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Demon Interrupted, the Novel, now Available on Amazon!

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FB Kindle new release demon interrupted the right cover

 

I know I promised part two of Mr. Sands today, but I just have to take time out to crow about my new release! That’s right! Demon Interrupted, the continuation of the Lakeland Witches saga, is now a unified novel you can buy on Amazon!

 

Mr. Sands will continue tomorrow. 

 

Sometimes a secondary character in a novel I’m writing intrigues me so much that even  after the novel is finished, I can’t stop thinking about him or her. Most of you know that’s what happened with Wade Crittenden in the Executive Decisions series. He was just too intriguing not to revisit. The same is true with Ferris Ryder from the Lakeland Witches trilogy. From the moment he appeared on the scene in the second Lakeland book, Riding the Ether, capable of making himself completely unnoticed, while at the same time possessing amazing skills he has no idea how he got, I wanted to know what his story was, so I decided to do my first ever online serial, with a new episode of Ferris’ story coming out on my blog every three weeks, timed to finish on Halloween, as any good paranormal series would. It was my first aerial, but by no means my last.

 

And now, at last, Ferris and Elaine’s story will be coming out altogether, expanded and enhanced into a novel for Xcite Books. What started out as a serial and a novella is now the 4th book in the Lakeland Witches trilogy, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am and excited to make Ferris’ story available to everyone in eBook format.

Demon Interrupted Blurb:

 

Ferris Ryder has a choice to make. He can reclaim the past, which he now consciously keeps from his memories or he can let all that he fears to remember destroy the present and the Elemental Coven he has come to love. Has the mysterious Elaine come into his life to be his guiding angel or will she tear his world, and that of his coven family, apart?

 

 

xcite1DEMON INTERRUPTEDeditDemon Interrupted Excerpt:

 

In a room full of people Ferris could remain totally unnoticed. It was almost as though he were invisible. He heard things that way, saw things that others missed. Fiori suspected that was part of his magic. However, at the moment, he was completely and totally the centre of her attention as his warm, wet tongue teased its way down and around the pucker peaks and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. One splayed hand cupped and fondled her tight pubic curls while the other worried open his fly. What he was doing to her body was also a part of his magic and way more of a surprise, considering the man’s unassuming nature, than his ability to blend in.

 

She writhed beneath him totally naked, just as she had been when he entered her room, gently easing her out of a bad dream, back into the Waking World, and into his arms. She didn’t know where he’d been before he came to her. The man seldom slept — and him not even a ghost. He might have adjourned to the library after the rest of the house had entered the Dream World, or perhaps he had been in Skye’s bed sharing pleasure with her and Alice. He was generous with his affections. But then he’d hardly fit in at Elemental Cottage if he were otherwise.

 

How he had known she was having the dream again? How had he known about the dream at all? And yet he did, and she was glad that he came to her. ‘Sh! sh. It’s only a dream, Fiori,’ he whispered. ‘Only a dream.’ He’d brought her a glass of water from the bathroom and had returned with a soft white towel. While she drank as though she had just traversed the desert, he gently wiped the perspiration from her face and her shoulders. Then he took the glass away and moved the soft terrycloth knap in slow lazy circles down her back and her ribs as she slid into his arms, laying her head against his shoulder.

 

‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ he asked.

 

She only nodded, tightening her arms around his neck.

 

His black shirt was open and untucked and his nipples hardened as she slid her arms inside and up his back.

 

‘Do you want me to make love to you?’ He asked it as simply as a parent would ask a child if she would like a bedtime story. He asked it because he knew in a house where sex magic was practiced, healing came in the form of passion, and she nodded again because she knew that too. His cock was already hard, but then she had noticed that it often was. In those times when he allowed attention to be drawn to himself, in those times when he made his presence known he neither attempted to hide his erection nor did he attempt to flaunt it. It was the ease and the comfort of which he wore his own masculinity that made him seem like a much larger man than he really was. In spite of his chameleon nature, he was not shy by any means, and his stamina and his finesse made him a welcome edition to the beds of all of the Elemental witches and their consorts.

 

Impatient for the feel of him freed, she shoved at his trousers, the scrape of the zipper seeming unusually loud in the quiet room. He ran his hand down to aid her as she worried his cock free. He was neither large nor small. Even his cock was nothing unusual to draw attention to itself, and yet there was no one at Elemental Cottage who didn’t relish the thought of Ferris between their legs, of Ferris shifting and grinding as though his unassuming penis had a secret magic all its own once properly sheathed in an appreciative pussy or mouth or arsehole.

 

His breath caught with a grunt as she fisted the length of him and she could almost feel the ripples of lust rising up the vertebrae of his spine. For a second he wrapped his hand around hers and shifted his hips. Then he pulled her fingers free, kissing each one of them, running his tongue in ticklish strokes over the tips, making her hips rock against the mattress. ‘I’m going to taste you now. I can already smell how good you’ll be.’ With a wriggle of his arse and a shove with his feet he shed his trousers as he crawled down between her thighs, nudging her open with the smoothly shaven wedge of his jaw, clearing the way with nose and lips, teeth and tongue. The humidity of his breath blew across her clit, which rose up in anticipation.

 

‘There,’ he said, his fingers parting her as agiley and exactingly as if he were a pianist and she were his instrument. For an age he studied her, fingered her, arranged her as though there were only one way, the best way to approach her dark, heavy folds, and he would not partake until he knew exactly what would bring all of her focus, all of her energy, all of her arousal to the very centre of his attention. ‘And now –’ his words were little more than a rush of breath ‘–I’ll give you what you need.’ He took her with his whole mouth, hunched over her like a lion at his prey, the muscles of his shoulders flexed tight, dusted and gilded in moonlight. And she felt the bloom of her arousal like a bud swelling, bursting, opening. Then the bloom became an explosion rising up from someplace suspended above the base of her spine. He held her hips, held her steady with strength his body belied as she bucked against his mouth, as she convulsed, as the moon moved in and out amid the undulation of slate clouds.

 

In the hazy vision of heat he seemed larger than himself, much larger than himself as though his arousal, their arousal together had released something broader of shoulder, deeper of chest, darker of memory and, as the moon disappeared, the power of him rose like a shadow thick and all-consuming and, somehow, other than himself. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Gooseflesh prickled over her breasts, even as she rocked out her orgasm against his mouth.

 

But before the tingle of uncertainty and the edge of fear could take hold, the moon reappeared and unassuming Ferris gave her clit on last hard tug with his lips and then rose over her, positioning himself, easing her open with his knees and his hips.

 

‘I need you in me,’ she said, her voice nearly lost in her struggle for oxygen.

 

‘A need which I share,’ came his urgent reply. It took no more than the tucking of his hips and a single thrust and he was in deep. She was slick and ready for him, gripping him as though she hadn’t just come, as though she were desperate for him to take her. With arms much stronger than they looked, he lifted her legs around his hips and castlerigg6positioned himself so that with each thrust he raked her clit, and she could almost swear that in the stark relief of moonlight and shadow his eyes were onyx black and yet bright, so bright. Even in the glow of a nearly full moon, he road her in the light of an after image that made no sense, and she was reminded that not even Ferris understood his own magic. The closer they both came to orgasm the larger and heavier the after image grew. And the larger the after image, the harder they strained for release. When orgasm broke over them, so did the shadow, consuming them for the briefest of moments and then receding behind their own efforts to recover themselves taking with it Fiori’s urge to speak of it, to question it.

 

Buy Link for Demon Interrupted:

The Strange Encounter with Mr. Sands Pt 1

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airport 2As promised, today is the first day of Jet-lagged–and-lusting travel stories and observations from my two weeks in Oregon with my sister. I’m very happy to say that once again, travel never fails to inspire, and my first offering is a new one. The Strange Encounter with Mr. Sands is a two-part story inspired in part from entering the twilight zone at Seattle International Airport and wondering if I’d ever get out again. When, by fluke, eleven international flights landed at SeaTac at almost the same time, the whole airport was brought to a total overloaded meltdown leaving me and a gazillion other passengers packed cheek to jowl in the lobbies and walkways, literally all the way back to our planes we’d just disembarked for ages. When we finally entered the seething mass of sweaty, under-slept, cranky humanity that was the immigrations hall, we wandered the endless zigzag of roped mazes at a snail’s pace through to passport control, only to find ourselves, eons later, spewed out into avalanches of luggage from all eleven flights and told to claim our bags. Needle! Haystack!

But we were a determined lot, and once we’d found our bags, we were then herded to a gigantic ring-around-the-rosie queue to clear customs. When at last we dragged ourselves, battered but not beaten from the insanity, we stood in queue another hour to re-ticket for the flights we’d all missed from whence we emerged triumphant, boarding pass in hand to face one final insult to injury — the barefoot, beltless, jacketless pat-down through redundant internal security one last time before the possibility of respite.

After arriving at 12:20 in the afternoon, I finally got rebooked on a 7:15 flight out to Portland that night, which was only a short puddle-jump away. So close but oh so far! At last I stumbled to the Alaska Lodge for a turkey avocado wrap, an Alaskan Amber Ale and about a gallon of water, where I hung out with an incubus until flight time. Mr. Sands is the end result, and like my time at SeaTac, the story was too big for the allotted space, so you’ll get part two tomorrow. Enjoy part one, my darlings, for it was conceived in the dark crucible of modern human migrations!

 

Warning: Adult Content! 

 

The Strange Encounter with Mr. Sands Part 1

“Are you all right? Here, let me help you.”

I woke up in the first class cabin sprawled across my upgraded seat. The blonde flight attendant, Maggie was her name, had placed a cool cloth over my forehead, and the other attendants herded the last of the passengers off, looking anxiously over their shoulders at me.

“Did I pass out? What happen?”

“It’s all right,” she said. “You’ve just had a very intimate visit from Mr. Sands, that’s all, but you’ll be fine. In fact you’ll be better than fine in a little while. Here, drink some water, and I’ll help you off the plane and get you something to eat when you’re ready. I promise, I’ll do my best to explain everything.” She held the bottle to my lips.

As I sipped, my strange encounter with Mr. Sands all came back to me with a little clench and tremor of the muscles down deep below my belly.

It hadn’t been exactly like an electrical shock when the man brushed against my arm in the queue at baggage check-in, airport 6but what I felt was just as much of a shock to my system. What I felt – and I know this is going to sound insane – but what I felt was an orgasm. It was just a brush – his arm against mine, as the desk agent motioned him past me and his hand settling onto the small of my back to steady me when I nearly lost my balance at the impact of what had been way more physical than if he’d flattened me. He offered me a smile, and a soft-spoken apology that I barely heard over the hammering of my heart and my efforts to get myself under control. I remember thinking I’d never seen eyes so blue on a man with such coal black hair. Strangely enough, he approached the desk with no bags to check, and yet whatever he had to say to the agent must have been important. He had her full attention – in fact she was totally entranced by him, though for his part, he seem distracted. He kept glancing back at me and smiling, as though he knew me, and I kept thinking how arrogant I was to think he was actually looking at me. Whatever it was he wanted, the agent nodded enthusiastically leaning into his personal space so close he could have kissed her if he’d chosen to, and I confess I held my breath thinking that he might, and not sure if I wanted him to or if I wanted to believe that I really was the center of his attention.

After only a minute, he thanked the agent and gave her hand a little pat as he might have done to a favorite pet. He gave me one last glance that I felt way down deep in my center where my insides still squirmed and clenched from his touch, then he turned and walked off toward security.

“You’ve been upgraded to first class, Ms. Dempsey.” There was a blush on the agent’s cheeks, as though the man had done way more than just brush her hand with his, and frankly her struggle to breath and the dewy sheen on her forehead had my imagination running wild before the fabulous upgrade could sink into the brain of someone who has long been resigned to an in-flight experience of traveling cattle car class. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d just had the same response to the dark man with the blue eyes that I did. As I made my way to security, three attendants fell into step behind me.

“Mr. Sands is on the flight; did you know?” Said the petite blonde, with a short bob, who I later learned was Maggie. Her voice had that breathless fan-girl quiver brought on by the presence of celebrity. I racked my brain trying to think if I knew any famous Mr. Sands. I didn’t, but then I didn’t keep up with pop culture very well.

“Oh God! You’re kidding me,” the male attendant in the middle said. “Are you sure? He hasn’t done JFK to Heathrow in a while. I hate to say it, but I was hoping he’d got bored with us and decided to check out some other night flight.”

“You shouldn’t talk about him like that, Hal,” the blonde replied. “All I know is that Kaitlin said he came to her desk personally, asking for an upgrade.”

“An upgrade? Seriously? Wow! Someone’s gonna get lucky this flight,” said the willowy brunette on the other side.

“Sh!” the man replied. “Don’t be so disrespectful. He’ll know. He always does, and he won’t like it.”

I slowed my pace just enough to let them pass, then fell in behind them intrigued by this Mr. Sands, whoever he was. Apparently he was on my flight.

“Well at least this time there are no newbies on the crew,” The brunette said.

“That’ll make things easier,” Maggie replied. “I hate having to deal with their reactions. Makes it hard on the rest of the crew. Well at least the first timers get a warning now, which is more than I did when it was my turn.”

What the hell, was the man a groper, I wondered?

“They may get a warning, but who the hell would believe it,” Hal said.

I was just about to pluck up my nerve and ask who this Mr. Sands was, when the three squeezed onto a lift and disappeared in a wave of Japanese tourists while, being slightly claustrophobic, I opted for the next one, which was less crowded. I wasn’t much on celebrity, and whoever this Mr. Sands was, he had nothing to do with me.

In the lap of luxury, I forgot about the mysterious Mr. Sands and enjoyed my meal and the fact that I could stretch out without bumping into anyone. In fact, I had more than just a seat to myself. There were several seats to either side of me empty, and all the other seats were occupied by people who couldn’t wait to settle into a good night’s sleep. I didn’t think I’d sleep at all, and I really didn’t intend to, since I figured I’d never get another chance to enjoy first class. I was wrong though. I was asleep almost before the attendants anxiously cleared the dishes. In fact, they seemed downright skittish, which I thought rather unusual for first class, but then how the hell would I know?

Sometimes you dream strange things when you travel, and sometimes those dreams can seem very real. I dreamed of the blue-eyed man from the check-in queue. He rose up from the seat directly across from mine, one that I was almost certain had been empty, and then he began to walk among the sleepers, touching each of them lovingly as though they
were his children and he’d just gotten them to sleep. His tender ministrations were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of the blonde flight attendant. “You’re here,” she said, and the fan-girl timbre of her voice was replaces with something more along the lines of fear – fear mixed with lust if that were even possible. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” It was then that I was certain I must be dreaming, because he took her face in his hands and kissed her, and oh dear god in heaven, what a kiss it was! Tongue, there was tongue, moving in little darts and licks as he probed and tasted and tested and teased until the woman opened to him and practically melted into his arms. And then it was over, with a deep intake of breath, he released her then settled her back on her feet, and she turned away as though nothing had happened. Then he kissed everyone in first class, one by one with the same deep probing intensity, as though he
sought something out, and they arched up to meet him in the kiss — some moaning softly, a couple of the men even giving that gut-punch of a grunt men do when they ejaculate. But then I was dreaming, wasn’t I? Me, who never had a dream more erotic that finding myself naked in the middle of the supermarket. With each sleeper, he took his time in airport 7the kiss, he let them embrace him, let them touch him, let them stroke his hair, and then he took the kiss. That’s what it felt like to me, at least, that in their sleep, he took the kiss from them, a stolen kiss — almost, and yet no one denied him. Still, I sensed just the tiniest frisson of fear in each of them, but then there would be, wouldn’t there? A kiss from a stranger in a darkened plane could possibly be as frightening as it was intriguing. When the kiss was finished, when he released them, it was immediately clear that they had fallen back into a deep sleep. This he did to everyone around him while I watched and squirmed on my first class bed. It was only when everyone else was sleeping soundly that he turned his attention to me.

 

 

 

 

 

The Psychology of Dreams 101 Chapter 10

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Psychology of Dreams cover12985576_1537272663241009_8777292825525497968_nWelcome to Part 10 of The Psychology of Dreams, in which Leah and Al take a detour in dreamland.

What if you got punished when you didn’t get your dreams right? That’s the dilemma our heroin, Leah, and her psychology of dreams teacher, Al. The Psychology of Dreams 101 is a romp into the sexy unconscious as Leah Kent takes a Psychology of Dreams adult education class, only to discover that the required Dream Journal leads to some seriously kinky night journeys.

No, I didn’t dream it, and I’m seriously hoping I don’t get punished like Leah and Al do if I don’t get it quite right, but The Psychology of Dreams did bubble up from somewhere in my unconscious and I had to share it. Since then,the Muse has been back knocking around in my imagination in some pretty unusual ways, and never taking the path I’d expect, but then dreams are like that, aren’t they? Enjoy episode 8!

 

I have no idea how long this little ditty will be, nor where it will lead, but I’m willing if you are. Please, read and enjoy The Psychology of Dreams 101.

 

If you’ve missed Episode 9, find it here. 

 

WARNING ADULT CONTENT! It occurred to me halfway through writing this episode of The Psychology of Dreams that this little tale might be a bit of a shock for those who just finished reading In The Flesh. While In The Flesh is dark paranormal romance, The Psychology of Dreams is just raunchy, fun erotica, a bit of light relief after Magda and her Consortium. Be warned, light it may be, but filthy it most certainly is. Enjoy!

Chapter 10 Safeguards and Detours

“Are you serious? You can’t be serious.” Al’s face had lost all color, and he nearly dropped the coffee cup he’d been sipping from into his lap. “How could I possibly get Derrick’s dreams? How could that even happen?”

“You tell me. Until I met you and my dreams started going astray, I had no idea any of this shit was possible, or I sure as hell wouldn’t have taken your class. Anyway, you and Dr. Clyde enter dreams together,” she said before he could do more than look guilty at her wish that she hadn’t taken the class. “You were in Diana’s and you were certainly both on mine.”

“That was unexpected, and unintentional.”

“Maybe this is too, but it still doesn’t matter, does it? The message is clear enough either way, that someone needs to be punished. Do you feel you need to be punished? Does he feel you do?”

He set the cup down carefully on the Formica tabletop and wiped his hands unnecessarily on the napkin, clenching it tightly in his fist. “He … He did blame me, yes.” He swallowed hared as though the coffee hadn’t quite gone down. “He blamed me for Diana’s death, he blamed me for convincing him to leave her dream to begin with, but then I blamed myself too. But I knew I needed his help if we were ever to get her out.” He looked down at the mangled napkin he held in his hand. “We found out later that she was suicidal, as I said, and then … Well maybe that lessened his blaming me, but if anything it made his own guilt worse — that he didn’t know, I mean, that he didn’t see, and him her lover. She hid it well.” He added, “No one knew.”

“So after that, you lost your grant?” He flinched and gave a convulsive nod. She felt bad for him, for both of them, she really did, but at the moment, she felt worse for herself, and angry as hell that she’d been dragged into their fucked-up past. If her response was a bit calloused, she reckoned she could be forgiven under the circumstances. “And then what? You both went your separate ways?”

“Pretty much. I wanted nothing to do with him or with the bad memories the sight of him provoked. The feeling was more than mutual, I’m sure. We hadn’t spoken until I got in touch with him concerning your dreams.”

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Thank you so much for that.”

Before he could respond, the alarm on his phone went off and they both jumped as he fumbled to reset it.

“Well, here was all are then, so what can we do about it?” She asked.

He heaved a sigh and tore the napkin into shreds. “Punish him, I guess. If that’s what he wants, if that’s what he’s trying to guide us to do. I don’t know, maybe by going back into the dream and taking control, we can give him what he wants — what he need.” He looked up at her and forced a smile, “then maybe we’ll get the relief we need as well.”

“Sounds like a win-win to me. How do you suggest we do that?”

He glanced around the diner. “Well we can’t do it here.” He made a quick glance around the empty café in case someone might be listening in, then he leaned close over the table. “We probably should get a hotel room,” he spoke the words between barely parted lips as though he feared someone might think he was taking advantage, “l need to hypnotize us with some further suggestions, some suggestions that will keep us safe and it’s better to do that in a neutral situation.”

She wondered again if she was dreaming as he paid and they walked to his car. If this wasn’t a dream, under the circumstances, how could she be trusting this man to hypnotize her still further?

“Why didn’t you just do it to begin with – hypnotize us, I mean, then Dr. Clyde wouldn’t have been in the equation at f7c97536836dc44ea7a1faaa02ab1a6aall.”

“It didn’t seem right to do it when my dream was part of the problem.”

“Could be that our going to Dr. Clyde was always a part of his plan to get punishment? Is it possible that even that was a part of the dream?”

“Christ, Leah! You have a devious mind.”

“But isn’t it possible?” She asked, as he turned the car into the parking lot at a nearby La Quinta and pulled up to reception.

“At this point anything is possible, I suppose. Wait here,” he said, “I’ll register us.” It was hard to tell in the dark if he was blushing or not, but making her wait in the car was a dead giveaway that he wasn’t comfortable checking them into a hotel together. She had a sneaking suspicion that the guy was a bit old fashioned at heart. But then again, maybe that was a part of the dream too.

“Hurry back,” she said, and she meant it. She didn’t like the idea of being left in the car alone with everything that was going on.

“I promise.” He opened the door, and paused, as though he’d forgotten something, then he turned to her and gave her what she figured was intended to be just a little peck on the lips for reassurance. At first contract, however, a heat wave of lust engulfed them, and she threw her arms around his neck and practically pulled him in on top of her, with him doing his best to accommodate. And then her alarm went off and they both jumped apart – her fumbling in her bag to find her phone, him cursing under his breath.

“I’ll hurry,” he gasped, as she shoved the reset device back in her bag and straightened her shirt.

“You do that.” And then he was gone, leaving her to squirm on he seat as unsatisfied as ever.

Perhaps she dozed. God, they both had to be pretty strung out by now, but the opening of the door startled her back to herself just as Dr. Clyde got into the drivers seat and buckled himself in, all the while glancing over his shoulder toward the hotel entrance.

“Quick, we don’t have much time if we want to get this dream back on course. Al’s just paying now. We’ve got to go.”

“Wait a minute, this is Al’s car. We can’t leave without Al. Hold on, is this a dream?” She reached for her phone.

“Of course it’s a dream, Leah.” The doctor glanced at her as he all but laid rubber getting out of the La Quinta parking lot. “It’s been a dream all along, no matter what Al is trying to tell you.”

“What the fuck,” she reached to unbuckle her seatbelt. “Stop the car! Stop the damned car right now.”

“Listen to me, Leah,” he said, more gently this time, but still not slowing the car, “you and Al told me you wanted to stay in the dream until it was resolved, until you both got punishes so you could have some relief from your … situation. I told you that unless there’s an emergency, you would stay in the dream.”

“But what about Al’s smoke alarm? What about my doorbell and our alarms?”

“What, haven’t you ever had the dream where the alarm goes off and you’re late, and then your back in bed and it goes off again, and then the doorbell rings and you can’t answer it? Well, this is just a variation on that dream, that’s all.

“But this is not the dream? This is not the dream at all. There’s nothing arousing about this dream and –”

“Isn’t there?” He nodded over to her and, to her surprise, she realized that she had her hand down the front of her open jeans and in her panties, two fingers hard at work.

She jerked free, but before she could look around for something to clean up with, the good Doctor scooped up her hand and licked her fingers with a hot tongue, slurping at them as though they were dessert, which made her moan and squirm against the seat.

“Dreams get derailed sometimes, Leah.” He settled her hand into his lap where she found his fly wide open and his cock at full attention. “Sometimes the route they take is way more circuitous that one would expect.”

“But what about Al?” As though it were no big deal, she settled into the stroke and squeeze and fondle of his cock with an occasional cup and kneed of his sac.

“Al’s yanking one off in front of the surprised desk clerk at the La Quinta right about now, hoping she’ll give him a hand. She won’t, of course, and when the alarm on his phone goes off, he’ll meet up with us.”

“How do I know I can believe you?”

“Oh you don’t. It’s a dream, Leah, and no one or nothing in a dream is to be trusted.”

“Then what Al said about Diana, that’s not true?”

She felt the flinch all the way down to his cock, which softened briefly to her touch. Then he caught his breath and replied, “oh that part was true, the basic facts anyway. The point of view, however, is always skewed by the teller.”

“What the hell does any of that have to do with my dream then?”

“Not a fucking clue, Leah. Not a fucking clue. That Al thought you look like Diana, well maybe that has something to do with it. I can see the resemblance, but then I’ve seen the resemblance in a thousand women since her death. Still, I have no idea how that fact could have possibly entered the realm of your unconscious, nor do I know what it means.” His cock hardened again in her hand. “That’s what we’re trying to find out, remember? In the meantime, would you mind?” He placed his hand at the back of her head exerting just enough pressure that, with the slight nod and glance down into his lap, there was no doubting what he wanted, and she discovered, a bit to her surprise that, no, she didn’t mind at all.Sleeping woman reading181340322466666994_IswNAb85_b

As she took him into her mouth, he offered a little hiss of breath and sighed. “Ah, that’s nice. That’s just what the doctor ordered. And now if you could turn just a little bit, just a tiny bit more. That’s a girl.” Against her better judgment, she undid her seatbelt, but after all this was just a dream, and squirmed until her bottom was up in the air, just barely hidden from public view by the dashboard, but then it was dark, and it was a dream. Dr. Clyde slid his hand down into the back of her jeans and into her panties working his way inside, wriggling fingers past her anus and over her perineum until he found the sweet spot, and she all but purred against his cock. He gave an animal growl in response. This hardly qualified as punishment. The thought was barely formed in her head before the doctor replied, “I’m not the one being punished, in spite of what Al may think, and anyway it’s a great way to pass the time until we meet up with Al again.”

Travel and the Inflight Entertainment

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airport 2By the time you lovely lot get this post, I’ll be somewhere in the sky above Greenland heading for Oregon. That’s right, I’m off for my annual visit with my sister. Girl time! Oh, the planning! Oh the scheming! Of course, this annual pilgrimage is special on lots of levels, but traveling alone gets my head into a very different space, one that opens me to all kinds of possibilities.

 

Something really amazing happens when we travel, when we’re in that place that’s really neither here nor there and we’re either anticipating or reflecting on, or possibly dreading or longing for what comes next. Those liminal spaces, the cross roads – even crossroads in the air, are places where anything can happen. I think with the advent of transcontinental air travel, that’s never been more true. In addition to being neither here nor there, when you finally arrive at your destination, you have that muzzy-headed restless, spaced-out, anything goes time of jetlag. Who doesn’t wonder just what planet she’s on for those first twenty-four hours or so? I’m eight time zones ahead of my sister living here in the UK and it does something to my head when I get there, halfway around the world, only an hour or so after I’ve left. Yes, my darlings, time travel is real!

 

The fantasies, the observations, the crazy ideas that happen in my head during those liminal times and the post flight time of jetlag are the stuff stories are made of. In fact, some of the scenes and stories that have been the most fun to write involved some sort of travel, involved that liminal space of being neither here nor there, that space in which anything might happen.

 

In story, the crossroads are often the place of strong magic, the place where not only the roads diverge, but often whole worlds diverge and we end up … Different.

 

The thing is when we’re in that liminal space, the space where no one knows who we are, we can be anyone we want to be, we can recreate ourselves and no one will be the wiser. We can tuck our every day identity away in our suitcase with our toothbrush and our clean underwear and, for a little while, we become the mysterious, the unknown element in an unfamiliar place, and in the very act of so exposing ourselves to the unknown, we become a part of the unknown, and we run the exciting risk of returning to our own time, our own space changed.

airport images

So as I enter that liminal space, as I prepare to face jet lag, strange airports, new places, interesting people, and new ideas, I’ve decided to make the next two weeks Travel Time on A Hopeful Romantic. In addition to the weekly dose of The Psychology of Dreams 101, I’ll be posting travel observations, travel themed snippets, even a few quick and dirty stories — some old, some new, all just to capture the fun of the journey. I hope you enjoy. And since You’re reading this while I’m at 30,000 feet in mid flight, here’s a naughty flight snippet from To Rome with Lust, book 3 of The Mount Series. Time for the inflight entertainment. Enjoy!

 

Be sure to check out my Erotic Readers and Writers Association post on APRIL 30th for more sexy travel encounters. 

 

To Rome with Lust Blurb:

 The adventure that Rita Holly began in The Mount in London and Nick Chase took up in Vegas continues when a sizzling encounter on a flight to Rome has journalist, Liza Calendar, and perfumer, Paulo ‘The Nose’ Delacour, in sexy olfactory heaven. The heir apparent of Martelli Fragrance, Paulo wants Liza’s magnificently sensitive nose to help develop Martelli’s controversial new line. Paulo has a secret weapon; Martelli Fragrance is the front for the original Mount, an ancient sex cult of which he is a part, and Paulo plans to use the scent of sex to enhance Martelli’s Innuendo line. As Liza and Paulo sniff out the scent of seduction, they become their own best lab rats. But when someone steals the perfume formulas and lays the blame at Liza’s feet, she and Paulo must sniff out the culprit and prove Liza’s innocence before more is exposed than just secret formulas.

 

To Rome with LustWARNING: Adult Content: Sniff at your own risk 🙂

Excerpt To Rome with Lust:

It wasn’t that Paulo didn’t have work to do. He never slept on planes. For him long flights always meant much-needed extra office hours, but he couldn’t get the woman with the nose off his mind. He knew that scent sometimes lingered long after what had left it was gone, and he wasn’t sure if he could still smell the faintest traces of the woman or if he only wished he could. Why the fuck had he let her leave without getting her name? Everyone else around him slept. The plane was dark and quiet. When Paulo had convinced the attendant to offer the fat man crammed in next to his mystery woman a better seat – one farther away from her –he wasn’t completely sure what his plan was, but as the flight wore on and it became more and more evident that he wasn’t going to get any work done while thinking about her, he got up and eased his way down the isle, past the curtain and into the coach cabin.

Almost everyone was asleep or engrossed in a film with their headphones on. No one noticed as he padded down the isle. She was toward the back several rows in front of the restrooms and the galley. It was with a sudden spike of his pulse that he saw her. She dozed against the window with an airline blanket draped across her lap, her thick dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Yes, he could smell her. He was almost certain of it now. There was still a hint of the sea about her with a base note of honey and butter. He stood watching her, letting her scent wash over him, wondering how he could ever miss something so obvious. It was like seeing a different facet of the woman who was already beautiful with her thick dark hair and china blue eyes. Her scent made her even more beautiful.

As he watched, she opened those china-blues, sniffed, blinked and sniffed again. Then she turned in her seat and looked up at him. ‘I thought I smelled you,’ she said. Her smile was sleepy and warm as she patted the seat next to her. ‘I didn’t know you were going to Rome.’

As Paulo slipped in, her lids fluttered and she moaned as she inhaled his scent. She had already lifted all the armrests to form a love seat of sorts, and he moved right on over next to her. He wasn’t sure exactly what he planned to do, but now that she’d invited him in, it definitely involved letting their scents collide. His cock hardened at the thought. All around the coach cabin shades were pulled down. People slept curled and corkscrewed in whatever position the minimal space allowed them to rest. It was an ideal situation. He sniffed, then he inhaled deeply locking onto her essence. He wasn’t as good at picking up scent as she was. But her scent he was sure of. Strange, but before he met her, he thought himself gifted in the olfactory department. As he settled next to her, he resisted the urge to bury his face in her lap and sniff. He wondered if she had tried to clean herself as he had, or if she had left that mouthwatering scent between her legs, slickening her panties, rubbing against her personal geography. Perhaps she’d even taken advantage of the long, boring flight to pleasure herself. That thought took his breath away and made his cock jerk in his trousers.

‘Thought you might like some company,’ he managed. ‘I know I would’

He barely finished his sentence when she pulled him under the blanket, giving him no time to speak before she kissed him. Her tongue lapped at his bottom lip before inviting itself right on into his mouth like it belonged there. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, ‘you smell so good.’

‘Tell me what you smell?’ he whispered, ‘Tell me.’

‘Lose the jacket,’ she demanded. ‘I need to smell more.’

With an awkward move that nearly knocked her off the seat, he shrugged his shoulders. She shoved and tugged until the jacket dropped onto the floor. She surprised him by sliding her face into his ticklish armpit and breathing him in as though the hollow if it were an oxygen mask and she were in need. Before he could squirm too much her fingers went to work on the front of his shirt, unbuttoning until she could slide her hand in to cup a pec and pinch a nipple, which caused his cock to surge and his arse to clench just as she buried her face in the opening she’d made, breathing as though she would hyperventilate. ‘What do you smell,’ he asked again.

‘Sex. I smell sex like I never smelled it before, fire, hot, earth steaming after a tropical rain. Lightening, always I smell lightening on you. I smell desire like pepper and cloves and star anise. I smell desire all over you.’

‘Yes, you do. All over me.’ He slid his hand up under her sweater and, to his delight, she had removed her bra. Her breasts were full and warm, goose fleshing in the cup and stroke of his fingers. The valley between was moist with the dew of her sweat, and the scent of interrupted sleep. Her nipples and areolae pressed into his touch impossibly stiff and demanding, a demand he couldn’t resist. He shoved her back against the window and pushed up the sweater. She struggled only briefly until his tongue circled the stippling tenderness and his lips sealed and tugged. He felt the expansion of her ribs as she sucked breath. With one hand she fisted his hair, holding him to her while the other pulled the blanket over them so that he could nurse in privacy.

The blanket trapped the tide pool and honey scent of her pussy, and for a moment, he thought he would come just from the smell. A split second later, he realized as her abdominal muscles clenched solid then convulsed, and she jerked against the seat banging an elbow on the window with a soft curse, that coming was exactly what she was doing. And God it took all the control he could muster to keep from following suit. Instead he slid his hand up under her skirt shoving and wriggling and easing her thighs open until he found the moist gusset of her panties. He scrunched it aside and thrust two fingers into the slippery hot swell of her, still gripping, still quivering, still quaking in the aftershocks. There he lingered, fascinated by the feel of her orgasm, coupled with the intoxicating scent of arousal and release and need that blossomed again almost immediately. A thumb stroke against her distended clitoris caused her to jerk so hard against the seat that she nearly bucked him off. But he held her in place, his fingers stroking and darting in a fresh flood of fragrant heat while his greedy mouth suckled and licked as much of her breast as he could manage.

‘Sit up!’ Sit up now,’ she hissed, wriggling out of his grasp and quickly propping her head against his shoulder, his hand still pressed to the swell of her, his mouth still wet with saliva and tingling with the taste of her hot skin. They pretended to be asleep as an attendant passed by, though no one could possibly believe anyone breathing as hard as they were and smelling as sexed as they did was actually sleeping.

Rome_teaserWhen the attendant disappeared in the back of the plane, Paulo turned enough that he could see her eyes shining in the darkness, then he pulled his slippery fingers from her pussy and brought them under her nose. She sniffed and whimpered. ‘That’s what you do to me,’ she managed. ‘All I have to do is smell you and I’m wet.’ The second whimper was guttural as he licked the exquisite taste of her from his fingers. Before he could catch his breath, her hand went to work on his fly. She wasn’t gentle, and he didn’t care. With trembling fingers, he unwrapped the blanket that had been left on the extra seat and covered his lap. Then he straightened hers over her bottom and fingered his way back between her legs, wishing like hell he could get his head down there, bury his face and his mouth in that delicious nectar. He caught his breath and nearly bit a hole in his lip as her mouth sheathed his cock in tight white heat. Her tongue snaked and curled up the sensitive underside, lapping the abundance of pre cum that now made yet another damp patch on his boxers. While one hand curled around his hip, the other cupped and stroked his full sac. He could hear her sniffing, and as he deepened his stroking and spreading and scissoring between the swollen gape of her labia, her moan vibrated down the length of his erection, and he nearly lost it again. This time the attendant simply pretended not to see as he passed, and Paulo didn’t even try to dissuade the woman from her very delicious task. But her mouth wasn’t where he wanted to be. The tight grip and release, grip and release of her around his fingers made it impossible not to think about burying his cock in her slick, hot depths.

As though she’d read his mind, she pulled away, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and nodded to the restroom just two rows back. He knew he’d never get his cock stowed, so he didn’t try. He just tugged his shirt out over the top of his trousers, took her hand and led her toward the restroom, his dick bouncing as they went. The minute they’d shoved their way in and locked the door, he sat on the lid of the commode and dug in his trouser pocket for the condom he was hoping he’d need. She watched with her skirt up and her undies dragged to one side, her fingers darting in and out of her wet slit as she thumbed her cherry ripe clit. As soon as he was suited up, she turned around, sliding her panties down over her ankles. Then she eased herself into position, squatting, fingering her swollen lips open for him. With one hand on her hip and the other guiding his erection, he pulled her onto his lap and impaled her. They both stifled a cry, inhaled, and inhaled again. The scent was high tide, summer lightening and pepper and spice all mixed together. She bit her knuckles to hold back the sob of pleasure. He buried his face in the nape of her neck, one hand seeking out the weight of her breasts, the other sliding down to tweak her hard clit. She was slick and tight with a grip like warm velvet, and she smelled like heaven, like nothing Martelli Fragrance at their very best could ever replicate. As he strained and pumped into her, he wondered what their combined scent smelled like to her. But before he could dwell on it, she orgasmed hard, covering her mouth with both hands to hold back what, no doubt, was an animal growl. Her whole body shivered and convulsed, and her grip on his penis became unbearable. He came in jerks and spasms until there was no breath left in him, until he saw stars behind the tight clench of his eyelids. Then they both collapsed against each other.

He was still gasping for breath when she eased herself up. She turned on him, tugged off the condom and, before he could do more than offer an astonished gasp, she shoved up her sweater and began rubbing his semen over her tight nipples and down her belly. ‘I hate that we have to use a condom,’ she said. ‘I want your smell against my skin.’ Then she reached her hand between her legs and wiped her open palm over the splay of her folds until it glistened with her juices. Holding Paulo’s gaze, she did the same to him, wiping her scent over his nipples and down his belly.

For a long moment she stood over him in the tight little room, gulping back their scent. He followed suit. God he didn’t want to leave. He wanted that smell. He wanted to take it home, sleep with it, dream with it, take it to the Martelli labs and study it. But in his little fantasy, he’d have to take the woman who helped produce that delicious scent to the lab with him, and he’d have to fuck her repeatedly. After all, results of an experiment had to be duplicable to be proven. Right? Nearly head-butting her, he bent and picked up her panties, pulled them to his nose and sniffed. ‘I want these,’ he whispered as she offered him a questioning gaze. ‘A memento.’ While she watched, he carefully wiped her pussy on them and stuffed them into his pocket. ‘I want to take something of you back to my flat with me, something that won’t wash away when I shower. And when I take them out of my pocket and masturbate to your scent, I’ll come thinking of you arriving in Rome wearing no panties.

She offered him a wicked pout. ‘Don’t I get a memento?’

With his eyes locked on hers, he pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and made a show of wiping his cock and down around his balls. Then he refolded it and handed it to her. She sniffed it deeply and stuffed it in her waistband before wriggling her skirt down over her bare bottom.

If he’d had doubts that the experiments he’d been wanting to carry out in the Martelli labs were worth pursuing, this woman with her incredible nose and their shared olfactory experience completely eliminated them. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he had every intention of convincing her to stay in Rome and work with Martelli. But first, he’d probably need to know her name. Before she turned to leave the restroom, he pulled her back to him and gave her a long lazy tongue-kiss, whispering into her mouth as he nipped her bottom lip, ‘I’m Paulo, by the way.’

‘Nice to meet you, Paulo,’ she said, nipping back. ‘I’m Liza.’

Back at her seat, Paulo didn’t sit down. ‘I have a mountain of work I need to finish before we land, and you, my lovely MountboxsetLiza, have delayed my progress terribly.’

‘Poor dear,’ she said, handing him his jacket from where it had fallen on the floor.

‘I’d rather stay here and sniff you.’

‘And I’d rather you did, but since you’ve got things to do –’ she slipped a business card in the breast pocket of his shirt ‘– just give me a call when you’re ready for another sniff.’

He groaned as she fondled his nipple pressing against the pocket. ‘Give me your phone,’ he said. She pulled her BlackBerry from her seat pocket and handed it to him. He entered his number into her address book and gave it back. ‘I’ll sniff you in Rome once we’ve both had a good night’s rest.’ He nipped her earlobe, then turned and sauntered back up the isle to the first class cabin.

Retiring the Boots

Blog,

IMG_5556It’s a solemn occasion, one that should be handled with great dignity and serious introspection. Just kidding! It’s actually a happy occasion. It’s time to retire not one, but two pairs of walking boots. One pair has walked across England through bogs and bracken, through bolder fields and fast moving streams. The other has lived fast and dangerously mostly with city walking. From London to Rome, from Dubrovnik to Guildford, they’ve made the winter in-town walks a pleasure for my feet while protecting my delicate knees.

 

I’m sure a lot of you are scratching your head right now wondering what the hell I’m talking about, but anyone who is passionate about walking will understand. And really, those of you who know me, those of you who have read my bio and followed my blog know that I measure inspiration in boot soles. There! That’s the key! That’s why I’m writing this post. I’m retiring two pairs of boots – one has been with me for the long hard walks; one has been with me only since October, only since I recovered enough from my knee surgeries to get serious about walking again. To me, that’s really exciting. I’ve literally worn them out in six months, and most of that in town because of the winter mud on the country walks.

 

Since I measure inspiration in boot soles, all I can say it’s been a helluva six months!

 

During that time, those boots have inspired the writing of two novels, with several more still unwritten. They’ve taken me on walks that have cheered me up, walks on which I have vented anger and frustration, walks on which I have lost myself in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other … over and over and over again, and walks on which every step inspired story, plot, characters and filthy sex.

 

IMG_5559As a lot of you already know, my walking has been enhanced by the addition of a Fitbit to my daily routine, which, at the very least, functions as a reminder to walk ten thousand steps a day if I don’t do anything else, and at the most, challenges me on to walk farther that I’ve ever waked before. By the very act of pushing my walking boundaries, I’ve reached new depths of creativity and new levels of fitness. Why yes! I do love my Fitbit!

 

One of the best side effects of owning a Fitbit is connecting with other walkers. I’ve had some fabulous walks in London this winter with my good friend and Brit Babes Street Team member, Emma Louise Burbidge. They were walks filled with laughter and good conversation and lots of selfies – Emma is the queen of selfies. I look forward to more city walks with Emma and more laughs and selfies.

 

But just because I don’t live close to someone doesn’t mean I can’t walk with them. Maybe the very best thing about my Fitbit is that it has connected me with a world-wide community of people who are fitness minded, but especially love walking. I’ve done Work Week Hustle and Weekend Warrior walking challenges with other enthusiasts all over the world. But one of those lovely walkers has a special place in my heart – a woman I admire and adore in spite of the fact that on more than one Work Week Hustle, she has handed me my arse on a platter, a woman I walk with every week in spite of the fact that she lives in New York City! A lot of you know this lovely, talented lady, the fabulous F. Leonora Solomon, who bolgs as F Dot. When I asked her if she’d write a couple of paragraphs for my Boot Retirement post, she happily agreed, so take it away, F Dot!

 

I love movement, it is a simple but lovely thing. I have never been an athlete, my preferred forms of exercise have been walking and yoga. Very subtle, but both make my body feel fantastic. Before I got my Fitbit, co-workers mused about how many steps I made a day. I easily fell into 10+ K a day…and then I got into a work week hustle with K.D., and watched my steps increase exponentially! K.D. is my hero on many counts because, she is dedicated to whatever she does. When we did NaNoWriMo together, she also helped keep me inspired. It has been the same with our Fitbits.

 

We have been doing the challenge for almost a month–funny how time flies when you are having fun! First of all, we Fidencia's shoes13045640_649412445207825_1992982793_ncheer each other on all day. I want her to go as hard as she can, because then it means that I have to go harder. I got fancy walking shoes–they look like Mary Janes but they are powerful! I take time to stop and smell all of the flowers, even though I envy K.D.’s walks in the countryside. But we luckily will be in each other’s countries in the next few months, and I am excited to walk together…and maybe reach our highest step counts ever…together…

 

Thank you, F Dot! I SO can’t wait to walk with you in the UK and in NYC later this year! Thanks for making what is one of the very best parts of my life even better!

 

And now I can think of no better way to send my tired worn-out Keens and Hedgehogs into happy retirement than with a little naughty excerpt from a walking related story from the fabulous Brit Boys with Toys Book Bundle and my story Toys for Boys.

 

Toys for Boys Excerpt:

“You’re late,” Doc said to Will fucking Charles, who was supposed to meet him at St. Bee’s Head an hour ago.

At Toys for Boys, Will Charles’ moniker was ‘the Alpha Nerd.’ Doc had read some of his reviews and articles but never met him. Since T4B, as they all called it, was an online magazine, he’d never met any of the people who worked there, and he liked that just fine. The best part of free-lancing was no neurotic colleagues and no idiot supervisor looking over his shoulder. Will Charles reviewed computers, smart phones, and games – rubbish like that, while Doc reviewed all the stuff that gave the outdoorsy blokes a hard-on. It was late in the season to be walking the Coast to Coast, but T4B wanted the walk and the boys toys that would accompany Will and Doc on said walk to be a part of their big Christmas issue, which was always driven by shameless consumerism and chock full of the expensive shit to buy for the man who has everything. The article would be atmospheric, they said. It would be fun, they said.

Alpha Nerd, his left nut, Doc thought. The skinny geek with the expensive looking iPhone could have passed for a twelve-years-old — spotty face, heavy-rimmed glasses and all. Looked like Doc’s dream walk was about to become a britboyswithtoysbabysitting job for some whimpy-arsed kid who would whine every time he didn’t have a Wifi connection for his little games on his little phone. Doc wondered how the hell the bloke could even heft the backpack sitting on the floor beside him, and those brand new, straight-out-of-the-box walking boots guaranteed major blisters. This was supposed to be twelve glorious days alone on the Wainwright Coast to Coast path across England. This was supposed to be total outdoor bliss. He had been looking forward to it for months and then, at the last minute, T4B ruined it all by insisting Will fucking Charles tag along with his expensive little camera phone to record the event. Bromance, they said. Adventure and companionship, they said. Merry fucking Christmas! T4B didn’t pay him nearly enough for this shit.

“We’ve got fourteen and a half miles to walk today, and the rain isn’t going to make it any easier.” He nodded to where his own pack sat by the table in the corner of the Seacote Hotel where he’d slugged back enough coffee to guarantee he’d be caffeine-fueled for at least part of that distance; the rest he’d be off in the bushes pissing.

As he turned to go, the lad just looked at him like he’d spoke Chinese. “Is that the Smart phone you’re supposed to be reviewing?” Doc snapped. “Do you need it to translate for you maybe? Hope it’s smart enough to figure out how we can make up for the lost time you cost us.”

“That’s just an iPhone,” came a voice from behind. “This is the device I’ll be reviewing.” To Doc’s horror, he turned to find himself being videoed by a man who definitely passed as an alpha – an alpha bastard at the moment. The sleek black device he pointed at Doc was labeled urBrain in gold letters. Seriously? Were T4B having a laugh?

Doc gritted his teeth and tried to count to ten, but only made it to three. “Perhaps you’d like to turn off urBrain before I cram it up urArse?”

Undaunted by Doc’s threat, the bloke continued to video as he added, “as for young Nigel here, well I rather think his boss at the Seacote might have something to say about him following us on the Coast to Coast. Nice boots,” he said to the kid.

Just then an American tourist the size of a bus blew in through the door, tipped Nigel and thanked him in a very southern accent. He hefted the backpack with a grunt, and headed out into the rain. “As for this little jewel,” Doc turned his attention back to the real Will fucking Charles, “well if I hadn’t had this lovely piece of kit to guide me on an alternative route, I’d still be sitting in traffic behind the overturned tractor with everyone else heading for St. Bee’s Head this lovely morning. So there, you see. It’s already saved us time. Oh, sorry,” he said, offering his hand. I’m Will.” Before Doc could do more than gop, the man slid an arm around him and guided him seamlessly into a selfie.

“Day one of the Wainwright Coast to Coast, and after a near disaster,” he spoke for the camera, “I’m here with Caradoc Doc Jones, the Welsh Woodsman and outdoorsman extraordinaire, about to head into the rain toward our first stop at Ennerdale Bridge. Say hi, Doc.”

Doc managed a wave and a grimace of a smile at urBrain, and Will continued. “We have 192 miles and twelve days to get from St. Bee’s Head on the Irish Sea all the way across England to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea, with fourteen and a half miles to make today, so best get on with it.”

 

Brit Boys: With Toys Bundle blurb:

From coast to coast and city to country Brit boys enjoy playing with each other and their toys. Not any old toys, though; guitars, rope, plugs and Moleskine journals all prove to be enormous fun. Throw in a shop that’s wall to wall with kinky ideas, a journalist on the lookout for the next big thing, and Dominants who insist on obedience and there’s sure to be something to cater for everyone’s taste.

Whether it’s a quickie or a slow indulgence, Brit boys know how to hit the spot and they aim to please every time. So take a ride, fly high, come enjoy these sexy boys and their toys.

 

Brit Boys: With Toys is an anthology of M/M stories written by British authors, featuring British characters in British locations. If this steamy set of stories has whet your appetite for more don’t miss Brit Boys: On Boys.

 

raymond 018Toys for Boys blurb:

Alpha Nerd, Will Charles teams up with Caridoc ‘Doc’ Jones in a coast to coast walk across England reviewing outdoor gift suggestions for the Christmas edition of Toys for Boys—an online magazine dedicated to the latest gadgets to tickle a man’s fancy. Will is recording their adventures with the latest smart phone technology. Doc is reviewing the latest outdoor gear. The two quickly discover the great outdoors provides even better toys for boys, toys best shared al fresco, toys that, in spite of Will’s great camera work, will never be reviewed in Toys for Boys.