissy schoolgirl.  And why Lord Ryevale, of all people?  If she hadn’t been distracted by plans to confront her father, then she wouldn’t have been caught so off guard.  Verity took comfort in that it was unlikely their paths would cross again.

Clutching Cicero against her chest like a shield, Verity composed her thoughts before facing her father, then made for the garden.  The root of her discomfort lay in noticing Lord Ryevale earlier that evening.  When he arrived, the atmosphere had changed tangibly; women became more vivacious and men bristled defensively.  He moved with the self-assurance of a pack leader and, when he passed close by, a wicked smile quirked across his intriguing lips—and Verity didn’t usually notice mouths.  But more alarming still were his eyes—nut brown and intense—and when he had glanced in her direction, she felt as if he could read her mind.  Shaken, she wondered if she had inherited her mother’s weakness for the opposite sex, a sobering thought that worried her.

From his wide chest and broad shoulders, to the square jaw and strong cheekbones, Ryevale filled her mind; so when she had received her father’s note to fetch his copy of Cicero, she had welcomed the excuse to leave the ball and calm her wits.  That was, until she opened the library door to find the man she was running from in a compromising position with another man’s wife.

After three laps of the garden, her cheeks had cooled and her mind felt more ordered.

Tonight she would seize the moment; before her father left on business, she would appeal for more freedom.  Her speech planned out, she was ready to face him.

Verity hurried along the corridor, pausing outside the study door to straighten her hair. This was it: now or never.  She knocked and, at a gruff acknowledgment from the other side, entered.

Between the gloomy room and being a little nearsighted, it took Verity a moment to assimilate three men were present: her father, the prime minister and a figure in the shadows.

“Father.  Lord Liverpool.”  She squinted, trying to identify their guest.  As Ryevale stepped forward, her pulse hit a crescendo.  Alarm fluttered in her breast, threatening her ability to breathe.  “My lord.”  How her voice held steady, she had no idea.

“Good evening.”

He stood at ease, which irritated her.  Why did her wits scatter like pigeons before a cat when he smiled in that bone-melting way?  Annoyed at herself, she answered his smile with a glare before turning to her father.  “Your book, Father.”

“Ah, Verity.  Thank you.”

Her father took a cursory glance at the spine then set the Cicero aside.

Verity longed to escape, to be able to breathe and to release the tension swelling in her chest.

“If that’s all, I won’t intrude further.”  She felt Ryevale’s gaze, hot against her skin, and some unnamed sensation coiled and tightened inside.

“Ah, Verity, let me introduce my guest.”

“We’ve already met,” she replied tartly.

 

BUY LINKS

Amazon .com http://amzn.to/13CxrN1

Amazon.uk      http://amzn.to/12aEqI6

 

Author bio and links

Grace Elliot leads a double life as a veterinarian by day and author of historical romance by night. Grace lives near London and is passionate about history, romance and cats! She is housekeeping staff to five cats, two sons, one husband and a bearded dragon (not necessarily listed in order of importance). “Verity’s Lie” is Grace’s fourth novel.

Subscribe to Grace’s quarterly newsletter here:  http://bit.ly/V7T6Jd

Grace’s blog ‘Fall in Love With History’  http://graceelliot-author.blogspot.com

Website:          http://graceelliot.wix.com/grace-elliot

Grace on Twitter:        @Grace_Elliot

Grace’s author page on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Elliot/e/B004DP2NSU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Grace-Elliot/173092742739684?v=wall&sk=wall

A Taste of Paris by Lucy Felthouse

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A Taste of ParisBook two of the A Taste Of… series

Ryan Stonebridge and his friend Kristian Hurst are traveling on their year off before going to University.

Unfortunately, Kristian has been called back home due to a family emergency. Ryan continues on to Paris alone, hoping his friend will join him again soon.

In the meantime, Ryan’s lucky streak with women continues, and by the time Kristian makes it to Paris, Ryan’s bumper box of condoms is depleting rapidly. However, there are more than enough women to go around, and Kristian intends to have some sexy fun of his own, and when the boys get a chance to play with two sexy ladies at once, they certainly aren’t going to turn it down.

Ellora’s Cave
Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks

*****

Excerpt:

Ryan could hardly believe his luck. After a sex-packed day and a bit in London, he was now being propositioned by a sexy older woman on the Eurostar. The Paris-bound train had just started moving and it seemed the woman wanted to spend at least some of the two-and-a quarter-hour journey to the French capital fucking him in the toilet.

He shook his head disbelievingly. Then, after making sure no one had witnessed their exchange—when she’d given him the come-on—he slipped from his seat and made his way as nonchalantly as possible in the direction the woman had gone. He quickly found her, standing in the area between carriages that also housed the public conveniences.

She looked around, ensuring no one could see through the glass doors at the ends of the carriages to either side of them, pulled open the toilet door and dragged him inside.

Ryan barely had time to catch a breath before she’d locked the door, slammed him against it and molded her lips to his. She tasted of expensive champagne—she’d probably been indulging in St. Pancras station’s champagne bar—and it suddenly made him very aware that, although she’d started their sexy rendezvous, he was most likely taking advantage of an inebriated woman. He twisted his head away.

“Hey,” he said, grasping her arms and pushing her gently away from him. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous and very, very sexy, but you’ve been drinking. I don’t want you to do something you might regret later.”

The woman laughed, long and loud, and Ryan worried that someone might have heard her and wonder why on earth there was a woman laughing to herself in the train toilets. The last thing he wanted was to open the door and find a pissed-off member of staff waiting there. There was no excuse for two adults being in a locked cubicle together that anyone would believe.

Clapping her hand over her mouth, the woman suppressed her mirth, then finally spoke. “Yes, gorgeous blond one.” Her French accent surprised him—he’d thought she was a tourist heading to Paris. “I have been drinking champagne. But only a glass. I’m certainly not drunk.”

With that, she pounced on him once more, and Ryan decided not to resist any longer. They were both consenting adults and he had protection in his pocket—so where was the harm in indulging their baser instincts? His cock definitely didn’t see any further reason for delay as it filled with blood and pressed against the crotch of his jeans.

He pushed his fingers into her thick black hair and pulled her more tightly to him, deepening their kiss. She was eager and, judging by the way she was rocking her hips against him, incredibly horny. He held out for as long as he could, exploring her mouth with his tongue, nibbling at her plump lower lip and pulling her hair to expose her white throat. Before long, though, the pants and tiny mewls coming from the woman’s mouth pushed him to the point of no return. His cock was all but bursting from his jeans and he really needed to be inside this woman’s pussy.

*****

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012, 2013 and 2014 and Best Women’s Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Ellen March Talks About the Writing Life and Her New Novel, Escorting Sydney

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First I’d like to thank K D Grace for allowing me to guest on her blog site. She’s a diamond and has helped me through some dark times. You know it K D, and I’m eternally grateful to you.

Helen Duggan Ellen MarshEscorting_Sydney_51c305ab75df7_203x288Anyway who said being a writer is lonely. I find my mind awash with people, events, crimes, plots, erotic scenes, you name it and it becomes alive in my scrambled brain. I’ve got so much going on its unbelievable; even in my dreams characters invade every thought. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I actually began to sleep with a notepad and pen. Except without my glasses I can’t see what I’m writing so I’ve wisely given that up. LOL

It’s kind of weird; I can sit on a train look out of the window and miss all the whirring landscape. Instead I’m whisked off to the recesses of my oh so wicked imagination. I could be in the arms of a lover, one of my favourites! Or sometimes I’m the bitch that people love to hate. I discover that I play too good a part at that at times, and hope my inner self is not so dark. But know it’s not, because my sexy soul and naughty humor raises its head and takes over.

At other times maybe I’ll study a person, surreptitiously of course, LOL and wonder about their life. Who they are, what makes them laugh or cry.

What makes me cry, is being in my characters heads when they’re hitting a major sad milestone in their lives. When I’m writing, which is every day, because I cannot not write, I discover I become that person. The emotions, every part of them I feel with a deep intensity. Good, evil, sexy, it all thrives in me, I discover I’m a melting pot of emotions, of characters.

This can me a bit worrying when I write about a particularly vicious character as in Shadow Play which is the second book from the Doms of Drakos series. I loved the evilness of the characters, but again found myself in a murky pool of tears. My dark side also emerges in One Night in Heaven the third of the series, one which I found particularly stimulating. Sadly to such a degree, I began to question myself, my ethics and morals.

However the heroine from Escorting Sydney the first in the Doms of Drakos trilogy has to be one of my favourite characters. She’s overweight, clumsy, swears a lot, and has no sense of style. I can relate to her a lot. Sydney is a sweet laugh out loud rollercoaster of fun.

I’m often asked where I get my ideas from. And I really don’t know. A thought will flourish, and I will nibble at it for a day or two. Then bang! It erupts and I’m away, the words rush through me, the plots smash into each other. And quite honestly I’ve got to be the most disorganized writer around. The words shoot from my fingers, they erupt from my head, and all I know is that I can’t get them down fast enough. I have a rough draft in my befuddled mind, and an ending. I really do try to draft a rough plan, but my characters take me off on different tangents.

When I wrote Wolfsong Lullaby, my reader couldn’t work out who the killer was. How did I manage to hide it so successfully? It was simple, I didn’t know myself, I let the story take me. I have an outline the beginning middle and end. As to the rest I love to be taken along it, surprising me as much as anyone else.

My husband suggested putting up a camera to mirror my emotions. Because every word, every scene is expressed on my face, smiles, scowls, frowns, wickedly sinful giggles, and the tears. I can’t write a sad scene without a box of tissues close to hand. I don’t even know if that’s normal, if other writers experience the same intensity. I’m not acquainted with many, I’ll rephrase that, apart from K D none so that question remains a mystery.

The other problem with my haphazard writing, call it a flaw, I don’t know. But as I’m finishing one novel, my thoughts are already fishing around for another story. Recently I have discovered a love of the paranormal. And totally fallen for some rather hunky vampires along with wicked werecats. I’m currently on the third book of my Wolfsong trilogy, Wolfsong Soul. And my emotions along with theirs have been shredded, and I’m loving every moment of it.

Moving on back to my debut novel Escorting Sydney I wanted a character that everyone could relate to or actually know. A friend or a next door neighbour maybe? I love her crazy sense of humor and I love Logan. He’s so strong, sexy and oh so into BDSM. And he makes an excellent teacher as Sydney soon discovers. What Logan wants he takes, and its Sydney. It’s the classic of opposite’s attracting. An uplifting laugh out loud book that I’d like to think will give readers a happy for now day.

About Ellen March

Ellen March lives in Cefn Cribwr in South Wales. Her three grown up children have left home.  She lives with her husband Phil, one cat and five Alaskan Malamutes. Her hobbies are showing her dogs (Her dog Drago has taken two firsts at Crufts) She also enjoys back packing with them in the glorious countryside but her first love is writing.

Since she was a child she devoured any written word and acted out her fantasies in print. Her books take her from the usual nine to five into another universe.

Her ambition is to become a full time writer. She has written twenty five novels, including her first erotic romance, followed by psychological thrillers and recently the paranormal.  She is currently writing a trilogy on Vampires and Werecats.

BLURB for Escorting Sydney:

Pretty is an apt description, an exclusive word that just about sums up Sydney. Pretty plain, pretty overweight and pretty devastated when she finds her sister in bed with her boyfriend.

Can life get any worse? Sydney doesn’t think so until she mistakes a billionaire property developer for the male escort she’s hired.

Logan is only too keen to introduce her into his world, fulfilling all her deepest sexual fantasies. The ones she’s stored into the dark recesses of her mind. Under the compartment called filth, shackled with the chains she has dreamed of.

What Logan wants he takes, and it’s Sydney. For two weeks only, she’ll give her body, and he’ll introduce her into a world of sex she’s only ever dreamed of.

So why is she worried when he tells her he’ll only give her what she asks for

Excerpt:

Sydney snuggled beneath the sheet, dreaming. A smile touched and teased her lips. The bitch was there. Looking on when Oliver kissed her, she could almost taste his tongue running along her lips. God, it was so real.

“Mmm, Oliver,” she whispered, a sudden blast of cold air smattered across her skin. Her eyes flew open, straight into the harsh face of Logan. An arm each side of her, he leaned across her.

“Sorry to interrupt your dream.” His voice scraped over her, chilled and hard.

“It’s not what you think.” She attempted to assemble her jumbled thoughts. “I mean yes, I was dreaming and then you kissed me. And I kind of, well, got confused.”

“Honey, don’t you ever fucking confuse me with that asshole.” He was powerless to understand the consuming rage that splintered through him.

“Hey, calm down.” she said. His blazing gaze was directed at her. For fuck’s sake. “And aren’t you the lucky one walking out of my life tomorrow evening?” She felt bad, in fact felt like shit. She hadn’t meant to upset him, but Christ, what the hell did he expect off her, apart from sex?

Yeah, she knew, a paycheck at the end of the day. He’d be moving on, screwing some other lonely, lucky bitch whilst she—it went without saying—would be back dabbling in her toy room. Losing her mind talking to a frigging vibrator, and arguing with a fucking battery, then thought of bully. Her sweet golden boy.

Logan glared down at her, and was amazed that instead of looking nervous, worried, or even guilty, she was lying there with a mysterious madonna smile haunting her lips.

“What the hell are you thinking of?” His steaming anger scrambled through his confused thoughts. “More of Oliver?” he rasped, furious with her reaction.

“No, I was thinking of my toy room,” she admitted, at last glancing up at him. “When you leave that’s what I’m back to. Deciding who or what to use.”

Lady, I’m going nowhere, at least not without you. Logan leaned over, threading his hands through her hair, or attempted to and gave up. God, it was a mess. Forget threading fingers through soft tresses—hers was like an untamed hawthorn hedge.

“Did you use your toys with Oliver?” Wanting to know, he almost choked spitting the last word out.

“Er, no, why?”

“Were you adventurous in the bedroom with him?”

“No, strictly missionary. I wasn’t allowed anything else.” She didn’t want to elaborate in case he thought her strange as well.

“Why? Didn’t you go down on him?” Remembering the blow job, his dick began twitching again.

“Wasn’t allowed.” She fixated on her hands, not wanting to witness the sympathy cross his face.

“And you?”

“Nope.” She twisted the sheet.

“So he never fucked your ass either.” The words dripped out. At last he was beginning to see what sort of sex life they’d had, in total contrast to the night he’d spent with her. “Would you have liked that?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Shame blazed across her face. His hand slid beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Tell me what else you’d like.” His almost-black eyes bored into hers, commanding, not asking. “Now!”

“Chains and handcuffs, to be taken, to be dominated.” Sydney closed her eyes, convinced he’d think her sick.

“I’m glad you’re honest with me.” Fucking hell, woman. Your ex is one screwed-up asshole.

“So why are you asking? Do you think I’m sick?”

“No,” he swore. “Why? Did he think that?”

Dropping her gaze, she nodded her head. “You don’t agree with him?”

“No way.” His thumb grazed across her lip, an oh-so-suckable lip. “I like your freckles.” With a wicked slow tempo, a finger drizzled down her nose, edging across her cheekbone.

“Yeah, bloody great.” Dissolving beneath him, she tried to work out how the hell she was going to cope after tomorrow. She was determined to make the most of tonight, her last night of pure mind-blowing sex. She was going to miss him like hell, still debating whether to ring the agency for an extension.

“I like your wrists.”

My what? She tried to work out where the hell that came from. A fetish of some kind? She hoped so. Kinky?

“I’d like to tie you up.”

Whoa, now we’re talking. “And?”

“And blindfold you.”

“And?” God, she was breathless already.

“And fuck you till you didn’t know what day it was. Hear you screaming, begging me to come. But only when I allow it.”

Oh God! She slammed her thighs together. Her mind raced ahead, trying to work out where the hell she could get handcuffs at this time in the evening.

Logan’s lips twitched, skimming his hand under the sheet, polishing his fingers over her pussy. She was hot and wet. He wanted her now, but needed to keep her waiting.

Slowly, with an almost clinical precision, he dipped his finger in—first one, the second following, number three shimmying close behind. They slid deep, awakening a path of lust, invading her, massaging the spot that could drive her crazy, brushing the walls of her cervix. Flicking and searching, his thumb lazily circled her clit, pushing down, and his fingers tinkled and teased with a seductive tempo until she couldn’t breathe. His gaze slipped down. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising in rapid breaths. She was going to be such a responsive pupil. Then he stopped.

Sydney fluttered her eyes open, staring up at him in confusion. The all-consuming pulsing she was experiencing was sending her insane. She wanted him. Now. “Logan?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own: low, almost keening.

“That’s to remind you of what’s to come.” His voice dripped with promise, adding with a harsh growl. “And it won’t be off fucking Oliver!”

Oh shit, she’d hit a definite nerve there.

She wished he’d stop his intense search of her. His smoke filled gaze soldered over her, igniting her lava flow. He’d peaked her to the edge, and with or without him she was going over. She’d become a natural at masturbation over the last five years. And not all of it required toys. Scuttling a hand between her legs, she rubbed herself.

Logan caught the movement, and flicked the sheet back. “Come for me, Sydney,” he murmured, feasting on her, the rash of color that rose across her face.

“No, I can’t.” Closing her eyes, she felt his hand on hers. Massaging and circling, leaving it there to sweet talk her clit. She kept her eyes shut, drowning in the heady sensations. They plummeted, flooding over her, a cataclysmic effervescent whirlpool that surged with the speed and devastation of a cyclone.

“Come on, baby.” Logan’s words careened her over the edge, releasing his cock he fisted himself in unison. His hand slid up the entire turgid length with an unhurried ease.

She bucked into an excruciating arc. Her body quivering, she whimpered, groaned aloud, and shuddered with a crash of relief against her hand.

Sydney felt his hand on hers again, smooth yet rough, a mixture of contrasting textures. She refused to open her eyes. Her whole body flushed in a deep shameful cringe, and embarrassment colored her. She couldn’t believe she’d masturbated in front of him. Oh Christ almighty, what was he doing to her?

“Open your eyes and look at me.” The tone of his voice commanding,

she couldn’t deny him.

Beautiful grey eyes smouldered into hers. His fingers dipped low, moving in an indefinable lazy stroke between her sensitive folds. Raising them, he licked each digit, sucking on them, little by little, one by delicious one, and her stomach flipped over.

“I like the taste of you honey,” he whispered.

Oh, fucking hell.

Buy Escorting Sydney Here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Escorting-Sydney-Doms-Drakos-ebook/dp/B00DIF0V30/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top

http://www.amazon.com/Escorting-Sydney-Doms-Drakos-ebook/dp/B00DIF0V30/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1375382135&sr=1-1-fkmr0&keywords=escorting+sydney+Ellen+Marsh

http://www.ravenousromance.com/modern-love/escorting-sydney-the-doms-of-drakos-book-one.php?keyword=Ellen+Marsh

Find Ellen March here:

Web page http://ellenmarch.jimdo.com

 

 

 

Sex and Creativity

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TE new coverI’m working hard on the final rewrite of The Exhibition, the third novel of The Executive Decisions Trilogy, and I can’t immerse myself in a major writing project without being reminded of just how closely linked sexuality and creativity are. Since I’m up to my ears at the moment, I’m sharing an archive post with you today that talks about just that subject, a subject I think is always worth revisiting. I hope you enjoy it.

Sex and creativity are often seen by dictators as subversive activities.  –Erica Jong

My husband knows I’m always looking for interesting articles about sex. He sent me one the other day about masturbation as a treatment for restless leg syndrome (It’s orgasm that actually seems to help. The means is optional.) This led us to an impromptu  discussion of all of the other benefits of sex. Sex is a good sleep aid, sex can help with weight loss, sex can improve skin, hair and nails, just to name a few. There was even a recent article in Psychology Today about semen as an anti-depressant. The jury, however, is still out on whether sex is an aid or a deterrent to creativity.

For the naysayers, abstinence has long been touted as a way to focus sexual energy for creative purposes. On the other hand, a study at the University of Newcastle-on-Tyne and the Open University showed that professional poets and artists had almost twice as many sex partners as other people. The study also showed that the number of sex partners increased as creative output went up. The conclusion drawn was that the more creative you are, the more sex partners you were likely to have.

I’m sure that’s a simplification, but I wonder which came first: the sex or the creativity? Is it the creative force that makes us horny, or is it being horny that makes us creative? My guess is that every writer, poet or artist would answer that question differently. However, I don’t think there’s any denying the close connection between the creative force and sexuality. Nor do I think that’s particularly surprising. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Freud was right. It IS all about sex. But I wonder whether we really understand just what sex is all about.

Yes, the basic biology is obvious, but we humans haven’t had sex simply to procreate in a very long time now. We’ve evolved to want, to expect, even to need more from the sex act than just the next generation. Perhaps that goes hand-in- hand with our cultural evolution, what sets us apart from our animal cousins — at least in our own eyes. For humans, all things seem to have evolved two meanings. First there is the concrete realm in which we’re born, nurtured, thrive, reproduce and die. But we develop another level of meaning when we no longer have to use all of our energy just to survive. When starvation is no longer an issue, food and its preparation and presentation become art. When keeping out the cold is no longer an issue, clothing becomes fashion, and magazines tell us how we can be walking galleries for the art of clothing. When finding shelter from the elements is no longer necessary, our very homes become an artistic expression of ourselves. In a world where all our basic needs have evolved more than one meaning, the artistic expression becomes as important as the function.

But all of these necessities are mundane. Sex is not. For our ancestors, sex was the magic by which two people become three. Today sex is the magic by which two people become one, or by which one person becomes more herself or himself. On one hand procreation has given way to re-creation,  but on the other hand, how can an act that has evolved from the very need to create the next generation be rooted in anything but creativity?

How can the process of creating be anything but sexual? Writing a story is a penetrative act resulting in something larger, something much more alive than the words on the page, than the idea conceived. That’s heady stuff. That’s the writer in full rut. It’s intimate, it’s messy, it’s rough and tumble, it’s voyeurism and exhibitionism and full-on heat. If it isn’t, then there hardly seems to be a point.

That being said, anyone who has had good sex, lingering sex in which time seemed no longer to exist, will recall that what mattered was the wonder of the act itself, the amazing intimacy with the other. Any writer or artist knows that experience up close and personal. At some point the creative act itself becomes the sum total of existence. The writer’s world shrinks to and expands out from that act, and the end no longer matters.

So how did I get from masturbation for restless leg syndrome to once more worshiping at the altar of the Divine Creative Sexual Force? Well I suppose it’s all just a part of the journey isn’t it? And besides, where else would I go with it?

And here’s a little excerpt from Identity Crisis, book two of the Executive Decisions Trilogy, to make your weekend sizzle.

Blurb:

PR rep extraordinaire, Kendra Davis, is elated when she gets the chance to work for her hero, reclusive, romance novelist, Tess Delaney. Her elation is short-lived when she discovers that Tess is none other than Garrett Thorne, the bad-boy brother of business tycoon and eco-warrior, Ellison Thorne, who is engaged to her best friend, Dee Henning. Kendra blames Garrett for the comedy of errors that nearly destroyed their relationship. Garrett doesn’t like Kendra either, but he’s desperate. His alter-ego, Tess has been nominated for the prestigious Golden Kiss Award. No one knows who Tess really is, and he needs Kendra to play Tess for the awards.

When Tess is stalked by a rabid fan, the two unite to protect her identity. With Kendra, the body and Garrett the soul of Tess Delaney, is there room in this strange ménage for romance? Can a woman who doesn’t exist understand their hearts even better than they do?

IC new coverExcerpt from Identity Crisis:

Garrett had just pulled out his cell phone to call again, when he looked up to find Kendra standing at the bar with a drink in her hand, and his knees nearly gave from relief. One of the designer fashion boys was chatting her up. And immediately the relief was replaced with something a lot more tetchy. He shoved past a knot of Goths who mumbled and gave him a few nasty looks, but he was way past being polite at the moment.

‘The Porsche outside, it’s mine,’ Fashion Boy was telling Kendra, preening with one hand while he held a beer in the other. ‘Bought it with my bonus from last year. It’s one helluva ride.’ He moved in closer. ‘If you’re interested.’

‘I’m not.’

‘She’s not.’

Both he and Kendra spoke at the same time.

The man raised his hands and backed away, and Garrett grabbed her by the arm, none-too gently and marched her toward the door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He said, half shoving her out into the warm summer air, past the curious gaze of the bouncers.

‘What do you mean where have I been?’ She yanked her arm away. ‘I was dancing. I looked around and you were nowhere to be found. So I went to the bar to wait. I figured that would be the first place you’d look for me, and why are you so angry?’

‘Why am I so angry? You scared the shit out of me, that’s why I’m so angry.’ He jerked her closer to him. ‘One minute you’re dancing with me and the next minute the incredible hulk steps in between us and then you’re gone.’

‘Where are we going?’ she said, pulling back.

He jerked her forward. ‘Home, damn it. We’re going home where it’s safe.’ He half marched, half dragged her through the parking lot across the road and to the edge of the park before she gave him a shove, pulled away from him altogether and turned on him.

‘Fuck you, Garrett! I haven’t done anything wrong and even if I had, you’re not my father. I’ll go home when I’m damn good and ready.’

‘So what? You want to go back and ride banker boy’s Porsche, do you? Is that it? He buys you a drink and you let him give you a ride.’

That she didn’t slap him was the first shock, the second was that she didn’t turn back to the Boiling Point, but that she headed on into the park at a pace that a race horse would have struggled to keep up with.

‘I bought my own drink, you asshole. And I came with you. You’re the only one who gets to give me a ride.’

‘Kendra. Kendra, I’m sorry. Kendra wait!’ He struggled to catch up with her. ‘I just panicked when I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry, okay. I panicked.’

‘And you just assumed that I was on the make. Fuck you, Garrett! Fuck you!’

It was then that he realized she was leading him off the main path into the darkened edge of the park. ‘Kendra, where are you going?’

She didn’t respond, so he kept following her up a winding path deeper into the center of the park.

At the top of the hill in a grove of hawthorn trees and rose bushes in fragrant full-bloom, there was a bench. The leaves of the trees admitted a tiny pool of light from the street lamps just above it. ‘Kendra, where the hell are you going?’ He grabbed her hand, and she turned on him so quickly that he thought for sure this was when she would slap him, certainly he couldn’t blame her, but instead she fisted both hands in the front of his hoodie and pulled him to her in an angry kiss, then one hand migrated into the front of his track bottoms, and inside his boxer.

‘God, Kendra, what the –’ she swallowed up his words, biting his lip, sucking his tongue, licking at the back of his teeth and his hard pallet until he couldn’t breathe. Her fist around his cock was a strangle hold and even in its discomfort it felt like he was in heaven. ‘Kendra, I can’t …’ He tried to push her hand away, but the other hand snaked in and jerked his bottoms and boxers down over his ass until he could feel the night air on bare flesh. He wriggled and squirmed his heart racing in his chest. ‘Jesus, Kendra, you can’t be serious. This is a public place. What if someone –’

She bit his lip hard enough that he wondered if she’d drawn blood, and his cock surged so strongly in her hand that he feared he’d come right there. ‘Shut up, Garrett,’ she growled against his mouth. ‘I need you to fuck me, so just shut up.’

He heard the crackle of foil and with a slight of hand that nearly took his breath away she sheathed him in the condom, then with hands that seemed as full of anger and need as the rest of her, she ripped open the fly of her shredded jeans and shoved them down. Christ! There were no panties! ‘I need you, Garrett.’ She struggled to breath. ‘I need you to fuck me right now. I can’t wait. Right now. Right now!’ She turned her back to him still shoving and pushing at the jeans until they were down around her thighs and the rounded heart shape of her bottom shown in the pale light. Then she bent over and rested a palm onto the seat of the park bench. With the other hand, she reached behind her, grabbed his hip and pulled him up close until his cock pressed into the valley between her buttocks. ‘Do it, Garrett. I can’t stand it any longer. Do it now!’ She wasn’t trying to be quiet. She wasn’t trying to be subtle. She didn’t care that there were other people still using the park, that they might get caught, and Garrett felt like he’d burst at the very thought of what they were doing – and where. She opened herself to him and shifted her hips, while he, with one hand low on her back and the other on his cock fumbled and maneuvered until he slid home. She grunted a curse and pushed back onto him hard, and they both cried out as they began to thrust.

Her beret tumbled off behind the park bench and he grabbed at her ponytail as it fell free reining her in with it. He yanked her back toward him like it might help him control her somehow. He yanked her back until he could bury his mouth against her neck, rake her pulse point with his teeth, suckle and nip until the sounds coming from both their throats were feral groans and grunts.

With a quick movement, she unhooked her bra, grabbed his free hand and guided it to the bounce and the fullness of her breasts, nipples tight and puckered against the rake of his thumb. Then she grabbed his hand from her hair and guided his fingers to her mouth, licking and nibbling before she shoved them down between her legs, down to the heavy strain of her clit.

They were both too far gone to hold back much longer, and it took little more than a stroke between her legs before she came, growling and straining and nearly collapsing onto the bench as he came juddering in hard waves inside her.

It was only as their breathing began to return to normal that he could hear her sniffles. As he pulled out, she stood and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, then jerked her jeans up as though they had made her angry somehow.

She stuffed her bra into the pocket of his hoodie with a hard shove, bent to retrieve her beret, and was already heading down the path before he could deal with the condom and get settled back into his track bottoms.

Blrub for The Exhibition:

(Out soon!)

Successful NYC gallery owner, Stacie Emerson, is ex-fiancée to one Thorne brother and ex-wife to the other. Though the three have made peace, Ellison Thorne’s friend, wildlife photographer, Harris Walker, still doesn’t like her. When Stacie convinces Harris to exhibit his work for the opening of her new gallery she never intended to include him in her other more hazardous plans. But when those plans draw the attention of dangerous business tycoon, Terrance Jamison, Harris comes to her aid. In the shadow of a threat only Stacie understands, can she dare let Harris into her life and make room for love?